“Of course,” he said sympathetically. “I can share the essentials of the combat report, if you would like?”
She nodded.
“The Xenos were driving towards the Beta Wormhole, having lost the last planet they held in the western sector. They were retreating, but still delivering punishing damage to the Alliance fleet. A Class A ship, the Hope, was crippled—propulsion down, two thirds of her weapons system out of service, and her targeting system compromised. Two hundred and three personnel remained on the ship, including the ship’s own crew and a number of personnel that had been picked up from rescue pods. A Xeno battleship was bearing down on her. Failures in the internal comms systems prevented the Hope’s captain from ordering a general evacuation. Commodore Teloc’s ship was in worse condition. It still had propulsion, but the masers’ safeties had been damaged, and the energy caches were stuck on overload. His ship only had minutes, perhaps seconds, left. He ordered an evacuation. All but twelve of his crew made it to the escape pods. It is likely that some, or all, of those twelve were already dead before the order for evacuation was given. Commodore Teloc took the helm and directed his ship into the line of flight of the Xeno battleship. The Xeno ship was deflected from its path by the collision and ultimately destroyed by others. The commodore, your husband, saved the Hope and all the souls aboard her. I know I say this to every bereaved family, but in this case it’s no exaggeration: Your husband was a hero.”
Massoud hung her head, apparently absorbing the admiral’s words.
“It’s ironic. Our personal relationship started when he tried to stay with his doomed ship, and that’s how our relationship ended. Just seventeen months later. That’s all we had.” She broke down on these last words, sinking into an armchair, but forgetting, it seemed, to securely hold the child. Lightfoot instinctively reached for the baby and Massoud dropped her wriggling daughter into his arms. Lightfoot stood uncertainly with the small girl, now resting on his tunic and peacefully playing with a flap of the fabric. He was unsure whether he should hand the child back to her mother who was sobbing uncontrollably and was in no fit state to care for a baby. He knew nothing of children, but this one seemed tranquil enough in his arms, so he continued to hold her.
“We had so little time together,” the woman wailed. “He hadn’t seen Constance in such a long time. She’ll never know him. Who’s going to teach her Gnostian? Who’s going to understand how she thinks? Who’s going to comfort me? I miss him so much. We never even had shore leave together.”
Lightfoot was the wrong person to hear these words. He could not provide the comfort that was needed. He hovered uncomfortably, listening to the weeping coming from the bundle of misery in the armchair. He could not suppress his nature, his habit of leadership. It bubbled up within him. This widow was also an officer, and she was falling apart. His instinct was to pull her together, as he had so many who trembled in the face of adversity.
“You will remember that you are back on this planet only at the special request of the Denisonian government,” he said in a tone that was too harsh, or at least too firm, even to his own ears. “The loss of such a notable figure as your husband demands a special memorial. However, after the memorial service, you will return to duty. You are privileged to be here with your child. Other servicemembers in the same situation do not have the same comfort. They stay on duty.”
“I don’t want to go back. I want to stay with my little girl.”
“You do not have that choice.” His tone was forceful and steady, but inside a voice was screaming Where is my humanity?
“She’s all that I have left of him. Do you know his people don’t believe in the afterlife? Once they die, there’s nothing left. That’s what he believed too. I can’t even say I will see him in paradise. I don’t even have that comfort. I only have Constance. She’s all that is left of him. It hurts so much to lose him, to leave her.”
Maintaining an authoritative voice, Lightfoot stated, “A transport will arrive at nine hundred hours tomorrow to take you to the ceremony. My aide, Lt. McDonough, will escort you. You can bring the child if you wish. McDonough will ensure you are returned safely here afterwards. In two-days’ time, you will report to the base in order to shuttle to your ship. Do you hear me Commander? You can’t wallow in this. You are needed elsewhere.”
He felt like the worst kind of animal to speak to her in this way, and the indolent, gentle caress of her child on his chest made him feel even lower and meaner. He handed the girl back to her mother, who uncurled from her grief and mechanically took the baby. The child immediately became agitated. He presumed the infant was responding to her mother’s suffering.
