Image is AI generated by author and Midjourney.
“Tell the delegates we are unable to see them at this time,” he said dismissively, not even turning to look back as they left the Operations Deck. The two officers, both in their grey dress uniforms, headed down the crowded hallway, temporarily bustling with a pending shift change. Junior officers and crew came and went, each briefly pausing to clasp their hands together and bow as he passed. With each bow, he nodded. Barely.
“Ecliptor,” said Jehonnon, trying to match his pace, “they travelled all this way in such a small fleet. They really just want to attend the reception with all the other delegates. They understand the lack of an invitation was an oversight.”
“There was no oversight. They were not invited.”
“They weren’t?” he asked, quickly flipping through several holoscreens projected from a comms unit on the back of his right hand. “Well, they are here now. We certainly have enough accommodations for them here on the Raksasa. Perhaps on the aft lower decks, near the gunnery crews? We could put them up for the night, they attend the reception, then we send them on their way after the next rotation.”
“They were not invited. Their open defiance of our Grand Dynastic Ascendency cannot be tolerated.”
“You mean their recent trade agreements with the Sovereign Guild?”
“We ordered them not to. They persisted. Tell them to leave.”
“Certainly. I’ll get them some rations while we are recharging their ships, then…”
“No rations. March them back to their airlock at gunpoint.”
“Ecliptor,” he said, nervously dodging other crew members while checking another holoscreen, “their species eats six times per rotation.”
“They will figure it out. Stop the recharging, too.”
“Sir, we’ve only just started. Their ships are Diplomatic Class-42 vessels. If we can’t charge their spindrives, they’d have to use sub-light propulsion only. It would take them half a cycle to return back to their nearest base—and that’s with cryosleep and minimal life support. They might not even make it back if we don’t assist. Math doesn’t lie.”
“Not our problem,” he said, waving him off, the hallway lights reflecting off his Stellar Cartography medal, earned for mapping and exploring uncharted regions of the galaxy to colonize. “I am sure they can call their wonderful new ‘allies’ in the Guild for assistance. Get them out of here.”
“Ecliptor Tzuren, I…”
“Jehonnon,” he turned and stared blankly at his XO, “you have your orders.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, briefly staring at the Starforge Cross on his Ecliptor’s uniform, earned for valor at the Battle of Aetherion. He clasped his hands together, bowed, then turned and walked back down the hallway, rummaging through more holoscreens.
Tzuren Kai briefly watched him leave, nodded to another officer passing by who also bowed, then turned and briskly continued down the hallway. He stepped through two bulkhead doors, checked the comms unit on his hand, and grimaced. He allowed himself two very deep breaths, then made a quick turn through another bulkhead and expertly slid down some ladder-stairs. He walked down another hallway, again nodding to the crew who bowed as he passed. He turned down another one, past a sign that read Bridge Personnel Quarters, then stopped in front of a large metal door with a red light above it. There was no keypad, lock, or access panel visible. He pressed his palm against the door, causing the light above to switch to a pale blue, then pulled his palm back.
He fidgeted as the door slid open. His brow furrowed reflexively. He made a conscious attempt to unfurrow it, but could only hold that way for so long before it snapped back to full furrowness. He alternated between pursing and biting his lips. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. It was a strange feeling for him, since he always knew exactly what to do with his hands in any situation: wringing, pointing, chopping, punching. Yet, right now he didn’t know what to do with them at all. He cracked his knuckles on both, then just let them hang there.
Sensing the door was about to close again, he quickly stepped into the suite. His suite. He walked through his small but well-kept kitchen area, past his receiving room, and came to another door with a red light above it. He held out his palm, about to press it against the door, but paused, then withdrew it. He stood there, staring blankly at the door, hoping it would somehow open by itself. It did not.
