by Jim Rudnick
The ambassador shook his head. “Not at all, Captain. The word private tells me that they’re interested in something much more important than berating you about not landing. Much more, but let’s see, shall we?”
Bram nodded as the last stewards finished their tasks, and the room looked nicely set for their guests who appeared to be running a bit slower than he’d expected.
“AI, can you tell me if the ship from Jannah has landed here as yet?”
The AI chimed and answered, “Captain, it appears that the ship is being held up. Landing authorizations from the landing authorities are being withheld for a reason we do not know …”
“Now that’s interesting,” the ambassador said, and they waited for whatever might come next.
#####
Above Amasis, in the Barony realm, where a space station hung in low orbit, a Caliphate ship was in the process of docking. As usual, it had asked for docking times and had requested a direct connection to the station rather than being moored off. By docking directly with the station, one could simply walk from the CN Roc directly onto the station when the airlocks were opened. The Roc was a destroyer at more than eleven hundred feet in length, which meant the helmsman needed to be an expert as he piloted the destroyer toward Docking Wing 4R.
The Caliph watched carefully on the view-screen on the bridge and smiled as the huge destroyer sidled up to the assigned docking wing perfectly. The settling that happened via the thrusters was almost unnoticeable, and the AI chimes on the bridge chimed three times. The sidebar on the view-screen noted the docking was successful, and moments later, it showed the airlocks were now conjoined and all was fine.
“Nicely done, Helmsman,” the Caliph said, and he got up and stretched. Since the Barony Drive had come along, space travel had been so easy and so quick that he almost missed the old speeds of travel where one had to take weeks to get to anywhere. This was certainly progress, and for that, he knew he had to thank the Barony.
But he really couldn’t; after all, the Baroness had simply found the Barony Drive over on Ghayth—and while she did make it available to all the RIM Confederacy realms, that too was in her own best interests.
No matter what he felt for the Baroness, it wasn’t his goal to be anything but the next chairman of the RIM Confederacy—and that meant he had to build up the Caliphate by at least six more realm worlds. It would have been only five more, but the sudden Enkian decision to leave the Caliphate had hurt his long-term goals. That, and the loss of the mining of the Xithricite on Enki, meant the Enkians could trade those rights for technology and favor from any realm on the RIM.
He sighed as he left the bridge, giving the comm to his XO and shaking his head at the request to accompany him. He went out and down the curved corridor to the lift, down to Deck One, and then down another curved corridor to the landing bay. There, he did return a salute or two, but his mind was on the upcoming surprise talk, and he walked right down the airlock ramp, stepping across the threshold to the station, and was followed by two Ramat guards.
He had wondered at bringing them along, but he did know that to be seen walking in a public space station without guards would raise eyebrows. This was the lesser of the two evils, and he smiled at that.
He walked along the wing that jutted out of the station for the fifty feet it took to get to the actual public areas, went through the Customs checkpoint without even nodding to the officer stationed there, and turned to his left. Ahead, down the corridor, were the usual kiosks with civilians who were shopping. He knew there was a huge shopping mall area counter-clockwise to where the Roc had docked, but he wasn’t going that way. In that direction were the major shopping stores for off-world goods, restaurants, and the big Caliphate casino. As in all space stations, the Caliphate had the monopoly of running the only licensed gambling casinos, and that legacy for his realm ran back more than six hundred years. Revenues were strong still as humans especially were susceptible to the “get rich quick” casino gaming opportunities—even though the numbers were always against them.
He smiled at that. He wondered how one could pull the handle on a slot machine if one knew it paid off so seldom that it was just burning your cash. He shook his head at that, but then he realized, as always, gambling paid for the Caliphate and his livelihood too.
He walked and nodded a couple of times when civilians pointed at him or smiled and asked if he would please have a photo taken with them—and he complied each and every time. No sense, he thought, of being anything but accommodating today—the time for leadership is upon me.
He reached the administration area after a long and very happy walk, and he entered the doors and presented himself at the reception desk. A Barony Navy lieutenant behind the counter looked up at him for a second and then back down at the papers in front of her. He shrugged. The realization that I am someone whom she might want to get up and look after ASAP should come to her soon, he thought Just as he thought that, she pushed back away from her desk, sputtering as she got up and rushed to the counter.
“Caliph—I am so sorry—I didn’t know—we had no idea that you were going to come in here,” she said as she half-bowed to him. Not knowing what else to do, she grabbed some brochures that sat on the counter-top and struggled to get them in a nice neat pile.
He nodded to her. “Yes, I am sorry, but I would like to know if I might have a few minutes with one of your staff here, Captain Magnusson?” He looked down at her from his height of more than half a foot taller than six feet.
She almost quivered as she replied, “Yes, of course, Caliph—I can page him and get him here in seconds—would you like to wait in his office while I do that, Caliph?”
He nodded and she showed him around the reception counter and across the large office to a side hallway. They walked down that hallway to the last door on the left, and she opened it up and ushered him in. He told his Ramat guards to wait in the hallway, and they took up picket positions on either side of the door as he entered.
“The captain is new here, and so he’s just getting settled,” she said, as she gestured around the room.
