Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  “Oh, Aeson . . .” I whisper.

  “There was no provocation,” he says, speaking quickly. “Absolutely none on our part. All the station personnel had been carefully instructed to observe only—not to interact with the alien presence, not to fly any reconnaissance missions until we had more information. These were SPC standing orders, Fleet-wide. And to our understanding, they were obeyed.”

  “What about the battle barge?” I recall suddenly. “War-10, wasn’t it supposed to protect the station?”

  Aeson winces. “Yes, War-10.” Realizing he must be hurting me, he lightens his grip on my hand. “It was indeed supposed to protect, and it tried. In the next few heartbeats we received a first priority transmission from Command Pilot Tecpatl, asking permission to engage in immediate defensive action. Before I could reply, War-10 was under fire also. . . . We could see it mag-heitars away, sitting in a slightly higher orbit than the remains of Rah Station, and then it too was targeted by the golden hive of light objects. Their weapons cut though War-10’s plasma shields as if they were nothing. I could still hear Eodea Tecpatl’s voice even as I watched the cascade of explosions that took out the battle barge.”

  Aeson shakes his head slowly and blinks. “War-10 is gone, Gwen. It’s out there, floating in pieces, together with the Rah Station.”

  “All those young Cadets!” I exclaim, remembering the inexperienced training crew which was last present on that ship.

  Aeson’s expression is tragic.

  I’ve seen this same look in his eyes before—once on Earth during Qualification when the shuttle explosions killed several Fleet pilots and his fellow astra daimon, and a second time on board the ICS-2 after the Terra Patria terrorists hostage crisis and ensuing corridor battle, when he stood over the bodies of the fallen guards and crew.

  “There was no time to react,” he says in a strange voice, not meeting my gaze, speaking as if to convince himself. “I’m responsible for the loss. As SPC Commander, I am responsible.”

  I frown, part my lips, take a deep breath. My fingers slide from his grip, and now I’m the one squeezing his wrist, then his arm, painfully. “No . . .” I say. “It is not your fault! How can it be?”

  He shakes his head slowly, then brings himself to look into my eyes. For a moment only, his own eyes reveal that he’s drowning. In the next blink, the expression closes up. “I know. It’s irrational to engage in self-blame, considering the circumstances. And yet, the fact remains. . . . As Commander, it always has and always will rest on me.”

  Abruptly, Aeson shrugs and straightens his posture. “But, enough,” he says in a hard voice that has grown cool and emotionless. “I’m sorry, im amrevu, I’m going to ask you for your patience with all of this. You must excuse me for the time being, as I attend to this situation at hand. We’ll talk more tonight, I promise—as soon as I get the chance. For now—”

  “Oh, of course!” I interrupt. “Please, don’t mind me. . . . You have so much work to do, please get back to work. . . . I’ll just be here if you need me, okay?”

  Seeing the turmoil in my eyes, he lightens for an instant and gives me a nod and a quick, loving smile that sears me with warmth.

  Then he returns to the command center work area.

  Trying to keep out of everyone’s way, I step back and join my friends near the door. As best as I can, I explain to them what happened.

  Laronda and Gracie appear stunned. Hasmik shakes her head and continues patting Manala’s arm. Poor Manala appears emotional and quietly confused, in the way that she sometimes gets when she refuses to comprehend something terribly unpleasant. In this case, “unpleasant” is a wild understatement.

  “What will happen now? What is he—what are they doing?” Hasmik asks, speaking as mildly as possible for Manala’s sake.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if we now get called off-planet,” Laronda mutters.

  Gracie stares at her.

  Immediately, both of them start checking their wrist units for any new messages or directives from Fleet HQ. I have a passing thought that the Imperial Fleet command has likely not been notified yet—or if they have been, SPC has not issued them orders. They would have better luck just walking across the room and asking Aeson directly—not that they would, or should. . . .

  We head to the sofa and whisper quietly among ourselves, watching Aeson interact with his daimon friends who are also officers under his command.

