“It’s no trick. Here, like this.” Looking sharp in her dress gray uniform, Gaila demonstrated the new salute, and I imitated her. I looked silly, but she made certain I did it correctly. “Just don’t fall back on any of the old ones, or you’ll get us transferred even farther out.”
Terra Light 117 was remote enough – on the edge of the Methanto Domain. I’d been a Kap since the Bodge Dynasty. The new Dremk Dynasty found me still a Kap, now in charge of a forward defense post guarding two dozen colony worlds. My career had plateaued. Now, with rumblings of war, a favorable inspection might jump me lightyears ahead. Of course, an unfavorable report could be fatal.
Gaila and I had taken everything into account for the commodine’s inspection. Chief TopTek Falq’s team had lowered the gravity to .45, as detailed by the commodine’s aides. “Our VIP is sensitive about his mass,” I said. Laughter threw off our balance in low grav. Gaila had an infectious laugh. It cut through the tension, and it had other, pleasant effects on me.
As requested in the fourteenth addendum of his intermissive, I’d reprogrammed the post’s ambience plates to reflect, of all places, an ancient porneion. Instead of showing data or the surrounding stars or even a lovely sunset, the plates lining every bulkhead now displayed fully-resolved images of half-naked young men and young women cavorting about in a Grecian-themed bordello. Personally, I found such fleshy images made a long tour of duty even longer; but then, I wasn’t a commodine. Besides, I had a lovely doctek to help me pass the long nights.
The hatch dilated.
“Welcome aboard, Commodine Neff. I trust you had an uneventful flight out.” The comment was perfunctory, safe.
The commodine waddled across the gangway with his six aides and three more individuals who made up his media retinue. Nine. StarComPac had urged him to travel with a minimal contingent. His underfed, overworked entourage buzzed around us as we walked, talking into personal comms that were sending out unfiltered data across the cosmos. Any signals were supposed to be sent via entanglement-link, unhackable, but from what I could see, these were ordinary long-range comms. We were open to the entire Terran Corporatum, and anyone else who might be listening.
Commodine Neff said, “Hardly uneventful. We lost a full day refueling the escort fighters at Star Post Exinon.”
The shuttle carried a regenerative jump engine, but the fighters had to make parsec-long jumps using a standard power plant. That meant fuel. They were limited, usually only assigned to local patrols. It was the commodine who had insisted on the escort. None of this escaped my lips, which also skipped the formal introductions.
“You have failed to follow the addenda!” one of the commodine’s stern-faced wonks said. She wore geometric shapes on her lapel, faux rank. “This is a Terra Light post.” We were a post. We were a Terra Light. Only civilians said ‘Terra Light Post’ like we were some random streetlight. “You are to play the Primus’ anthem at all times in all common areas. This was clearly spelled out in the twenty-fifth addendum.”
I tried to respond. “I assure you I fully reviewed the list, and –”
A second wonk tapped the first on the shoulder and held out a screen. “I see,” Wonk One said. “It appears the second and third addenda lists got shunted into a high-risk file.”
Gaila spoke too quickly. “There are more lists?”
The wonk kept her attention on me. “This is a serious failing on your part, Kap Ponnen.”
Our comms were configured to keep the Methians from flooding us with blitzprose, which could embed itself inside simple messages then escape and disable any system on the post. Had some junior officer questioned protocols, I’d have assigned him to scrub the waste recycler. Under the circumstances, I offered a sympathetic grunt.
We moved away from the hatch and walked on in the direction of the briefing room, where my command staff might shield me from some of the questions that were bound to come. It was a struggle to maintain a dignified gait at .45G; I kept bouncing.
In a professional tone, Gaila said, “Our records indicate you and your party are not current on your full-spectrum inoculants, Commodine.”
He huffed, “I should say not.” The irritation in his voice was obvious.
Gaila pressed on, “I’ll set you up with a booster. I have everything ready in –”
“You are Doctek Gaila Brone, are you not?” he asked her in a suspiciously formal manner.
“Yaaz, Commodine,” I interjected. I got it right, including remembering to snap my hand up at mid-chest like a toddler waving to his mommy. “Doctek Brone is a fine –”
Not looking at her, Commodine Neff said, “Doctek Brone is hereby relieved and will depart the post immediately for extensive retraining in health priorities.”
Gaila looked to me in alarm. “Evard?” she pleaded with me softly. Retraining was the kind of thing only mentioned in whispers. I had no answer. All I could do was to shrug helplessly.
