(Posted on 04-07-2001)
There it was again, a faint electric blue flash a few light-hours away, closely followed by a ripple in the fabric of space. It wasnt felt by anything, no motion detector yet built would have picked it up, but that was technically because it wasnt actually there.
However, any onlooker would have been painfully aware of its approach purely due to the sensation induced by seeing something that couldnt possibly exist.
The wave-front passed, causing the immediate surroundings to compress and distort for a split second before snapping back into place. And everything continued much the same as before, until the next one.
Closer inspection of the occasional point of light would reveal a series of thin shadows cast on the canvas of space. They trailed off forming a ragged line in the direction of the Mother World.
Silence cut through the communications static leaving a painful hush, This is an automated DTG traffic communicate, said the ethereal voice, your current position places you within the flux perimeter of the newly opened Trait/Presson worm hole. Please be informed that you may experience some discomfort induced by your proximity to this phenomenon. Unless you intend to make use of the spatial rift, it is suggested that you plot a course that circumnavigates this area of space. There was a brief pause as an ever so slightly different voice took over, Please comply with Dayaten Temporary Government protocols when joining at the rear of the jump cue and be sure to log your place in line with the Caravan Marshal. Thank you.
The background static flooded back defining the silence, only interrupted by the occasional pipping of an autonomous camera drone passing within its critical range.
The flash again, the same shadows, but shifting slightly, now close enough to make out the objects casting them. Small pin-pricks of light growing larger with every light-minute. As they drew closer, and as the eye of narrative paned along the line, features defined themselves against the night. All manner of vessel, but mostly freighters forming an orderly cue for the worm hole. Some as ancient as the space race itself, a few fresh off the production line on some trendy 6th State moon, judging by their design. Some the size of small countries that were obviously never designed for atmospheric flight. Indeed one or two of them probably were small countries, self proclaimed sovereign states, disillusioned by the political climate that enfurled the todays Dayat.
And its on one of these that the eye rested, massive in its bulk and faceless in its form, it lingered, motionless in space. It was the DUC Kraiid.
How did I get here? replied Aaron, flashing a sceptical look at the man sat opposite him.
'Why dont you just come straight out and ask me about my mother? he chuckled.
Hold on, you asked for this. Not me.
Braiden grinned.
Yes, but
No no. You wanted to "get in touch with your inner child", he said in the voice of the terminally patronising, and thats what were going to do.
Aaron opened his mouth to form a retort but was cut off.
Ah, Braiden raised an authoritative finger, How did you get here? pronounced the psychologist come drinking partner.
Aaron lifted a short glass to his lips and took a sip. Where do I start? he said with a laugh, his eyes glazed over momentarily as he dived into the depths of recollection. I was one and a half when I lost my parents, I dont remember them. Sometimes, in my dreams I see people that I recognize as, and call my parents, but theyre never the same twice. He ran a thoughtful finger around the rim of his glass, I remember my grandfather, I remember his beard, Aaron stroked the air around his chin as though remembering the sensation, he was the commander of the Miiar.
The Miiar? Braiden replied, the ship that--
Aaron nodded, One of them.
I had no idea.
You werent to know, dont worry. My aunt, Aaron exclaimed, now theres an incredible woman. She and I escaped together in one of the few escape pods that made it. He took another sip of the golden liquid before him, I think about twelve of us, of my cast got away. Most of them are root farmers on 3rd State I think, he waved a dismissive hand in the very general direction of the astral body a few thousand light years away, and my aunt, he laughed, after three strokes and numerous falls the only thing shes fit for is keeping a bed warm. The end of his sentence turned into a laugh that faded to a mournful sigh.
Braiden chuckled to himself as he sucked down his poison of choice.
So now Im alone, he paused, for all intents and purposes. My cast, he said raising an angry voice to the universe in general, once held a chair in the Council of the Olds. The problem was we didnt have a large enough population to qualify, I think it was on the fifth anniversary of the tragedy, the cast Miiar was shuffled out through the back door and into obscurity. Aaron Miiar downed the remainder of his glass.
What do you think about that? enquired Braiden.