Massoud kissed the top of the child’s head and fixed her bloodshot eyes squarely on the admiral. “Do not think that because I am unhappy, that I do not know my duty. Do not think that I will let my feelings stand in the way of what must be done. I am the wife of Teloc of Gnost. He understood his duty and so do I. I want to be with my daughter, but more than that, I want my daughter to survive. I will go into space to protect her. Don’t doubt me, Admiral. Don’t ever doubt me,” she said fiercely.
He was simultaneously taken aback and impressed, and mumbled apologies for his mistaken presumptions.
“I’m not wearing my uniform tomorrow, you know,” she declared. “Don’t order me to do so. I don’t care what fleet media wants. Tomorrow, I am just his wife. For once, I am just his wife—nothing more. You understand?”
He bowed slightly and felt infinitely relieved to hear a modest commotion at the apartment’s entrance. He could leave soon. He turned to see a plump woman, with features reminiscent of her sister’s, enter the living room. She was followed by three reluctant young boys and a rotund man. The boys perched themselves dolefully on the sofa, while their mother went and embraced Massoud and her daughter with murmurings of comfort. The man offered the admiral a hand. This was closer to the template of a typical condolence visit, and Lightfoot was intensely relieved. Everyone wanted to shake the hand of a man as important as Vice Admiral Lightfoot.
“Abdul Qureshi,” the man offered his name. “I’m Elizabeth’s brother-in-law. I’m glad you could come, Admiral. It means a lot.”
Lightfoot noted that he was being led to the front door and was happy to comply with this polite expulsion from the apartment. Both men paused at the exit.
“She’s in bad shape,” stated the Admiral.
“Yes, she is,” acknowledged her brother-in-law.
“She has to report for duty the day after tomorrow.” Lightfoot stared the man down, making sure he understood that Massoud was obliged to report, no matter what. He was surprised to hear the man laugh quietly.
“Oh, Admiral! You don’t know my sister at all. Do you? Nothing stops her. She’ll be there, I promise you, and she’ll be ready—ready with a vengeance.”
Coming in Early 2019
Lightfoot
Vice Admiral David James Lightfoot is egotistical, judgmental, and imperious. His identity is intimately tied to the massive military machine that he commands, the Delta Sector Unified Fleet, humanity’s primary defense against the Xeno invasion. His life is centered around his professional duty. And his intolerance of those who have other priorities is obvious. He wears his power and influence as an armor, but the cracks in that armor are beginning to show.
The arrogant admiral’s attitudes need to be softened and his ego needs to be cut down to size. The only person big enough to do the job is a tiny little alien girl.
Finding himself unoccupied as he makes a long space voyage, he forms a peculiar attachment to a child whose parents he never truly accepted. As he adjusts his views, and tempers his prejudices, can he still retain the traits that make him a capable military leader?
1.Delay
Vice Admiral David James Lightfoot stood observing the woman he admired most. She was both ignoring him and permitting herself to be a distraction—a distraction, that is, from his usual obsession with punctuality.
/> “Blonde hair, Boru?” he asked. “And curly? You look cute. Are Gnostians allowed to be that? Cute?”
“We have a value for the aesthetic but try to maintain a more sophisticated standard than cute, Vice Admiral,” she admonished his use of the word.
“So, why the new look and just before you go home? Is it part of this quirk of yours, where you emulate Terran behavior?”
“Vice Admiral, I assure you, I do not emulate Terran behavior. I imitate it. There is quite a difference. My intent is not to become Terran in any fashion. I maintain the integrity of my own character. However, by adopting Terran behavioral patterns, I hope to better participate in earth-descended society—nothing more.” She hesitated. “However, I admit the hairstyle has quite an influence on my perspective. I have a sense of being feminine.”
“You’re feeling feminine and you’re going back to Gnost? I can’t think of a planet where your femininity is more wasted. You should stay with us. I could put your femininity to good use,” he said wickedly.