  From what we can overhear, Aeson makes a number of calls to IEC members, including an extended one to consult with the Imperator, and then prepares to make a public statement. At the same time, Aeson issues high-level orders to the armed forces in the Star Pilot Corps hierarchy. Among other things, he recalls War-1 and War-2 from the outer system, and they are now on their way here, to reinforce us around Atlantis. These two are flagship vessels—the former normally under the leadership of Manakteon Resoi, who is the IF Commander for Imperial Atlantida but serves as Command Pilot in the SPC, and the latter under Command Pilot Amaiar Uluatl of New Deshret.

  “Meanwhile, War-3 will leave its position around Olympos and instead head outward to Atlas, taking the place of War-1,” we can hear Xelio say. “Makes sense. You want the best nearby—in other words, Resoi and Uluatl—while there still needs to be a strong presence around Atlas. Just in case the threat appears from that direction too.”

  “Just in case.” Aeson nods, continuing to enter keystrokes at the console before him.

  “Are you keeping War-4 in place for now?” an unfamiliar young man asks. He’s a slim astra daimon with olive skin, heavy black brows and striking pale grey eyes, whose name is Culuar Efrebu.

  “Yes.” Aeson glances at him. “War-4 will remain near Olympos, poised to move in either direction, system interior or exterior, as needed.”

  “What about Septu Station?” Oalla asks. “It’s next in the line of fire from the interior. Are we shifting Tammuz and Ishtar to reinforce Septu?”

  “Haven’t decided yet.” Aeson sits back, rubbing his forehead.

  “Or you can just evacuate Septu Station. Shift the whole thing to Tammuz.” Keruvat points at specific coordinates of the system map displayed on his screen. “If you notice—Tammuz’s location in orbit around Helios right now brings it much closer in line with Atlantis than Septu’s present position happens to be in relation to Atlantis. Septu is currently on the opposite side of Hel, which puts it comfortably out of the way for a least several months—that is, if the enemy is following a direct path of alignment to us. Meanwhile, even though Tammuz is farther away from Hel, it’s more likely the enemy will advance to Tammuz first on their way here.”

  “We don’t know that,” Oalla says. “We don’t have sufficient data on their line of approach—not enough to plot a predictive pattern of movement. They could be jumping quasi-randomly to verified spots of sentient human activity. Or following planetary rotation points.”

  “Should we then just disregard Septu? Not even evacuate the station?” Xelio asks with a grim inflection.

  “Leaving only War-9 behind to observe Septu would minimize possible casualties if the next hostile action ensues there,” Erita adds, peering closer at Ker’s screen. “War-9 can either engage or retreat as soon as hostiles arrive. It would keep us better informed than automated equipment alone, and it would become an immediate focal point of defense.”

  “I haven’t decided if I want to expand or contract our defense perimeter,” Aeson says thoughtfully. “Not until we know more about the true nature and capabilities of our enemy. Putting more space between us and the threat, increasing the depth of the front, with interim tactical points of defense, is one solution.”

  “Another is consolidating the defenses around Atlantis,” Xelio says. “We’ve just seen what the golden shiny shar-ta-haak can do, and leaving War-9 alone there is suicide.”

  “That may be so. But, have we?” Aeson looks at Xel. “Have we really seen the extent of their capabilities? What we observed was mostly after the fact, w
ith no visuals of their weapons activation up-close. I want real data on range, duration, impact, firing capacity.”

  “In other words, ‘what, where, when,’ and ‘how.’” Oalla makes a small sound.

  “Don’t forget, ‘who,’” says another unfamiliar astra daimon, a young man with very dark skin—almost as dark but not as tall as Keruvat—by the name of Nergal Duha.

  “Yes, ‘who’ would be nice,” Erita says. “Would help to know what these alien chazufs look like, what kind of biologicals.”

  “Yes, in short, I want numbers, not assumptions.” Aeson glances around at the others. “To make projections and run scenarios, we need more information on this enemy. Before we talk strategy with the global partners, before I commit our resources one way or another, before I risk more lives. . . . We still don’t understand what really happened out there. If—when—they decide to strike next, we need to be better prepared for them.”

