Sades

by S. H. Jucha

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” Leslie commented.

  It appeared to Aputi that Leslie wasn’t convinced of what they were telling her. He wanted to try again, but Ophelia stood, stepped around the desk, and hugged Leslie.

  As Ophelia made for the door, she said, “Come on, Lieutenant, pick up those big feet. There’s an entire warship command waiting on us.”

  Aputi grinned at Leslie and touched two fingers to his brow. Then he hurried after his commandant.

  Leslie shook her head in disbelief. The pair had been gone little more than a quarter annual. She wondered what she would think of the pair the next time she saw them.

  As the traveler lifted, Ophelia visited the pilot’s cabin. “I’d like to speak to Major Paul Lindstrom. He’s usually aboard the Jenkels Orbital Station, the JOS.”

  “Yes, Commandant,” the pilot replied. A few moments later, he said, “You’re connected with a sergeant in administration, Commandant.” Then he flexed his fingers to indicate she could speak.

  “Sergeant, this is Commandant Tuttle. Let me speak to Major Lindstrom,” Ophelia requested.

  “Commandant, the major’s shuttle just made the YIPS,” the sergeant replied. “He’s en route to the station director’s offices through the terminal arms. I can try to raise him in about a quarter hour for you.”

  Ophelia smiled to herself. “Never mind, Sergeant. We’re fast exiting Pyre. Give the major a message for me. Tell him that the commandant thanks mother for the great gift.”

  The sergeant insisted on reading back the odd message.

  “You have it right, Sergeant,” Ophelia replied. “Commandant out.”

  It was an old joke between Ophelia and Paul, who insisted on providing her with more than adequate security protection. He’d argued with her that she had to have an escort aboard the Omnian ship and had assigned Lieutenant Tulafono to her. She’d been perplexed by the quiet, humongous man who had called at her apartment door. Over time, she found that “mother” had shown careful judgment in his choice of her escort.

  Ophelia smiled at the pilot, touched him on the shoulder, and ambled into the main cabin. It struck her that touching the pilot in appreciation of his courtesy wasn’t typical of her. She’d always been reticent about those kinds of gestures. “Must be the Omnians,” she murmured, before she joined Aputi, who was fast asleep.

  * * * * *

  Deirdre’s command, accompanied by the Rêveur and the scout ships, made Hyronzy Station.

  Olawale and Ophelia contacted the station director, Fistonia, and requested two bays for the fleet’s travelers.

  A group from the fleet took the first traveler to land aboard the station. As Deirdre and Olawale had promised Alex, they requested conduct to a terminal arm, where they discussed with station crew the scout ships’ docking procedures.

  After the Vivian’s Mirror successfully completed the procedure, the terminal arm crew swiftly managed the mating of the other three scout ships.

  The parade of SADEs, with their elaborately decorated synth skins, mesmerized the various alien races that inhabited the station.

  Station crew showed the visitors to their quarters, and Olawale requested a meeting with the Tsargit council.

  Jarmonin, the Tsargit lead councilor and a Norsitchian, had received a cube message from Norsitchia. It informed the council of the planet and the dome’s recovery, which made the Norsitchian celebrate.

  Relenting to the Tsargit body’s demand for an update on the expedition fleet’s next effort at recovering a lost dome, Jarmonin scheduled an emergency council meeting. However, he warned the councilors that they needed to discontinue the practice of responding to the visitors whenever they arrived at Hyronzy.

  Late in the evening, the council assembled. They faced a diverse group of visitors, and Olawale introduced his companions.

  The councilors were heavily divided as to the questions they asked. Half wanted to know about the efforts to recover the lost domes, and they were dismayed to learn of Pimbor’s infestation.

  The other half of the councilors pursued the subjects of the Omnian fleet’s arrival, the support the alliance might expect, and Alex Racine’s intentions toward their area of space.

