Storm Clouds Ahead

Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

From Chapter 20

* * *

A cloudless sky greeted the new day. The Palace halls quickly filled with the footsteps of servants, scurrying to ready the Grand Hall for the day’s feast. Outside, birds filled the air with song. In the garden, newly planted flowers lined the walks with bright colors, blues and purples, yellows and pure whites. Some plants even showed vibrant, brilliant reds—or so the Veshnans said. These, of course, were mostly for show, to honor the Terrans who were said to like the color. Such tones appeared dark and dull to the eyes of the g’Khruushtani.

Ga’Glish paced nervously in the garden. It had been fully twelve cycles since he last walked the grounds of home; ten cycles since he had taken a mate; nine cycles since he had taken the post of havenmaster and entered into a different world, of protocol and responsibility from which there could be no retreat. The distance he had come was nothing compared to what remained before him. He had not seen his father since leaving home, and as he paced he prayed that his tongue would not desert him, leaving him mute as a stone, should Ga’Glishek consent to a meeting.

“It has been a long time, Ga’Glish,” called a voice from behind him.

Ga’Glish spun around to find Gal’Shenga, grinning broadly, standing no more than an arm’s length away. The centurion had been so absorbed with his own concerns that he had quite failed to notice anyone approach.

“Uncle,” smiled Ga’Glish, relief washing over his face.

Gal’Shenga laughed as the two clasped each other’s shoulders. “You have dragged us all through fits of worry, Ga’Glish. Your mother is in a state of exhaustion and will probably never forget my complicity in this whole affair.”

“In a different sense, neither will your nephew.”

The Expanse Minister bowed, accepting the compliment. “How are you, Ga’Glish? And how are Glishana and the small ones?”

“Glishana worries over me like my mother.”

“And the rest?”

“The small ones grow like weeds. And eat like Terrans.”

“Come,” smiled Gal’Shenga. “Let us walk.”

The two walked alone through the palace grounds, much as they had done when Ga’Glish was a boy, sharing insights and memories. Though neither gave voice to his innermost thoughts, Ga’Glish felt his uncle’s pride in the nephew’s achievements. And the elder Galgravina felt his nephew’s profound gratitude at having someone for whom independence did not mean betrayal.

At last, each felt the time had come to discuss matters of importance. They stopped walking, and came to rest upon a padded bench near the Imperial fountain. There, beneath a statue of Dr’Shenda LVIII, remembered in the capital as “Shenda the Portly,” their talk turned to matters of importance.

“Was your trip worth the trouble?”

“It was disturbing, but for reasons I will admit to none but you,” said Ga’Glish.

“One may not expect the Imperial Weathermen to be infallible.”

Gal’Shenga meant his remarks in jest. He was surprised to feel distress flooding his nephew’s heart.

“The storm was a boon, greater than I could have arranged myself.”

“I am listening, Nephew.”

“The Terrans have three classes of major space vessels,” Ga’Glish began, doubtful of his ability to relate the full import of his experience. “This Terran ship was from their top class, the one we call— ”

“‘Intruder.’”

“Exactly,” Ga’Glish bowed, impressed by his uncle’s command of detail. “This is the class of ship they send whenever they come to inspect our side of the Great Divide. Of the others, I know but little.”

“Continue.”

“These ships have a cruising speed a full energy level above ours. They keep and maintain a speed of two astronomical units a day, twice the pace a ship of the Imperator can sustain.”

“So I have heard.”

“As they neared the haven, I put to space fully two days before they passed, only to find myself chasing their wake. But then the Terrans slowed to a pace I could keep, as if inviting me to accompany them. And I followed them, as closely as I dared, until.... ”

“Until the storm intruded.”

“Yes,” said Ga’Glish. “Until the storm.”

He rose and paced, searching for a way to make his uncle understand what would follow. Gal’Shenga was well-informed on a wide range of topics, but his knowledge of the science of space had limits.

“For many days, the Terrans seemed to enjoy the company. They were almost playful, detouring from the indicated course to skirt the edges of star systems and engaging in maneuvers which were useless, except for amusing themselves, using their ship as a toy—or perhaps demonstrating its capabilities to me; I know not which. They even sought to make verbal contact on several occasions. Of course, given the edicts of the Foreign Ministry, I chose not to join them, and made no reply to any of their messages.”

“A silly loss that we must accept as payment for Cra’Jenli’s blindness. But, continue.”

“Then,” Ga’Glish said, his voice lowering to a whisper, “the storm showed on the monitors, and the haven directed us to emergency harbors. Separate, of course, and neither optimum for a disturbance of that magnitude. But each was quite sufficient and easily reached.

“Yet the Terran shipmaster would have none of it. He broadcast an inquiry asking whether my ship needed assistance. When the haven confirmed that I needed none, he requested information on another system, fully two units ahead but far better suited as a harbor, a binary system with two stars of brightest green. The Cloud’s full fury would have trouble disrupting the interior of that system, Uncle. As for the storm we were facing—why, once safely to port within the harbor of that system, the storm could be safely forgotten, like a gentle night rain upon the palace windows.”

Gal’Shenga felt his nephew’s heart fill with wonder.

“I myself raced right to the nearest star,” Ga’Glish continued. “But the Terrans.... ”

He paused, groping for a way to render what he had to say understandable.

“A space storm...of any magnitude...creates vast electrical disturbances that race through the heavens,” said Ga’Glish. “A major storm like the one we faced sends magnetic waves of incredible strength racing at interstellar speeds. A ship caught in the void faces catastrophe. The storm can drain power from the ship to help feed the storm until none is left for propulsion, or to support life on board. Circuits can overload until they fuse together, making maneuvering impossible. If struck by a burst of static electricity, the hull may rupture and the ship may explode. And yet proceeding to harbor in the midst of a storm is nearly as dangerous as the storm itself. Tarry, and you face the storm’s rage without cover; hurry, and you traverse the solar wind as the storm crashes into the system.

“In the face of all this,” Ga’Glish whispered intensely, “the Terrans showed no alarm, not even as the storm drew to within moments of ravaging their craft. They increased their speed until it matched the storm’s, and then led it to harbor, moments away from destruction all the while. They increased their speed only once that I could detect—shortly before entering the system, apparently to ensure a clean entry. And then their speed so far exceeded our own capacities that it was beyond measurement. Yet then they slowed to a crawl, as if awaiting the storm’s pleasure. And it was then that I realized what the Terran shipmaster was doing, and realized the extent of his ship’s capabilities.”

“I am afraid I do not understand,” said Gal’Shenga.

Ga’Glish smiled sadly. Few would understand, he thought; and fewer still would appreciate the depth of the dangers they faced. “The safest way to enter a star system is from a clear sky,” he explained. “You need fear only the star’s magnetic field and any debris you encounter.”

