There was a storm of applause as another yellow-skinned humanoid stepped up to the podium and the crowd started waving small Vegan flags. A voice introduced the speaker as Usines Haimon, President of the Vegan Union.
“We should get lunch soon,” Reed suggested. “Maybe shoot some hoops. What’s your schedule like the rest of the week?”
“Mostly free, I think. I’ll take a look and give your office a ring.”
“Please do.”
Haimon began his speech, “People of the Human Alliance, I extend the thanks of the entire Vegan Union for your gracious hospitality this day. I have never visited this world before and it is an honor to be the representative of my people to yours.”
“How far is Vega from Alliance space?” Reed wondered.
“About twenty-five light years. It’s actually the closest League of Planets state.”
“I always thought it was further.” Reed indicated the speaker. “Word is Haimon needs this visit to go well. He’s deeply unpopular at home and there’s an election coming up.”
“Why is he speaking alone? Shouldn’t President Paine be up there with him?”
“He’ll show up in a moment. Probably a security measure –”
The explosion consumed the entire stage and tendrils of flame reached out into the crowd. Gresham shoved Reed to the ground as shards of white-hot wood and metal cut through the air and the surrounding bystanders, the fireball expanding rapidly and a dark cloud blotting out the sun.
Gresham shut his eyes as he felt the black fog entire his mouth and nose, and for the first time in many years, he wondered if he was going to die.
Chapter Three: The Loyal Sister
Krokandir, Planet Rukkur, Kroka System, Krokator Star Empire
Morning broke over the Krokandir – the Imperial City. Just above the horizon, Kroka’s gentle rays of light broke through the low-hanging mist. As it rose, the old star burned golden in the cloudless heavens and as the sunrise splashed the blackrock and swardstone buildings, krokator poked their heads out of their windows to greet the dawn.
High Prod Trakk Nikkwill had been awake considerably longer than daybreak, as had his right-hand-man, Admiral Tarkas. The two blue-skinned krokator took a break from reviewing reports and data to enjoy the sunrise over the skyline of the capital city’s financial sector. The tall, stone-and-glass towers shimmered as Kroka breathed gently against the city.
“This is unusually good weather for the month of Urk,” Tarkas commented.
“I know. It has rained every Urkuran I have experienced since I was at the Academy. Hopefully this weather will continue,” Nikkwill replied.
The two krokator were two of the most powerful military leaders in the galaxy – Nikkwill, as the Akumaprod, answered only to the Emperor, and as the Subanprod Oranokkumudda Tarkas oversaw every admiral in the Imperial Navy, the largest and best-staffed fleet in the galaxy.
“I remember my first Urkuran here,” Tarkas said with a hint of a smile. “Coming here from the Academy, seeing the festivities and the late Emperor Dennokk… I will never forget it.”
“To be honest, each Urkuran has begun to blur into the next. Only a few truly stand out from the others… Emperor Ruskir’s first comes to mind.”
There was a chugging noise from the street and a likala – a three-wheeled surface vehicle – pulled to a stop in front of the fortress in the city’s 9th District that Nikkwill was using as his staging base for city security during the Urkuran – the krokator holy week at the end of the month of Urk, culminating in Urkuran Eve. Two large soldiers hopped out of the back, upon which was stamped the emblem of the Empire – a long, thin pyramid flanked by three circles.
The 9th District’s police chief knocked on the door and peered in. “High Prod?”
“Yes?” Nikkwill replied, and when his gaze fell on the young sharm, the soldier snapped to attention and placed a clenched fist against his chest in salute.
“As you were,” Nikkwill replied informally. “What news?”
“There was a riot only twenty minutes ago in the 11th District. The majority of offenders were dispersed, with twenty-three arrests made.”
“The 11th District is a fairly homogenous krokator part of the city,” Tarkas commented, looking at a massive map of the city and its thirty districts, each governed by a separate council and afforded its own police force, which answered directly to military leadership.
