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