  Jarmonin was disheartened to hear of the loss of most of the brassards he’d assembled for the expedition. But he couldn’t deny the value of their sacrifice. His beloved home world, Norsitchia, was free of the Colony.

  “What are you requiring from the council this time?” Jarmonin asked.

  “We’ve come to gather additional information on star coordinates,” Deirdre replied.

  Deirdre’s response confused many of the councilors. One of them said, “But the locations of the lost domes have been determined.”

  “Alex Racine has asked us to determine the locations of every alliance system,” Olawale explained. His remark caused consternation among the council.

  “For what purpose?” Jarmonin asked.

  “It’s imperative that we locate the federacy fleet that left Crocia,” Deirdre replied. “Those battleships carry armament that can devastate many planets and thousands of ships. My fleet will disperse to cover a wide search area.”

  “You haven’t received a sighting of the battleships, have you?” Patrice asked.

  “Not yet,” a councilor replied.

  “With the aid of the alliance star coordinates, our ships can inquire at each system if news of the federacy fleet has been received,” Killian explained.

  “Is this the only reason Alex Racine wishes the stars coordinate of every alliance member?” Jarmonin asked.

  “You’re concerned that you’ll be providing valuable information to an individual, who controls a vast fleet of warships, aren’t you?” Ophelia inquired.

  “It’s a legitimate concern,” Jarmonin rejoined.

  “You asked about Norsitchian losses, Councilor Jarmonin,” Aputi pointed out. “That was a legitimate concern. However, you didn’t ask about the status of the other veterans. The Omnians lost most of their security forces, while taking back the Sylian dome and your home world. Where was your concern for them?”

  Jarmonin scowled, and he would have replied, but Kasie interrupted him. “At this moment, Omnians support the veterans’ efforts on Pimbor. Alex’s partner is at Sylia attempting to learn to communicate with adult grays, who are incarcerated on a station. Does this sound like individuals who want to dominate the alliance?”

  “Understand, Sers,” Bethley said firmly. “SADEs have chosen to work beside Omnians. Our cooperation will continue only as long as we believe Omnian goals further the development of peaceful coexistence. The day Omnians don’t is the day they’ll no longer have our support. They might even have our opposition.”

  “Will Alex’s fleets destroy the battleships when they’re found?” a councilor asked.

  “Only if the federacy fleet doesn’t take the hint,” Deirdre replied. “Alex would prefer they realize that if they don’t return to federacy space, they’ll be destroyed. Returning to the federacy would be a good lesson to the other races that they shouldn’t cross the wall.”

  Deirdre spent a few moments explaining the Omnian term for the virtual boundary that separated the space between the federacy and the human colonies.

  Jarmonin heard from several councilors, who rose to whisper to him.

  Killian sent to Deirdre.

  When the councilors were seated, Jarmonin announced, “We’ll retire to consider your request for the additional information about our alliance members.”

  “Let me leave you with this final thought, councilors,” Deirdre said. “You’ve not dealt with the likes of a federacy fleet. While a commander and captains fight their battleships, the fleet will be ruled by a political appointee. This individual will choose what the fleet does and doesn’t do. You can be assured that the decision to destroy the Crocian freighter was the decision of this political individual. The longer it takes for the fleet t
o find a hospitable planet, the more frustrated that political appointee will become. At some point, that individual will vent his, her, or its frustration on the populace, stations, or ships. Alex Racine would prefer that we hunt the battleships as soon as possible, but if you decide not to give us the information we request, you can wait until the battleships destroy an alliance race or two. Let’s hope the next place the federacy fleet visits isn’t Hyronzy.”

  “Admiral, you and your companions may wait in your quarters until you’re called again to the council,” Jarmonin intoned solemnly.

  Ophelia knew what Jarmonin’s statement meant. She interrupted their exit by saying, “We’ll wait in the antechamber, Lead Councilor Jarmonin.”

  “Does the commandant speak for you, Admiral?” Jarmonin asked coldly.

