Understanding the Enemy

Excerpted from Clouds of Darkness by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or a bookstore near you.

(Readers from the United Kingdom and abroad can also find Clouds of Darkness on Amazon.co.uk )

From Chapter 11

* * *

The entrance to the Command Center opened, revealing a great central chamber and a host of anterooms around the periphery. Shyly, fa’Shenali stepped through the doorway into the arching, cavernous nerve center of the Forces of His Worthiness. The Great Room was nearly deserted, its dimmed lights making him pause to let his eyes adjust. Yet the screens brightly displayed the Universe around them, as the Flagship’s automated sensors continued their work undeterred by the lack of an audience, searching the heavens for the faintest trace of the enemy. The subaltern could hear muted and random voices as technicians went about their work, but could see nobody. Slowly, he walked toward the center of the room.

Beneath the arching canopy and endless bands of monitors, fa’Shenali felt the humbling lack of his own worth. Within these walls, he mused, the future of his people would be decided, by the dedication and energy of those who served the Lord Commander. He felt lost and bewildered, like a small child who had wandered into a Chamber of Solitude and had no notion of what Meditation really meant for the soul. If he had come to the Great Room for solace or inspiration, it was not working.

Continuing down the walkway, toward the far bank of computers, he stepped onto the grating that separated the command floor from the service area below. He stopped in front of the main tactical display screen. It was silent now, showing the stars beyond to the west. Somewhere, he thought—somewhere out there lurked the Beast, the One Most Hated. He knew that one day he would see the Beast’s ship in battle. He hoped he would be ready.

As he mused to himself, he slowly became conscious of a bitter, acrid aroma filling the air, wafting up from below, carried on currents of circulating air.

“By your leave,” called a voice. Fa’Shenali looked about, but saw none about him.

“By your leave, Subaltern.”

Looking down, Shenali saw movement in the darkness below, underneath the grating. Curious about its source, he peered intently until he discerned its shape. It was a menial, a technician, assigned to attend the machinery. The menial sighed sharply, making no effort to hide his temper.

“By your leave, your Subalternness!”

“Yes, Menial…what do you require?”

“Pffff!” sniffed the menial.

Taken aback by the breach of manners, fa’Shenali undertook to repeat himself.

“I said— ”

“If it is not too much trouble, Your Grand Lordship might try moving himself so that I am not trapped down here with the fumes.”

Looking about to find himself standing on the hatch opening, fa’Shenali stepped aside. The grating opened and a technician climbed up to the main floor. The menial’s face was darkened with soot, and his body reeked of smoke. He coughed to clear his throat, and took a deep breath.

“If you wished me to move...”

“Many thanks, Subaltern.”

“If you will pardon the question...”

“My name is lash’Hanna,” the menial replied with a bow of politeness.

“If you pardon the question, One Called Hanna,” repeated fa’Shenali, returning the bow formally, “but what were you— ”

“The machines and augmentors need constant monitoring and adjustment,” Hanna interrupted. Fa’Shenali stiffened at the interruption by one of his inferiors, but his show of rank went outwardly unnoticed. “My task is to keep them operating efficiently.” Wryness danced across his lips, and he permitted fa’Shenali to sense his amusement.

“Or perhaps, Your Exaltedness thought that all this equipment maintained itself.”

For a moment, fa’Shenali hesitated, unsure how to react to such a showing of familiarity. In the end, mindful of his own roots, he permitted himself an uncertain smile.

“Perhaps we are all too well insulated from the lives of others,” he replied.

“You are the commoner,” said the menial, wiping his hands on a rag hanging from his utility belt. “The One Called fa’Shenali?”

The young subaltern nodded.

“Your arrival has not gone unnoticed, fa’Shenali,” smiled Hanna. “Many here rejoice at your good fortune.”

“I am gratified. If only my work gave others similar cause— ”

“Pfff— ” scoffed Hanna. “Snooties are snooties, and it matters not how well you perform. To some, you will always be of the rabble. It has ever been, and will ever be.”

Fa’Shenali lowered his eyes and bowed, acknowledging the truth in what the menial said.

“But what of it?” the menial smiled warmly. “Royalty is mostly pomp and little substance, a thinness of sugar on the excrement of worms. You are better off without most of them. As for Ga’Glish and his reformist breed—well, we shall see what happens once the Terrans are no longer baying outside their bedchambers.”

“I see our mothers breed cynics like purebreds breed leeches.”

Lash’Hanna laughed heartily. “Well said, fa’Shenali. I see our betters have not snuffed out your wit.”

Shenali shook his head. “I wish it were so, though often I wonder. I make little progress on my work, and fear it will reflect poorly on the Lord Commander. But the task itself is impossible.”

“And what task is that?”

Fa’Shenali looked toward the large viewer on the west facing of the arching canopy overhead. “It is the One Called Khu’ukh. He is my field of study, his mind and all its workings. I try to understand him, to help us find a better way to fight him, but my work is of no use. He remains a mystery to me, as to all others.”

“Oh, the Beast is a clever one,” Hanna nodded, his words carrying a conviction that fa’Shenali found surprising. “He soars far above our own simpletons—like an eagle soars above the vermin in the field. I fear your task may well be impossible, my friend. His art is like music from a troubadour’s lute, but his bite is deadly as a viper’s.”

“How come you to talk so glowingly about an enemy you have never seen?” Fa’Shenali was astonished that a menial would dare talk of such things. He was even more astonished that his rebuke was met by the laughter of derision.

“Oh we have seen more than you might imagine,” the menial replied good-naturedly. He stepped toward the control panel on the nearby wall. Pressing a few buttons, he turned to face his new acquaintance, a wry smile upon his lips. Soon, the remaining lights dimmed, and all around them was darkness, lit only by the dancing lights on the viewscreen above them.

“Attend.”

At first he saw nothing but dots of light, darting about the screen like evening bugs on a warm summer night. To his amazement, he soon found himself recognizing the patterns, and realized that he was watching a replay of the Battle of Geroulanash. To the left were the doomed ships of Lord Grena, moving against a badly outnumbered Terran attack wing. To the right, the longnose ships moved along a broad front, slipping closer and closer to the g’Khruushtani until the Terran flank suddenly turned to strike at the heart of the oncoming forces of His Worthiness, the center pivoting sharply to shatter the g’Khruushtani battle lines, and splintering the fleet beyond recognition. Then, the Terrans turned upon and destroyed the helpless squadrons as they struggled to regroup. As fa’Shenali watched, he saw the dots forming together like the brushstrokes of an artist, arching and flowing their ballet of death into a beauty as cold as space. For an instant, he was floating among the stars, wondering at the regal grace and artistry that was filling his mind as stars filled the heavens.

Soon, the screen went dark, and light returned to the Command Center.

“How came you to make such a thing?”

“Such things are far beyond my capacity, Subaltern,” Hanna smiled; fa’Shenali could sense the bitter irony in the menial’s words. “ I only work the machines. The computers do the rest.”

“But why has no one told me? Why have we not...?”

Hanna’s irony ripened into anguished laughter.

“Why? You may as well ask why our betters see only themselves when they look into a crowd, One Called fa’Shenali. Few bother to see a battle replayed in this matter, and no one uses it for study. Our leaders are mated to graphs and maps and wishful reports. They cannot see their own noses, much less remember that they have other senses with which to enjoy the Universe. And of course, none would condescend to listen to the rabble. Such a fall would admit that knowledge is not a prerogative limited to Royalty. But I am hardly the first menial to notice their limitations. Nor am I the only one who has seen the mastery of the Beast with his own eyes.”

Fa’Shenali breathed deeply, and raised his eyes toward the giant screen looming above him. Lash’Hanna was right of course. They were incredibly stupid—all of them, himself included. After millennia of pursuing knowledge, it seemed that civilization had bred all the sense out of them. They could reach the highest pinnacles of attainment known to the Galaxy, only to be beaten bloody by a race of savages, too proud or too ignorant to know their own limitations. And if the Terrans knew no such constraints, who could truly call them savages?

Fa’Shenali harbored no doubt that the Terrans would use anything that would help them destroy an enemy. He also hoped that Fate would smile upon the g’Khruushtani at least once during this ordeal—that the Terran’s primitive science would make machines such as the one he had just discovered beyond their capacity, and that they would be permitted at least this one small advantage in their struggle for survival.