The office was small and completely barren of any kind of personality. There was a bookcase with no books—nothing, in fact, on any shelf. A filing cabinet that had two drawers half-open had nothing inside. A desk with a matching credenza was bare. There was no desk pad, photos in frames, or any personal items belonging to the captain. There was an INBOX, the Caliph saw, but it was empty. There was a monitor, keypad, and a tablet sitting neatly lined up and turned off.
He smiled at the lieutenant as he sat in the only guest chair facing the desk. “Thank you, Lieutenant—if you’d be so kind as to ask the captain to join me? And I won’t keep him long either,” he said politely.
She nodded, said, “Wilco,” and hurried out the door.
It did take almost fifteen minutes, he noted on his PDA, but eventually, the door to the office opened, and Captain Magnusson walked in. There was a look of confusion on his face, but he said nothing until he was seated at his desk. Leaning forward on his forearms, he looked at his guest and an eyebrow arched up. “Caliph—I am more than pleased to greet you and say welcome to the Amasis space station. Had we known that you were coming by, I could have arranged a more suitable welcome for a head of state,” he said.
The Caliph smiled as he noticed Magnusson’s eyebrow remained raised. “Captain, yes, I am sorry. But I decided only today to come to Amasis—and it’s not to be greeted by officials that I came by. I came to see you, Captain—you and you alone,” he said. He leaned back, crossed one boot over the other, and smiled again at him.
“Well, Caliph—you have me at a disadvantage as I’ve no idea why you’d want to see me—me personally, that is,” Magnusson said.
He was even more interested now, the Caliph could see. “I have a story to tell, Captain, and I want you to hear it—let me finish completely, so no interruptions, if you please?” he asked, and he got a nod from the captain.
&nbs
p; “Fine,” the Caliph said. “I have been following your career in the Barony Navy now for a few years, as your abilities and skills were noted as being above normal by our intelligence agency. Then this whole Praix situation happened. You were—as you well know when you search your own consciousness—not in charge when you shot that alien. You were in the control of the Issians—and at your trial, that was proven out of the mouth of the Issian Master Adept. She did go on to say that they could have used almost anyone at that Mexican standoff—but you were chosen. The trial found you not guilty. So there should have been no reprisals or retribution toward you from the Barony Navy.”
He paused and waved his arm around the sterile office. “And this is where your admiral—we believe on orders from the Baroness—puts you for further duty. Here. Alone. In exile, I’d say.”
The Caliph shook his head and continued. “So far, do I have a good grasp of your own feelings on this matter? That because of the Issian interference with you—you are now branded as an officer with little future in the Barony Navy—that those admiral’s stars are no longer on your horizon?” He leaned back and motioned to the captain.
The captain just stared at him for almost a full minute, then sighed, and shook his head. “You seem to have captured my own thoughts exactly, Caliph,” he said and sighed.
Doesn’t know what else to say, the Caliph thought. . The office itself, and its obvious lack of décor and personal items, spoke more than any kind of denial from him might have. Good to know he agrees with my assessment. Now, time to pitch.
“So, I have an offer for you. You resign your Barony Navy captaincy, today, with the station commander. You will then simply walk with me back to the Roc—and we will return to Neria. I offer you a rear admiral position, directly under the Caliphate admiral, Abu al-Hasan. You will earn the full admiral’s rank, I’d think, within a year—but more importantly, you’d become, once again, a valuable navy officer—instead of being exiled here babysitting a space station.”
He had spoken slowly, and now, he slid a small black box across the empty desk and put it right in front of the captain.
Captain Magnusson looked shocked. His face was pale, and there was a teensy tic on one of his eyelids, but he rubbed that away in a second with one hand—as the other reached out for that box. He opened it and within lay a single silver star.
An admiral’s star.
He stared at it for a few seconds and then grinned as he closed the box. “If what you said you see was not exactly what I see too—the exile here on the Amasis station via no fault of my own means my Barony Navy career is over—I would not accept this star.” He pulled the closed box back toward him and snapped a salute. “Caliph—your newest admiral accepts your offer and will, yes, accompany you back to the Caliphate today,” he said.
The Caliph acknowledged his salute and smiled.
The job today is done.
“I expect big things from you, Admiral. Big, big things and—as you may or may not know—in the Caliphate Navy, we are realists. We see and we do what works. I would expect that same type of characteristics from you as well.”
The new Admiral Magnusson smiled, still clenching the black box in his hand.
The Caliph stood, and before he turned to leave his new admiral, he smiled once more. “Resign. Get your gear over to Docking Wing 4R—where the Roc is docked. We leave when you’re aboard, Admiral. And don’t think that you’re going to be living at the same pace on Neria as you were here. Lots of information for you to take in—including our newest mission to Pentyaan space—which I want you involved in soonest …”
Magnusson nodded and escorted the Caliph to his office door. “Will report on the Roc in less than an hour, Caliph—and I would also like to thank you for this opportunity.”
“Not at all, Admiral. I know talent when I see it—and you’re going to be a positive influence in the Caliphate Navy—that’s for sure …” he said as he left the office.
Magnusson went back to sit in his chair, and he opened up his tight grasp on the box in his left hand.
