Massoud (Massoud Chronicles Book 1)

by Amanda R. Norris

  “For heaven’s sake! Why didn’t he just get treatment?”

  “He was one of the rare individuals for whom the biologic correction was problematic. There are drugs available, but they are less effective. He would have resigned his commission within the year.”

  “And Williams? Why did she follow his example?”

  “She loved him,” Teloc stated simply.

  “That’s not a very logical answer from a Gnostian,” the admiral retorted.

  Sung provided a different viewpoint. “I served with Rear Admiral Williams for a number of years. She was an excellent officer, but she was an administrator, not a tactician. My gut tells me that she understood she was not best suited to lead the fleet.”

  “And Captain Teloc, a science fleet officer was?”

  “So it seems,” Sung said, a little smugly.

  The admiral pursed his lips. “They were both good people. None of us is perfect.” The admiral gently shook his head, dismissing the topic.

  “Once again, I want to thank you all, on behalf of myself, the Unified Fleet, and the Alliance, for your service at the Battle of Denison. I promise you the sacrifice of your lost comrades will not be forgotten. Their deaths weigh heavily with me, as I am sure they do with you. Thank you for your time, Captain Sung. If you could wait a moment, Capt. Teloc and Lt. Massoud, I would like to speak with you further.”

  Sung blipped out of the room. Teloc and Massoud looked expectantly at the admiral. He scratched his cheek.

  “As you both know, war is won on the home front. We can’t operate up here unless the civilian population backs us wholeheartedly. The politicians need propaganda and you, Teloc, are going to provide it.” Reacting to the troubled look on Teloc’s and Massoud’s faces, Lightfoot clarified, “I’m just the messenger here. This is not my kind of thing. They want you to go to Gnost, get feted, play the hero, and tell them how much they need the Alliance to secure their safety. Then the politicians will request increased contributions from Gnost to the Alliance.”

  Teloc looked mildly uncomfortable, but it was Massoud who responded. “Teloc doesn’t need to play the hero; he is a hero, Admiral.”

  At last Capt. Teloc responded to his wife’s overflowing admiration. He gave her a look that said be quiet.

  “But it’s true,” she said in a dulcet tone. The admiral felt queasy watching them.

  Teloc turned to Lightfoot. “Admiral, I understand the objectives of such a course of action. However, I believe it is ill-conceived. I am not admired on Gnost. My service in the Alliance Fleet is seen as disloyal by certain factions. My service record is blemished. My marriage to a foreigner is questionable. Fathering a child of mixed race is disapproved of. If the intent is to promote the role of Gnostians in the Alliance, a more acceptable representative should be found.”

  The admiral was astounded. “Are you refusing to cooperate?”

  “I am merely pointing out the facts.”

  “We are not trying to win over the bigots in your society, Teloc. The more tolerant factions predominate. You were instrumental in stopping the annihilation of a planet. Gnostians will understand that it could be their planet next time. We’re just trying to reinforce that idea.” The admiral took a deep breath. This meeting had been harder work than he’d expected. “Look, let the politicians figure out the optics. You can view this as an opportunity to visit your home world. See your family on Gnost. Take Massoud with you to show the unity between Terran and Gnostian societies. Take your kid with you.”

  The admiral was not prepared for the reaction to his last words. Teloc’s dispassionate face flushed instantly and transformed with ugly emotion. “I will never take my child to Gnost,” he hissed. The admiral tensed and pulled himself to his full height, which was somewhat less than his subordinate’s, but it was Massoud who intervened. Initially she tried to place a restraining hand on her husband’s arm, but her hand simply went through his image. Then she stood in front of her spouse and addressed the admiral.

  “Forgive Teloc, Admiral. What he meant to say was that you can order us to any duty, and we will willingly comply, but you have no authority over our child. She will remain on Denison, no matter where we go.” Massoud pinned him with a protective maternal look that was surprisingly intimidating. The admiral deflected further discussion by dismissing the topic with a sweeping hand.