© 2011 by Jeffrey Caminsky

The Press of Battle

Excerpted from Clouds of Darkness by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or a bookstore near you.

(Readers from the United Kingdom and abroad can also find Clouds of Darkness on Amazon.co.uk )

From Chapter 7

TWO DAYS PASSED, AS THE g’Khruushtani battalions scoured the heavens for signs of their enemies. Each day brought news from the rest of the Empire, news of the approaching fleet, and of the parades and rallies in honor of the brave warriors at Gr’Lusshe. But on the third day, tension and concern seized everyone in the Monitorium.


“Screen Six shows enemy movement, Centurion.”

Khla’Chenga moved to look at the brightly colored dots that disclosed the Terran positions on the motion screen. Many days had passed since the longnoses had stirred. Sh’Alani, his deputy com¬mander, thought it likely that they were nursing their wounds until the time came for another assault. Khla’Chenga worried that the hiatus carried more sinister overtones.

“Transmit Terran movements to Tactics for analysis,” the Centurion said. “I wish to know of any change in the movement patterns we have observed…and whether there is anything new for us to take into account.”

“I understand,” said the monitor. “You wish to know if they have changed commanders.”

Khla’Chenga smiled. Though from a lowly station, this monitor had a keen mind and sharp powers of observation. “Let us hope that I am worrying like a grandmother,” he patted the monitor affectionately on his shoulder. “But I am worried, nonetheless.”

Leaving the monitor station, Khla’Chenga strode down the hall toward the Tactical Center. From there he would control the defense of the planet. The large room arched above and below, like the expanse in which the fighting would loom. Holographic projections would display the contours of battle. And in the center, suspended over the transparent flooring that his subordinates would share with him, was a blue globe, suspended in the darkened room, spinning in the blackness like the real Gr’Lusshe circled the heavens.

Technicians and assistants swarmed about the Center like summer insects, tending to the endless details that would help their commanders repel the invaders. Khla’Chen¬ga looked at the mass of activity. Like the planet below them, the great room was crowded with refugees. Only here they were refugees from fear, and their refuge was their work, rather than the warmth of a friendly world. The Centurion felt the weight of creation pressing upon him, for the fate of all on the planet below—on the Defense Station—even in the ships that had beaten back the longnoses for the past hundred days—rested upon him. Yet in a few days it would be over: the relief force was but two days away. If they could hold out until then, he could draw his first relaxed breath in what seemed like a lifetime.

Khla’Chen¬ga strode proudly into the Center.

“The High Commander comes,” called the Tactics Controller. The command staff stopped their tasks to stand stiffly in place, a gesture of respect for the one who had replaced their darkest fears with hope and pride.

“The Terrans are shifting their line of attack,” reported the Chief Monitor. “They are moving into Sector Twelve, and forming a broadened front for their assault.”

“I do not like this,” added Sh’Alani.

“You do not like the fact that they are moving between ourselves and our approaching relief force,” Khla’Chenga said wryly, “or the fact that they are trying something different this time?”

Sh’Alani fell into an embarrassed silence. At once, Khla’Chenga felt a sense of shame. Alani’s enthusiasm had proved a valuable asset during the long ordeal. The Centurion knew that it was wrong to use his rank to mock one who had performed so admirably.

“I apologize for my tactlessness,” smiled Khla’Chenga. “But we must forget our likes and dislikes. We must concentrate only on living through the next few days.”

“Their tactics are changing,” said his deputy. “I pray that it does not mean— ”

“We gain nothing by assuming the worst, Son of Gralani, except a paralyzing sense of fear,” said Khla’Chenga, strengthening his voice so that all could hear. “Yet we have all known that it could well come to this, that the Terrans might one day send their best into battle against us. And if it is truly the Beast himself who now seeks our destruction, then we owe our people, and our Imperator—and everyone huddling in fear on the planet we are guarding—all the courage and daring we can muster for the struggle before us.

“We have won a great battle, just by staying alive. In two days—three, at the most—the forces of His Worthiness will arrive to break the siege and bring us the rest we have not known for ages. Surely a few days more can be as nothing, for those who have already accomplished so much.”

A deafening cheer rose through from the throats of those assembled, and cries of “Victory!” soon filled the Center. Yet as they returned to their tasks, each felt the first twinge of despair start gnawing within.

They were within days of denying the longnoses the first contested planet of the war. Victory, however transitory it might prove to be, was within their grasp.

Yet each knew that the most hated Terran was out there, somewhere, looming in the blackness like death.

And each knew that the One Called Khu’ukh had yet to lose in battle.

* * *

“WITH ALL DUE respect, Commodore... ”

“Get to the point, Forestall. I don’t want to keep the Crutchtans waiting.”

“Setting your people off to the side…and splitting the troop landers like that. I don’t understand— ”

“We went over it all at the briefing, Captain. This is not a debate, and I’m not conducting a tactics seminar.”

“But— ”

“If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to discuss the matter afterwards. If we both live through this. And if I’m not called away as soon as it’s over. Right now, I don’t have the time.”

“But why— ”

“That is all, Captain. You have a squadron to tend to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“D’Artagnan out.”

“Over and out—sir.”

* * *

SLOWLY, THE ENEMY forces drew closer. The Terrans advanced along a broad front, the Crutchtans moved cautiously, approaching in a single, tight formation aimed at the Terran midsection. Just beyond the solar limits of Gr’Lusshe, the Terran left flank raced forward and pivoted forty-five degrees, seeking to engage the Crutch¬tan flank at an angle to soften them for the bulk of the Terran attack. It was a maneuver that Khla’Chenga had seen before, though only in briefings and study sessions, and he countered by sending a small detachment to engage and deflect the Terran charge.

But concern rippled throughout the Crutchtan defenders. Few Terran commanders dared to split their forces at the onset of battle, and the One Called OOH-eh’thr¬li lacked both the wit and the vision to begin a battle with such a maneuver. This concern soon matured into worry, as the Terrans followed their opening slant by pivoting the main body of their forces and slicing toward the besieged Crutchtan flank, isolating the Crutch¬tan wing and positioning the bulk of the Terran force to lunge directly toward the besieged planet.

It was a thrust both daring and simple, and bore the dreaded hallmarks of Crutch¬ta’s deadliest enemy. As it became apparent that the longnoses had changed commanders for a last attempt to take the planet, a cold fear spread among the Crutch¬tan defenders.



“CHANDLER REPORTS the bulk of the main Crutchtan body moving past Squadron Four to engage him.”

“Already noted.”

“Forestall reports enemy reinforcements moving toward our left flank.”

“Commodore, a trailing enemy squadron has engaged Squadron Four. Captain Drake reports stiffening resistance.”

Cook looked up from his star map. In his command room, adjacent to his office, he kept the lights dimmed, better to see the movements on the screens. As his tactical aides kept their eyes glued to their computer screens, his own eyes narrowed in fierce concentration, the monitor lights casting a soft glow across his face.

“Tell Tanana to move into position to support Chandler’s squadron, and await the order to engage. I expect the fighting will be rather intense, and he’ll need all the help he can get.”

“Aye aye.”

“In the meantime, I want to know the instant the Crutchtans begin moving their second wave into position.”

“Yes, Commodore.”

“And Calloway— ”

“Sir?”

“Page the bridge, and tell Commander Mendelson to have the first team stand down. They shouldn’t be needed for the next hour or so. Tell her not to start worrying until I show up there.”

“Aye aye, sir.”



KHLA’CHENGA LOOKED anxiously at the monitor screen. Grimly, he paced the Center, his eyes never moving from the center of the battle.

“Report,” he commanded.

“Engagement proceeding. Detachment Six reports heavy losses.”

“Detachment Five reports their lines under attack.”

“Detachment Two reports their lines are holding, but the Terrans are intensifying their attack.”

Khla’Chenga felt his mind under siege. Khu’ukh pressed upon them from every corner of the battle, giving them not a moment’s reflection. Forcing himself to remain calm, he called for Sh’Alani. His voice was dispassionate and controlled, but Alani could sense the growing anxiety of his commander.

“Analysis?”

“Our reserves remain uncommitted.”