Gal’Shenga nodded.

“But the more powerful the star, the greater its field, and the more debris it will trail.”

“Of what use— ”

Ga’Glish raised his hand, pleading for patience. “A major storm whips a star’s magnetic field into a frenzy, dislodging any debris not firmly locked into orbit. So unless one arrives well in advance of a storm, the trip to the interior of a star system may be as dangerous as the storm itself.”

“But I thought— ”

“Yes, Uncle,” Ga’Glish smiled, reading the confusion in the mind of Gal’Shenga. “One must cross to the interior or face certain destruction. And when the storm arrives, it disrupts the star’s magnetic fields, as well as casting into chaos the rocks and iceballs that follow the star’s journey through the heavens. If caught crossing from outside to inside when the storm hits the star, your ship will be buffeted from all sides and torn apart just as surely as if you had simply surrendered to the storm in the interstellar void.

“So the solution,” Ga’Glish’s eyes widened as he spoke, “is to ride the currents. Uncertain of a clear passage to harbor, you await the storm’s arrival. As it nears, magnetic currents and eddies will manifest themselves along the star’s wake. You note them, and proceed to the interior along a downdraft. It is a perilous ride, and one requiring skill and a high degree of precision, but those arriving less than a half-day before the storm have little choice.”

“What does this have to do with the Terrans?”

“You do not see?” smiled Ga’Glish. “But then, I am not surprised. It was not until the Terrans disappeared behind the enveloping storm that I realized it myself.

“Uncle, the storm was more of a nuisance than a danger to the Terran shipmaster. He could have dashed to any of a half-dozen stars within easy reach of his ship, though the storm would have made itself felt through any of them. Instead, he chose the one perfect harbor within the sector, his choice showing that he deemed a proper harbor of greater importance than the fury of the storm. And the easy, effortless grace of the Terran ship as it sped along shows that its master had calculated his entry maneuvers precisely, timing his arrival to precede the storm by mere moments, and enabling him to proceed to the system’s interior without delay.”

“This is all very interesting,” Gal’Shenga said, “but I fail to see—”

”Do you not understand, Uncle? Our own ships cannot ride the early breezes of a storm. It is simply too dangerous. And riding electro-magnetic currents into the heart of a star system ahead of a storm is something we avoid whenever possible. Yet this was the Terrans’ maneuver of choice, undertaken merely to avoid the inconvenience of spending a few days shaking under cover as a storm passed by. Their ships are swifter than ours, and sturdier, and this places us in danger enough.

“But more importantly,” Ga’Glish lowered his voice to the barest of whispers, “it seems that the Terrans, like we, are at home in the heavens, and their ships can dance among the stars. And we delude ourselves by calling them children.”



© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

The Natural

Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

 From Chapter 18

* * *

“...AND I find that awfully hard to believe.”

Cook just laughed. Like Jeremy’s, his voice was slightly groggy with drink. “I swear, Jeremy— ”

“Nah, no way.”

Leaning back against the soft couch cushions, Cook clasped his hands behind his head and sighed. The observation deck was almost empty. Aside from the two of them, only a few of the younger redshirts had gathered to watch their progress through the sky. The plush sofas were arranged in groups, each group forming twin semi-circles around a coffee table. Cook and Jeremy were just to the center of the viewing screen, looking at each other over a half-empty pitcher of beer, their second of the day. The redshirts were off to one side, just inside the doorway leading to the elevators, their laughter filling the lounge.

“Well, all right—have it your way, then,” Cook laughed.

“I mean,” Jeremy squinted, disbelieving, “you can’t tell me that you don’t have some magic tricks— ”

“No, none.”

“—to help you pull all the stunts you pull on the bridge.”

“I swear. Well, actually....”

“Aha!”

“No, but really. All of that stuff is just showing off. You know, parlor tricks. Nothing magic about it.”

Jeremy snorted. “Like correcting course headings because they ‘don’t look right?’ ”

Cook started laughing.

“Or telling McKenzie exactly how much she’s off by ‘this time’—then making the changes on her screen for her while discoursing on the literary styles of various playwrights and poets none of us have ever heard of before?”

“All right, I guess you’ve— ”

“Or snapping your fingers just as the ready light flashes on Palmer’s weapons screen?”

“How does showing off— ”

“Psshh— ”

“But it means nothing.”

“I’ll tell you what it means. It means that you’ve got more tricks up your sleeve than a stage magician. That, or you’re one of the great geniuses of all time.”

“Nonsense.”

“Skipper....”

“Well,” Cook leaned forward, smiling mysteriously and lowering his voice. “I may have some gifts for navigation— ”

“That’s sure an understatement.”

“— but it has nothing to do with intelligence. Nothing at all. And there are no tricks to it, Jeremy. None.”

“You know, if you don’t want to tell me....”

The captain shook his head, then turned toward the viewer, his eyes looking beyond the stars and into the endless Black. “I don’t understand it myself,” he said at last. “But for as long as I can remember, I’ve just—well, it’s a lot like having perfect pitch.”

“Look, if you really don’t want to explain.”

“It’s either there—or it’s not,” Cook went on. “With pitches…well, I just hear the tone. It comes out of nowhere and it’s just there for me, any time, any place. There’s nothing you can do about it. Well, I can’t explain how I navigate, either. I just do. I just know the course to take. I can feel it in my brain. And I can see it, too. I can close my eyes, and sense it—on the screen, in the air, like it’s floating in space, just waiting for me to come along and grab it. All I do is let my mind relax… and it comes. I don’t have to do anything. It just comes. And I’ll tell you....

He turned to face his first officer and smiled. Maybe it was the beer, Jeremy thought. But for the first time, Jeremy wondered whether, for all the captain’s cocky self-confidence, Cook was as baffled by his own gifts as anyone else.

“I’ll tell you something I’ve told to exactly one other person—whose name is none of your damn business, Jeremy Ashton. But sometimes I wonder how long it can last. How long before it just stops coming. How long before my mind goes blank, just when everyone needs me the most.”

Cook emptied his beer glass with a long deep swallow, then leaned back on the couch and looked again out toward the stars. “That’s why it’s nothing more than parlor tricks and never will be, either. I don’t know how or why I can do it. I just can.

“But whatever it is that makes me the skipper I am—whatever lets me sense things before they happen, or compute course changes in my head—has nothing to do with training, or intelligence, or anything else that promotion boards or military manuals or logical minds consider in making promotions or assignments or any other command decisions. I could have the mind of a child and I’d still see things the same way.”

“And I’ll bet you have some swamp land on Isis to sell me, if I believe that one,” snorted Jeremy.

