by George Tome
Deep in the belly of his ship, Gill jumped inside the second rescue module and picked a destination on the cockpit display to activate the launch sequence. Then, a split second before the airlock closed for launch, he jumped out, helped by his bracelet.
The attackers were only moments from docking when the chaos started: four modules burst forth, one after another, toward the Federals.
The Grammian ships were now in trouble, unable to board all four modules, which quickly passed their position, totally oblivious to the threat. Lacking better options, the Grammians turned the ships and proceeded to follow them, applying surgical strikes to the engines to stop their acceleration.
The surprise might have ended there, if not for Gill’s ship starting a crazy bombardment with rescue modules launched in all directions.
Gill quickly launched all twenty modules, but he took pains to send the next-to-last one toward the Rigulian fleet at low speed and quickly launched himself in the last one, in the general direction of the three Grammian ships. From the perspective of the Grammians, seeing the modules coming into view from the other side of the ship, it appeared as if his module was actually the next-to-last one launched. What Grammians in their right mind would suspect him of being so mad as to fly directly into their claws?
The Grammians immediately understood the gravity of the problem: they only had seven ships, two of which were too far away to have even a theoretical chance of helping in any way, while there were twenty rescue modules. And without boarding them, they had no way of finding out if Gill was inside one of the modules or had stayed in the large ship.
The three ships passed Gill’s module, ignoring it altogether, as they did with the other modules sent in illogical directions, rushing to catch the ones going toward the Rigulians. Predictably, as Gill had expected, they blasted the engines of the one apparently launched last.
Finally, after they disabled all the modules going toward the Rigulians, the Grammians started to board them while two of their ships chased the other modules launched in random directions.
Gill waited, tense, afraid to make the slightest change in direction, convinced that it would arouse their attention. It was all but certain that one of the two Grammian ships would have fried his engines if the hunt hadn’t been interrupted in the rudest way possible by the suicidal jump of Gill’s ship toward the group of the three Grammian vessels closest to it.
One of them avoided the collision by clearing the way in the last split second, while the rest took a defensive stance. They weren’t attacked, though, because the troublesome ship changed its trajectory again, this time running in the opposite direction of the Rigulian fleet. It didn’t stay long on the new course; after a few moments, it made several chaotic tumbles and jumps so quickly that it was impossible to follow—let alone board!
All five ships abandoned the rescue modules, it now being obvious that they were nothing but a pathetic attempt to divert their attention.
Of course, the Grammians shouldn’t be blamed for being so predictable and doing what they had to do—what logic told them to do. The Grammians were soldiers, the kind of disciplined creatures trained to react according to the drills. Like any good soldier, they had the tendency to extrapolate the reality based on their training scenarios—and when they did that, their reaction came swiftly, naturally, without sophisticated thoughts and choices. Well, nothing was more damaging to such a way of thinking than treading a path of reality that was very familiar at first glance but held “surprises” that were completely out of place.
Their assumptions helped the Grammians to make monumental mistakes, like the decision to follow the ship. Before launching the rescue modules, Gill had ordered several hot bozal cakes and crammed them into the gloves of the Grammian suits anchored to the floor around the navigation table. As soon as the balls melted the bozal pulp, they landed on the tactile surface of the navigation table, triggering the chaos.
It took some time before the jumpy ship stabilized its path in one direction, moving away from Gill and the Federal fleet. His spikes wrinkled in tension, Gill dared to make a slight change in his destination. Seeing that they still ignored him, he made another small change and another one, until the new trajectory was leading straight to the Federal fleet.
The Grammians didn’t notice him—they were too busy gathering around his previous ship, which now floated aimlessly, its engines and shields blasted to pieces. They stuck several thick, flexible tubes on its fuselage. A small army of invisible soldiers floated through the tubes to cut the fuselage. They had no idea what kind of monster they were fighting, but obviously, Baila had prepared them better than their unfortunate brethren from the ship they were now boarding.