“As are those of the Terrans.”

“They are directing their thrust toward the middle of our forces. Perhaps a counterthrust along the peripheries... ”

“Our peripheries are barely holding their own. Without reinforcements, they cannot attack. And if we commit ourselves there, the Terrans will press their central attack and overrun our main force.”

“Help is less than two days away. If we can last— ”

“We must first fight the Terrans to a draw. We cannot do so if our lines collapse around us.”

As Sh’Alani pondered the problem, Khla’Chenga glanced again at the battle projector. Khu’ukh was a more daring commander than he had ever encountered, with a quick, adaptable mind and a stunning sense of timing. So far, the Terran had anticipated and countered his every movement, pressing the attack closer and more furiously with each turn of battle.

And yet with each passing moment, the Terran line was arching forward at the peripheries, leaving a bulge in the center of battle where the fighting was most intense and resistance by the g’Khruushtani was the fiercest.

Suddenly, it struck him; coldly, he mulled it over in his mind until he was certain. Soon a grim smile danced over his lips, and those closest to him felt their own spirits lifting with the growing hopes of their commander.

Khu’ukh could be beaten.

Now.

There!

And Khla’Chen¬ga knew exactly how to do it. It had been so simple that it nearly escaped his notice.

“Order two squadrons of the reserves forward,” he said, his voice carrying echoes of his own confidence. “The remainder shall await my order.”

“And they are— ”

“They are to attack,” said Khla’Chenga. “Let the longnoses feel the lash of defeat. Today, let their ashes light the skies, and let the Imperator’s Medallion go to the defender who destroys the One Called Khu’ukh.

“They are to attack! They are to push at the center of the Terran positions and not let the longnoses shake loose until the battle is won. They are to attack!”



“WHAT?”

“I said— ”

“He’s ordering us to do what?”

“We are ordered to disengage and retreat, and reestablish our lines one-hundred klicks due east of— ”

“Get him on the line.”

“I beg your par— ”

“Get our esteemed commodore on the line, Lieutenant. Right now.”

“But— ”

“Don’t give me ‘buts’ — or I’ll kick yours myself. Just do it!”

As the radio officer hastily tried to raise the d’Artagnan on the emergency channel, Captain Chandler fumed in his command chair. Outside, just beyond the range of his visual sensors, a furious battle was raging. His tactical screens told him that his ships were starting to turn the battle. Though the toll was high on both sides, the enemy was starting to give way. If they kept up the pressure, they might well break through the enemy line, though how long it would take was anyone’s guess.

But now, if this latest scheme wasn’t countermanded....he just didn’t want to think of the consequences. A stern voice on the communications screen jolted him back to grim reality.

“All right, Chandler, what is it? And why are you still holding your position?” It was Cook; his angry eyes told Chandler that he was in more trouble with the commodore than he was with the Crutchtans. But Chandler was hardly in a defensive mood. Having his own commander angry at him was the least of his worries.

“I wanted to confirm— ” he began.

“Retreat order is confirmed,” Cook said sharply. “Reestablish your position one-hundred astrokilometers due east of McGregor’s Star. You may make your retreat as orderly as possible, but you are ordered to withdraw, immediately.”

“But that means that Drake— ”

“Immediately.”

“They’ll have to slug their way back, Commodore. And there’s no telling— ”

“You have your orders, Captain.”

“Dammit, Cook! You’re cutting off our own people!”

“Those are your orders, Captain.”

Chandler signed off angrily, and nodded to his radio officer to relay the order to the rest of his squadron. He tried to ignore the twisting, gnarled feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew that the battle would soon come hurling toward him in its full fury. But his own squadron would hardly know the worst of it. Already, Drake’s people were in the thick of the battle. Chandler realized that if he retreated, the front around them would collapse, letting lizards pour through the breach and cutting Drake off from any help from the rest of the attack wing.

It was almost as if Cook was dooming his point squadron to a pointless death.

Chandler felt fear gnaw at his belly. All around them, the Terran battle lines were collapsing. It seemed clear that Cook had finally met his match.

Either that, or the man had finally lost his mind.

* * *

© 2011 by Jeffrey Caminsky

The Looming Battle

Excerpted from Clouds of Darkness by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or a bookstore near you.

(Readers from the United Kingdom and abroad can also find Clouds of Darkness on Amazon.co.uk )


from Chapter 6



* * *

A FEW DAYS LATER, a shuttle hatch lock opened and a slightly disheveled blueshirt stepped into the hangar deck of the Cosmic Guard’s most famous ship.

“Permission to come aboard?”

“Permission granted, Captain Fitzgerald. Welcome to the d’Artagnan.”

Fitz smiled at his pretty young escort, a lieutenant who, as he recalled, was a member of Cook’s bridge crew. His ruddy skin crinkled around his eyes, and he wished that he’d taken the time to change into a clean uniform before leaving the Magellan. After the time spent cooped up on his own ship, he needed a change of scenery, and she was a lass after his own heart—a touch of sauce, ripe for a saucy touch. It never occurred to him that the young lady had her own views in the matter, and an entirely different opinion of him.

“Skipper’s still an hour away,” Mary Mathison said, as pleasantly as she could manage. “They would’ve been back yesterday, but they changed the rendezvous point again.”

Fitz laughed roguishly.

“They had to deliver some briefing papers to him,” Mary continued, a trace of haughtiness creeping into her voice. “By express courier, no less. The rest of the group is already here, now, so I guess the delay won’t really mean much. I mean, the Skipper can attend long-distance, if he wants to.”

Fitz nodded absently, paying less attention to what the young lieutenant was saying than how she was saying it. As they neared the officer’s lounge, he reflected that the d’Artagnan was really little different than any of the other starships in the fleet. The flooring might be a different color, but the corridors were the same hexagons, and the walls were the same standard beige. Passing them in the hallways, the crew looked much the same, though the missies always looked better on somebody else’s ship.

But being on this ship—Cook’s ship—felt different. Whether it was the bearing of the crew, the jaunty pride even the lowliest crewman showed at helping to man the grandest ship in the Cosmic Guard, or something as minor as the slightly subnormal gravitation the ship kept to remind her skipper of home, he couldn’t really tell. But he felt it every time he came aboard. Something about the d’Artagnan set it apart from the rest of the fleet.

Entering the lounge, Fitz smiled to greet many of his old comrades: Tanana; Blake; even Forestall, the group’s senior wing commander. Some he’d known for years, and some he hadn’t seen for ages, since shortly after the war started. But lifetimes passed quickly in war, and he had many friends he would never see again.

“Fitz—!!”

It was Chandler, his old friend from his DemCom days. Chandler looked tired, almost worn out. When Fitz looked at the others, they all had the same haggard, gaunt look. He wondered if he looked any different himself.

“You crafty old bastard! How the hell are you?”

“Same as always,” Fitz shrugged. “How’s life been treating you under Old Blunderbutt? Keeping your backsides safe from harm, I hope. From what we hear, the slimy bugger keeps dropping load after load. And now you groundtoads need help cleaning up the mess.”

Rough laughter filled the room. The warmth of friendship was easy enough to rekindle, Fitz thought. Besides, Admiral Weatherlee was nobody’s favorite commander. All along the front lines, the potshots at him were as thick as the bloodgnats on a Demetrian summer night.

“Those who’re still here can’t complain,” said Drake. “Leastways, not so long as Winnie’s in earshot.”

“Well, you can all rest easy now,” returned Fitz. “Cookie’s a-coming to the rescue—again. But by God, seems it’s bloody well getting to be a habit, don’t you know.”

“This time, Cookie’s got his work cut out for him,” said Forestall, his face turning serious. “The lizards are getting tougher every day. We lost Goddard in the last attack— ”

Fitz nodded sadly. Goddard had been part of the old gang at DemCom for longer than any of them could remember, as free with his money as with his jokes. Willing to do anything for a laugh, or for one of the good old boys. Now, like so many others Fitz knew, he was gone forever.

“— and he’s just the latest.”

“What’s the problem? I thought— ”

“They’re getting smarter, Fitz. We’ve kicked their slimy tails from the Neutral Zone half-way to the end of creation, but they’re starting to pull things together.”

