Sarcona's Awakening (eBook)

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[Approximately one year ago]

Two orbital transports departed their berths on the outskirts of the capital city of Gondanast, withdrawing from the legislative district in the early morning’s twilight as the rest of the city was just awakening. They rose into the sky on cushions of dense, compressed air, lifting to a few dozen meters above the spaceport’s tarmac. Both main engines ignited and belched twin triangular plumes of sizzling cobalt plasma into their wake, like daggers of deep ocean waters that had been heated to a few thousand degrees. The ships gracefully banked to the left and then arced steeply to climb up into the atmosphere, and then above.

The amber glow of first light filled their cockpit windows, slowly giving way to a palette of diminishing hues, like passing through the layers of a cake. Yellow became gold, gold merged with orange, orange dimmed to red, before the red transitioned to purple. And then, as quickly as an eyelash blink or the snap of a finger, all went utterly black, to the cobalt depth of nothingness that constituted the emotionless vacuum of space.

But even in the empyrean void beginning above the planet Sarcona, above the stratosphere and on up to the troposphere at the highest reaches of the thermosphere where auroras and satellites existed, there was still color. The spacecrafts, now under the influence of orbital mechanics and moving by momentum, were illuminated by the irradiance of a cool red star, just breaking over the limb of the planet and drenching the vehicles in a splash of ruby.

As one transport continued along its trajectory, it moved in front of the star and momentarily blocked the solar furnace from view of the other. But just a few moments later, the star was clear again, unhidden, spewing tons of energetic particles onto whatever may be in their path. All of this played out in a choreography of technology and nature, an interwoven dance governed by laws that had remained immutable for billions of years.

Making a change to their orbit, the transports ejected another gout of blue flame from their aft engine nozzles and accelerated onto a different trajectory, the high-temperature exhaust dissipating quickly and leaving little more than a cloud of rapidly cooling, dustlike soot. At this low orbital altitude, that emission was likely to reenter the planet’s atmosphere in little more than a few days, returning the transformed chemicals to their source.

Those inside one of the transporters were oblivious to all of these events. This vehicle’s two pilots, strapped into the cockpit and surrounded by banks of brightly lit monitors and controls, had been cherry-picked from the military for this important assignment. Ferrying members of the planet’s legislature, especially one as cardinal as a senator, was a task reserved for aviators with only the most immaculate records of trial-tested experience and who demonstrated impeccable leadership. These two, members of Sarcona’s Navy, each had participated in multiple Campaigns and easily met those requirements. While a simple run from the planet’s surface to an awaiting destination in orbit was benign, even banal, in comparison to some of the Campaign objectives both had survived, they each recognized the importance of this task and the honorific bestowed in it. That charge was demonstrated by the professionalism with which they performed this simple mission, flying the transport meticulously as if a thousand lives were counting on it.

In fact, many more were counting on it.

Receiving a nod from her fellow pilot, the copilot unstrapped her harness and swung her legs out of the pilot’s well. Rising stiffly, she pulled on the material of her flight suit to stretch the wrinkled fabric back into place, and then headed aft. She tapped on the lighted pad to the left of the cockpit’s hatch, causing it to obediently slide open. A short corridor led to a utilitarian stairway which she descended to the transport’s main passenger cabin. Silently clearing another hatch, she entered the compartment and was met by the acrid bouquet of a burning panatela. She stood, her legs slightly separated, arms folded neatly behind her back, a perfect paradigm of military decorum. “We’ve attained orbit, Senator. We estimate arrival at the Vanta Bay in approximately thirty-six minutes.”

The figure to which she spoke was seated in one of the transport’s deeply cushioned passenger chairs, his bulk testing the couch’s compliance. In one hand he held a skipjack, a slender portable computer, on which he was reading the terms of surrender he was about to administer. The stark glow cast by the computer painted his face with a vivid phosphorescence, accented by the radiance of Sarcona’s sun cascading through a window and illuminating his hair with an ethereal flush. In his other hand he held a lit cigar, its burning tip releasing thin tendrils of languid smoke.