Tzuren Kai straightened his dark grey uniform, making certain the crimson, braided stripes along the rows of buttons aligned perfectly with those on his lapels. He adjusted his Black Sun Order Ribbon, awarded when he was a junior officer for preventing catastrophic events to the fleet during the wars with the Krein Imperium, then brushed off his Eclipse Shield Order sash, earned for unyielding defense of the capital city-state. He then flicked a speck off his Shadowblade Service Medal, earned for covert operations that dismantled rival factions and eliminated key opposition leaders of the 2nd Rebellion. He looked over at his desk at his framed Iron Dominion Star, awarded for routing the Bal Thoth Garoong.
He was stalling.
And he knew it.
“I… apologize,” he said, finally, in a hushed tone.
Nothing.
“I apologize,” he said, somewhat louder.
The door stared him down.
He took another very deep breath. As he exhaled, he clasped his right hand into his left, clicked his heels together, and bowed.
“I apologize for putting you through all this,” he said, projecting more. “You, who have suffered so much, so often. For my career. For me. You do not deserve it. Having to live in these quarters, travelling the stars,” he said, dismissively waving his hand.
Still bowing, he raised his eyes slightly, looking at the motionless door. He cleared his throat. “Our Grand Dynastic Ascendency asks much of you. This way of life asks much of you. I ask much of you. You know I would go to the ends of the universe for you, just for a single Aurora blossom during the only cycle they will bloom in our lifetime. I would battle a thousand armies and fight down to my very last breath, just to get those special tea leaves from the Kaltric moons, to help you sleep at night. I would conquer entire planets for you, in your name, my love, my sweet. All I ask is that you forgive me,” he pleaded. “Forgive me for providing so much but for being there so little. Forgive me for staying out of your life at a point where I should truly be a part of it more often. Forgive me for not paying greater attention to your needs, your wants, even your whims. Forgive me for being the callous, aloof man that I am—a man that puts so much emphasis on you and your safety above all else. Forgive me for being the brute; for being a man who has known only order—only discipline—for his entire life. Forgive me… for being me.”
He paused, about to speak again, then the door abruptly slid open.
She stood there, hands on her hips, framed by the doorway’s pale blue light. Her posture was stiff, uncertain. The gown she wore – an elaborate swirl of silver and iridescent silk – hung awkwardly on her slender frame, as if borrowed from an older sister she didn’t have. Her hair was pinned up with ceremonial clips she clearly hadn’t chosen herself. Her neck and ears were adorned with shimmering jewelry more suitable for someone else, not a gawky teenager like her.
She had sharp eyes that mirrored his own. She stared at him not with hatred, not with anger, but with the kind of bored, contemptuous annoyance that only ever comes from a single source – an unending river of privilege.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” he said, raising one of his brows, the barest hint of a smile forming on his face.
“Yes. Fine.”
“You will go?”
“I’ll go to your stupid ball. Just… enough with the sarcasm, Daddy.”
He stood up, looked at her and grinned sheepishly. “And you will dance with Sub-Marshall Xossar’s son? They return to the Typhonic in the morning.”
She scrunched up her nose, debating the request, then slumped her shoulders and exhaled. “One dance.”
“Two?”
“One. What’s his name again? Bren?”
“Yes, Bren,” he said, beaming, ushering her out. The door slid shut behind them, leaving the room in silence.
About the Author
Originally from Massachusetts (with a 25 year layover in Ohio), Paul is a Dean at Loyola University New Orleans. His fiction appears in 365 Tomorrows, Aphelion, Andromeda, Antipodean SF, Apocalypse Confidential, Bewildering Stories, Black Sheep, Corner Bar, Close to the Bone, the Creepy Podcast, Fabula Argentea, Freedom Fiction Journal, Intangience, Lit Nerds, MetaStellar, Mobius Blvd, Mystic Mind, Pulp Lit, Savage Planets, Sci-Fi Shorts, Tall Tale TV, the Writing Disorder, and numerous anthologies and podcasts, with additional stories in-press.
In his spare time, he serves as the editor / curator of Mobile Tech Weekly, at: https://flipboard.com/@pcesari/mobile-tech-weekly-lh2560e4y