“That is a problem. Usually, Urkuran riots occur in poorer neighborhoods populated by bunchu,” Nikkwill said icily, tapping his chin in concern. Bunchu was a vulgar term for inferiors. In modern vernacular, the word referred exclusively to other species, typically those ruled by the krokator.
Tarkas picked up a report and reviewed it. “Can we move another regiment in?”
“The 374th is stationed about fifty miles south of the city. We can move them into the industrial corridor on the border of the 11th and 12th Districts. That will give them control over roughly five square miles of poorer neighborhoods that might have Progressive instigators.”
“We have still had plenty of trouble in the 23rd District, High Prod,” the sharm said, continuing his report. “There have been pockets of insurrection in the southernmost blocks of the 27th, 29th and 30th Districts, but nothing as severe as this morning’s chaos in the 11th.”
Nikkwill surveyed a different map on his desk. “Call up a small force and move them into Oranokk Park. They can move quickly between the 29th and 30th Districts from there.”
“I have nothing else to report, sir. There’s a messenger with reports from off-world.”
“Show him in. You are dismissed.”
The sharm saluted again and walked out, passing by a tan-skinned krokator who saluted quickly and then entered. “Sir, I bring reports from off-world,” the soldier said, handing two scrolls to Nikkwill, who in turn handed one of them to Tarkas.
“Let us pray for good news,” he muttered and read the first one. “Fifteen heretics have been captured onboard their pirate craft in the Fundo System in the Outer Ring.”
Tarkas read the second one and glanced up at the messenger. “How recent is this report?”
“I received it twenty minutes ago and was told to take Skyrail 14 here, sir.”
Tarkas handed it to Nikkwill for review. “During a visit to Terra, the President of the Vegan Union, Usines Haimon, was killed in a bomb attack while making remarks. Twenty-seven others are confirmed dead at this time with over one hundred injured. President Howard Paine of the Human Alliance is presumed alive, but status is unconfirmed.”
Nikkwill tossed the report onto his table. “How many does this make, Tarkas?”
“Well, there was the Dominion’s Council Hand, the head of the Federation’s military, five pree Senators were killed in a bombing, the massacre at the Crown Prince of Gardell’s palace by that shock team of aliens, and then there was the attempted assassination of the Grand Minister of Ceis.”
Nikkwill bared his tusks in frustration. “And now the Alliance! That makes four Chair Nations attacked, and two powerful second-tier nations. Who is next? Hippakkest? Mingiclor? Us?”
Tarkas paused. “I would not be too surprised, sir. We are more vulnerable than ever during the holy week, especially this year, with the Progressives in uproar. We can expect the largest Urkuran riot in decades tomorrow night.”
“Then we shall have to hope we can prevent it, sir,” Nikkwill grunted, glancing back towards the messenger. “Otherwise, we may lose more than our jobs.”
#
Ardas Urula ran a hand over her umrusk and placed two juicy blue fruits in her basket. Two hundred feet above, a skyrail whistled along on its way across neighborhood. A flock of massive winged creatures scattered out of its way.
Urula hummed the tune to an old krokator nursery rhyme as she smiled in the sunlight before she turned back to head indoors. She noticed a nest growing in a crack of the blackrock wall surrounding her property in the 19th District of the Imperial City, and
made note of it.
Ardas Mulokk, her husband, opened the copper-plated door to their modest kitchen to let her back in. “Good morning, love,” he said and kissed her. He’d filed his tusks that morning, she noticed, as was custom for civilian males. They were barely visible nubs beneath his bottom lip.
“Good morning, husband,” she cooed softly and set her basket onto the wooden table in the heart of the kitchen. “I have some fruit from the garden. I thought it would make a good breakfast.”
“They are perfectly ripe! Excellent!” He retrieved a large pitcher from a refrigerated shelf built into the wall, poured brackish gray porridge into a bowl and smiled. “I love Urkuran. A full four days without work, and I get paid, too.”
Urula poured herself a bowl of porridge too. “Is my brother up yet, by any chance?”
Mulokk grimaced. “He is on the roof, meditating.”
Urula paused, seeing her husband’s expression. “Something wrong, love?”