“Then don’t, dammit,” laughed Cook, turning to face his friend once again. “Have another beer instead.”



“Whooshh! Whooshh!”

“Scooter—Scooter! Don’t play with the wheel like that.”

“Andrew , there’s no need to shout.”

“But he’ll— ”

“The ship’s on automatic pilot, son. Nothing he does can throw us off course. Relax.”

Andy Cook shook his head and smiled. Dad was right again. Though awfully precocious for a four-year old, the young boy couldn’t really hurt the ship. Andy could see the Paddington Shoals coming into view again on the screen, the spiraling patch of interstellar rocks guarding what his father called “Paddy’s Pass.” They’d be coming about soon, and heading back home.

“All right—all hands to the control deck. It’s time to come about.”

“Thank God.”

“Andrew Thomas Cook, what kind of example are you setting for your firstborn?”

“Pop, please— ”

“All right, all right. But I want to show you something.”

Andy followed his father back to the control deck. “Okay, Scooter, time to let the grownups play with the controls.”

“But—but Daddy!”

“Scooter.”

“Oh, he’ll be all right, Andrew.”

“Pop— ”

“Come on, Roscoe, want to sit on old Grandpa Tom’s lap?”

“Yeah!”

“Pop!”

“You having fun, Roscoe?”

“Lots of fun.”

“You like it up here?”

“Yeah! Like a woller coaster!”

“Oh—a roller coaster! Did you hear that, Andrew? And it is like a bit of a roller coaster, now, isn’t it, you little monkey?”

As Scooter laughed under a ruthless barrage of tickling, Andy gave it up. His father was having too much fun. And he couldn’t really blame him: Dad loved sailing. He was an accomplished pilot in his day and never lost his love of the stars, but for the last fifteen years he’d had to do it alone. Now, with the new generation, he had hope, and was taking full advantage of the chance. He’d taken Scooter sailing as often as Andy would let him. And even as a toddler, the young boy had loved it.

Andy looked at them—grandfather and first grandson, sailing together through the stars, sharing secrets and dreams. It was so touching, he always felt guilty when he had to insist that they go home.

“You remember what I told you about the controls, Roscoe?”

“Yeah.” The boy nodded his head. “Well, some of it.”

“Some of it—good boy. But you remember all about steering the ship, and coming about.”

“Yeah.”

“All right—watch this Andrew; I’ve been working with him. And he’s awfully good. A lot better than you ever were. But then, so’s his teddy bear.”

“Thanks a lot, Pop.”

Tom laughed. “Roscoe, you want to guess what course we should take to get back home?”

“Okay.”

Andy shook his head. His father had tried the same game with him, trying to get him interested in where they were going. It was fun for a while, seeing how close the two of them could come to the proper course before checking it on the navigational computer, but it was utterly pointless. As good a navigator as Dad was, even he had trouble coming within twenty points of their true heading just by dead reckoning. Andy was lucky to come within a hundred, and he was convinced that it was the biggest single reason why sailing through space scared the wits out of him. All that kept them from getting lost was a finicky electronic brain, one that the weakest ion squall could send fritzing, leaving them to wander about from here to the end of creation.

“All right, Roscoe… how do we get back home?”

Andy chuckled as Scooter crinkled his little brow, the way he did when he was thinking as hard as he could.

“Do you remember what we did to get here?”

The boy nodded.

“Well, just take us back the other way.”

“Pop— ”

“Acchhh!” said Tom, waving his hand disdainfully at his son.

“That way,” said Roscoe.

Andy laughed, more at his father’s crestfallen look than at his son’s mistake. His face all serious, Scooter was pointing just off the port bow—and halfway toward the keel. But that was exactly the opposite direction from Isis. Even a groundtoad like Andy knew that home lay west of the Shoals.

“Good boy,” chuckled Andy. “I’ll bet you hit that one right on the nose.”

“Well, run along, Roscoe,” said Tom, hiding his disappointment from his grandson. “You go play astern. We’ll take it from here.”

Scooter skipped playfully down the gangplank and into the hall. Andy watched his father’s hands dance over the controls. The old man mumbled to himself as he set the ship’s computer to take a fix on the navigational beacon orbiting Isis.

“Son of a gun—you know, that kid’s smart, Andrew,” Tom said at last. “Real smart. He wants to know about everything. And he usually does so well. I don’t understand…I just don’t understand.”

“Guess he just inherited his father’s instincts for sailing. Must be something in the genes.”

The two of them laughed, and Andy just sat back and watched his father in action. It always amazed him: at home, Dad could barely fix a leaky faucet. In space, he was a different man—calm, collected, supremely sure of himself. It gave Andy a sense of relief to know he could trust his father to get them home safely. Today, though, the feeling didn’t last very long.

“That’s impossible.”

“What is?”

“We couldn’t have turned ourselves around that much.”

“Pop—what is it?”

His father looked up, half-worried, but with a look of burning curiosity in his eyes. “The computer says that we’re coming at the Shoals from the East.”

“What?”

“She says we’ve been clear around them…and we’re already heading West, toward home.”

“Impossible.”

They looked at the course indicator.

“Heading to Isis,” it read: “790x122 south.” Looking at the pilot’s display, the guide marker showed their proper relative course—just off the port bow, and almost half-way toward the keel. They looked at each other, then back at the course indicator, then at each other again.

Then, ever so slowly, they turned to look aft. For the longest time, they did nothing but watch a small boy play with his toy dinosaurs on the cabin floor.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Aliens in our Midst

Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

Excerpts from Chapter 20

“Ys’Slalt—fetch me the kettle. Bl’Dryna—I will need the stewing spices. Gal’Kisl, the sauces will need constant monitoring. No, no—Slalt, you fool, not the simmering pot! The kettle—the large, black kettle!”

Like his friends, ls’Shen raced about trying to obey Ra’Henl’s instructions, secretly cursing the old foodmaster’s reluctance to see one task through to completion before commencing the next.

“Dryna—Kisl—come. Attend me. Ys’Slalt, pay heed. What we need now is the barest hint of jizril seeds in the sauce....”

As the Foodmaster’s back was turned, and knowing that he would not be missed for quite a while, ls’Shen stepped lightly into the outer cooking chamber and peered through the curtain. The Banquet Hall was filled to capacity. Dignitaries of all ranks and races graced the Table of Honor. At the lesser tables he could see the courtiers in attendance, and smiled to see the jugglers and clowns and acrobats, their faces streaked with ornamental paint, frolicking on the amusement floor in the middle of the room. From the far end of the banquet hall he could hear the palace musicians, playing a sprightly dance.