I think its a disgrace! Aaron exclaimed, The Dayaten Temporary Government, in all their infinite wisdom, decided that there was no need to send a scouting party ahead of its seeding vessels, he poured himself another glass, they said that "because exploration was inherent in the design of the vessels, there was no need for an exploratory forward party". Aaron turned to the cabin window, the jump cue for the Trait/Presson worm-hole stretched for several thousand kilometres by now. To be honest I can see their point, doesnt make it any easier though. My cast was decimated by a single myopic act of common sense. They gave their lives for the greater good, and how did the Government repay their memory?
Aaron topped up Braidens glass, who nodded gratefully as he took another sip.
What is the "greater good" anyway, if its not another way of rationalising something really nasty happening to the few in order to keep the many happy? Funny how most people are quite content to partake of the greater good, so long as theyre not on the lesser end of the equation. Aaron sighed, Oh, bygones, he said shaking his head.
Braiden looked sideways at his drinking partner.
What? said Aaron, feeling Braidens eyes on him.
Its just that his voice trailed off, trying to form tactful words around a blunt question, well, am I to understand that you what I mean to say is
Am I here for revenge? Aaron had asked himself the same question many, many years ago, I was once. It was all I could think about at one time. At the age of 13 I joined the Imperial City Guard, against my Aunt's wishes. I had the best intentions, of course. I dreamt of the day when Id be transferred to the Emperors personal guard and Id be in the right place at the right time and Id be granted one wish. Aarons voice took on the nostalgic overtones of one who could "remember when all this were fields." Id get the cast reinstated on the council and return its name to its rightful place. That all disappeared faster than a drink in front of a Noralien of course. For every day I was part of the system I had grown to hate, I hated it that much more. Before long all I wanted was someones head on a pike. I think I notched up three counts of insubordination in my first six months. Aaron watched the last of Braidens second glass of Din Farn-noir pass his lips, this was a man who didnt get out much. This was also a man who could drink anyone under a table.
Hang on, so you started out on the other
Command deck to Flag Admiral Miiar, interrupted a disembodied voice from nowhere in particular.
Aaron held up an apologetic hand to Braiden, Go ahead.
Admiral Trent has docked, and is ready to be received.
I shall be there promptly. Out. Aaron stood from his chair and reached for his pins. Sorry, can we continue this later? he said picking up a control card that had been sitting on the desk in front of him.
Yes, thats fine. Braiden smiled, a smile that was quickly followed by a visually uncomfortable flash of realization as to what was about to follow.
Without thinking, Aaron depressed the small raised bubble on the card's surface, and with an amusing fizzing sound Braiden was compressed into a fine vertical filament of light which shrank to a single point and was gone. A small body of golden liquid was momentarily suspended where the projections stomach would have been, and as artificial gravity caught up with it, it fell into the lap of the empty, leather arm chair.
Aaron shook his head slowly and stared at the very expensive liquor, now dribbling onto the floor beneath. Within seconds, three small, silent globes rolled out from their respective hiding holes and began mopping up the puddle. As he left the room Aaron brushed an apparently featureless panel to the side of the door arch, the lights went out. The door shut with near silence.
The three spheres began to hum as one turned itself into a minute vacuum cleaner and sucked up the liquor. It glowed faintly in the dark as its own space folding matrix activated and dumped the inhaled material in a waste hopper somewhere in the bowels of the ship. Small, fluffy polishing pads emerged from discrete slots upon the other two, which began to spin and made a faint fshhhhhh sound whilst in contact with the floor.
They were completely oblivious to the worm-hole distortion wave that passed moments later, with the exception of the vacuum cleaner whose space folding matrix collapsed, causing it to spray alcohol across its interior, and subsequently short circuited.
They were also oblivious to the fact that the area of space just outside the cabin port-hole had remained distorted after the wave-front had passed. After a few seconds, the distortion disappeared. Had there been witnesses, they would have sworn that they saw a tangible edge to the distortion as it moved away. As it was, the two functioning service drones finished their tasks by giving their ailed brother a polish to be proud of, vocalized a cheerful little bi-beep, and trundled back to their homes.
The current political climate on Dayat was, at face value, quiet and for the most part, uneventful. But underneath it all, all was not well. The Dayaten Temporary Government had been in power now for well over 250 years, and it was this fact that lay at the core of the problem. The DTG was called into office to bring about the end of the last great civil war. It was to be, as its name suggested, a temporary parliament that would be disbanded once an agreement betwixt the leaders of the various divisions had been settled. In the end the agreement had been:
"Well, the cease-fire is holding up well enough and, you know, theres no need to rock the boat is there? So theres no real need, no actual, pressing need to disband the government at all, really, actually, is there?"