The copilot remained at attention. The seated figure offered her a curt nod in acknowledgment and then dismissed her with a wave of his hand. The discourtesy of his act caused her stomach to churn. She tasted bile, and momentarily considered a diplomatic retort, but ultimately ignored the discomfort. Instead, she simply saluted, spun precisely on her heels, and retreated back through the entrance hatch, lamenting that politicians hadn’t always been so churlish.

“You know, sir, you really shouldn’t be smoking in here. These spacecraft cabins are designed to eliminate fires to prevent calamities but aren’t equipped to filter out the fumes of a cigar. I’m guessing the pilots can probably smell it all the way in the cockpit.”

The senator waved off his companion with indifference. “You worry too much, Bessel. Consider it senatorial privilege.” He fluttered the cigar at his attaché, his robed arm carving out an arc in the spacious cabin, causing a dusting of ash to sever itself from the tip of the cigar and fall like snow onto the immaculately vacuumed carpet. All, that was, except for a few particles that adhered to the cuff of his ceremonial robes. Senators were frequently required to don these bright and pompous regalia whenever they were called on to perform ambassadorial or parliamentarian duties, which wasn’t often, but enough for Lon to grow a dislike of them. They made him feel like a character out of some children’s tale—outrageously overdressed and insipidly exhibited. It made him feel exposed, although he was completely covered from his neck to his ornate, silk-covered shoes. Absently, he brushed the ash off his sleeve and onto the floor.

Bessel ignored the impropriety of Lon’s action and pointed hesitantly to the senator’s skipjack. “Are you satisfied with the procedures, sir,” he asked politely.

“Yes, yes, they’re all in order. Standard fare for these surrender formalities. But I’ll tell you, Bessel, while I’m always happy to preside at these functions, serving the empress as I do—as we all do—I get the feeling sometimes that proceedings like these have descended into little more than burlesque.”

Bessel cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head obliquely to one side. “Why do you say that, Senator?”

Lon waved his cigar a second time. “There’s no real negotiation. I officiate, read them the terms of surrender, they cower and supplicate, agree to our demands if we just stop decimating their worlds, and it’s all over before my tea even has a chance to cool down.”

“Isn’t that desirable, sir?”

“I suppose,” Lon responded, tapping his finger on the middle of the cigar. “It’s just that none of this challenges me. It’s all procedural, like a choreographed ballet where the principal dancer repeats her memorized dance, leaves the stage, and then has to suffer through endless accolades about how brilliant her performance was. It’s all routine, each and every time.” Lon’s face contorted sourly, like he had just bit into some astringent fruit.

Bessel grinned, amused at Lon’s honesty, but also lamenting the wicked truth of these surrender ceremonies—the helpless capitulation of overwhelmed worlds begging for a sliver of mercy but rarely receiving any. “Procedural ballet is better than an armed response, sir.” He canted his head in the opposite direction, as if one ear had been satiated and the other now ready to receive.

Lon pointed the smoldering cigar at Bessel as if it were an extension of his own finger. “Don’t get snide with me. I bring you along on these things because you’re my attaché and you can, occasionally, be somewhat helpful. What I don’t need from you are critiques of my responsibilities. And another thing, don’t do that thing you do with your head, craning it one way and then the other. You look like those pet zoratain’s when you do that.”

Bessel relented. “As you wish, Senator.”

A call came over the transport’s internal comm system, echoing with the pilot’s deep, resonant voice. “Senator, we’ve contacted the Vanta Bay and have been granted authorization to approach. We should be safely in its docking bay in less than ten minutes. Captain Deste will be there to meet you.”

Lon looked up toward the speaker mounted into the cabin’s ceiling and shouted. “I understand, Lieutenant. You may proceed.” He then snuffed out the remnants of the cigar into the chair’s upholstered arm, leaving a rift of melted fabric in the material, and cast a sidelong glance to his attaché. “Mark my words, Bessel, this one will be no different.”

The two...