“For the last time David,” she said sharply and in a low tone, “I have no interest in such things. My simulation of Terran norms is a mask, an experimental technique—nothing more. Do not interpret it as indicative of my true attitudes, either in degree or nature.”
Lightfoot exhaled regretfully. “I wish you would stay. We’ll miss you.” He leaned in. “I’ll miss you.”
“That is irrelevant, Vice Admiral. It would be unreasonable for me to spend further time in this role. My assignment with the Alliance Fleet is complete and has served its primary purpose. A ranking official in the Gnostian Space Inspectorate has become acquainted with Alliance Fleet protocols in order to better facilitate cooperation between our forces. These two years in the fleet, and serving as captain of the Tokyo, have been adequate to that purpose, and it is now appropriate for me to return to my home world. My secondary objective was to promote goodwill. I trust I have had some success in that too. I believe I have generated a modicum of goodwill while I have been with the fleet. Do you disagree?”
“Not at all,” he grumbled. “I just wish you’d generated less with me.”
He glanced over at the newly blonde woman who stood a little taller than him. She was magnificent, and totally disinterested in him as a man. She was about to end her service in the fleet and a relationship with her would finally be permissible, but her interest in Terran culture had, sadly, not extended to romance. He sighed inwardly. The friendship of such a woman was, nevertheless, exquisitely valuable.
“Why are we still here?” he questioned, suddenly aware that it was past time to depart from orbit. Boru was lingering with him in the shuttle vestibule, where they had chatted. He now recognized that she had been deliberately distracting him.
“We await other passengers.”
Boru had spent two years modeling Terran modes of speech, so her regression into Gnostian vagueness raised suspicions.
“Other passengers? Given the criticality of my mission, I can’t believe we are delaying for anyone other than the Alliance President. Is she coming along to help me navigate the diplomatic quagmire I’m supposed to traverse?”
“I am complying with Admiral Sabika’s orders.” Now Boru was being deliberately evasive.
“So, we’ve delayed departure for a diplomat?” he prodded.
“No.”
“A top-secret courier?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you just tell me, Boru? I may have nothing to do for the three weeks of this voyage, but I don’t intend to play twenty questions for the entire journey.”
“We await a civilian and her mother.”
Her reply was ambiguous, but a shuttle had docked, and the bay was being re-pressurized. Soon he would have his answers, with or without her assistance.
Capt. Boru’s subtle air of anticipation further increased the admiral’s curiosity. He raised an impatient eyebrow as he turned to observe his mysterious fellow travelers. He was somewhat taken aback to discover a woman in civilian clothing lumbering towards the vestibule under the weight of a large duffle bag, supported on one shoulder, and a fidgeting child held against the other. She wore a loose unflattering gown that was pulled shapeless by her burdens, and she had an air of being flustered and rushed. It took Lightfoot a moment to recognize her, but the child’s pale features provided the prompt his memory needed.
He angrily turned his back to the new arrivals and faced Boru. “That woman Massoud! We’re waiting for that insufferable woman! What’s going on here? Why isn’t she in uniform, and why in heavens is her child with her? This is beyond unprofessional!”
Boru spoke under her breath as the new arrivals approached. “Vice Admiral, it is the child that is being transported. The mother acts merely as a chaperone. She is not on duty. She travels in a private capacity—with Admiral Sabika’s explicit permission.”
Massoud presented herself before them, standing askew under the lopsided weight of her child and her baggage. She attempted to bow to the admiral, but the bag slipped from her shoulder to her elbow and her obeisance became an ungainly dance to retrieve the luggage. The vice admiral was clearly unimpressed. Boru whispered restraint to him, “Be patient. I will explain at a later time.”
To the newest arrivals, she said, “Welcome aboard Lt. Capt. Massoud and Miss Constance Massoud. Allow me to assist you.” She did not take the duffle bag as might be expected but, much to the admiral’s surprise, took the little girl who reached out and wrapped her arms around the neck of the statuesque woman.
“Hello, Auntie Boru,” the girl said familiarly, as she gawked around her new environment and peeked over Boru’s shoulders.