And so it was an unwritten rule within parliament, that all parties were to remain as immovable in their political stance as was theoretically possible. There would be no official agreement, no treatise signed, no laboured peace, only a sustained cease-fire that had currently outlasted almost thirteen generations. By now, so few civilians remembered why the DTG had been set up in the first place, it was taken for granted that it was doing its job. Indeed life was good, they seemed to be governing well enough. On being confronted by the fact that anyone living on Dayat was probably surrounded on three sides by people who they were technically still at war with, most individuals just laughed and requested that their other leg be pulled as it had bells on. Most of the people who did know the historical facts, regarded the problem in the same way most people view a long overdue gas bill that the gas board has apparently forgotten about.
A dark room, the minimalist, utilitarian nature of the furnishings gave an institutional air to the space. A suitably educated person, having studied a number of factors, for example the bird calls outside, the shadows cast through the crack in the shutters caused by twin suns, the extra weight lent by a higher gravitational field, the scent of a rare flower drifting from some unseen crack in a wall, the inflections and nuances of the voices audible far below, would have reasoned that they were on the planet Corn, fourth planet in the Obidian star system. Furthermore, that they were somewhere in the northern hemisphere, possibly somewhere in the western regions of the lesser continent of Handsome. Failing that, a more resourceful, though some might say idle method, would have been to read the local newspapers that were occasionally circulated amongst the inmate population.
Fait Jyohandson knew all these things. Not because she was suitably educated, and not because she frequented the tabloids, but because she had been incarcerated there for almost a quarter of a Cornian year now. The insertion had been well planned, but not well planned enough. Apparently. The whole thing had been mapped out as precisely as anyone could have hoped, after all it was just an information gathering mission. A get-in-and-out-as-quickly-as-possible-without-being-seen job, but she had been seen, more than that, she had been caught and imprisoned. Fait had spent every day since planning her escape, a plan that was about to be tested.
There was the distant clopping of shoes on an often waxed floor. A pause. The sound of the thumb print lock opening, closing--
Fait started to count under her breath. She reached under the unforgiving mattress and retrieved a small, sharpened shard of metal that had once been part of one of the tables in the food hall.
The sound of the shoes again-
With a deep breath, she shut her eyes and drew the cutting edge in a short arc starting at the top of an eyebrow, up to her hair line. She let her lungs go in the calculated manner of one successfully controlling a scream. She pawed the fresh wound tentatively coating her fingers the deep rich blue of blood, smeared it along the corner of the wash basin, and then wiped the blood from her hands in her hair.
The guard was getting close now--
She quickly placed the piece of metal behind the closest leg of the bed and then, with complete silence, lay down on the floor in a carefully practised position with one leg folded up underneath her. Blood started to form a pool around her head and soaked into her hair.
She had just enough time to take a deep breath and hold it before the footsteps stopped and the small window in the door was slid open.
There was a moment of silence, the guard broke his stare and glanced down the corridor,
Day?
There was a muffled reply from some distance away.
Youd better get up here.
Another set of footsteps drew closer, the gate, more footsteps.
Take a look the face in the window was replaced by another.
Theres blood, open the door.
There was the sound of the door lock being released, Faits heart was in her throat, this was the moment she had been looking forward to for weeks, it was also the moment she had been dreading.
The door swung open, the room flooded with light, the two figures stood side by side in the doorway, Fait had to resist lashing out as soon as they got in range. The second guard side-stepped into the room cautiously.
Come on, young lady, he ventured, on your feet.
Fait lay still, by now, her lungs were burning.
The guard leaned over her.
Step into the room, Fait thought, this will only work if youre both inside the room!
She felt her arm being lifted by the wrist and pressure being applied.
She aint dead, said the voice.
She let her hand drop.
The guard still outside, reassured by this, joined his partner.
-- clop, clop --
Fait breathed a mental sigh of relief, through closed eyelids she saw the shadow pass over her face as the guard reached over to check her pupils. This is it, she thought, he must be close enough now.
There was a flash of movement accompanied by a sharp crack.