“Cookie’s never put much stock in just bulling past’em,” Tanana interjected, “so you might not have a sense of how dicey things are getting. But they’ve started holding their forces back—pulling in their lines, shoring up their flanks.”

“Most of all,” continued Chandler, “now that their backs are against the wall they’re starting to press the attack.”

“And jumping all over us,” added Forestall, “when we make the slightest mistake.”

As his friends continued bringing him up to date on the enemy’s strengths and tactics, Fitz felt his insides twisting into hard, tight knots. Once again, now that they were set up for the kill, the lizards were fighting like demons. And after the Terran brush with disaster early in the war, they each knew better than to take the lizards lightly. Especially when it seemed like the battle was all but won.

Surrounded by buddies from the old days, Fitz poured a cup of coffee and took a seat. Soft, soothing music sounded over the speakers, and the plush, cushioned chairs in the officers’ lounge did wonders for his stern. It had been ages since he’d taken the time to sit and relax. On the Magellan, he found himself constantly besieged by a million things that demanded his attention. Here, on another ship, his mind could drift like a tramp schooner. He reveled in the freedom it gave him. But even here, he couldn’t escape forever; soon, the war came crashing back into his brain. He found himself caught by the stories of old friends meeting death, or heroics that were passing unsung in the darkness, so far away from civilization. He wondered when it would ever end.

More to the point, he began to wonder when his own com¬mander’s magic would run out, and whether this time Cookie would have any more luck than Old Blunder¬butt.

* * *

“LORD COMMANDER?”

The footfalls of a thousand souls thundered through the Flagship concourse, each proceeding toward the execution of duty. Lost in a cloud of his own concerns, Ga’Glish did not hear his Chief of Tactics calling. Soon, out of breath, Dra’Lengish had overtaken him.

“Lord Commander!” panted the Dralanvengi.

“Perhaps we should reconsider the advice of some of our junior officers,” smiled Ga’Glish, pausing to wait for Dra’Lengish to recover his wind. “Perhaps the conditioning we require of our young soldiers would be of benefit to my command staff, Lengish.”

“It would thin our ranks—appreciably, Lordship,” the Chief of Tactics nodded between gasps, “if only through—accelerating—the mortality tables. Whether that would benefit the Empire remains an unanswered question, I suppose.”

Turning to proceed toward the briefing area, Ga’Glish laughed without cheer.

“You have news?”

“Yes, Lordship. Good news, this time.”

“I am listening.”

“They have waited too long. The Terrans have delayed their offensive for too many days. Our relief force reports clear skies, and has made remarkable progress. Now they are but a few days away. The longnoses no longer have time to secure the planet before the arrival of Ra’Danli. They must retreat or perish.”

“Your confidence is most heartwarming,” Ga’Glish observed wryly. “Of course, it is easy to be confident when we are so far away from the battle, but let us not speak of trifles.”

“Speaking of trifles,” Dra’Lengish said; Ga’Glish sensed his Deputy’s mood shift to one of disdain. “I note that our newest arrival has yet to produce anything of value. He prefers to mouth only drivel and tripe, unbecoming a staff aide to the High Command.”

“Fa’Shenali has barely had chance to unpack, Lengish. Give him time. I am sure that the first time you spoke her name, your mother did not chide you for the paucity of your wit. Besides, he comes highly regarded, and he does seem to learn rather quickly.”

“But he is a—a commoner,” Dra’Lengish whispered. “Worse, his pedigree would offend even the rabble! Oh, Lordship, let us see reason together. This—boy, if you wish to be gracious about his appellation— ”

Stopping to face Dra’Lengish, Ga’Glish held out his hand to silence his Chief of Tactics. “This is a new age, Lengish,” the Lord Commander smiled wearily. “The exigencies of our era demand certain…well, concessions.”

Dra’Lengish kept his face impassive, but Ga’Glish could feel the frustration welling within his subordinate’s breast.

“Besides, the old Castes never did us much good. The philosophers have denounced them for eons.”

“Empty-headed rubbish!” rejoined Dra’Lengish. “They gave us order. And discipline. We knew who we were and what we were. And they never were very rigid, you know. At least, not among— ”

“Not among the masses. I know, Son of the Dralanvengi. But the Oligarchy itself must occasionally admit new blood, or die of its own inbreeding. And truth be known, we have been slowly dying for millennia, Lengish. We simply did not perceive it. For that perception—whatever other crimes they have committed along the way—we must thank the longnoses.”

Dra’Lengish recoiled in horror. “Such talk sounds of—of treason, Lordship.”

Ga’Glish watched in amusement as the color fairly drained from the eyes and gill slits of his tactical chieftain. Reformists like his uncle were long considered mad, he mused, and he was coming to doubt his own sanity, as well. Perhaps a civilization without its madmen simply lacked the energy to thrive. But he had long passed the point of caring about such things.

“Treason or not, the Terrans have made it all quite irrelevant,” he replied. “For the time being, the Empire needs all her sons, from all her daughters, if we are going to survive.”

“Have we really sunk so low as this?” Dra’Lengish breathed deeply; his voice quavered as he spoke. “So low as to need every harlot’s son to beat back the barbarians?”

Ga’Glish patted his subordinate on the shoulder, his smile belying the fire Dra’Lengish felt in the Lord Commander’s soul. “Bigotry ill becomes you, Lengish.”

“But— ”

“I shall hear no more of such things,” Ga’Glish commanded regally. His eyes narrowied fiercely, enough to make his subordinate fear for his liberty. “I have made my decision, and so has the First Minister. We are a common People. And the Terrans are a common enemy, dedicated to our destruction. If we cannot put aside our differences now, in the face of such dangers, then we do not deserve to call ourselves civilized.”

They continued down the hall, heading toward the Flagship’s Grand Hall of Congregation, for the weekly assembly of Thanks¬giving. To ones observing, they passed as if related by blood—Ga’¬Glish walking like a family lord, with proud eyes and defiant heart; his tactical chief shaking his head and pursing his lips like a sour old aunt.

* * *

“THEY’RE ASSEMBLED IN your office. The senior line officers from Task Force Alpha, I mean. One of ours has already arrived, so he’s there with them.”

“Who?”

“Captain Fitzgerald.”

Cook shook his head as he and Dexter hurried into the hangar deck lift. They headed toward the Conning Deck, and programmed the lift control for “Express.” The metal grids on the side-panels gave a passing view of the ship’s insides. A small light flashed each time they passed a different deck.

“I might have known,” Cook smiled. “If any of our own people could make it here ahead of us, it would be Fitz.”

“As for current status on the ship—well, aside from the new apprentice navigator....”

Cook raised his hand to interrupt. “Lieutenant,” he said with a weary sigh. “I’ve had a long trip, and I have a lot to think about in the next few days.”

Dexter looked crestfallen. “I only thought.. .”

Cook laughed, more in pity than anything else. “Don’t misunderstand me. I am impressed, Mr. Dexter. You have performed admirably. I have never seen handrails glisten like that, or floor tiles sparkle so brightly. And your initiative in winning certification at the remaining two bridge stations in my absence certainly does not give me any regrets—except that since you’re now eligible to command your own ship, you may be taken away from me just as you’re starting to become indispensable. But you’ve a lot to learn about your commanding officer’s quirks, as our executive officer can tell you. And you can tell Miss Mendelson and me all about it later, after I find out what we’ll be up against.”

Dexter’s eyes bulged. “Mendelson!” he exclaimed. “Oh, Jesus! She’s still— ”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Dexter,” Cook said, looking up at the floor indicator. “She’s a big girl. I’m sure she can find her way back to her room by herself.”

“But we just left her— ”

“As for protocol,” Cook began.

The door opened, and Cook stepped out into the Conning Deck corridor. Concerned about what the Book would describe as a minor breach of manners, Dexter stared ahead dumbly, his mouth open.

“Just tell her you’re sorry, and that it won’t ever happen again. And pray that she’s roped a redshirt into carrying all her bags. She did a lot of shopping on Looking Glass, and I’ll tell you quite honestly that being her valet is no fun at all.”

The elevator door closed, and Cook started down the hallway toward his office. He wondered whether the tactic of apologizing to the ship’s Executive Officer would work better for Dexter than it did for himself. Without fanfare, he entered his office and strode to the seat behind his desk, ignoring the startled animation that greeted his arrival.