Snapping out of our shock, we responded simultaneously, just the way we’d practiced. “Yaaz, Commodine.” We got the little hand salute right. One of the aides took Gaila aside and led her off, back towards her med center. I started to follow, but one of the wonks coughed and I halted my steps.
Gaila had been with me for three years. I trusted her judgement, and I – Gaila was a savvy lady. She’d get through the retraining intact, somehow. Forgive me, I thought, though I didn’t know what I could have done.
Synthetics was en route to the briefing room, and so we stopped in for a quick inspection. Everything shone like it had just gone online. The recyclers were churning out our next meal right on schedule.
He stuck his stubby, unwashed fingers into the food-cooling bin, drawing up a wad of colorless mush then shaking it back into the big pot and onto the deck. “What is this muck, Kep Ponnen?”
“The crew affectionately refers to it as Stella Gumbo. It’s not actually gumbo, of course, but the taste and consistency are –”
“I spent two weeks flat on my back, getting poisons like this muck as well as your foul inoculants filtered out of my blood. My mind and body are clean. I am pure as the Auldoch made me.” Auldochers put great stock in purity.
The previous ruling family had been Neo-Darwinians. If a commodine like Neff was an Auldocher, that had to mean he followed the Primus’ faith. Anyone who wanted a future was an Auldocher now. That fact must have gotten lost with the missing addenda. Conform or perish! I grabbed my comm and thumbed in a quick message to the go-teams I had standing by. I prayed to the Auldoch, or whoever, that my crew would redress the chapel in the current sacred paraphernalia and explain it all to the curate before we got there.
There was still the other matter. “I fully agree, Commodine. Nonetheless, it’s standard protocol on the front lines to use inoculants. Despite our best efforts at decontamination, we encounter new bugs from time to time. Some are sent to us by the Methians. Don’t you think it might be more efficient to keep Doctek Brone to oversee –”
“Brone is redundant. A healthy diet is our first, best line of defense. Pure food builds the body’s own devasive systems.” Devasive - another of the new terms in the Dremk Dynasty’s glossary of loyalty. Parrot or perish! “No poisons, and no impure food. We will be reviewing your food stock, discarding the poisons, and purifying your crew’s blood.” That sounded… profound.
Over the following weeks, my crew did their level best to obey the addenda spewing from their screens. The commodine’s aides were in every department overseeing the changes. The Synthtek Department strained its resources to replace our gray uniforms. The new rosso corsa attire included leggings worn under puffy shorts which resembled the ‘pumpkin breeches’ of Shakespeare’s time. We wore them proudly. Titles were updated. I was no longer a kap – I was a kep. Not the promotion I’d hoped for, but at least it was not a demotion. A leetva was now a leetfid, teks were tekks, and so on. This bold initiative would no doubt transform us into a fierce fighting unit.
To further this goal, several of the latest generation of two-man picket ships, designed by the Primus himself, arrived at the station. Cargo vessels also brought us containers of Primus Dremk’s Vermilion Book of Wisdom. The books’ talking pages opined in Dremk’s voice, sharing his eclectic views on purity, the psychological effects of color, baking, and Mid-24th Century Autoschediastic Erhu music. Thousands of books spoke at once, each from a different page. They had no off button.
Our nutrition production was no longer self-sufficient, and food shipments from the colonies proved to be irregular. I noted in my log that we were “meeting this exhilarating challenge with great vigor, determination, and purity of spirit.”
Convoys were providing a solution, hauling in 236,950 tons of soil (“More natural than hydroponics, therefore more pure!”), plus seeds. My tekks struggled to offload it all and find a place to set up our new gardens. Terra Light 117 would now be a military installation and a farm… eventually. In the interim, fast-growing soybeans provided most of our meals. I hoped Gaila appreciated my new, trimmer look, assuming we met again.
“So, what’s the problem?” I asked a tired-looking TopTekk Falq.
“Kep, it’s the air filters. They’re clogging up with mites and other tiny critters. This dirt. It may grow soybeans and all, but it’s full of bugs and wild organics. This stuff is straight from the hills of Colony Beetha. Untreated. I’ve got four tekks down with a rash.”
That brought the total of personnel on the disabled list to over two hundred. Most of those were undergoing blood filtration. The procedure took the parameds two weeks. It was slower since they didn’t have the guidance of a chief medtekk. The recently cleaned crewmen were unfit to return to duty for a further three or four days owing to highly-productive nausea.