  “Control your temper, Teloc,” he ordered severely. “You need to remember where you are.”

  Teloc almost immediately returned to his previous dispassionate state. The admiral was revising his opinion of this couple. Perhaps the wife was sane, and the husband was mad. Whatever the facts were, he revisited his intention to give field promotions to the key surviving players from the Training Fleet. He was promoting no-one without going through their service records with a fine-tooth comb.

  16. Homecoming

  T eloc’s and Massoud’s shuttles arrived at Denison Base within twenty minutes of each other. Massoud waited those twenty minutes in the disembarkation zone with a gnawing impatience. She wanted to see her husband and she wanted to rush to her child, but she could not do both. Instead, she contacted her sister who willingly agreed to bring Constance to Massoud’s nearby apartment.

  When Teloc appeared, Massoud walked beside him uneasily, but they did not chat. It did not seem appropriate to babble at that moment, and she feared she would babble if she opened her mouth. They wandered in the direction of the arrivals’ atrium, expecting to traverse the open plaza separating the base from the civilian portions of the city, but they were redirected to the basement. From there, they were instructed to use a tunnel to exit to a nearby boulevard.

  “What’s going on?” Massoud asked a security officer she had once been introduced to by Painter.

  “Don’t you know? The city’s gone crazy. The plaza is full of people waiting to mob the returning crews. Everyone wants a piece of you—maybe literally. You need to get home and into civvies as fast as you can if you want a moment’s quiet. Check your messages.”

  Massoud and Teloc were puzzled but did as was suggested. Teloc looked up in surprise. “I have over nine thousand messages.” As a reticent man, Teloc usually only had a tiny fraction of that number waiting after a six-month voyage. Massoud had a somewhat smaller number of messages, but still very much in excess of the norm. She scanned some of hers and quickly understood the general theme, but she was more curious about Teloc’s messages since he was clearly confounded. She looked over his shoulder.

  Teloc of Denison! You’re the greatest!

  My deepest thanks for what you have done to protect my family.

  I want to have your baby!

  I always thought Gnostians were jerks, but not you. You changed my mind.

  You’re wonderful! Thank you for all you did for us

  More messages of the same ilk overflowed his slate. Teloc was baffled. He had only done what was reasonable and necessary. In his confusion, he looked to Massoud.

  “Why does she wish to have my baby?”

  “You’re a hero. I bet there’ll be fake Teloc DNA flooding the reproductive black market by next week. It’ll be a hot buy,” Massoud quipped. Teloc was subtly aghast.

  They proceeded through the tunnels, which were heavily manned by security officers, and emerged in a street they recognized as one about a kilometer from their home. They were finally off fleet property, and Massoud was shocked to be pulled into Teloc’s arms and to feel his tears on the cheek he placed against hers. He was shaking with poorly repressed emotion.

  “Elizabeth, oh Elizabeth. I was so worried that something would happen to you. I thought I could not keep you safe. I would have suicided myself if anything had happened to you. I would have ignored all duty, all responsibility. You understand. The only way I knew to keep you safe was to destroy the Xeno flagship. I did not know what else to do.”

  Massoud was shaking too. They had both had their first true taste of battle but had suppressed their natural reactions to the traumatic
experience out of necessity. They had seen each other in danger. They had lost friends. They witnessed entire crews obliterated in an instant. Afterwards, they had seen body parts, both human and Xeno, float past their external view screens. It was pure chance that they had survived, but they were no worthier of that privilege than those who had once owned the fractured bodies that littered space.

  Massoud recovered first, and it was with tears streaming down her face that she said in a steady, authoritative voice:

  “Listen to me, Teloc. Listen to me.” She shook him gently, barely moving his large frame. “If we are ever in that situation again, you cannot fall apart—no matter what happens to me. Do you understand? You must do everything you can to survive. Constance cannot be orphaned. You understand that, don’t you? You love her, don’t you? She’s part of me. She’s part of you. She’s a product of our love. If one of us is gone, the other must stay alive for her. Do you understand?”