“As you were; everyone be seated,” he began. He frowned to see that his desk had been tidied in his absence, and made a mental note to talk to his new executive aide about the pitfalls of mindless efficiency. “We don’t have time to bother with introductions. Besides, I’m sure we all know everyone here.

“I’ve read the status reports and battle manifests on the trip over here. At least, enough of them to give me an idea of what we’re up against.”

“And we’ve got wind of some of your zingers to the brass,” interrupted Chandler. “Must say you’re none too complimentary of our late Leader. Not that he might not be deserving it.”

Cook silenced the growing chorus of chortles with an acid smile.

“My personal opinions are not for public consumption,” he said coldly. “And as far as the past is concerned, I’ve read enough of your own reports, Captain Chandler, to know that there’s plenty of blame to go around. If all this good cheer at the change in commanders reflects the level of support Admiral Weather¬lee received from his subordinates, I may have overestimated what he had to work with—and may well owe him an apology.”

The entire group fell silent.

“As for where we go from here,” Cook continued, “I’ve sent for some of my own people to help us take the planet.”

“It’s about time we got some help,” ventured Forestall. The others nodded.

“Who’s coming to help us?”

“Captain Fitzgerald is already here,” Cook said, nodding toward Fitz. “Captains Ebling and McKinnon should be here in a day or two. We attack the day after they arrive.”

“Three ships? Three bloody ships? The lizards have been beating our butts for nearly a month and you think— ”

“Captain Forestall,” Cook said, his eyebrows arching regally. “I’ve got troubles enough, without any that your rudeness and mouth might add to the pile. Three additional starships—plus my own—should be quite sufficient for our needs. Given our time constraints, and the enemy’s tactical position, anything more would be a waste of resources. In fact, I doubt we really needed any additional help at all, but Admiral Weatherlee had already committed all his starships to the battle. I was afraid that what I have bouncing around my head might not work if the enemy realized that some of you were missing.

“Besides,” Cook smiled coldly, “ I didn’t really want to embarrass Admiral Weatherlee, or the lot of you, any more than necessary.”

“But— ”

“As for our precise plan of attack...,” stifling a yawn, Cook leaned back in his chair. He fought off the drowsiness that tried to intrude into his routine from time to time. Wing commanders had little enough time as it was. Weariness simply had no place on his duty schedule.

“I need to give things a bit more thought. I’ll have something in writing for you by tomorrow. I trust you’ll all have it mastered by the end of the day.”

“But— ”

“You’re all free to return to your ships, or to stay on board here, as our guests. But be back here—in my office—tomorrow at 200 Hours, sharp.”

“But— ”

“Dismissed.”

The squadron leaders filed out the door. Their shuffling feet dragged noiselessly on the carpet, and they each kept a sullen silence. Cook watched them carefully as they left. He suddenly realized that he’d worked with very few of them. From what he could see, they were hardly the sort to inspire innovation in a commanding officer. As the last of them neared the exit, he spoke again.

“Captain Fitzgerald, I’d like to speak to you.”

Fitz made his apologies to his friends, and promised to meet them in the officer’s lounge. When the door closed, Cook motioned for Fitz to take a seat.

“Well, Maestro,” Fitz laughed, plopping onto the overstuffed guest chair to Cook’s right, “looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you. The lizards—sorry, the Crutchtans—are giving our people fits here. And you’re sure as hell not making any friends with the locals. In fact, I’d say you’ve taken it upon yourself to prove to the rest of the Fleet that Weatherlee can’t even beat you when it comes to driving people crazy.”

Cook leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Ah, Fitz, honest to a fault. You’d fail completely as a diplomat, you know.”

“In this room, I think I have the market on tact cornered right now. What’s on your mind?”

Cook changed the programming on the overhead speakers, filling the room with the ancient, spritely music he used to help forget his troubles. He smiled wanly as Fitz winced at the change in programming. Clasping his hands behind his head, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, savoring each ebb and billow of the string section for the next several moments.

“You know these guys, Fitz,” he said at last. “Tell me about them.”

“Well, I— ”

“And not the stuff I’ll find in their service records.” Cook sat up in his chair, laughing softly at his own private joke. “I mean—who’s sailed with whom; who discovered what; who’s gotten which medal. That’s about as helpful as finding rocks in a rockpile.”

“Well, if I knew— ”

“I need to know what’s inside them.” Cook pointed to his heart. “How much can I trust them to do exactly as I say? And how much fight do they have in their bellies?”

“They’re all fine officers,” Fitz interjected hotly, as annoyed at having to defend his friends as at having to fight his way into the conversation. “Among the best I’ve served with.”

“You’ve seen none of them in battle, though? I mean—lately.”

Fitz shook his head warily. “Not since the First Battle of Lagrush. Forestall was in the next squadron over during the ambush. The others? I served with them all at DemCom. They’re all first class officers. I’ve never had reason to think that any of them are—you know—squeamish.”

Cook smirked, the same Isitian smirk that had made enemies all along the front lines. Cook’s smugness was annoying enough in the past, and Fitz often got sick and tired of defending him. Now, even Fitz was reaching the end of his patience.

“Never mind, ” Cook sighed. “Go join your buddies, Fitz. They’re probably half drunk by now, and I’m sure you don’t want to be left behind. Not this close to a battle.”

“Dammit Cook! I’m not a bloody mind reader. And I don’t much care for being laughed at. It might help if you told people what the hell you wanted to know, every once in a while.”

Cook lifted his head to look at the ceiling. He took a deep breath and chuckled mirthlessly to himself. When he spoke at last, there was a note of sadness in his voice that Fitz recognized, one that never failed to send a shiver down his spine. He’d heard it often enough. Always just before a battle. Just before Cook sent people off to die.

“If you had to pick one of them for a mission you had just doomed to fail—one that may kill thousands, on the chance that it might save thousands more,” Cook looked Fitz straight in the eye. “Which of them is most likely to come back alive? And who would bring the largest number of his people back with him?”

Fitz swallowed hard. His stomach tightened like a steel drum, and his gaze dropped to the floor. When he looked up, he saw Cook smiling the loneliest, weakest smile Fitz had ever seen.

“Not easy being a commodore these days, is it?”

Fitz said nothing; his face turned a deep crimson.

“Don’t worry, Fitz,” Cook said at last. “I’d never make you choose between your friends.”

© 2011 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Excerpts from Clouds of Darkness by Jeffrey Caminsky

Excerpted from Clouds of Darknessby Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or a bookstore near you.

(Readers from the United Kingdom and abroad can also find Clouds of Darkness on Amazon.co.uk )

from Chapter 5

THE NEXT DAY, COOK found himself staring down a dim corridor, feeling the gentle vibrations of the small ship’s engines beneath his feet. He’d looked forward to the trip to Looking Glass. It was a welcome break from the grim routine of command in wartime. But beginning the journey back to his ship he felt more worn and tired than when he’d left her, and they still had a long sail ahead of them.

Clearly, the old Mulligan-class escorts were not built for luxury. The narrow corridor ran the length of the ship from the air lock aft, over the engine room and past the upper crew quarters all the way to the bridge. Four feet wide, only the shortest crewmen could walk its entire forty-meter length without hunching over. The handholds along the side, installed to give the crew quicker movement along the spine when the gravity was cut, were green with tarnish. The blandness of the walls was broken only by the occasional discoloration of a past water leak. Cracking floor tiles carried the full burden of nine decades of service and two decades of neglect. The Mulligans were once the scourge of pirates everywhere. Now resurrected for use as couriers, they ferried Terra’s military elite from one theater to another, and from the command centers eastward to the Front.

The escort’s control room was a mess. Charts littered the auxiliary controls, and the pilot’s station was covered with the half-eaten remnants of dinner. Eight feet across, the bridge barely had room for the two stations placed at the controls. The accumulated clutter nearly sealed the two control officers into their station seats, and stood in marked contrast to the meticulous trim her commander kept on the rest of his ship. From his vantage just aft of the entry ramp, Cook took a deep breath and smiled. His first command had been an escort, a newer and sleeker model than this one, to be sure, but an escort just the same. And his own control room would have failed the inspection of a blind old pirate, much less a Cozzie blueshirt. It was good for him to see how the rest of the fleet lived, he thought. Perspective was always healthy. And right now, he could use a hearty dose of nostalgia, as well. Looking toward the bridge, he smiled to see the small ship’s two officers busily engaged in navigating the escort back toward the front, and began walking down the corridor toward the bridge.