But what drew his attention were not the entertainers, nor eminences that he recognized by name or by face. What captured his eyes were the four creatures seated near the center of the Table of Honor between Lady Glishenda and her brother-in-law, the Expanse Minister himself. Raptly he stared, his eyes widened like a gawkhen’s, until a gentle tap on his back caused him to jump nearly to the ceiling.

“Shen—Shen,” whispered Jarenda, the foodservant. Ls’Shen’s gill slits paled with fright. He had been so absorbed with watching the Terrans that he had failed to sense her approach. “How come you—”

“Jarenda, please,” he interrupted, vainly trying to recover his dignity. “Never approach a foodmaster or his apprentice in such a fashion. It is entirely too disruptive. And under other circumstances— ”

“You mean,” Jarenda smiled, her eyes laughing merrily, “had you not been gaping at the longnoses.”

Ls’Shen snorted angrily, only to rediscover that this female found his temper an endless source of amusement. Jarenda was becoming entirely too familiar, he thought, but like all males he found a female’s playful teasing too enticing to resist. And so long as they were alone, he took no steps to disrupt the growing warmth of their bond.

“They look different than I had imagined,” he said at last, peering through the curtain once more. “Not nearly as furry. And their snouts are not at all what I expected. They are pointed, and their faces wear a comical look about them. Calling them ‘longnoses’ is something of a misnomer, I think. ‘Pointy-snouts’ would be more accurate.”

“Well,” Jarenda whispered, poking her own head through the curtains, “the name ‘Strange Ones’ is certainly appropriate.”

“That I do not doubt, but why do you say so? What have you seen?”

“Look at them,” she motioned with her head. “All four of them sweat like wild hogs and yet they insist on wearing clothing. All of them, without exception.”

“Yes, I see,” said ls’Shen. And sure enough, two of them were clad in garments of blue, and two wore clothing of varying hues. But all four of them were fully clothed, though even from this distance he could see perspiration dripping from them like water from a fountain. Even the Veshnans did not carry matters to such extremes, and of all the races of the Grand Alliance, the Veshnan approach to garments was the most impractical.

“And their eating habits leave much to be desired,” Jarenda continued. “See the blueclad Terran male, the one seated next to Glishenda, the Minister’s Consort-of-the Day?”

“Yes.”

“After looking at his sidebowl for the longest time, he finally asked an interpreter the purpose of the washed sand.”

“To aid in digestion,” said ls’Shen, answering the obvious.

“Well, upon hearing the answer, the Terran sampled some—using his spoon to carry it to his mouth, of all things.”

“Incredible.”

“Then he spat it out—all over the table—and started coughing and protruding his tongue from his mouth like a small one with the heaves.”

“Amazing,” said ls’Shen, looking at the one Jarenda had mentioned, who seemed to be viewing his broadleaf salad with some degree of suspicion. The Terran jabbed the greens with his cutlery and examined each fresh pepper carefully before stuffing it into his mouth.

“How can you tell the males from the females?” asked the young apprentice. “I mean, if they are fully clothed and all. It must get rather confusing for them.”

“Well,” agreed Jarenda, “that does pose several problems.”

Ls’Shen closed the curtain and sighed. Much about these Strange Ones simply defied explanation.

“They seem to crop their fur differently, but from what I have observed there appears to be but one sure way to tell them apart.”

“And what is that, my little friend?”

“Terran females are…well, more rounded than their males,” she said, searching for a way to explain the unexplainable. “And they seem to have these—these—bumps— ”

“Bumps?”

“Yes—bumps—little mounds—crests really, right in the middle of their chests.”

Ls’Shen peered through the curtain once more, straining to get a good look at the Terrans. By chance, one of them turned to the right, just enough to give him a view in profile, and a benevolent Fate decreed that it would be one of the Crested Ones.

“Amazing,” he said. For sure enough, there they were, exactly as Jarenda had described. And now that he knew where to look, he saw that the smaller of the blueclads displayed the same prominent features. Less pronounced, perhaps, but unmistakable nonetheless.

“What are they for?”

Jarenda shrugged. “I thought it impolite to ask,” she replied.

Soon, the voice of Ra’Henl came bellowing from the kitchen, summoning his apprentices from all corners of his kitchen to assist in circumventing some new disaster. Beaming with a depth of feeling, ls’Shen nodded at Jarenda, who flushed shyly as she returned to her duties.

“Ls’Shen! Shen, come at once! Where are you, Young One?”

“Yes, Grand One, I am coming.” With a smiling heart, ls’Shen returned to the kitchen, where he had duties of his own that needed tending.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Night Sky Over Gr'Shuna

Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

From Chapter 20

* * *

Soon, day became night, and stars dotted the cloudless sky like ripples on the water. On the hills overlooking the sea, sand grasses danced to the breezes of night as waves kissed the timeless shore. To the west, palm trees swayed, gently bending with the soft winds of summer. Everywhere, the fragrances of blossoms filled the air.

Ls’Shen loved the hills at night. The serenity sounded deeply in his soul, and he often came to look at the sky, or the water, or simply to think. There was room enough along the coast for countless ones such as he, who came to seek peace in the night. Though the shore was host to thousands, between the darkness and the broadness of the vista, all could maintain the illusion of solitude.

But tonight was different. Tonight, he had come not for rest or solace. The weariness in his body cried for rest, but his soul had urged him toward the hills. Here, he had a matchless view of the cloudless southern sky. Half-way overhead, heading toward the east, was a light of piercing brightness. The sight spread ripples of awe from his neck down toward his toes, for this was no ordinary satellite passing silently in the night. It knew strange stars and strange skies; and it carried the Terrans.

The first stirring of dawn lighted the east. Ls’Shen narrowed his eyeslits to filter out the thin clouds of sand blown by the gusting wind. He knew that the coming day would be one of excitement. He, himself, would be among the serving party at the Banquet of Welcome, and he wondered about the strange creatures he would see. There was much speculation in the City, but little real knowledge. It was said that the Terran males were bearded beasts, much like the monsters of myth, but with long, drooping snouts that hung to their bellies. Their fierceness as predators was said to be matched only by their hunger for gold, and their appetite for both drove them to seize food or riches like a carrion shark frenzied by the smell of blood.

But ls’Shen scoffed at such thoughts. He had seen many at the Palace who deserved the appellation “Strange One,” and none of them wore a simian’s countenance. His mind told him that the Terrans would likely prove less fearsome than their features suggested. While his heart cowered at the prospect of meeting such creatures, something in his soul thrilled at the thought. The Terrans were so different, so alien to everything he knew. Their manner of speech, their clothing, the coarseness of their bearing, all promised dissonance with the ordered routine of a g’Khruushtani court.