  Teloc nodded and attempted to regain his composure. They spent several more minutes standing on the street, holding each other tightly, recovering from their outburst of emotion. Strangers glanced at them sympathetically. Grieving fleet members, and their families, were not an uncommon sight on the streets near Denison Base.

  It took only minutes to reach home, and Noor and Constance arrived shortly afterwards. Noor gave them both a heartfelt hug. Surprisingly, Teloc reciprocated it. Elizabeth clung to her child.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Noor said softly. “I am so glad you are safe, so really glad.” She gagged on a sob and then, in a shaky voice that attempted humor, she added, “That child really never, ever, sleeps.” With that, she was gone.

  Constance was whining in her mother’s arms, demanding an indecipherable something from her parent. Teloc walked over and took the child, and she was silent within a moment, resting her head on her father’s chest. Massoud watched and thought, “If one of us has to die, it had better be me. She needs him.”

  *

  Within a few days, a memorial was arranged for those who were lost in the Battle of Denison. It was to take place in the cavernous hangar of the Museum of Space. The major displays had been removed, but a memorial wall, usually reserved to commemorate those who had perished in the Last War, had been rapidly repurposed to remember those lost in the New War. For each new casualty, there was a virtual plaque, which included their image and a brief description of their service.

  The main space of the hangar was wide enough to accommodate those who were to attend the event. The families, mainly civilian, were to the left, and the fleet representatives to the right. Since most servicemembers remained stationed in space, the only uniformed personnel present were either planet-based or the surviving members of the Training Fleet. An exception was Lightfoot, who attended while maintaining a shuttlecraft nearby. Although many admirals had successfully directed battles from planet-based locations during the Last War, it was Lightfoot’s personal belief that a commanding officer should be exposed to the same hazards as those who followed his orders. He would return to space if his presence was required.

  The fleet personnel attending the event were formed into neat ranks. Massoud stood with the crew of the Sinbad, beside Sung. She was grey-faced and had dark rings under her eyes. After the initial exquisite relief of personal survival, the loss of life during the battle haunted her. She could not but question her own existence when others had perished. Her family was intact. There was no way to explain why she, and those she loved, remained unscathed when others had been annihilated. Even the loss of Xeno life cut through her. She kept thinking of little Xeno children looking for a missing parent, kept thinking of Constance and how similar those little children must be to her own child, if not in outwards appearance, then in their need for a parent. She thought of Biash and Williams who had been such important figures in her life just days ago, and now they were literally nothing. Most of all, she thought of Lt. Lee and the near random decision she’d made to supervise him during the war games, and the casual way in which she’d acquiesced to his request to join the repair teams. She saw again, and again, the look of gratitude he’d given her when she encouraged him on the bridge of the Sinbad before the training exercise. If he had known what would happen, he would have scowled at her instead. In fact, in her nightmares, he did scowl and attack. Sweet, harmless Lt. Lee was transformed into a vicious animal of retribution in her unconscious mind.

  The format for the memorial ceremony had been hastily arranged and the museum staff had been heavily involved. As a result, the ceremony was patterned after the memorials of the Last War. Lightfoot made an emotionally charged speech that said all that was appropriate about sacrifice, nobility, and worth. An honor guard performed a tightly choreographed flag and flame ceremony. A solemn listing of the lost ships was pronounced; a listing of the dead would be too lengthy. Then there was a peculiar inclusion in the program, a throwback to the values of past generations. Clergy from the ancient religions, each in their turn, intoned prayers and benedictions in accordance with their faiths. Massoud watched a man in front of her mouth the words of a Hindu prayer, listened to a murmuring response from the Christians scattered throughout the hanger and then her attention was caught by the next speaker approaching the podium. It was Noor’s imam. Massoud had characterized him as a jolly, good-humored individual, of the type that would be everyone’s favorite uncle, but now he carried himself with a serene dignity and ethereal authority.