Taking note of the approaching rescue module piloted by Gill, one of the Rigulian ships came out of formation, crossing his path. It didn’t seem to have hostile intentions, so Gill maneuvered along its slick fuselage until he found an irregular opening. He managed to steer the module inside without causing major damage.
After coming to a stop, he left the capsule. In front of him was a large, green, naked, slimy creature propped up in a mud-filled vat. He had reached the Federals!
Other excited Rigulians gathered around him, floating in their customary vats, gesticulating and talking in an unknown language. Two menacing-looking spheres surrounded by a green mist floated nearby, pointing their strange devices at him—were they laser lenses? The lower part of the spheres was actually made from a mud vat like those carrying the aliens, on top of which was screwed a shiny white cap.
The display in the sleeve of his spacesuit detected frantic scans from all sorts of advanced devices.
In the end, it appeared that the aliens had reached a conclusion because the Rigulian made a sign to follow him. He went into a spacious room, which lacked almost any furnishings except a floating table display, a giant display wall, and a small white sphere. Gill had seen such spheres in his Grammian ship, but he hadn’t managed to activate them. The same spheres had escorted the Federals when they landed on Alixxor’s western fields.
“I’m Egar 9, the medir of this ship,” said the Federal who led him from the entrance, pointing with self-importance at the broad silver ring he was wearing on a bony spike of his shoulder. “Who are you?” he asked in nearly fluent Antyran—the sounds coming from the floating sphere.
“I’m Gillabrian, archivist of the Antyra’s Shindam. I’m Antyran.”
“That’s pretty obvious,” replied the Rigulian. “And by which circumstances are you driving one of the Galactic Federation ships?” he asked, throwing him a sharp gaze.
“Federal vessel? I thought it was Grammian!” Gill exclaimed.
“Grammia is one of the Federal worlds.”
“Our prophet had captured me and sent me onboard. I escaped and took it from the Grammians inside…”
The Rigulian looked at him, puzzled, hardly able to believe what he just heard. He checked the display table next to him, and his puzzlement grew even more.
“You’re chased by the Antyran Ruler?”
“Yes, I ha—”
“How did you dispose of the Grammians on the ship?” he asked coldly, cutting Gill off. His voice didn’t sound friendly at all. On the contrary, it had the smack of a martial inquiry.
“Um… well, I was captured… and tied to a neural probe,” he babbled an incoherent explanation, surprised by the Rigulian’s hostility. “I managed to escape and—”
“Have you done any harm to them? You killed them?”
“I had to…”
“You killed them!” the Rigulian exclaimed after looking again at the table.
Egar turned to the Corbelian sphere and ordered something. Right away, two armed spheres burst into the room.
“You are more dangerous than we thought! You stole a ship of the Federation and killed its crew! From now on, you may consider yourself arrested. Don’t move without my permission!”
“I can explain everything!”
“Put the device from your right arm on this table!” he ordered, pointing to the floating table display. “Move slowly if you want to live. Unlike the poor Grammians, we are very good at killing!”
Without a word, Gill took off his bracelet and threw it angrily on the table screen.
“What a strange bracelet. Is it Antyran?” exclaimed Egar 9, astounded, looking at the messages scrolling on the display table. What an amazing technology! It’s… blocking the scanner! Seems to hold antimatter—you used this to capture the Grammian ship?”
“It’s a Sigian bracelet.”
“Huh, Sigian! Sigia is the ancient name of the Grammians, and believe me: the Grammians don’t have such technology! Why don’t you say the truth instead?”
“Why don’t you look at your display instead, to see if I lie?” Gill exploded, feeling a wave of rage at the wall of prejudice raised up by the Rigulian. The medir—whatever that meant—didn’t seem to be really smart… at least not the way that a member of an advanced civilization was supposed to be.
The Rigulian looked at the table and then back at him, confounded.
“It seems you believe it, indeed, but you’re wrong. Grammia is the same thing as Sigia. Our first contact was—”
“One thousand two hundred and fifty years ago, close to Antyra, which on that date was hidden in a distortion,” Gill said, finishing the rest of the sentence.