Something about their very difference was exhilarating. Ls’Shen harbored no secret doubts about the ancient ways of the g’Khruushtani, but there was a whole Universe lurking beyond the pathways of his land. He watched the Terran ship as it drifted eastward, toward the early light of dawn, a speck of light amid the vastness of the night sky. The cosmos was alive with infinite diversity, thought ls’Shen; and specks of light from alien worlds gave those inclined to dreaming the deepest perspective on the meaning of existence.

He watched the Terran ship continue on its journey until it dropped below the horizon. As he walked back toward the palace, along the crest of the hills, he wondered whether such perspectives might not benefit many of his acquaintances.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Wives and Mothers

Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

From Chapter 19

* * *

It was mid-afternoon, and the courtyard was half in shadow. A gentle breeze stirred the air, carrying the songs of birds from outside the palace gate. Within, the courtyard echoed with nervous footsteps, and worry paced along with Glishenda as she awaited word on one long lost to her home, but not her heart.

“My Lady?”

Glishenda turned with a start, but it was only fl’Shenda, the housemaster.

“Yes, Shendi, what is it?”

“It is Fondro,” the servant replied with a bow. “He wishes— ”

“Show him to me at once!” Glishenda interjected. “He brings word—oh, I pray it to be so.”

“I know not, Lady Glishek,” said fl’Shenda, smiling sadly to show he did not take offense at her shortness.

“Oh, I am sorry, fl’Shenda. It is just....”

The old housemaster raised his hand to slow the flood or words, and affection flooded his heart. “I understand, Mistress. And I do share your hopes, My Lady. As in the past, so through the morrow.”

Glishenda smiled gratefully. Fl’Shenda had been part of her family since the old days, since long before she came to the House of Galgravina. If nobility were truly in the heart, as philosophers of old had written, then fl’Shenda belonged among the House of the Ages.

“Please, Shenda, bring him to me.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

As the old man left, Glishenda sighed deeply to regain her composure. She did not wish to show weakness, in case gal’Fondro brought news of tragedy. As she heard the approach of footsteps, her heart filled with foreboding, only to sing with relief when she sensed hope in the soul of gal’Fondro.

“He is safe?”

“The last word is that he is moving toward a safe harbor,” smiled gal’Fondro. “There is still danger, but no reason to suppose the worst. We shall not know more until the storm begins to clear.”

“What foolishness!” snapped Glishenda, her worry giving way to anger.

“Ga’Glish has a strong sense of duty.”

“Duty can rot in the fields. It is no more than pride and foolishness that sends him chasing a ship full of longnoses. And what is the purpose, when the ship is heading straight into port, to circle the heavens in full sight of his home?”

“There is a reason.”

“With men there is always a reason,” Glishenda laughed tartly, “though ‘reason’ is hardly the term I would employ for such silliness. It is far too flattering, to my way of thinking.”

Gal’Fondro laughed good-naturedly. Glishenda was a woman of many accomplishments, not the least of which was her unerring ability to captivate the men around her while deflating their egos to a manageable size.

“And what of Glishek. Does he still— ”

“He professes no concern with the vicissitudes of space,” Glishenda said wryly, “though he has developed a sudden interest in monitoring transmissions between gr’Shuna and the local skies.”

“I imagine he is more worried than he admits.”

“Oh, he is another one for foolishness, Fondro, though at his age, I suspect that it is as much habit as anything else. His son’s excuse is not as readily apparent.”

“I suspect,” replied gal’Fondro, amusement flaring his eyes, “that it may be something in the blood.”

Glishenda laughed merrily at the jest, and Fondro thought that it had been quite a while since she had shown such good spirits. The mate of a provincial governor could hardly see life as a succession of festivals, and Lady Glishek had known more than her share of sadness.

“Ga’Glishek should hear word of his son,” gal’Fondro said at last. “I shall tell him.”

“No,” interrupted Glishenda. “I shall tell. Ga’Glish is my son, as well. And a mate is permitted liberties with form, even more than an old friend.”

Gal’Fondro bowed. “Then I shall be— ”

“Yes, I know. Attending to details.

“As in the past— ”

“ — so through the morrow.”

“Yes, and even yet, nothing is ever done to his satisfaction. It is his failing and his strength.”

“And his son’s as well,” laughed Glishenda, reaching to embrace her mate’s old friend. “Good bye, Fondro. And may your duties fall as lightly as morning dew.”

Gal’Fondro departed, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Soon, she too departed from the courtyard, to walk down the marble corridor leading to the Hallway of Rites and to the Governor’s chambers. Her mate was a proud man, she thought, and she would ever thrill in his triumphs as she consoled him through adversity. But Ga’Glish was just as proud, and possessed his own lust for achievement. It was a pity that male pride was so unaccommodating as to preclude two such ones from sharing a common roof, as they shared their bond of blood.


© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Intrigue on Planet Gr'Shuna

Sxcerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

 From Chapter 19

* * *

“So the Terrans must bide their time like the rest of us.”

Drubid ran a finger over his beak-like mouth. The soothing sensations helped the Glincian focus his thoughts. As his lips stretched into a grim smile, a servant filled the two cups on the table with spirits. Drubid wanted his guest’s lips to float as freely as her mind. As the two exchanged toasts, he saw that his stratagem might yet yield results. It amused him to think that the surest way to ensure that he spoke alone with the Veshnan solon Zatsami was to suggest that she bring Zatar along with her.

“It should be but a short while,” smiled the Veshnan, feeling the glow of intoxicants coursing through her body. “I am told that even now the storm abates. In a few more days, they should resume their course.”

“You must be curious about the reason for this meeting.”

“Curiosity can be a virtue, Drubid.”

“So it can,” the Glincian laughed without warmth. “I hope that the differences of our governments will not keep us from talking freely.”

Zatsami bowed politely. The lamp on the table threw shadows on the wall. From her pillow, she could see the Glincian’s eyes reflect the soft light.

“In the current intrigues in the Crutchtan capital,” Drubid continued, after a long pause, “your Government’s sympathy for the reform movement is well known.”

“Crutchtan intrigues know no season,” the Veshnan returned blandly. “Our only interest is that of spectators.”

“Of course,” the Glincian added hastily. “As allies, we dare not presume to meddle in the affairs of our brother races. But we cannot help but notice the effect of the Terran controversy on our friends.”

“Continue,” Zatsami said noncommittally, but Drubid sensed that he had piqued her interest.

“I see no quarrel between my people and yours. And between mine and the Crutchtans—well, our real differences are too petty to warrant discussion. But the controversy will continue, as long as it suits the needs of the contenders in the Crutchtan capital.”

“Controversy is not unknown in the corridors of the Grand Alliance either, Drubid.”