I tried to explain the situation to Commodine Neff, maybe urge him to allow Gaila to do her retraining on the post, but he was busy with “pressing matters.”
It was the wrong time for neighbors to drop by, but of course they did.
The klaxon sounded.
“Wake the perimeter WASPs, and launch the Cerulean and Saffron Wings immediately!” I ordered. Saying Blue and Gold used to be quicker and less confusing, but colors were never so pure as they were under the new order.
Ominous celadon-colored blips on the big screen in Central resolved into ships. Fighters, fast attack vessels, and capital ships. Methian ships.
The Methians had kept to themselves for over a century. We’d only communicated via audio translators. They spoke in a series of reverberating emissions. Only in the last few months had we learned their true nature. The Methians turned out to be small, highly-intelligent glandular beings who exuded dense clouds of noxious fumes. Basically, they were sentient farts.
Of the two dozen emissaries sent on our one and only diplomatic mission, only three survived. Despite their encounter suits, they were thoroughly contaminated and would spend the rest of their lives far away from anyone with a working olfactory sense.
Not long after the first official meeting, relations went sour. They claimed our colonies were encroaching on the Methian Domain, an ill-defined region of space. While Terrans enjoyed making fun of the Methians and their odor, their ships were no joke. We were evenly matched in firepower, but the real threat was contact. Whenever a Methian boarded one of our vessels, we automatically declared the ship lost!
“I’m waiting for launch confirmation, Leetfid Cajij,” I barked.
“Bay Two reports all Gold – I mean Saffron birds away.”
“Where’s Cerulean Wing?”
“They’re taxiing out on Bay Two, sir.”
“Why aren’t they using Bay One or Three?”
“Those bays are busy growing soybeans, sir.”
Dammit. The Methians were closing. They’d be within weapons range in a matter of minutes. It would take at least that long to get the post’s defenders into position. For now, that left our fate up to the Weapons And Sensor Platforms. The big screen showed thousands of our WASPs, each capable of attaching itself to one of the Methian ships and detonating. Now roused from their passive surveillance duties, the lethal devices fixed their orientation and hung ready for action. No enemy had ever penetrated a WASP wall. I felt my heartbeat return to normal.
“Kep.”
“Yes, Entin Renno?”
“Sir, I’m getting odd telemetry from the WASPs.”
“Odd? Define odd.”
“Uh, sir… they’re singing.”
Entin Renno put the WASP guidance channel on the speaker:
‘His vision, it do hearten us.
His glory, it do nourish us.
His honor, we do pledge to uphold.
Dremk! Dremk! Dremk!
Terra’s foes do tremble at the name.
Dremk! Dremk! Dremk!’
It was the Primus’ new corporate anthem. We all knew the lines, which played non-stop in every corridor, lift, and toilet of Terra Light 117, by order of Commodine Neff. The melody was an old nursery rhyme; the lyrics were an overlay penned by none other than Primus Dremk himself.
“Sir, the WASPS are just hovering in position. I have no indication that they are prepared to take action. They are definitely not – I repeat, not accepting new inputs.” The young entin was sweating profusely. “There’s an authorization code blocking any signals from here, sir.”
“Let me guess.”
“It appears to be a corporate encryption key.”
I punched the internal comm. “Seku, get me –” I took a quick breath. “Please invite Commodine Neff to join me in Command.”
Seku-Chef Wasset (or was it Seku-Cheev now?) responded, “Kep, the commodine’s not on the station. His transponder shows he’s –”
“On Saffron Nineteen, Kep,” one of my flight controllers called out. “Listen!”
He channeled the comms from Saffron Nineteen onto the Command speaker.
A panicked woman spoke. “Commodine, we’re too close. We should fall back with the formation.”
“Just fly this bird, Leetfid Genkitt. And open a broadcast to the Methians.” The signal altered slightly. It was coming in on two bands now, including one unfiltered, which meant the Methians were also hearing what we were hearing in Command. “Methian Fleet, I am Commodine Neff of the Terran Corporatum, speaking on behalf of his Infallible Guide and Profound Leader of the Corporatum Primus Dremk. You are approaching a Terra Light post.” I cringed at his phrasing. “We are fully armed with a lethal array of ships and other… highly lethal things… fully capable of eradicating the Methian impurity from this sector. Turn back now.”
The Methian ships reached the edge of weapons range… and halted.