“How do you know that?” the medir asked him, intrigued.
“You came to Antyra to find out how we hid in the distortion.”
“And I suppose you’re going to tell me?” he asked, a glimmer of interest in his eyes.
“The Grammians locked us in one thousand two hundred and fifty years ago after they destroyed the Sigian civilization. They hid Antyra in a wall of fire.”
“Right,” Egar 9 scoffed, “the Grammians, the invaders of the stars.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t laugh like that,” Gill said, interrupting his exuberance. “You don’t even know who you are dealing with!”
“For your information, Antyran, Grammia is the most peaceful world in the galaxy; they don’t have the word war in their dictionary! It’s a world shielded from the madness of technology—no army, no security, no crimes or other violence. What nerve you have to butcher the poor defenseless Grammian ambassadors and say such… outrageous lies!”
It was like someone had hit him in his head spikes, leaving him speechless. He finally glimpsed the staggering web of lies woven by the so-called Antyran gods—and especially the way they did it.
Gill’s frightening supposition that Antyra wasn’t the only distortion created by the enemies of the Sigians was confirmed by the naïve ignorance of the Rigulian in front of him. Gill imagined Grammia contacting the Federation instead of Sigia some 1,250 years ago while, one by one, the stars of their worlds disappeared in the folds of the continuum, unnoticed and unbeknownst to anyone—that is, if they weren’t already camouflaged during the Sigian war.
Maybe the ruins of the Sigian civilization were hidden from the Federal eyes in the same way. Maybe a huge Grammian war machine, hidden from view, grew like a dolmec infestation, building… who knows what! And during all this, the Grammians probably established colonies on some insignificant planet to fool everyone with their “pacifism.”
“I su-suppose you will let me tell my story,” Gill said, his mouth dry.
“I’m begging you,” Egar 9 replied sarcastically. “I can’t wait to hear more of your lies!”
Just when Gill was about to start his tale, the white floating sphere flickered.
“We’re called by our Grammian allies,” Egar exclaimed, grinning broadly. “They’ll be grateful to learn we arrested the criminal who killed their brethren!”
But instead of the Grammians, the hologram of an Antyran materialized in the room.
“Great Baila,” babbled Egar 9, surprised by the apparition. “How… how do you use a Corbelian sphere? Where did you get it?” he exclaimed, completely forgetting the requirements of the addressing protocol.
“Medir Egar 9,” the prophet began, directly addressing the Rigulian and without looking at Gill, “your ship is hosting a dangerous Antyran who belongs to me. I request his immediate transfer on one of the Grammian ships, to be brought back to Antyra!”
“Your Greatness, we figured out he is a notorious murderer. Right now, we’re interrogating him, and I want to talk to my Grammian colleagues to—”
“No need for that. I want him transferred now!”
“But…”
“I won’t take no for an answer!” he barked.
Egar 9 changed his color from green to bright orange, more offended than surprised to receive orders from someone he considered to be a primitive. He turned to the Corbelian sphere and shouted:
“Rico 3, inject the serums, and bring the ambassador here. It’s an order!”
He turned to Baila’s hologram.
“Great Baila, we believe the Antyran killed a number of Grammians, who are, as you know, members of our Federation. We have to clarify the problem with them before handing him over to Antyra.”
“No need to talk to the Grammians. You’ll talk directly to me,” Baila said with a sharp look.
Egar’s skin became redder, if that was possible. He was in an unbearable situation even for someone without the scruples of the Rigulians: on the one hand, he had no intention of handing Gill over until he received the approval of his superiors, and on the other hand, he couldn’t ignore Baila’s request. Omal had made several mistakes, and Egar didn’t want to be the one blamed for the collapse of the talks. He’d be sent to the sarken irrigations long before Rico 3—and not just for 50 years…
“Greatest Baila, I’m just a poor medir. Such decisions have to be made by our ambassador!”
“Then bring forth your ambassador!”
Egar shouted to the sphere, “Rico 3, have you arrived yet?”