The Glincian laughed a shallow laugh. “There is that old proverb, you know. ‘There are disputes that shake the rafters, and disputes that shake the air.’ We have as much to lose— ”

“And twice as much to gain,” smiled the Veshnan.

“Perhaps. But time is on our side, as it is not with the Crutchtan reformers. This is not the first time that one such as Gal’Shenga has risen to prominence. And like the others before him, his efforts will come to nothing, without the kiss of Fate. Or, perhaps, help from friends. Think of it, Solon: he cannot even acknowledge openly what he hopes to achieve, much less seek support for it in the palace halls. And this is the one whom your Government hopes will rise to power?”

“Our hopes have little to do with the Terrans,” retorted Zatsami.

“But resolving the controversy quickly will hardly help bring change,” smiled Drubid.

The Veshnan was about to respond, but the Glincian silenced her with a outraised hand. “I ask only that you consider the consequences, that is all. We each have our own interests to advance, that I willingly concede. And ours, for the moment, are in conflict with the Crutchtans—that I will grant.

“For now I see no change coming, either from within or without, not under the present circumstances. Yet alter the circumstances, and the future opens like a flower unfolding. Today’s paper peace with Terra helps none but Cra’Jenli. But the longer the controversy festers, the more it helps the forces of change. If circumstances limit what we may hope to achieve, why should we decline to achieve what little is permitted?”

Zatsami rose to her feet. “I am indebted to your hospitality,” she smiled. “But I have other duties to attend.”

“I understand,” replied Drubid, and he rose to escort her to the door.

As her footsteps faded into the distance, Drubid rested his head against the wall and breathed deeply of the perfumed air. He had learned what he wanted to know. Zatar aside, Veshna was up to its neck in Crutchtan palace politics. Otherwise, Zatsami would have left the minute he brought up the subject. That was what protocol demanded, and what Veshnan diplomats did as a matter of course in similar circumstances. But Gal’Shenga was no ordinary reformer. His words and deeds sounded deeply in the Veshnan soul; his muted cries for an easing of the Autocracy harkened to the very beginnings of Veshnan civilization. It seemed to him that the Veshnans must be deeply divided on the subject of how to accomplish their ends, torn between their duties as allies and their own parochial philosophies. If his efforts had helped sow confusion among the friends of Crutchta, or tipped the scales to those willing to admit delay in resolving the “Terran Dilemma,” then he could count his mission a success.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

The Crisis

Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

Chapter 19

Ayiee —Catastrophe!” wailed Ra’Henl, the Grand Foodmaster of the Governor’s Palace. As he spoke, he began to pant like an overworked beast of burden. “All our preparations—ruined. The cakes and pastries and—and all the perishables will—rot in the meantime. We must start anew—and—and— !”

Ra’Henl drank greedily from the water vessel brought by his First Apprentice. The tables of the Preparation Room were dusted with flours. Spices and sugars lined the shelves. Newly sharpened tools lay scattered over the floor, where Ra’Henl had dropped them upon hearing the news.

“Well, perhaps it is just as well,” he said, calming himself for the moment. His hands fluttered about him in a fervid display of nervousness. “Perhaps this is a boon of Fate.”

“What are you saying? That your servants are not up to the task?” asked his apprentice, ls’Shen. In the last few cycles, ls’Shen had become accustomed to a certain volatility on the part of his master. Such as Ra’Henl were rare among the g’Khruushtani. They were artists of their craft, and artists often lacked the basics of self-control. It was the price they paid for their gifts and vision. As best he could, ls’Shen purged his mind of such patronizing thoughts. He bore much affection for the kindly old foodmaster. But more than this, Shen did not wish to be called to account by one suffering from an excess of emotion.

Ra’Henl frowned. The younger generation would never understand, he sighed. And they took affront so easily—though only days before, his whole staff was in a state of alarm, wondering how they could finish the preparations in time.

“No, Son of Shenchi. Even for Chosen Ones, you have all distinguished yourselves. But this is a Royal Feast! A Royal Feast, do you understand? And for a Royal Feast, much is expected. The smallest detail must not go unnoticed. Or else—or else—Catastrophe!”

“Yes, Grand One.”

“And you have seen the guest list, have you not? Is there any doubt but that the smallest slight will provoke an outrage, if not a Controversy of State?”

“No, Grand One.”

“And now—and now—well, ours is not the work of common laborers, young Shen. Our craft is as delicate as a songbird in flight. And just as helpless before the gullethawks of passing time.”

“Yes, Grand One.”

“And are we not all servants of the Governor’s Palace?”

“Yes, Grand One.”

“And have you forgotten upon whom our smallest failing will reflect?”

“No, Grand One.”

“So let us not stand here, like a crowd of idling rabble,” said Ra’Henl, his hands fluttering still, having worked himself into a proper Fit of Agitation. “Let us make the most of Lady Fortune. Turn her for good instead of ill.”

“Yes, Grand One,” sighed ls’Shen, watching his master flit about the room like a panicked hen. For a boy with talent and ability, his station was unequaled, and he well knew that he was the envy of all his peers. Still, the passage of time had impressed his young mind with one thing, above all else: life at court was less glamorous than it seemed.




© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Storms Amid the Stars

Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

From Chapter 18

* * *

The weeks passed quickly; and soon the d’Artagnan was within days of the Crutchtan planet. But rather than nearing Girshoona with the usual giddiness of spacers barreling in to port, the crew found itself facing the last week of their long journey with all hands at stations and the ship standing at Red Alert.

“Mr. Ashton?”

“The storm’s a beauty, Captain. Scores a full seven points on Wagner’s Scale, heading out from the promontory off toward port—and it’s holding right on our heels. Sensors reporting electrical surges already. Green Double A-Class binary dead ahead.”

The bridge was calm and orderly. Battling an ion storm was like fighting an enemy. Coolness of mind was the watchword; keeping a level head was the biggest challenge. Yet there was one big difference between a major squall and a human foe. The squall could be just as deadly, but had no real interest in destroying its opponent. For now, the captain’s biggest job would be keeping everyone’s mind on the job at hand, rather than on the danger swirling off the port beam. For the rest, they had to trust their experience, as well as their ship.

“Deactivate all nonessential electrical equipment,” said Cook. “We don’t want to serve as a lightning rod for the storm.”

“Acknowledged,” said Jeremy, his eyes glancing over the sensor monitors at his station desk. “I’ve already given the word. Just waiting for confirmation from all decks.”

“Miss Palmer?”

“Weapons blanked; running shields holding steady.”