  Once she heard his resonant voice, Massoud felt her heart burgeon with a call to prayer that tugged at the very core of her being. It was a new sensation. As a girl, her family’s religion had been formulaic and officious, but now she felt a trembling faith that came, not from the external world, but directly from the part within her that was connected to the divine—and she answered the call. She broke rank and fell to her knees in the aisle beside Capt. Sung who observed her with silent curiosity, as she recited—no affirmed—the rhythmic prayers of her childhood in the eternal language of her forebears. Her connection to the power at the center of all things was direct, and unadulterated by her own wants or needs or desires. She simply worshipped.

  As the imam finished, Massoud took a moment to compose herself before she stood up and straightened her uniform, noting another officer some distance behind her doing the same and, beyond him, a handful of civilians returning to their places also. There would be those who would disapprove of her bowing down, unpurified, in form-fitting trousers, and in front of strangers, but such orthodoxy missed the point. She had answered the call of Allah—and this was the place in which He had called. She had surrendered herself to Him and His judgment. She was not responsible for Lt. Lee’s death, nor were the Xenos. They were all subject to God’s will. Allah held them all in his hand. Their actions, their plans, their arrogance, and their very selves were irrelevant compared to the infinite greatness of God.

  Sung shifted to let Massoud return to the ranks and she stood beside the captain with a feeling that could only be described as acceptance.

  Only two days after the memorial, another ceremony of a very different nature occurred. The heroic actions of the Alliance Fleet were to be celebrated. Whereas the memorial honored the dead, the awards ceremony recognized the survivors. Its format was purely secular, and it was designed to bolster both military and civilian morale. This ceremony was segmented, more to accommodate the media than for any other purpose. An efficient ceremony was held to confer awards on enlisted personnel, a less efficient ceremony was held to honor junior and mid-ranking officers, and an elaborate and speech-heavy ceremony was about to be held to confer honors on senior officers.

  Massoud had been part of the second ceremony and now sported a Five Star Medal on her chest. Once again, the admiralty had not considered the female shape in the design of the ribbon that supported the medal. The ribbon was too long, and the medal bounced from one side of Massoud’s left breast to another. She decided to remove the medal and place it in its awards case f
or the present, displaying it, as needed, for the innumerable snapshots that Noor and Abdul took. Teloc calmly held Constance, and respectfully watched his wife.

  “Abdul says it isn’t fair,” Noor complained. “Why didn’t you get a promotion like Teloc and all those other officers? Abdul says Teloc couldn’t have succeeded without your help.”

  Noor’s comments chaffed, both because Massoud had struggled with the same question, and because she wished her sister could recognize Massoud had been slighted without the prompting of her husband.

  “I don’t know Noor. What do you think? You’d have to ask the brass that question,” Massoud replied unhappily. Massoud suspected that she had antagonized Lightfoot in some way.

  Abdul leaned in. “Well, I think you deserve better, Elizabeth. It’s probably some stupid political thing. They’re more interested in getting Gnost’s attention than paying due respect to Meccan Colonies. Whatever the admiralty thinks, your family is very proud of you.”

  Noor nodded vigorously in agreement and her older sons grinned broadly at Massoud. Massoud’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Her career had always received nothing but disparagement from her family on Mecca Six, and Noor had never changed that habit despite the years they had both lived on Denison. Familial approval was a pleasant surprise.

  Teloc played a larger role than he cared to in the remaining program of the day. He had described himself as Teloc of Denison during the battle, and those words had resonated with the immigrant-heavy population of the planet. As a result, the Premier of Denison awarded him honorary citizenship after a dull and droning speech. Thankfully, Lightfoot promoted Teloc to Commodore in a more efficient manner and lightened the mood with good-humored grumbling about how the commander of the Training Fleet was getting more attention than the commander of the Unified Fleet. “My fleet is bigger than his fleet,” he quipped to the amusement of the speech-wearied crowd. Finally, the new Sector and Base Commander, Admiral Sabika, a recent transfer from Earth Central, efficiently conferred the Medal of Valor on Teloc, Sung, and Lightfoot, and the ceremony was finally complete.