  The evening is interminably long, especially since my friends leave about an hour later, wanting to be out of the way. I give Gracie a tight hug and she promises to call me if anything changes or she gets deployment orders.

  “You too,” I tell Laronda, giving her a gentle hug, and again thinking about her and Anu. “Oh, and—you feeling okay?”

  Laronda makes a sound that could be taken as amusement or stressed-out nerves. “All things considered, yup, I guess,” she whispers, with an involuntary glance across the room to where Anu has his back turned as he’s working at a computer screen.

  Hasmik gives me a hug and tells me to stay strong, and then leaves with Manala, to make sure the Princess gets to her own Quarters safely.

  Now that I’m alone, I sit perched nervously on the sofa, listening in to what has basically turned into an informal military strategy meeting. It’s a preliminary to the SPC war council that I suspect will happen soon, when Aeson officially meets with the global heads of state, their representatives, and a variety of experienced veteran officers in the SPC high command, likely up in orbit in the neutral territory of the Atlantis Station’s SPC Headquarters.

  The public doesn’t know yet, I think. They don’t know about the attack, or that the Rah Station and War-10 are both destroyed.

  Right now, how much and what to tell them, in order to prevent global panic, is part of what will be decided shortly.

  Hours later, Aeson and the others are still working, still brainstorming.

  The display screen showing a scorched graphite-and-coal hemisphere of planet Rah and the tragic debris floating in space around it, has not changed much. However, the golden light objects have stopped moving and firing their impossible weapons of mass destruction, and returned to their former spots in the diamond-shape formation.

  Indeed, the diamond array has fully reconstructed itself and now sits in orbit around Rah, geometrically perfect, motionless and inactive. While in the distant background, the grand, golden grid of planet-sized light objects around Helios still menaces in its immensity.

  It must be noted that the video feed of Rah gets cut off periodically and has to be recaptured on different equipment that still remains on-site. Apparently, many of the space buoy cameras wink out, one by one, as they get caught up in the debris field and suffer damage. Fortunately, enough functional ones still remain, giving Aeson and the others a constantly changing view of the scene and the golden enemy, its hostile activity suspended for the time being.

  Given all this, with no other new, major developments, I get to bed around Midnight Ghost Time, because there’s nothing I can do to help, and I want to be out of everyone’s way.

  The next morning, Green Ghost Moon 15 dawns and I am up so early with restless nerves that it’s still dark. Even so, there are some people already (or still) in the workroom when I get there, together with a fresh eos bread service. The pastry scent of strong, steaming-hot lvikao fills the air.

  I am told that, after holding a brief conference meeting formally in orbit, Aeson, as the SPC Commander, is about to deliver a public address from the IEC Assembly Chamber.

  When did all this happen? Did he even go to bed? I experience a stab of worry. Poor Aeson!

  I glance at the live feed of planet Rah, and nothing much has changed there. The clouds of incandescent gas have coalesced and dissipated somewhat overnight but the floating chaos of debris remains. I try not to look too closely at the grisly details, in case there are bodies. . . .

  “Anything?” I ask Oalla who sits bleary-eyed, holding a big mug of lvikao, and stares at scrolling data.

  I should probably ask her—or someone—if lvikao contains a stimulant, such as caffeine in Earth coffee.

  “Not much that’s new,” she tells me with a suppressed yawn. “The enemy remains inactive, which is a good thing. Still, very creepy in their ordered lineup. Our instruments tell us there are exact space intervals between those light spheres. To a high degree of accuracy. So I’m running a mathematical correlation program to find significance.”

  “That is scary,” I say, pouring myself lvikao also.

  “Your Imperial amrevu is about to go before the networks, so let me switch to a news feed,” Oalla adds. She splits her current window into two, then calls up the Hel-Ra morning newscast.

  Half an hour later, we watch Aeson’s face on the TV screen. He appears grim yet impassive, looking directly into the camera with his commanding, heavy gaze. In that moment he projects Imperial power, not unlike his father. I know that he must be exhausted, but he is covering it very well.