Soon, a vat holding a Rigulian collapsed over its edge and shaking from all his hams floated in the room, escorted by another vat with an individual double his size.
“What haaaaappeeeened here?” Omal 13 babbled, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. “Where am I?”
“Ambassador,” Baila hissed through his teeth, “I ordered your medir to transfer Gillabrian immediately to one of the Grammian ships…”
“Mom? Mom, you burst your buds again?” Omal 13 asked Baila.
“Great Baila, please excuse us!” exclaimed Egar, horrified. He then turned to Rico 3 and shouted, “Get the ambassador into a prehibernation pool!”
“Leave me alone, beast! I want to fly in space,” Omal exclaimed, flapping his arms, attempting to take off. He tried to shove Rico away when he approached his vat. Unfortunately, the difference in size was not on his side; Rico 3 wrested his arms aside and pushed the vat out of the room.
“I’m sorry for this incident! It seems our ambassador needs a little rest…”
“I’m in a hurry, Medir Egar 9, I want him transferred right away! And I want everything he has—including that… that bracelet.”
“What bracelet?”
“The one on the table,” Baila pointed at it, trying in vain to hide the sparkle of greed in his eyes, pretending he had no idea what it was. “Please hand it over to an Antyran from the Grammian ship and not directly to a Grammian.”
“Great Baila, I have to contact the Grammian medir.”
Instead of an answer, Baila’s hologram extended, allowing them to see that he was inside his underground lair. Dozens of Grammians swarmed around him, working at all sorts of bizarre displays and devices. The image shocked Egar so much that he wasn’t able to make a sound from his gaped mouth.
“You’re not going to contact any Grammian medir. I speak for them, so heed my orders!”
“I… I need Sirtam 4’s approval from the roadworking rail-planet, which is now in orbit around Lacrilia,” he muttered after he found his voice again. “We’re going to be synchronized soon. Please allow us a l
ittle delay.”
“I won’t give you more time! Hand him over to the Grammians, or suffer the consequences!” the prophet shouted angrily.
“We are the ambassadors of the Galactic Federation! You dare to threaten us?” exploded Egar, forgetting all the diplomatic protocols.
“I’m afraid you heard right.”
“I won’t surrender him without approval,” Egar replied.
“All right, in that case, I’ll give you a little time to think about it,” he said with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
Gill, familiar with the prophet’s vile ways, knew what that meant all too well… but the Rigulian seemed unable to smell the danger because he did nothing after Baila’s hologram disappeared.
“If I were you, I would prepare the weapons,” Gill told him. “He’s going to attack us.”
Egar ignored him, pretending there was no one in the room, babbling at the floating table, “Come on, Sirtam, why don’t you appear already?”
“Arm your weapons if you have any!” Gill shouted in vain.
Egar kept ignoring him, but he couldn’t do the same with one of the Rigulian ships, which unexpectedly disintegrated in a violent deflagration. Countless laser beams and nuclear bombs burst from the seven Grammian ships, aimed at the bulky bodies of the Rigulian ships.
Egar’s face twisted in horror. Nothing could have prepared him for such an atrocity: their own Federation partners firing on his ships on the orders of a savage from a newly discovered world!
“The… Grammians… are… attacking?” he stammered, incredulous.
“Yes, and I dare to say they’re doing it quite well for a species that doesn’t have the word war in the dictionary,” Gill said, taunting him. “Maybe now you will fight them?”
“What have you done?” Egar looked at him, maddened. “You’ve condemned all of us to death!”
“On the contrary, Medir! Baila won’t destroy this ship because he’s afraid of killing me!”
Indeed, the other Rigulian ships were destroyed without returning a single shot. No escape pods were released, but after the first hits, the ships disassembled into small modules that ran from the battlefield—except the ones too crushed to do so. Even from the first spaceship, exploded so artistically, most of the modules limped away, losing gases through their cracks. The Grammians didn’t bother to chase them, pointing their laser lenses at the ship hosting Gill.