“HEADING STEADY,” THE navigator reported, checking his instruments. “Guide-beacon constant at 050; ‘lights-out’ beam still active.”

“Roger,” responded the pilot. “Holding steady as she goes.”

“Hear anything from our VIP’s, Steve?”

“Not a thing. Both were sacked out, last I checked. Near as I can tell, You-Know-Who got his tail rearranged by some of the Brass. Probably took the fight out of him, for a while.”

“Goddamn,” grinned the navigator. “Bet the lizards would be sliming down their chins to hear that. Hope he doesn’t stay down like that for too long.”

“His traveling companion would probably second the motion, don’t you think?” The two young blueshirts laughed roguishly, and turned their attention back to their instruments.


COOK STEPPED ONTO the entry ramp and paused. In the midst of chaos, routine and training would hold even the creakiest ship together. But the pride an officer took in his command could make even the smallest ship sparkle. The evidence of this young lieutenant’s promise was apparent even through the aging fixtures and superficial clutter. Though cracked, the floor tiles gleamed; even the tarnish-stained hand holds shined as if ready for inspection. Upon first coming aboard, Cook had wondered if the last bits of spit and polish were for his benefit; if so, it would not have been the first time a junior officer had gussied up his ship to impress a visitor. But the routine on board was too fixed, too well ordered, to be anything but standard. Besides, he’d picked the ship at random. No young blueshirt could have trimmed his ship this well in just a few short hours. Smiling at the memory of simpler days, he turned his attention to the two young officers at the controls.

THE NAVIGATOR SEARCHED the mass of star charts and pulled a broad vista on the console in front of him. An intense round of calculations on the computer left him scratching his head.

“Charts say we’ve got shoals ahead, composition unknown. Rocks and ice, most likely. Pretty big patch, too.”

“Give ’em a wide berth, don’t you think?”

“Well, charts also say we just passed through the middle of binary star system—Class Double-G,” replied the navigator. He looked from one side of the forward viewing window to the other, then turned his head to peer out the portside porthole.

“I sure as hell don’t see any star system,” continued the navigator, exhaling loudly. “So either we’re lost, or the charts are fucked to high heaven again.”

“Mike, don’t do this to me. Not again. And not now, for God’s sake!”

“Sure beats the hell out of me what we’re going to do, Steve. Go round the shoals, we’re likely to wind up in the middle. Plow straight ahead, and bam! And if something happens with You-Know-Who on board, it’ll mean our hides. Assuming, of course, that we actually live through the encounter with that maverick herd of asteroids out there...somewhere.”

“Oh, Christ— ”

“Problems?” Cook stepped out from the shadows, and walked toward the small bridge. After a brief flash of panic at the prospect of having a senior line commander snooping around their bridge, relief flooded the faces of the young officers.

“Commodore Cook— !” gasped the navigator, an ensign on his first duty.

“We have a problem with the charts,” the pilot interrupted. Cook gave him a quick sizing glance. The lieutenant had a lone, dark blue duty stripe on his sleeve, showing a single tour of duty on a starship; his dark brown eyes were intelligent and intense. Though obviously concerned about his ship, he showed no signs of the numbing fear that often gripped junior officers when confronting a navigation problem alone, in the vastness of space.

“Nature and extent?” Cook’s commanding voice and gruff scowl immediately set the young blueshirts on the edge of their seats, concerned that the smallest mistake would become an indelible blot on their service records.

“The chart doesn’t conform to the observable cosmography,” the pilot replied, in his most objectively analytical tones. “Specifically, we seem to have missed a binary star system that’s on the map, directly on our course line. At present we can’t be certain where we are. The extent of the failure is unknown—and to be honest, Commodore, I cannot rule out human error as a contributing factor. But our orders are to maintain radio silence until the next checkpoint, so we can’t call and ask for directions.”

Cook moved some clutter from the auxiliary station and took a seat on the edge of the console, pretending not to notice the embarrassed glances exchanged by his young companions.

“Please...” The navigator started to rise from his station. Cook stopped him with a wave of his hand. The commodore glanced over the chart of the surrounding skies before bending over to look outside the ship through the forward window bay.

“You can’t really trust charts, you know,” he said absently, looking first ahead to port, then toward starboard, his brow furrowed in concentration. “At least not these charts. Actually, not the first charts of any new skies. They’re usually made in a hurry by some junior mapmaker and rushed to print before anyone checks them again.”

Cook stood and eased his way behind the station seats to the starboard side of the ship, where he peered through the porthole.

“Problem is,” he continued, “we need accurate charts, and we need them all yesterday. That’s an impossible order to fill, so don’t blame the chartmaker. Just don’t trust his work. Leastways, don’t bet your life on it.”

Cook turned and smiled wryly. “That’s why the Crutchtans will always have an advantage fighting in their own skies. They’ve had a millennium or two to iron out the wrinkles in their maps, while we’re left plodding through the heavens, hoping we don’t run into anything solid along our way. It may not prove decisive, but then a strategic advantage in war is often nothing but an accumulation of little edges, all added together.”

The navigator and pilot both nodded attentively. They both hoped that the Commodore would eventually get around to solving their navigation problem for them, but were too well disciplined to interrupt a senior officer in the middle of a lecture.

Especially this senior officer.

“Well then,” Cook said, his mood changing from philosophical to business-like. “I think I have this little muddle figured out.”

The pilot’s eyes widened; his navigator’s mouth opened, then closed in disbelief. Cook squinted as he looked out the forward observation window.

“Whoever scouted this sector obviously did so from that general direction,” the commodore pointed ahead and to port, “coming from Cosmic West. Probably made most of his readings visually, instead of relying on instruments.” He sat back down on the console.

“How do you know..., ” the pilot began.

“Comparing the chart with what we can see from here,” Cook continued, briefly scanning the chart again, “there seems to be a marked bias toward Galactic Center, toward our starboard beam. It’s variable, but definitely there. So as far as the missing star system is concerned— ”

He pointed over his shoulder. “There’s a single G-class star astern to starboard, another single-G ahead to port. Since Central Command has never lifted the standing order to note the location of all uncharted G-class star systems, this sort of sighting would have caught the eye of the dullest scout in the fleet. I suspect our chartmaker took a visual sighting from a few parsecs anticenter-east, mistook them for a single system, and took their mean distance for his positional reading.”

“But how— ”

“As far as our particular problem is concerned—and as a rule of thumb on any chart of unsettled skies, for that matter—I’d trust a hazard indicator before I’d trust the marked position of any star system. Since they rarely appear on your screens until it’s too late to avoid trouble, shoals are a menace to any ship in the vicinity, and a survey scout would place the shoals properly if he did anything right at all. So I suspect that the chart’s anticenter plottings are accurate enough. And if you ask my advice,” Cook smiled inwardly, knowing full well that anything he said would be taken for divine truth by his two young companions, “I’d assume that the shoals are right where the map says they are, but I’d still bear a tad to port and give them a wide berth, even if it does make our route a little less direct. Twelve points over 155 should do quite nicely, I would think. Just hold the course until the shoals show on your instruments, then make whatever adjustments you need.”

Both junior officers kept a stunned silence; Cook scratched his head and smiled sheepishly, trying his best not to look smug.

“Of course,” he said at last, “it’s not my ship, so it’s not really my decision.” He rose to his feet; the younger officers were too startled to move.

“Well, it’s been a long day, and I won’t trouble you any more. Maybe tomorrow, after we’ve passed the shoals, you can show me what this old escort can really do.” He chuckled gently, and started toward the ramp.

The lieutenant was the first to regain his wits.

“May I escort you back to your cabin, Commodore?”

Cook shook his head as he walked. “Achh—couldn’t get lost here if I tried. And I do have rather a lot on my mind. Thanks anyway.”

“Thank you, Commodore.”

Turning at the entrance ramp, Cook smiled wearily and nodded.

“Carry on, Mr. ....?”

“Cavanaugh, sir.”