“Your brother has become Nikkwill’s prized pet, and you know it,” Mulokk growled and slobbered down a spoonful of porridge, reaching for a knife with which to cut his fruit. “I love the Empire, and I would break the tusks off of anyone who would accuse me of being some Progressive instigator… but the High Prod’s personal attack dog is living under our roof!”
“Only for a few more weeks, love. He returns to his regiment soon.”
Mulokk shrugged. “Still. With every mission he is drawn further into the military’s inner circle. His elevated position could endanger our family.”
“Zurra is my brother, and your brother-in-law. He is the only family I have left besides you.”
Mulokk held up a hand. “I know, love, I know. I apologize. I should not have spoken ill of your brother or his staying with us.”
“That is not what bothers me, husband. My concern is that you believe that my brother’s high regard with High Prod Nikkwill is a danger to this household. We should be grateful that he –”
They were interrupted by a thump from the stairs and the large, dark frame of a shirtless Zurra emerged from the doorway. “Good morning, sister. Good morning, Mulokk.”
“Zurra,” Mulokk muttered in return and sipped at his water.
The black-skin soldier sat down at the table and took the pitcher, looking at his sister and brother-in-law warily before pouring himself a bowl of the porridge. “I trust you both slept well?”
“Well enough. Zurra, if you would excuse me, I have an errand to run at the neighbors. I trust I shall see you for dinner tonight.”
“That I cannot guarantee, Mulokk, for I do not know when I will be home. Frusrand guide your day.”
Mulokk vanished up another flight of stairs. Zurra glared after him and looked back at Urula. “Sister, something bothers you.”
“Zurra, please, Mulokk and I are fine.”
Zurra drank his porridge, military style, without a spoon. “I worry about you. Your husband has tusks smaller than mine when I was in primary. He has not become a Progressive yet, has he?”
“Zurra! Into the garden, at once!” Urula commanded.
“You are truly my sister; you have our father’s lungs.”
“That was not a request!”
Zurra rose slowly and stepped out into the garden. By krokator tradition, females were subservient to males, but as mistress of the home, they could deny and cast out anyone without question, including their spouse. Many a husband had spent long nights on the steps of his own home, waiting to be allowed back inside.
Once Zurra was outside, Urula took a position in the doorway and glared at him. “You may not think much of Mulokk, and I know he thinks little of you, brother.”
“Then he and I see eye to eye. May I enter your home, sister?”
“Not yet. You are living here by our charity. Mulokk has a well-paying job and we live in a fine home. You are needed here in the Krokandir for whatever assignments the Empire requires of you, and you could just as easily live in a local hostel as with us.”
“Urula…”
“Your military position does not make you our superior. I do not ask you to like Mulokk, but he is my husband, and you will respect him when you are under my roof.”
Zurra bowed his head. “I understand, sister.”
“You may enter my home, brother.”
Zurra stepped inside sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “You have our father’s roar… and our mother’s bite.”
“They left us with many good qualities, brother. Sit and finish your porridge.”
Embarrassed, Zurra sipped his porridge. “I apologize, sister.”
“And you are forgiven, brother.” Urula paused and studied his face. “You know I love you deeply, brother, and wish we did not spend what little time we have together fighting like this. I worry for you. I dread that you will one day return in a Box.”
“I know. You have nothing to concern yourself about, sister.”
“Do I not? You vanish for weeks at a time. I never know what your assignments are, but each time you have new bruises, new scars… fresh wounds. Father was a noble soldier admired by his peers, Zurra, but he never took the kind of high-risk assignments you do.”
“It is an honor to serve and defend the Empire. If they demand my life to do so, I will gladly give it,” Zurra sharply replied. He hesitated immediately, seeing his sister’s alarmed expression. “I am sorry, again, Urula. You are a good sister to care for your brother’s safety. It is not unappreciated.”
Before Urula could reply, there was a bumping noise from the stairwell and a juvenile krokator barely three feet high came bouncing down the steps to land on his rear, smiling broadly. “Morning, mother!” he chirped before bounding across the tile floor and leaping onto Zurra’s back. “Morning, uncle!” he said and grabbed a fistful of the sharm’s braids and pulled hard.