Cerulean Wing was out of the nest, finally! Once they reached action stations, it would be a contest. For now, any exchange of fire could only result in pointless deaths on both sides. Fortunately, the Methians weren’t shooting at us, at least not yet.
I took advantage of the momentary lull. “Commodine, I must insist you return to the post. You have no business on the front lines.”
“Ridiculous. This ship is one of the advanced models I brought in last week. It is invincible.”
Of course it was. Primus Dremk had designed it himself.
I spoke in a steady tone, though I wanted to scream. “Pilot, I am giving you a direct order to return to the post.”
“Yes, Kep sir,” the female voice said over the speaker. The roster identified her as Leetfid Genkitt, a man. “I’ll try. These control systems are all over the place. Nav is where environmental should be, and the helm is way over to my right… somewhere – oh, yeah, there. And I keep bouncing out of my seat because the gravity’s set to half. I recognize these controls, but everything’s been scrambled. Anyway, I’ll try, but… sir, I’m not Leetfid Genkitt. I’m Steward Haunf.” Oh my Auldoch! The voice. It was. It was my kep’s mess steward. “I took Leetfid Genkitt’s place, sir. He’s indisposed with food poisoning from the meat that Commo – the shipment of colony-produced meat that came aboard four days ago.” The inoculants would have prevented food poisoning, if Genkitt still had them in his system. “I’m just a trainee,” Haunf said. “I’ve flown sorties before, sir, but never in anything this… different.”
It was at that moment that the Methian commander spoke over the comms. Our systems relayed the original audio followed by a translation in a deceptively soothing voice. Out came a series of short, fricative bursts and a squeak or two. Then: “Terran Kep, we greet you. I am Ank Ffrtff of the Methian Domain Militia. We make this display to impress upon you our resolve to find a mutually agreeable solution to our territorial disputes.”
The translator did an excellent job of stressing the key words as Ffrtff spoke them, though I had to stifle a giggle at the accompanying sounds. I’d had enough diplomatic training to know what he was really saying: we’re ready to fight, but we’re giving you one final chance.
“Ank Ffrtff, I am Kep Evard Ponnen. I acknowledge your impressive fleet. However, you are disagreeably close to our colony worlds. We respectfully require you to withdraw. The Terran Corporatum will then send a full delegation to negotiate the matter at hand.”
“We’ll linger for now, Kep Ponnen. We enjoy the view from our frontier. I will, however, give you my promise that, should no hostilities erupt on your side, we will withdraw and remain open to making summit arrangements.”
“That will be agreeable, Ank Ffrtff. I welcome your show of good faith.”
“I do not!” It was Commodine Neff, naturally. He sounded resolute, therefore dangerous.
“Commodine, please!” Steward Haunf shouted. “Don’t touch that! Commodine!”
A pallid replacement officer at TakTekk called out nervously, “Saffron One-niner is firing, Kep!”
“Commodine, stand down. Cease firing. All ships, hold your fire! Do not fire without my direct order! Acknowledge.”
The other vessels sent back confirmation. They wouldn’t fire. The question was… had the damage already been done.
At that distance, the volley from Saffron Nineteen took nearly thirty seconds to reach the intended target: the head of the spear in the Methian formation. It was no doubt the same ship that carried Ark Ffrtff.
Composing myself as best I could, I hailed Ffrtff. “This is not an authorized attack, Ark Ffrtff. You have time to take evasive action.”
“No.”
“No?”
The bolt struck the lead Methian vessel. Our ships used displacement shields to channel energy around and away. The Methians prided themselves on equipping their ships with tough hulls. So, they were a little crazy after all. Most of the volley missed and flew harmlessly past the target – space was a stupid place to fire blindly. One bolt hit home, shearing off a sizeable chunk of the lead Methian vessel’s nose. It shuddered but never lost trim.
A second Methian ship fired a single, perfectly-aimed bolt. It was headed straight for Neff.
“Hold your fire!” I repeated to both Saffron and Cerulean Wings. The WASPs were merrily singing the Primus’ praises and didn’t seem to care.
The Methian weapon unfurled into a brilliant orange (more of a mango, actually) field but did not dissipate. Saffron Nineteen tried to evade, but the undulating field engulfed it like a big fish eating a little one.
“Status?” I barked at TopTekk Falq, immediately regretting my temper. I placed one hand on his shoulder as he checked the instruments.
“Saffron One-niner is dead in space, Kep. No power readings at all.”