“You run a fine ship, Mr. Cavanaugh. Carry on. Call, if I can be of any help. I used to run one of these ships, you know. But that was a long time ago.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Cook disappeared into the shadows, heading back to the interior of the ship. The two young control officers said nothing until they heard the commodore’s footsteps echo past the forward hold, heading aft toward the mess room. The instant they were sure he’d gone, Cavanaugh craned his neck looking out the forward observation window while his navigator ran a quick positional check on a half-dozen nearby stars.

“My God—all a point or two off…or three or four. Every one off to starboard, just like he said.

“Looks like a damn bunch of stars to me. Can’t tell one from another. Not without a map.”

“All that, from one glance. Didn’t even look at an instrument. Not a single fucking one.”

“Mike— ”

“I know – come to port— ”

“Heading 155, north 12 degrees.”

“Aye aye.”

“Christ.”

“You know, I’d heard stories...but I didn’t— ”

“Me neither.”

* * *

© 2011 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Opening Scene from Clouds of Darkness by Jeffrey Caminsky

Excerpted from Clouds of Darknessby Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or a bookstore near you.

(Readers from the United Kingdom and abroad can also find Clouds of Darkness on Amazon.co.uk )

Chapter 1

THE WAR WAS GOING BADLY, but War was an alien thing, never meant to go well for the g’Khruushtani.

On a great ship a few units away from the line of battle, as he had done each day for nearly two cycles, the Imperator’s Supreme Lord Commander sifted through reports from each of the divisions under his direction. The Imperial Flagship enjoyed all the comforts of a modern haven. On a nearby table, Ga’Glish had the most sumptuous meal prepared with the finest sauces that the Flagship’s culinary staff could devise. Bright murals danced across the walls, and an intricate tapestry of richest velvet cushioned the feet of all who approached his chambers. Yet amid the trappings of wealth and civilization, Ga’Glish found himself wishing for the simplicity he had known as a child. Alone with his thoughts and his work, he sat facing a table littered with charts and graphs. His mind ached for rest, for he had not slept in two days. The latest Terran offensive threatened to shatter their crumbling defenses. Along the entire front the Terrans advanced relentlessly, showing as little fear of death as of the g’Khruushtani.

This was the third such push in the past month. Each time, the Terrans pushed forward along a broad line of battle, intent on ripping holes in their enemy’s battle lines. Each time, they pushed the Forces of His Worthiness to the brink of disaster, stretching the g’Khruushtani defenses to their limit and beyond. And each time, the longnoses had been driven back, more by the force of sheer desperation than anything else.

But the strain was exacting its price. The Empire’s reserves were depleted, their ships falling like the petals of dayflowers. For the thousandth time since the war began, Ga’Glish sensed that all was lost, that the end was drawing near.

A great sadness swelled within his breast, a sadness he could share with no one. Ga’Glish rose and strode to the viewing panel on the west wall of his cabin, looking toward skies now under enemy control. The stars burned in the blackness like distant embers, their silence tormenting him with unanswered questions, mocking his small efforts to change the tide of Fortune. In his heart self-hatred burned with a royal flame.

Why did the Terrans not press their advantage, he wondered, his jaw locked in anger. Instead, the longnoses toyed with him, prolonging the agony of the g’Khruushtani ordeal. It was obvious that the barbarians had the power to obliterate anything in their path, yet they advanced cautiously, tentatively, as if fearing that the smallest misstep would change the currents of reality. They clung to the edge of the Great Cloud like children to their mother’s leg, though the g’Khruushtani had yet to find the strength to contain them in open skies. There, the hated Terran warships could form vast, charging phalanxes, powerful enough to shatter anything rising against them. And they had not yet unleashed their most potent force, the most evil weapon Terra possessed within her ranks and the one that Ga’Glish had given them so freely, like an innocent girl on her wedding night.

Though hailed as a hero in all corners of the Empire, Ga’Glish took no pride in anything he had done since the outbreak of hostilities. In the earliest days of the conflict he had squandered what he now knew was their best chance for victory. Without thinking, he had condemned his people to war with a foe as merciless as it was bloodthirsty. No matter how heroic they seemed to others, his efforts only postponed the wickedness looming in the emptiness of space.

He had come to hate himself for saving the ugly, vile creature that he now realized would prove the destruction of all he knew and loved. Killing the monster had been within his grasp. He chanced, on the eve of war, to have the monster at his mercy, and Fate had handed him the power to destroy the Evil One upon his own barest whim. It would have saved his people oceans of grief and suffering, and he could blame none but himself, and his naive sense of honor, for sparing both the Beast and his ghastly ship. It was the Terrans’ proudest engine of death, one which they had used but sparingly in the past cycle-and-a-half, as if sensing its importance and taking pains to preserve it for the conflict’s final phase.

Those who saw the monster’s ship and lived to tell spoke little of the grace and artistry of he who commanded it. They told instead of the fire in its wings, and the terror it brought in its wake. It would appear from the emptiness just when the battle seemed about to turn in favor of the g’Khruushtani, destroying all hope of victory and sending the Forces of His Worthiness into panic and despair. As for the Beast himself, he was the One feared throughout the Empire. His mere presence brought death and destruction to all that the Imperator’s subjects held dear. But to the longnoses—and to those who would gladly die to kill him—he was simply the One Called Khu’ukh.

Ga’Glish struck his fist against the wall. The pain only inflamed his anger. Again and again he pounded the wall, until his bloodied hand ached from the pain. Looking out onto the distant skies, hatred flaming in his soul, he vowed that he would see the longnoses driven from g’Khruushtani skies.

And he vowed to see the destruction of the One Called Khu’ukh, or to die in the attempt.

* * *

A FEW DAYS later, a slightly built youth walked nervously down the great hall of the Imperial Flagship. The wide, arching hallway reminded him of the grand palaces of the capital, and the aroma of morningsong blossoms filled his nostrils with the smells of spring, and his mind with memories of better days. He was a Small One, of common birth and low station, and so approached the Lord Commander’s quarters with trepidation. Ga’Glish was, after all, nephew to the First Minister and, if gossip¬mongers told the truth, a stern and demanding superior. Yet the last two cycles had seen changes sweeping through the Empire as never before. Even one such as he, without pedigree or connections, could be summoned to serve His Worthiness at levels unimaginable under the Old Regime. A dozen days earlier he had graduated with top honors from the newly constituted command school on the Planet Zha’Rabi. Now, he was about to meet the Lord Commander in person.

Laying his baggage sack on the floor, fa’Shenali of g’Khruushte paused to read a sign hanging on the wall. The directions here were as ponderous and indecipherable as the lectures of most of his professors, he thought. Anyone without advanced study in the science of cartography would find the labyrinth as impenetrable as the Zha’Rabine jungles.

“Subaltern fa’Shenali?”

Shenali turned his head to see one a little older than himself, clad in the purple sash and golden armbands of the Imperial Guardsmen. The Guardsman’s markings gave him the rank of subcommand¬er. From the officer’s arrogant smirk, the young subaltern surmised that this one was a senior staff aide to Ga’Glish, and doubtless from a royal family. The lad had seen the type before, and was unimpressed. The accident of birth often left those such as the subcommander with a heaven-endowed smugness. During the course of his studies Shenali had left dozens of this young one’s ilk foundering in his wake.

“I am fa’Shenali,” he replied with a bow.

“I am Va’Nazze, Chief of Protocol to the Lord Commander. His Lordship has asked me to escort you to his chambers.”

“He expected me to become lost, then? Hardly a vote of confidence.”

Va’Nazze smiled, but Shenali felt no humor in the words, nor warmth in the subcommander’s heart.

“The Flagship can be rather confusing, especially for newcomers. Follow me, please. The Lord Commander is waiting.”

Shenali followed Va’Nazze down the vast corridor, through the Engine Room Bypass, finally coming to a hallway marked “Command Center.” Soon they neared a large, semicircular doorway. Beyond the door, the young man could see hundreds of officers and soldiers, each scurrying madly from station to station.

“What is he like?” asked Shenali.

“I beg your pardon.”

“The Lord Commander—what is he like?”

Va’Nazze chuckled acerbically, taking no pains to mask the contempt he felt for the commoner now standing before the corridors of power.