  Aeson speaks, first explaining the situation briefly in unemotional language, using general terms and some understatement. I notice he does not shirk from mentioning the complete loss of the Rah Station and War-10 in the unexpected attack. And then he describes the current status of the enemy.

  “The hostile alien objects are inactive once again. Having perpetrated the devastating unprovoked strike on the space station and the battle barge, they returned to their original fixed positions in the lesser, second grid in high orbit around Rah. At present, they are in a resting state and do not appear to pose a threat, for the moment. Meanwhile, the losses we suffered are currently being analyzed and studied—losses of human life and military resources. The attack happened so quickly that we have very little detail by which to assess the exact causes and methods of damage, but we are in the process of acquiring the necessary data. Tactical probes are being sent to approach and observe the hostiles, taking all care not to provoke additional action.”

  Aeson pauses, and his eyes do not blink as he looks into the camera. “This is all the information I have for you, as of now. I offer my deepest condolences to the families and loved ones of those who are now lost to us. Please remain confident that the Star Pilot Corps, comprised of the best among you, are a formidable global defense force for our planet, and we have just begun our own counter-measures to keep you safe. May you take comfort at this difficult time in the loving gods of your faith and in the strength of those you love.”

  Chapter 46

  I have very little memory of the rest of the day. It’s a jumble of stress in general, worrying about everything and everyone, and about Aeson in particular. There’s the constant waiting in his absence, as he takes part in endless military strategy meetings both here on the planet surface and up in orbit on Atlantis Station, international home to the SPC Headquarters.

  Around noon, I escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the workroom to take a brief walk in the Palace gardens with Manala. Neither of us speaks much, wrapped up in our own stress thoughts, except when I pat her arm reassuringly and remind her that, with her brother Aeson in charge of the SPC, everything will be fine.

  “Do you really think so, Gwen?” she asks me timidly. “I think we will all die. It’s a very bad, terrible, sad and depressing thing, and I don’t see a way out for anyone. The evil ancients have returned to exterminate us.”

  “Oh, no, Manala!” I hurry to squeeze her shoulder. “That is so not true!”

  �
�How can you be so sure?”

  “Well,” I say, choosing words with care. “For one thing, Atlantis has us Earthies to help. As you know, we’re very, very stubborn. And it’s been so many thousands of years. We have all progressed and changed, and so have the circumstances. I think that if we work together, we have an excellent chance of fighting back and defending ourselves. In fact, I know we do!”

  Manala laughs suddenly, blinking in the glare of daylight. “Thank you, Gwen. I like the way you explain it. I feel a little better now. Now I want to eat some cheburi pie.”

  And on that note, we return indoors.

  The other exciting thing that happens an hour later is the call from Dad and George. It comes in on one of the display-and-data screens. Xelio receives the interstellar deep space transmission from the velo-cruiser, chats briefly with Quoni Enutat who’s placed the call on the other end. Xel then calls me over, and I see Quoni’s serious face, who immediately moves aside—and there’s my Dad.

  “Dad!” I cry out with unexpected joy, and like a gusher, feel a sudden, overwhelming pressure of tears. But I manage to hold it back, somehow. . . .

  Charles Lark, my father, smiles lovingly at me, and I realize he looks somewhat better than he did the last few times we talked. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s clean shaven and his shirt collar is neatly folded at his throat. Or maybe, it’s because his expression of chronic sorrow is no longer so stark and blatant with despair, but more of a soft undercurrent lurking in his eyes.

  “Gwen, my sweet girl, how are you? How are Gracie and Gordie?” Dad asks. “I’m told we cannot speak too long this time—something to do with great acceleration rate in this Quantum Stream, I believe. But we wanted to call you, George and I—” At this point I see my older brother peeking over Dad’s shoulder and waving to me with a familiar, crafty George-smirk—“We wanted to call to let you know we are about to be put in cold storage. Or, whatever they call it—”