“Good morning, Niloskk,” Zurra laughed heartily, catching his nephew and wrapping him in a headlock, rubbing the krokling’s head playfully. “You certainly are excited this morning!”
“Mother says I can go with her to the Urkuran fair today!”
“Did she now?” Zurra leaned in close. “Let me give you a word of advice, nephew. Make sure you are in a well-patrolled and secure neighborhood and never separate yourself from your mother in large crowds.”
“Zurra, silence, you will scare the boy!”
“I do not want to scare him, merely warn him. We live in a city of over eighty million. It is easy to get lost.”
“We live here? You live wherever the Empire sends you, brother.”
“And thank the gods for that, Urula. I think deep down you miss Kenka horribly,” Zurra beamed and put Niloskk down on the floor. “I have to leave, sister, I will be home tonight. High Prod Nikkwill has business to discuss.”
“Well you cannot be late to such an occasion. Hurry along, Zurra.”
Zurra found his ceremonial dress armor in a closet by the door, perfectly polished. It took him all but two minutes to instinctively slide every last cuff and pad on before he stood in his bronze-plated attire, helmet in hand.
“Look at you. You are a spitting image of father,” Urula said and took the helmet from her elder brother’s hands. “Here, let me put it on for you.”
She carefully slid it over his fourteen officer braids and surveyed the mighty figure before her. “Walk with the gods beside you, brother.”
“Frusrand guide your day,” Zurra replied and gave her a brief embrace. “Enjoy the fair, Niloskk!” He strode out into the street smartly, his cape flowing in the light breeze, feeling the sun gleam off of his armor.
He could already feel it – this was going to be an Urkuran to remember.
Chapter Four: Reassignment
Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System
Sunlight blasted Gresham in the face, rudely awakening him. He rolled onto his side and noticed the naked woman lying face down next to him in bed. He poked her buttock to see if she would wake and creased his
eyebrows, trying desperately to remember which bar he had met her in.
“Good morning, John. It is seven o’ clock AM,” Tiff, his apartment’s AI, announced. “You have been assigned a meeting with General Richard Godford this afternoon.”
Giving the woman one last look-over, Gresham rose off the bed, stretching out his stiff back. “In that case, Tiff, I’ll need my uniform pressed.”
“Your uniform will be ready in ten minutes, John,” the AI replied in her typically apathetic female voice.
Still trying to recall the events of the night before, Gresham found a pre-made bowl of cereal in the fridge and tore the wrapping off. He stuck it under a small nozzle on the wall and milk poured out for exactly three seconds. He then grabbed a cup and placed it under a different nozzle, grabbing a spoon for his cereal as the cup filled with coffee. He took the bowl and coffee to his table and sat down.
“Give me Channel Seven,” he said through a mouthful of cereal. The wallscreen flickered to life, displaying the face of a pretty young blonde woman.
“Good morning, Southern California! The temperature right now is sixty-seven degrees Fahrenheit on a beautiful July morning.”
Gresham sipped his coffee, wishing his headache away. He didn’t drink often, but last night had called for it. The memories were starting to come back now, in fits and starts. The podium exploding only a few dozen yards away from him and Reed. The smoke filling his lungs, eyes and mouth. The ringing in his ears, the small cut on his forehead, the first responders asking him and Reed if they were alright. The exact movement of time was jumbled too – he couldn’t remember how long it had taken for him to get from the hospital to the bar in Malibu, or how he had managed to travel between the two.
“Events surrounding yesterday’s attack on Shoregrove Hall continue to remain unclear. President Usines Haimon of the Vegan Union is confirmed amongst the dead. Government officials have stated that President Howard Paine, however, is safe and uninjured.”
“Tiff, I need my uniform finished before I leave and I’ll need a shower.”
“Certainly, John.”
Gresham heard the shower turn on in the other room, and he started to undress. “Put Channel Seven on in the bathroom too.”