“A star. An admiral’s star …” he said to himself—over and over.
CHAPTER FIVE
As usual, Beedles caused the big stink on the wreck on Ghayth, and he was not apologizing for anything.
“I said it and I’ll say it again. The Praix are telepaths—and the ship is now on. That means that he can simply talk to the ship’s AI without us even knowing—is that point not obvious to you all?”
Beedles stood with his hands cocked on his hips at the entrance to the ship and looked at the whole xeno team. He did not look at the Praix who stood well above him nor his Issian handler either. While the Issian had heard him, he had already stated he didn’t believe that a race with fifty millennia of civilization would not be able to both hear and understand the world around them as well as what was said in their hearing too. His argument to keep the Praix out of the ship was already being surpassed by his refusal to allow the xeno team with their Praix and Issian guests inside.
“As usual,” Professor Reynolds said, “you’re making a stink when there’s nothing to smell, Ned. Stand down, lad, or just get the hell out of the way.” He walked toward Beedles.
Beedles shook his head and then moved out of the way. “I don’t want to have to say I told you so—but I will, you know!” he bellowed at them and grumbled as he fell in line.
Reynolds led the way followed by the Issian and then the Praix. Two marines, who were there to watch the Praix more than anything else, walked behind the Praix with the rest of the xeno team and Beedles trailing at the end. When Reynolds reached the main walkway in the wreck, he turned to the right toward the rear cargo areas, and no amount of grumbling and complaints from Beedles were acknowledged. They went directly down to walkway number nineteen on the starboard side of the ship, taking almost fifteen minutes for them all to get to the big bank of doors.
Some were closed still, but Reynolds led the way to the second set of open doors, and they all walked inside. Smaller rooms were spaced around the interior, and he went right up to the first of those rooms.
“Can we ask, please,” he addressed the Issian, “what this room holds—oh, and in all cases, we’d like to know if the contents of any room are still usable? That is, unbroken?”
The Issian, an inner circle apostle named Jana Jelinek, said, “I will ask for you,” and she turned to the Praix.
Moments later, she nodded, but Reynolds wasn’t sure that the Praix understood this human nonverbal sign, but that was something to think about another day.
“Yes, he says that this room holds what we call ammunition—it and the room next to it are the ship’s armory. And yes, both the weapons and the ammo are both viable and active. He did caution us on using any of them though as it appears that—what do you call it—the sighting of the weapons is a telepathically controlled function only.”
“Figures,” Beedles said from the rear.
“Enough, Ned, or I’ll have the marines take you out of the ship,” Reynolds said.
More muttering came from the area at the rear, but Reynolds led the group to the next room, which according to the Praix held the weapons.
“Can you ask what kind of weapons these are? Projectile? Needlers? Stun guns? Oh, and the ranges too, if you can drill down,” he said as he ensured that his PDA was recording the whole tour today.
The Issian looked way up at the Praix, and this silent conversation took more time, but eventually she once again nodded to Reynolds. “There are more than a dozen kinds of weapons here, I’m told. Lasers, projectile, needlers too. They do not have stun guns, I would suspect, as that term he did not know. There are more than three hundred here in the room on displays, as we can see, as well as behind same too. Take one down, and it’s immediately replaced by the ship’s AI, and the shelf once again holds the same weapon. Range he had some difficulty with too—he said if a Praix can see the target, then that’s how far it can shoot—or well, thoughts to that
effect. I am not that sure about this, but he seemed to think that all weapons—ours included—would be like that.”
The marines with them shook their heads but said nothing, and they went on to the next room. In it were the round metal plates in groups of thirty-one. Each group had a different color, and each was hanging on the wall, except for one bare spot. But before anyone could ask, Reynolds went past the room and down a side hallway. There, in plain view, sat a round metal plate with what looked like a perch on top, and below it, an amber light shone down at the floor.
“I think that the number thirty-one is also a base of their math, and I’d like to ask—but that can wait too, I’d suppose,” Professor Ellen Irving said after getting a ”quit it” stare from Reynolds who shook his head. He was the one in charge, and his look said conversation about base math with the Praix could surely wait.
Beedles spoke up from his new position right beside the Issian. “Tell him that we think that this is a Praix ladder—you simply slap one of those round plates under the perch, and it pushes the perch up to a certain level. Different colors mean different heights. Do we have that right?”
Apostle Jelinek nodded, and moments later, she nodded to him a second time. “That’s what the Praix just said, yes, it’s anti-gravity run and never fails, is always powered too. I haven’t asked him about either of those two items—I would suspect that’s for another big conversation. We, here in this galaxy, have never invented anti-gravity—nor for that matter free infinite power either. Might I suggest that those two topics be left for another time?” she asked.
Reynolds looked at his team and all nodded. Beedles grumbled once more, but eventually under Reynolds stare, he too agreed.
They walked farther into the cargo holds, and as room after room came up for investigation, the Praix simply answered what he was asked. A few times, he did offer that what was there was now older technology; it had been updated in the time between the crash of the ship those twenty millennia ago and modern times. Reynolds double-checked his PDA and made sure that it was recording all of that too.