Lightfoot looked on disbelievingly. He was striving to disguise his disdain for the crumpled Massoud. Although at a loss to understand why his urgent mission had been delayed some forty-two minutes for the newcomers, he was not at all surprised at Massoud’s relatively low rank. In the last four years of war, rapid promotion had become the norm for the competent, but this particular officer had only inched from the rank of Commander to Lieutenant Captain in that same time. Even Massoud’s duffle bag prompted his contempt. It looked lumpy and unevenly packed. Apparently, she had failed to master a skill that was drilled into the lowliest recruit. In addition to that, she was now babbling incessantly as Boru led the group away from the vestibule.
“So, I was told that your departure would be delayed for an hour and no more. And this was when I was at headquarters! So, I literally ran home, threw some things together and grabbed Constance. Some nice young man helped me schlepp my bag through the embarkation area, and then there was a question about Constance’s travel documentation. Sabika’s office hadn’t completed it. So, that was another delay. Can you imagine? I wasn’t sure I’d make it. I’m so glad I did. Did you have to wait long, Boru?”
“Lt. Capt. Massoud,” the admiral interposed with some asperity. “Please address Capt. Boru with her honorific.”
Massoud was taken aback. “I’m sorry, Boru…I mean Capt. Boru,” she stammered.
“Please, do not concern yourself. I have taken no offense. The vice admiral is unaware of our personal relationship,” Boru stated. Lightfoot looked askance at her. “I will brief him later,” she added, giving the admiral a quelling look. “First, let me escort you both to your quarters. They are modest, but I trust you will find them adequate.”
“You’ll get no complaints from me,” Massoud declared.
“Will it have a window, Auntie Boru?” the child asked.
Boru replied, in the calming voice that Gnostians have mastered, “I am sorry, Constance Massoud. We do not have windows in spacecraft. It increases the stresses in the hull membrane to unacceptable levels.” The child looked at her uncomprehendingly. Boru rephrased. “The hull isn’t strong enough for us to put holes in it. However, you can pick a virtual wall that will show you what is outside the craft. You can even select a display with the window you hoped to have.”
“Okay,” the
girl responded, clearly disappointed.
“Elizabeth Massoud,” Boru continued, “the ship’s medical officer has already received the necessary records. However, I wish to inform you of a change in personnel. Our new medical chief is a certain Dr. Foster who, I believe, is known to you.”
Massoud halted in her tracks, causing the other adults to pause in their progress. They turned back to stare at her. Her lips were pursed, and her face had flushed.
“There is no question of his medical competence,” Boru stated simply.
“You’re right,” Massoud said through gritted teeth. “He’s good at his job and I have no right to complain. I’m lucky to be here. I’ll head to sickbay as soon as we’re settled into our quarters. I presume the layout of the Tokyo is conventional and that the medical facilities are centered in the ship.”
“Yes, the layout will be familiar to you,” replied Boru.
The mother and child were deposited in a vacant cabin, and Massoud, finally free from her burdens, paid the vice admiral the proper respect with a neat little bow. Boru then led the admiral to his stateroom where his aide, Lt. McDonough, waited in smart expectation. At her suggestion, the admiral invited Boru into his study, which housed connecting doors to his and McDonough’s cabins.
“You’re not going to supervise your last launch in the Tokyo, Captain?” the admiral queried.
“My first officer, Commander Rhodes, will assume captaincy once I disembark at Gnost. We must assume his skills are adequate to the task.”
“What! No sentimental desire to enjoy this last launch as an Alliance Fleet captain, Boru?” he asked wryly.
“Is this an attempt at humor, Admiral? I struggle at times to identify Terran humor correctly, but I think you jest.”
“I do indeed jest, Boru. I also admit a tendency to sentimentality. It’s rather strange to me that you forgo supervising this launch. I still possess an affection for all the ships I served on and wouldn’t have missed the rituals of farewell for anything. But I’m sure you’d point out that this is just one of the differences between our cultures, or values, or whatever.”
Massoud (Massoud Chronicles Book 1) Page 32