Gnnnaragh! Cried the guard reeling back clutching his nose.
Fait unfurled her legs in such a way as to catch the now bloody guard full in the chest, knocking him clean off his knees, landing him at the feet of the other guard, putting that guard off balance. Still on her back, Fait kicked her legs up into the air, and with a single jerk of her upper body, flipped herself upright.
Pausing only to pick up the shard of metal, she charged the still stumbling guard, smashing him up against the opposite wall. His head bounced twice against the hardened concrete as though his neck was made of rubber, and then he slumped to the ground, unconscious.
She then turned her attention to the guard who was laid in a fetal position on the floor, desperately trying to get his breath back. The kick had knocked the wind out of him. Rolling him over, Fait grabbed a fist full of greasy hair and bounced his head off the heavily waxed hard-wood.
It was for his own good really, she told herself, after all, he wouldnt want to be conscious for the next bit. She tested the fashioned blade against the hairs on her fore arm, sharp enough, she thought, and picked up the guards left hand by the thumb.
The air in the corridor was dry and metallic, it always had been. It had the quality of air that had been inhaled, exhaled, processed, reprocessed, and inhaled again by tens of thousands of people, tens of millions of times. The airlocking system onboard the Kraiid meant that none of the vessels atmosphere ever mixed with any other, the sophisticated filtration systems removed any particles from the air, harmful or otherwise, which had the peculiar side-effect of rendering any sense of smell you had, completely useless. It also meant that the particularly sensitive members of the crew had to wear nasal filters for a day or so after commencing shore-leave or face a cocktail of symptoms ranging from a mild tickling sensation in the back of the nose, right through to fully blown asthma attacks. This particular side-effect of space travel had spawned an entirely new form of spaceport recreation. So called buzz bars had sprung up touting an impressive, if sometimes pungent array of aromas for the sensory deprived to savour. The effect induced by inhaling such strong vapours had been likened to the initial rush obtained from certain class 1 drugs. It hyper stimulated the nerve cells, and sent the mind spinning.
Aaron had once paused outside an establishment to view the menu and had found such delicacies as "linen drawer, female variant," "week old greasy overalls" and much to his surprise, "odour of toilet" though Aaron put the last one down a misunderstanding. Then again, possibly not.
Aaron sauntered down one such corridor. He hadnt been surprised to find that Admiral Trent had already come and gone before he had gotten to the Reception Lounge. Aaron had known him for as long as he had been part of the underground, and in just over 50 years, he had never known him to have one thing higher on his mind. Except maybe, his hairpiece.
Sampson Trent was a tall man, this was well masked by the fact that he was also a wide man. The overall effect was that of looking at him from two feet away but simultaneously, from the other side of the room. This withstanding, he was a pleasant man whos grasp of military strategy and his breadth of tactical understanding were only rivalled by his grasp on a knife and fork and his breadth of waistline. It was for this reason he had ascended to the rank of Admiral and was rumoured to be the best chef in the Dayaten Underground.
He was already seated at the galley end of the mess-hall and was halfway through his second course when Aaron entered.
Ah, my good fellow, he stood from his meal wiping the tips of his fingers with a napkin, sit down, sit down. Now, have you ever tried your cooks dourch aur froum greiit? It really is quite exquisite.
I wasnt aware that it was on the menu. Aaron flashed a smile at the galley cook as he approached the heavily laden table. A small Roniian man in a waiters uniform tottered over, bowing his head with every other step. He placed a bowl of dipping sauce by Sampsons elbow and backed away to join his colleagues who were peering over the serving counter in the manner of harassed yet perversely curious kitchen staff everywhere.
I assure you, it is the best I have had the pleasure of tasting. Sampson grinned, he carefully pulled a limb from the would-be aromatic carcass and offered it up to Aaron, who waved it away.
No Im fine, he pulled up a chair, so I waited in the reception lounge for fully half a hour, for you.
Oh you know me old friend, never one for pomp and circumstance. Sampson deposited the limb back on the side of his plate, but not before rendering it devoid of flesh. And anyway, I cant think on an empty stomach, so, here I am. He extended his arms in a general statement of presence.
No worry, Aaron smiled, So how does it go?