The Methian appeared on the screen again. It was difficult to read his features through his gassy shroud, but he was standing tall. In a human, that might signal cockiness. If so, he’d earned it. In any case, I was determined to respect this flatulent foe.
“We could leave your pilot and your Commodine Neff to drift in space until they freeze to death,” Ank Ffrtff said. “If you attempt to retrieve your people, we will blow your ships away, leaving not a whiff.”
“Do you intend for them to die?”
“No. We simply wish to be the ones to return your commodine to you.”
Was this mercy? More likely, they were rubbing our nose in our own stink.
The Methians dispatched a small vessel. It restored partial power to the disabled Saffron Nineteen while towing it back through our own defensive lines, all the way to Terra Light 117’s Bay Two.
“They could have a good long look,” TopTekk Falq muttered.
“I would,” I agreed.
There we waited, two great military forces staring at each other, exchanging occasional pleasantries edged in threat.
Two days after they arrived, the Methians began withdrawing their fleet. They’d made their point.
Comms reported, “They’re signaling that we may ‘now retrieve Commodine Neff and your waiter/pilot.’”
I ordered Comms to reestablish our direct link. “Thank you for not killing him or taking him captive,” I told my opposite number, certain he could read human mendacity.
Ark Ffrtff responded, “He will do us more good where he is.”
Commodine Neff stepped into Command, red-faced and unkempt. Also, he was badly in need of a personal washing. “I will address the Methian leader now!”
“His name is –” I started to correct Neff’s etiquette, a risk.
Neff didn’t listen. “Methian, I trust this encounter has taught you something about Terran strength. We are pure. We are powerful. Have you learned the lesson well?” Pissing at a retreating armada was impudent and uncalled for.
The wily commander’s features were beginning to snow over with distance and interstellar radiation. He had just enough time to respond, “Yaaz, Commodine. You have taught us much about Terrans.” With that, Ark Ffrtff signed off.
“Good. We showed them.”
“Yaaz, Commodine,” I agreed.
“Don’t forget the salute.”
There it was, the cute little wave.
“You acted boldly, Kep. I will highlight that in my report.”
So, I was a hero of the Corporatum. Somehow, it didn’t feel the way I had anticipated. Could a hero get his Doctek returned to the post, I wondered?
“Does that mean you’re leaving us?” I was feeling a little light-headed. The latest crop of soybeans, some colonial variant, were having a violent disagreement with my bowels.
“I’m afraid so. This has been quite an experience. Now, I must take what I’ve learned here and enact these successful changes on Terra Light 118… 119… all up and down the line, in fact. The safety of the Terran Corporatum depends on it!”
Three days later, my crew and I got his entourage loaded on the shuttle. The hatch opened then closed only to open again. TopTekk Falq cursed and hacked into the servo with a hunter-killer script. Falq had been chasing the same invasive blitzprose all over the post.
Under temporary control at last, the hatch began to constrict closed. I called out, “Safe travels, Commodine.” My shouts competed with a nearby container of Crimson Books extolling the nuances of the erhu. “Glory to the Auldoch and to the Primus and to the Corporatum. I’m confident your labors will yield… purity.”
###
If you enjoy stories about guys who are their own worst enemy, check out Zebulon Angell and the Shadow Army:
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Would-be songwriter and hard-living Uber driver Zebulon Angell stumbles onto a sex candy, launching him on an adventure that makes him the target of shady corporate players and ultimately leads him inside the not-so-empty tomb of China's first emperor.
Zebulon Angell's life in an upscale suburb of Atlanta is a hot mess. He's scraping by and barely surviving his own mistakes. Things take a bizarre twist when a monkey turns up dead in his wife's luxury SUV. This leads him to "Tiger Penis," a sex boost, love potion, and maybe something else. Zebulon and his buddy, Nitro, become the front men for a product that could be worth billions, but they quickly find themselves in over their heads. Zebulon's estranged wife is the chief scientist working on Tiger Penis and has had enough of her husband's failings. Zebulon's boss is a seductress who definitely has her own agenda. Zebulon is confident he's up to the challenge. He's not.
If Indiana Jones and James Bond teamed up with Travis Bickle, they'd still have a tough time digging out of the chaos Zebulon Angell creates for himself.
Zebulon Angell and the Shadow Army mixes sex, the supernatural, history, international intrigue, and sharp wit to conjure up a wild ride with a spirited finale in the realm of the Son of Heaven.