“You shall know soon enough.”

“I have heard— ”

“His ways are not for you to judge, Small One,” Va’Nazze said sharply, through a mirthless smile. “Your role is not to question, but to serve.”

Resentment burned, then simmered in the subaltern’s heart, and the grandness of the Flagship soon passed unnoticed before his eyes. The two men walked the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

THE LORD COMMANDER’S chambers were the grandest the youth had ever seen, with carpets as plush as bedpillows, and art¬works and other relics of grandeur surpassed only by the private collections of royalty. The two sat on cushions as soft as air, and Shenali paid attention less to the regal furnishings than to the gruffness of his superior’s voice.

“You are not at all what I expected.”

Ga’Glish looked sternly at the newcomer.

“I am sorry, Lord Commander,” Shenali said, struggling to master his instinct to melt into nothingness. He was surprised when the Lord Commander started chuckling good-naturedly.

“No, it is I who must be sorry, One Called fa’Shenali, for my words did not convey my meaning. But you must admit that you do not look the part of a staff officer.”

The youth looked at himself: the markings on his armband show¬ed his lowly rank of Subaltern. His white sash showed his inexperience and lack of permanent assignment. Not stylish, perhaps, but military dress made him uncomfortable.

“I fail to see— ”

“You look rather like a shop clerk in a bookstore,” Ga’Glish smiled, humor radiating from his eyes like the warming sun of morning. “Hardly the sort to set the green blood of the g’Khruushtani to boiling.”

“If you are displeased, my Lord— ”

“We can get you properly attired,” Ga’Glish interrupted, silencing the young man with a wave of his hand, “for all the good it will do. Besides, I requested you myself, Subaltern, and not because of your pedestrian appearance.”

Shenali looked at the Lord Commander warily.

“I sense your disquiet,” Ga’Glish said, with a regal blandness. “But remember that I am of Gal’Shenga’s blood. And for good or ill, I share much of the First Minister’s contempt for polite society. You will find many without pedigree in my service, fa’Shenali. And you will find that like my uncle, I reward ability, rather than rank.”

“I am grateful, Lord Commander.”

“I prefer my officers to express gratitude through their work, One Called fa’Shenali. And I am afraid that your task will be among the most difficult of any on this ship.”

As Shenali kept guard on his thoughts, panic started to grow inside him. Ga’Glish rose from the floor and walked toward the far entrance to the drawing room, toward the large situation room beyond. Turning to see that his new subaltern was still seated, he beckoned for the young man to follow.

“Here.”

As Shenali neared his side, Ga’Glish gestured grandly, the sweep of his arm encompassing the entire command hub, his lordly speech honed by dint of frequent repetition.

“This is where the fate of our people will be decided. It will be determined by all of us, fa’Shenali of g’Khruushte, by our dedication and resolve. And it will require a willingness to endure all manner of privation to defeat the dark tide that threatens us.”

“Yes, my Lord.” The young man felt a wave of strong emotion flooding his mind as his Lord Commander spoke. Like others before him, he was becoming one with the task before them, willing to give his life and his soul freely for his people and his Imperator.

“We must know our enemy, Subaltern. We must know how the longnoses think and breathe, how they love and how they reason—if we deign to call it reason.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“I have assigned analysts to study all the Terran commanders, fa’Shenali, in the belief that if we cannot yet match Terran power, we can still out-think them.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Ga’Glish turned to face his new staff aide. Shenali could see the fire and determination in his commander’s eyes. Such a fire would soon burn within himself just as brightly.

“I hear that you were the brightest student in your class, One Called fa’Shenali. A student with a gift for sensing enemy movements and an ability to detect and exploit small changes in enemy tactics.”

Shenali’s heart cringed. Standing before the One on Whom All Depended, he was less confident of his abilities than at any time since his first day at the war college, when he faced the cruelties and taunts hurled at him by sons of the nobility.

“I must confess certain failings— ”

Ga’Glish dismissed his remarks with a wave of his hand.

“Yes, yes—we all have our failings, Shenali,” said the Lord Commander, using the familiar form of his newest subordinate’s name for the first time. “Even the Terrans have their failings.”

“Some more than others, Lord Commander.”

Ga’Glish chuckled darkly. When he spoke again, it was in the hushed tones of conspiracy. Yet his words carried a grim fascination, which fa’Shenali could sense as clearly as the stars burning in the blackness around them.

“Oh, yes—and you will learn that the Beast can be most elusive, Shenali. Yet of all the Terrans, his is the mind I know best, for it is the one Terran mind I have touched. He is an animal—wild and frenzied, devouring all he sees like a starving predator. Yet his mind is probing and curious, desperate in its quest to understand. We feel his power at every turn, for he, as much as the Terran death ships, dictates the course of the war. For all his barbarism, his is a stronger, more majestic mind than any I sense around me. And he is by far the most dangerous enemy we confront. He once fooled me into thinking him civilized, and his simian capacity for deceit has brought us all to the brink of disaster. If he comes again within our power, he shall not escape me a second time.”

“What do you want of me, my Lord?”

The mind of Ga’Glish relaxed, as it came to focus upon more immediate concerns. “Your assignment, fa’Shenali, is to study the Beast—to study the One Called Khu’ukh. Follow his movements, as well as our monitors can detect, and probe whatever you can find that reveals his thoughts or his moods. You must learn to understand him—how his mind functions, how he thinks, how he will react. You must come to know him as you would your own brother, and sense his thoughts as if he were your son.

“Most importantly, you must find us a way to stop him.”

“I shall do my best, my Lord.”

Ga’Glish laughed without humor; the young aide could feel the bitter truth beneath his Lord Commander’s words.

“Our survival may rest upon whether your best is good enough, Subaltern fa’Shenali,” he said. “I shall give whatever help I can provide. Go refresh yourself, now. You will start work tomorrow. I expect the data from the Grulanashi Campaign to arrive in the next few days, and you must master what little biographical information we have on the Beast before you begin.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“And fa’Shenali?”

“Lord Commander?”

“Welcome to the Flagship.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”



* * *

SOME DISTANCE TO the East, where the skies were still free and war had yet to come, work was proceeding feverishly.

“Rest period—cease work and relax.”

As the groupleader repeated his command to the work squadron, ls’Shen of Gr’Shuna breathed deeply, his gasps sounding dully within his helmet. Countless stars adorned the black, airless sky overhead. Coldness pressed upon his outer covering like the specter of death, but within his pressurized clothing all was comfort, for he could adjust the temperature and air to the settings best suiting him.

“Shen— !”

The young man turned to face Shl’Lanasha, his workmate and elder. Like most men in the Shunnite Sector, commoner and noble alike, the two had been impressed into the service of His Worthiness. But they were lucky, if Luck still visited the troubled worlds of the g’Khruushtani. They were not consigned to stop the Ter¬rans with their bodies, as little more than fuel for the war machines. They were assigned as builders—here, close to home, helping to erect the defenses that would shield their homeland, if the Barbarians succeeded in overrunning the precarious interstellar defenses of His Worthiness. Then they would be the last bastion left standing against the Terrans. But such thoughts belonged to a different time; now was the time for thoughts of rest.

Shl’Lanasha sat down on a nearby rock, and ls’Shen sat beside him. Shen could hear his comrade panting heavily over the intercom. Though the lifeless world’s small mass made them stronger than if they had been walking the sands of home, they tended to compensate by overexerting themselves, and the final result was the same: exhaustion.

Shl’Lanasha smiled and motioned toward the horizon. A large, bluish star was rising in the east—or was it a star at all?

“She rises, Shen,” breathed Lanash. “Like the Spring, she rises even in the midst of despair.”

Ls’Shen looked again, and then he knew. It was home: it was Planet Gr’Shuna, nearly as distant from them now as their hopes were from thoughts of rest. But as it rose above the horizon, his heart filled with renewed hope and determination. The Terrans were strong, but the g’Khruushtani could be stubborn, and their cause was a just one. Though the heavens’ silence echoed through eternity, the Universe could not be so cruel as to let civilization fall to the forces of barbarism.

Soon, a sharp command called them to resume their work. The defense station would be large, and its guns would be strong. If one day the war came to Gr’Shuna, they would be ready




© 2011 by Jeffrey Caminsky

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