“Mendelson, prepare to slow to sublight. McKenzie, as soon as we enter the star system, plot a course for the fifth planet from the leeward sun on the ancillary navigation screen. It should be on the data chart we got from the Crutchtans. The system’s massive enough to shield us from the storm, and our hosts tell me that the target planet has enough plant life to sport an oxygen atmosphere. It’s a bit rocky and rather dry, and sounds more like Ishtar than I care to imagine. But once we’ve put into orbit, at least we can molly down to stretch our legs a bit. And I think we may need it. Looks like we’ll be there for a while.”

“Hope our friend makes it,” smiled Jeremy, nodding his head toward the rear viewer.

Cook swung his chair around to look astern, though nothing was close enough to be visible except on their long-range sensors. For weeks, they’d had no company but the single alien ship, trailing behind them. In all directions, for as far as their sensors could see, no other Crutchtan ship had come within sensor range.

From the ends of nowhere it had come, matching their course and heading exactly, as if following them to the alien homeland. Twice it neared to within sensor range, only to shy away when the Terran ship ventured a friendly hail. Then, with no advance notice, came the storm, and the trials of the small Crutchtan vessel proved a source of sympathy and fascination for the Terran captain. Starfarers shared a common bond that transcended all their differences, and for spacers of all races an ion storm was more than a passing concern. At flank speed, the alien was racing toward a neighboring star system, one with a dim red dwarf at its center, barely enough to provide cover from the squall, but within sprinting distance for the tiny craft.

“Entering gravitational limits of target stars,” announced Jeremy. “Outer particulate belt passing below; we’ll intersect the bi-solar plane in ten minutes. Power surges increasing; all decks report systems secure, power levels at minimum failsafe.”

“Helm—slow to one-half light and arc full a-bank to starboard, heading 395 by 22 north,” Cook said, still looking into the empty space astern. “We’re almost out of danger, now. We’ve no reason to try setting speed records or go racing down to orbit. I doubt that the Crutchtans would be impressed, and they aren’t close enough to notice, anyway.”

“Aye, sir.”

As the d’Artagnan came about and began descending toward the orbital plane of the host star, Cook turned to face the main viewer and the task at hand. The storm was slamming into the stiff solar wind of the binary. From here until they crossed the backwash, the magnetic cross-currents would be treacherous. He could wonder about their alien shadow later. For the moment, the storm and the ship needed his full attention.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Excerpts from The Star Dancers: The Natural

Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

From Chapter 18

“Whooshh! Whooshh!”

“Scooter—Scooter! Don’t play with the wheel like that.”

“Andrew , there’s no need to shout.”

“But he’ll— ”

“The ship’s on automatic pilot, son. Nothing he does can throw us off course. Relax.”

Andy Cook shook his head and smiled. Dad was right again. Though awfully precocious for a four-year old, the young boy couldn’t really hurt the ship. Andy could see the Paddington Shoals coming into view again on the screen, the spiraling patch of interstellar rocks guarding what his father called “Paddy’s Pass.” They’d be coming about soon, and heading back home.

“All right—all hands to the control deck. It’s time to come about.”

“Thank God.”

“Andrew Thomas Cook, what kind of example are you setting for your firstborn?”

“Pop, please— ”

“All right, all right. But I want to show you something.”

Andy followed his father back to the control deck. “Okay, Scooter, time to let the grownups play with the controls.”

“But—but Daddy!”

“Scooter.”

“Oh, he’ll be all right, Andrew.”

“Pop— ”

“Come on, Roscoe, want to sit on old Grandpa Tom’s lap?”

“Yeah!”

“Pop!”

“You having fun, Roscoe?”

“Lots of fun.”

“You like it up here?”

“Yeah! Like a woller coaster!”

“Oh—a roller coaster! Did you hear that, Andrew? And it is like a bit of a roller coaster, now, isn’t it, you little monkey?”

As Scooter laughed under a ruthless barrage of tickling, Andy gave it up. His father was having too much fun. And he couldn’t really blame him: Dad loved sailing. He was an accomplished pilot in his day and never lost his love of the stars, but for the last fifteen years he’d had to do it alone. Now, with the new generation, he had hope, and was taking full advantage of the chance. He’d taken Scooter sailing as often as Andy would let him. And even as a toddler, the young boy had loved it.

Andy looked at them—grandfather and first grandson, sailing together through the stars, sharing secrets and dreams. It was so touching, he always felt guilty when he had to insist that they go home.

“You remember what I told you about the controls, Roscoe?”

“Yeah.” The boy nodded his head. “Well, some of it.”

“Some of it—good boy. But you remember all about steering the ship, and coming about.”

“Yeah.”

“All right—watch this Andrew; I’ve been working with him. And he’s awfully good. A lot better than you ever were. But then, so’s his teddy bear.”

“Thanks a lot, Pop.”

Tom laughed. “Roscoe, you want to guess what course we should take to get back home?”

“Okay.”

Andy shook his head. His father had tried the same game with him, trying to get him interested in where they were going. It was fun for a while, seeing how close the two of them could come to the proper course before checking it on the navigational computer, but it was utterly pointless. As good a navigator as Dad was, even he had trouble coming within twenty points of their true heading just by dead reckoning. Andy was lucky to come within a hundred, and he was convinced that it was the biggest single reason why sailing through space scared the wits out of him. All that kept them from getting lost was a finicky electronic brain, one that the weakest ion squall could send fritzing, leaving them to wander about from here to the end of creation.

“All right, Roscoe… how do we get back home?”

Andy chuckled as Scooter crinkled his little brow, the way he did when he was thinking as hard as he could.

“Do you remember what we did to get here?”

The boy nodded.

“Well, just take us back the other way.”

“Pop— ”

“Acchhh!” said Tom, waving his hand disdainfully at his son.

“That way,” said Roscoe.

Andy laughed, more at his father’s crestfallen look than at his son’s mistake. His face all serious, Scooter was pointing just off the port bow—and halfway toward the keel. But that was exactly the opposite direction from Isis. Even a groundtoad like Andy knew that home lay west of the Shoals.

“Good boy,” chuckled Andy. “I’ll bet you hit that one right on the nose.”

“Well, run along, Roscoe,” said Tom, hiding his disappointment from his grandson. “You go play astern. We’ll take it from here.”

Scooter skipped playfully down the gangplank and into the hall. Andy watched his father’s hands dance over the controls. The old man mumbled to himself as he set the ship’s computer to take a fix on the navigational beacon orbiting Isis.

“Son of a gun—you know, that kid’s smart, Andrew,” Tom said at last. “Real smart. He wants to know about everything. And he usually does so well. I don’t understand…I just don’t understand.”

“Guess he just inherited his father’s instincts for sailing. Must be something in the genes.”

The two of them laughed, and Andy just sat back and watched his father in action. It always amazed him: at home, Dad could barely fix a leaky faucet. In space, he was a different man—calm, collected, supremely sure of himself. It gave Andy a sense of relief to know he could trust his father to get them home safely. Today, though, the feeling didn’t last very long.