  “In this case, she expresses a similar opinion,” Deirdre replied matter-of-factly. “Debating for days won’t solve the question of whether you’ll trust us.”

  Deirdre rose and the others followed her out. In the antechamber, the SADEs stood against the walls and locked their avatars, while the humans found seats.

  Killian stood next to Olawale and heard the ex-Earther’s stomach grumble. He searched for a comm connection to the station, found it, and rummaged through data centers, until he found the service he sought.

  A quarter hour later, staff arrived with refreshments for the fleet’s humans.

  Deirdre glanced around her at the SADEs, who lined the walls. Killian smiled at her, and she hoisted her drink cup to him, silently mouthing thank you.

  “I’m sorry if I overstepped my authority,” Ophelia said to Deirdre between mouthfuls. She hadn’t realized how hungry she’d become.

  “Alex invited you for a reason,” Deirdre replied. “Pyreans are alliance members. You would know the council’s language best.”

  “How long do you intend to wait, Admiral?” Patrice asked.

  “It’s not going to be a question of waiting,” Deirdre replied. “If the council members drag their appendages, we’ll need a lever to move them along to a decision. It’ll either be in our favor or not.”

  “If it’s not?” Aputi asked.

  “Then the next move belongs to Alex,” Deirdre replied.

  17: Pardus, the Archivist

  Jarmonin halted the council’s exodus from the preparation chambers. “We meet here and now,” he said.

  “Why now?” a councilor asked. Her race observed a strict cyclical regimen, and hers was being disturbed.

  “In our previous meeting, expedition leaders led the group,” Jarmonin reminded the councilors. “As the admiral pointed out, there are political types and military types. At this meeting, it was the admiral who had the final authority.”

  “I’m in agreement with Jarmonin,” a councilor said. “I think the admiral won’t be patient with the council’s ways.”

  “What choice does she have?” a councilor asked.

  “She could leave,” a Jarmonin supporter said. “The fleet could sail, and disaster might strike. It could become known that we failed to take advantage of the Omnian fleets, which could have rid us of the battleships. That would result in charges of dereliction of duty.”

  The councilor had uttered the phrase that frightened members. Any Tsargit representatives accused and found guilty of dereliction of duty were censured. They were sent home in disgrace by the membership, which ended their political careers.

  “Aren’t we being foolish to hand over the location of every alliance race to entities who sail warships?” a councilor argued. “The Omnian leader might have good intentions. But what if the information falls into the appendages of the wrong individuals?”

  “What are we arguing about?” a councilor asked. “For the most part, the gates have limited the rate at which our races interact. Are we so anxious to throw that away?”

  “You’re forgetting what we’ve just learned,” Jarmonin gently remonstrated. “The Colony has discovered the means to circumvent the domes’ limitations. Now, the Colony has lost two systems, and a third is being contested. It will only be a matter of time before the insectoids invent a new method to improve their invasion effectiveness.”

  “As I see it,” the Jarmonin supporter said, “we’ve three powerful forces at work. We’ve our ancient enemy, the Colony, and we’ve two new forces. One is a battleship fleet that’s demonstrated the race intends conquest of a new home world. The third force belongs to Alex Racine, who supports the actions on Pimbor and purports to hunt the battleships. If it hasn’t occurred to anyone here, we’re unprepared to deal with any of them.”

  “I hate to agree with my colleague,” a councilor said, fluttering her leathery wings in agitation, “but his logic is sound. We must choose the option that offers the most benefit to the membership.”

  “That would be embracing the Omnians’ offers,” Jarmonin summarized. “Afterward, we call on our ancestors, spirits, or whatever you respect that we’ve not made the greatest mistake in alliance history.”

  “You mean a greater one than our failure to immediately embrace the Pyrean Resistance efforts to defeat the Colony,” the councilor with the disturbed cyclical regimen hissed.

  “Approval is required,” Jarmonin said, ignoring the gibe. He wasn’t alive when the Tsargit made that fateful decision.

  Jarmonin reluctantly entered his vote on his necklace device. He was resigned to a course of action that he felt could undo the alliance. He waited while the others did the same. Their faces betrayed their conflicted thoughts, which indicated the difficulty of the decisions.

  The council’s machine intelligence tallied the votes and informed the membership that the measure was approved.

  “I need a quorum in the chambers,” Jarmonin requested.

  Members crossed the room to stand beside Jarmonin, and the lead councilor kept count. “That will do,” he said. Then the other members deserted the room, with alacrity, for their private quarters.

  “Admiral, the council will see you,” a staff member said, beckoning the visitors toward the chamber doors, which had slid apart.

  Patrice smiled at Ophelia, and Olawale touched her shoulder.

  When Jarmonin saw the visitors assemble, he said, “This hasn’t been an easy decision for us, but we’ve chosen to agree to your requests. It’s our sincere hope that our faith in Omnians hasn’t been misplaced.”

  “Time will prove your decision correct,” Deirdre said. “We thank you for trusting us.”

  “You’ll be directed to the archivist after morning meal,” Jarmonin said. To his fellow councilors, he added, “This meeting is concluded.” Immediately, the councilors vacated the chambers.

  Deirdre gazed around her. “Success,” she said. “One obstacle cleared.”

  “It’s our turn, Admiral,” Killian replied, for the SADEs.

  * * * * *

  In the morning, a few of the fleet’s individuals were escorted to the presence of the archivist, Pardus.

  “More new faces,” the aging Veklock said, with interest, when he observed his visitors. “Twice in so little time. Can I hope for an engaging request?”

  “You supplied information to the expedition of alliance races, dome connections, and matching audio samples,” Olawale said.

  “Yes, for the lost domes,” Pardus acknowledged.

  “We need that same bundle of information for every alliance race,” Deirdre requested.

  “Every race?” Pardus queried.

  “Yes,” Deirdre replied.

  “While I might enjoy supplying you with that data, Admiral, it will take a while to display it, system by system, for your SADEs to copy,” Pardus said. He shrugged his wings in apology and a few white feathers floated to the deck. Splotches on his wings were bare of feathers.

  “Perhaps, we could be of assistance, Ser. My name is Killian, and my companions are Bethley and Trium.”

  “SADEs?” Pardus inquired, gazing at the plaid face and the two individuals on either side of Killian.

>   “At your service, Ser,” Killian replied.

  “Perhaps, you could,” Pardus replied. “Yes, this might prove entertaining.” He gestured to the SADEs to descend from the gallery and join him on the main floor.

  “I presume that you can intercommunicate. That is, coordinate what you find,” Pardus inquired.

  Killian tipped his head, acknowledging Pardus’s supposition.

  “Come, Killian,” Pardus directed, leading the SADE to a section of one of the larger bays. “In here, you’ll find the alliance master list in every language. There will be one in the Pyrean language.”

  Killian plugged into the bay and began his search.

  Pardus clacked his beak in amusement. “Bethley, over here, if you please,” he requested. “In this lower section are the records of committee and council meetings. They’ll have the best audio samples. However, the speaker is recognized only by name, not by race. Every race will be represented if you query far enough back in time.”

  “Now, for you, Trium,” Pardus said. “On the far bay, second section down, you’ll find the historical records of membership. Each member, past and present, will have dates of service, any committee or council assignments, and race identification.”

  Gazing at the SADEs, Pardus asked, “Are there any instructions that you require?”

  “None,” Killian replied. He’d already located what he’d needed, constructed a data repository for what Bethley and Trium would share, and begun a search of the bay for other relevant data.

  “You may start when you’re ready,” Pardus instructed. Slowly, he climbed into the gallery. Looking down his beak at Deirdre, he said, “I’ve waited a lifetime for this moment. I wish my mates could have lived to see this. I’m observing entities who can search and collate information faster than my systems.”