Good, good, I visited a wonderful little eatery on 3rd State, last quarter, they served the most beautiful roast briith, he exclaimed with excitement, crisp on the outside, just this side of rare inside, a touch of cloves with a marvellous little red frawet sauce and a side of assorted fungi from their Old Forrest. I think I had the 1203 Grove Lee, he paused, or was it the 1202?
Aaron laughed, Sampson was the only man hed ever met who judged his general state of well-being by his diet. With most people, it was the other way around.
And but four moons ago I
As much as I love my food, Aaron interrupted, and as much as I love hearing you verbally regurgitate yours, I was actually referring to our current military status. He said with a kind smile.
Oh, do forgive me, Sampson dabbed the corners of his mouth with the napkin, it goes well, the DTG fleet has reached an estimated eighty-two percent of our target, and shows no sign of checking. He grinned from ear to ear, which given the dimensions of his head, made for a big grin by any standard. They are marshalling vessels in the orbits of Faith, New Fiiden and Yawstar, amassing arms caches on 5th State, Jerad and most recently, the moon of Dayat itself.
Aaron leaned back in his chair, And ourselves?
Losses are minimal, our pilots are still the best in existence and this really is good sauce, exclaimed Sampson, dipping the tip of his little finger in the small bowl. He smiled at the galley cook as one artisan to another. The cook who had been looking decidedly awkward until that point, broke into a childlike grin and bobbed up and down gratefully. This stopped abruptly when he realised that his staff were staring at him, and in fear of loss of respect, he proceeded to flick each of them with the closest towel to hand.
And the preparations have been made for our exit from the wormhole?
Oh, yes, yes, of course, can I get another bowl of this, Sampson raised the dipping sauce over his head, this, what ever this is. It really is lovely!
There was no hope for conversation under these circumstances, so Aaron resorted to small talk.
I saw Kaarl a while ago he said.
How is the old devil? Still a favourite with the ladies I trust! Sampson picked up a fork and continued with his meal.
Hardly! Aaron exclaimed, well he tries, but coming on to a woman through an inch of glass is problematic at best as I understand it.
Sampson paused, mid-shovel and gave Aaron a puzzled look.
Theyve got him in one of those bio-tanks. Something about his heart and lungs giving out, said Aaron by way of an explanation. That withstanding, hes looking good, a bit pink by all accounts but, its a small price to pay for never having to breath again I suppose.
Sampson shrugged, and ate. Sampson had been known to forgo breathing if it meant he could fit in another mouthful of food. Indeed a lot of things in life came in lower on his list of priorities, including self-preservation, things he couldnt eat, and most noticeably at this time, communication.
Aaron stared on, and completely failed to notice the patch of space outside the window of the mess-hall shimmer and shift momentarily.
So urm, How are the children? ventured Aaron.
Sampson nodded whilst conducting an in depth discussion with the contents of his plate in complete silence save a faint grunting.
Aaron watched for a few minutes, and when conversation continued to not take place, he stood from the table.
Ill um, see you in the um, with the err. Later, he said. Sampson waved a fork absent-mindedly. Aaron sighed as he walked away and made a mental note to go to the gym more often.
The lock released, Fait uncurled her arm and slipped it back through the bars of the unlocked gate. She looked at the sliver of skin that was stuck to the pad of her thumb under its own suction, and blood. She had been glad the guard was unconscious when she cut it from him, she only wished she could have been too. She stepped through the gate gingerly, shutting it behind her and started to make her way down the corridor.
Part of her had really hoped that she wouldnt get this far, so her mental directions suddenly seemed hazy at best. But she knew where the arms cupboard was, and that at least was a start. It was a large grey box set into the wall a little way down the hall. The thumb print lock clicked happily to itself as it opened to reveal its contents. The selection of firearms was small, but effective. After all, all the arsenal was required for was subduing inmates. She selected a medium yield inertia pistol at random and lifted it from its moulded shelving. Somewhere an alarm went off. Fait jumped back from the cabinet, cocking the pistol as she did so and pointed it one way down the corridor, and then the other. There was no one in sight, for now at any rate. She started to run down the corridor in the direction of the central administration wing, but not before picking up a second pistol, a hand full of flash grenades, and something resembling a club in a sling holster that she hefted across her back.
The clock was ticking, but there was something she had to do first.
(This message has been edited by moderator (edited 04-06-2001).)
(This message has been edited by moderator (edited 04-06-2001).)
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