“That’s impossible.”

“What is?”

“We couldn’t have turned ourselves around that much.”

“Pop—what is it?”

His father looked up, half-worried, but with a look of burning curiosity in his eyes. “The computer says that we’re coming at the Shoals from the East.”

“What?”

“She says we’ve been clear around them…and we’re already heading West, toward home.”

“Impossible.”

They looked at the course indicator.

“Heading to Isis,” it read: “790x122 south.” Looking at the pilot’s display, the guide marker showed their proper relative course—just off the port bow, and almost half-way toward the keel. They looked at each other, then back at the course indicator, then at each other again.

Then, ever so slowly, they turned to look aft. For the longest time, they did nothing but watch a small boy play with his toy dinosaurs on the cabin floor.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Excerpts from The Star Dancers: Ties of Blood

Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

From Chapter 16

* * *

“Advance.”

The inner doorveil parted, and gal’Fondro of Gr’Shuna entered the room. Ga’Glish lifted his eyes from the monitor and, seeing his father’s emissary and oldest friend, bade his aides to leave.

“I hate to intrude upon the duties of office,” gal’Fondro smiled, as he heard the outer door close behind the last of the departing assistants.

“We were all but done,” said Ga’Glish, motioning for the emissary to seat himself, “and I would not keep an old friend waiting without need.”

“Ga’Glishek sends his wishes, and your mother sends her love.”

Ga’Glish sighed; Gr’Shuna had seen many seasons since his feet felt the soft earth of home. He had wished for a more amiable parting, and the intervening years had made him wonder if part of the fault might not be his. His own mate had often remarked that the men of the Galgravina clan were better known for their obstinacy of purpose than for their tact.

“I am glad my father sent you,” he said at last. “It eliminates the need for digressions of form.”

“He understands the need for frankness,” returned gal’Fondro, “even if other needs sometimes escape him.”

Ga’Glish rose to his feet and walked toward the anteroom, where a large spherical map of the skies protruded from the wall. Though no words passed between them, gal’Fondro rose and followed. As soon as he entered, a sliding door closed behind them, sealing the room from the prying ears of outsiders. “The walls are now deaf,” said Ga’Glish, confirming that they could talk freely.

“You are aware of events in the Capitol?”

“My Ministry keeps me well-informed.”

“Then you know that your uncle vies with Cra’Jenli for the post of First Minister. And so the Expanse Ministry and Foreign Ministry are locked in struggles that follow the interests of their leaders. ”

Ga’Glish nodded.

“Gal’Shenga can afford no incidents, Ga’Glish. His reputation rests on avoiding the scandals of the past. And the Imperator does not like to intervene in squabbles among the contending bureaucracies.”

“I propose nothing beyond— ”

Gal’Fondro held up his hand, in the manner of an Elder silencing a young one, but Ga’Glish took no offense. Despite the difference in rank decreed by fate and fortune, in his mind his father’s aide would always be his elder. “You seek to force a jurisdictional dispute, Ga’Glish, one that plays into the hands of the Foreign Minister.”

“But Gal’Shenga— ”

“Your uncle is aware of your concern, Son of my Friend, but he is stepping through a nest of vipers. A false step now will cost his post and perhaps more, if the Imperator is in a playful mood.”

“So Gal’Shenga allies himself with his rival, and my own father sleeps in the face of danger, ignoring the bond of his own blood.”

“Ga’Glish, you forget yourself!” hissed gal’Fondro. “And you forget how much both you and your father have for which to atone.”

Ga’Glish felt the blood burn in his soul, but he also knew that gal’Fondro spoke the truth, and so he held his tongue until the rage subsided.

“You and your father are much alike,” the emissary smiled. “Perhaps too much so for your own good.”

“All too well do I know my own mind,” Ga’Glish smiled lamely, “though I answer not for the faults of another.”

“Well spoken,” laughed gal’Fondro, placing a friendly hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “And you underestimate your elders, Ga’Glish. They are better versed in the subtleties of politics than you can be, isolated here on a sterile haven with none but the stars and a lonely mate for companionship.”

“I am listening, Old Friend.”

Though none but Ga’Glish could hear, gal’Fondro spoke in the darkest of whispers. “You must trust to the wisdom of the Galgravina elders.”

“I have had occasion to laugh at such wisdom, Fondro.”

“Trust their good intentions, then, Ga’Glish.”

“I am still listening.”

“Gal’Shenga cannot release his havenmaster from obedience, and cannot afford to press this struggle— ”

“This is tedious, but I listen still.”

“But the Provincial Governor must pass on the Protocol for the coming Festival of Terra, and neither he nor his designee may be excluded from the ceremonies. Form will not permit it.”

“I will not renounce my post, Fondro!” Ga’Glish hissed. “My father has tried before, but this— ”

“Silence!” gal’Fondro commanded imperially. “None but fools place stones in their ears.”

Ga’Glish raged inside, but struggled to listen to Fondro’s words.

“Your father cannot override the Foreign Minister’s command,” the emissary continued sharply. “Not for reasons of blood, not even for the dictates of security. But as the Imperator’s local representative, Ga’Glishek may defer his prerogatives to others, of like kind and higher rank.”

“This talk of protocol is like the babbling of an infant.”

“Meaning,” gal’Fondro replied impatiently, “that Ga’Glishek may defer to another Imperial official of higher rank, a class which includes your uncle. And as an Imperial Minister, Gal’Shenga can command his own retinue.”

Ga’Glish fell silent, and began to feel very young and foolish.

“You may go to Gr’Shuna, Ga’Glish, in good time and in good form. But you go not as a Havenmaster, or on ties of blood. You go as a retainer, under call of duty, to attend your Superior under his command…if you accept the charge.”

“Fondro— ” Ga’Glish began.

“You will await the Terrans’ arrival, and watch their passage through the expanse. When they near your Haven, you may expect your uncle’s call, even though he may still be in transit. This will permit you to observe the Terran craft in full operation as you travel to Gr’Shuna. As you will be serving your current Superior, you need not renounce your current post, for the duties will not conflict. And when Gal’Shenga departs for home, he will release you from your new obligations, returning you to your haven.”

Though Ga’Glish said nothing, gal’Fondro felt the emotions storming within the young man’s breast, emotions of elation and respect, but mostly of the profound gratitude of the undeserving. “You owe me no debt,” smiled gal’Fondro, reading the thoughts of his old friend’s son. “In fact, I deem it just the opposite, for your needs have led me to witness the first civil conversation between Ga’Glishek and his brother since you were a small one clinging to your mother’s arms. As for the rest—it was your father’s idea.”


© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky