Wives and Mothers

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

From Chapter 19

* * *

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

“My Lady?”

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

“Yes, Shendi, what is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, Shenda, bring him to me.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

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

“He is safe?”

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

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

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

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

“There is a reason.”

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

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

“And what of Glishek. Does he still— ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gal’Fondro bowed. “Then I shall be— ”

“Yes, I know. Attending to details.

“As in the past— ”

“ — so through the morrow.”

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

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

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


© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Intrigue on Planet Gr'Shuna

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

 From Chapter 19

* * *

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

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

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

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

“Curiosity can be a virtue, Drubid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

The Crisis

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

Chapter 19

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Grand One.”

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

“No, Grand One.”

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

“Yes, Grand One.”

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

“Yes, Grand One.”

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

“No, Grand One.”

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

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




© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Storms Amid the Stars

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

From Chapter 18

* * *

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

“Mr. Ashton?”

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

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

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

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

“Miss Palmer?”

“Weapons blanked; running shields holding steady.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, sir.”

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

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Excerpts from The Star Dancers: The Natural

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

From Chapter 18

“Whooshh! Whooshh!”

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

“Andrew , there’s no need to shout.”

“But he’ll— ”

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

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

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

“Thank God.”

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

“Pop, please— ”

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

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

“But—but Daddy!”

“Scooter.”

“Oh, he’ll be all right, Andrew.”

“Pop— ”

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

“Yeah!”

“Pop!”

“You having fun, Roscoe?”

“Lots of fun.”

“You like it up here?”

“Yeah! Like a woller coaster!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

“Thanks a lot, Pop.”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

The boy nodded.

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

“Pop— ”

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

“That way,” said Roscoe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s impossible.”

“What is?”

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

“Pop—what is it?”

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

“What?”

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

“Impossible.”

They looked at the course indicator.

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

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

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Excerpts from The Star Dancers: Ties of Blood

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

From Chapter 16

* * *

“Advance.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are aware of events in the Capitol?”

“My Ministry keeps me well-informed.”

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

Ga’Glish nodded.

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

“I propose nothing beyond— ”

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

“But Gal’Shenga— ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am listening, Old Friend.”

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

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

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

“I am still listening.”

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

“This is tedious, but I listen still.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fondro— ” Ga’Glish began.

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

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


© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Excerpts from The Star Dancers: The Staff Meeting

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

From Chapter 13

* * *

“And besides, just where do you think all these lizards are going to come from? Shangri-la? Or maybe they’ll just materialize out of thin air. Or from the Cloud itself. My God, what nonsense!”

Embarrassed, the briefing officer shifted uncomfortably on her feet. Her pretty young face blushed brightly, as if her aborted report on alien ship movements had been the cause of this latest eruption. Beside her at the lectern, just under the viewing screen. stood Commodore Wright, her face burning with disgust. Silence had fallen over the rest of the starship captains, assembled in the main auditorium for their weekly briefing. They already knew the dangers of trying to interfere. The kind of exchange they were witnessing had become all too familiar.

“I don’t know, Commodore McIntyre,” Cook replied sharply, standing at his seat on the left aisle. “If I did, there would be no need for this discussion, and you could spare us the witless attempts at pointed rhetoric. In the meantime, it seems to me that we would do well to start studying defenses against an enemy flanking movement, if only because the Crutchtans are unlikely to view their tactical situation as narrowly as CosGuard’s finest.”

McIntyre’s face seethed with anger. A small man, his forceful personality and booming voice filled the hall. He was used to dominating these strategy meetings and did not take kindly to newcomers challenging him in his own domain—especially loudmouth rookies who hadn’t learned their place, or how to hold their tongues.

“That’s absurd, Cook—that’s truly absurd.”

“ ‘Fools see absurdity in their own reflected folly,’ ” Cook said, quoting a line from an old Isitian master. “What I say may well be wrong,” he explained, seeing his comment evoke nothing but confusion on the faces of everyone around him, “but it’s hardly absurd.”

“Gentlemen..., ” Wright began, as calmly as she could.

“Unlike some acquaintances of mine, I don’t pretend to know all the answers,” Cook continued, undaunted. “But I do know that knowledge rarely comes from ridiculing people who ask questions. If war does come, and we don’t knock out the enemy with the first blow, we’ll be scrambling all over creation, trying to shore up our failing flanks. In my humble opinion, that is where we should expect them to attack because that is precisely where we’re weakest. No matter how strong we are elsewhere, those two starbases—117 and 121—are the keys to front. That much should be clear to anyone who can read a starmap.”

“Rubbish!”

“Gentlemen— ”

“If we don’t reinforce them, we may well find ourselves on the short end of the war’s decisive battle. Unless, of course, the war turns into something of a rout. But then that’s hardly an assumption that should guide our strategic planning, so it’s largely beside the point.”

“Gentlemen, please....”

“They’ve no bases, no forces, no lines of supply, and no means of mounting an attack. And you’ve decided that it’s all immaterial, because the lizards can suspend the laws of logistics with no more than a wave of the hand.”

“Gentlemen!”

Cook pointed an angry finger at his antagonist. “Mark my words, McIntyre—though actually, I doubt we’ll ever really know, come to think of it. It would take a war to prove me right, and from what I’ve seen the aliens are far too civilized to let that happen. But mark my words, anyway— ”

“Cook—you’re an idiot! A windbag and an idiot!”

“All right, that’s quite enough!” Commodore Wright raged, her eyes on fire. “I’ll see you two right here—and right now. Everyone else is dismissed. The next pre-maneuvers briefing will be posted on the Board.”

Slowly, the two combatants sank into their chairs. The other starship captains started filing out of the auditorium, their feet shuffling noisily. Occasionally, one would lean over to give a word of encouragement to McIntyre while passing the senior wing commander’s seat. At last the great room emptied, until just Cook, the two commodores, and the pretty young briefing officer were left. Neither Cook nor McIntyre had budged from his seat, placing them on opposite sides of the room and making it impossible for Wright to see both of them at the same time.

“I think our Isitian friend has been sniffing something besides daisies,” sneered McIntrye. Before Cook could respond, the base commander erupted.

“I am sick and tired of this constant bickering!” she flamed, slapping the podium with the small stack of papers she held in her hand. “The two of you come down here—right in front of me—right in the center. Right here! Right now! I’m not about to get a stiff neck trying to yell at both of you. Come on...come...as in—Now!”

Reluctantly, the two men rose from their seats and ambled to the front row center. Petulantly, they kept two seats between them. Each held his tongue as Commodore Wright, index finger wagging furiously, addressed them much as a schoolteacher would scold the class troublemakers.

“There is no excuse for it. None at all! I won’t have my wing commanders at each other’s throats. I won’t stand for it, do you hear me? And I don’t care who’s to blame. You’re both acting like spoiled brats. Now you don’t have to like each other, or talk to each other. In fact, I don’t care if I hear another word spoken out loud by either one of you. Ever! And I suspect I speak for the entire contingent here at Looking Glass! But this—gentlemen—is the last time that you two will disrupt a staff meeting.”

Wright strode to the front of the podium, and spoke in a taut voice that admitted no discussion. Her angry eyes shifted from Cook to McIntrye and back again.

“From now on, the two of you will show each other the same courtesy that you expect from the rest of the staff. In the privacy of your own quarters you may insult each other to your heart’s content. But in public, you will not show the slightest hint of your differences—not on my base—not on your own ships. Not anywhere in my command. Not anywhere in the whole of Terra! And if either of you so much as thinks of starting up again, I’ll have your tanned hide hanging from my wall so fast you won’t even know it’s gone.

“Am I clear?”

Both men nodded.

“Am I clear?” Wright fumed, glaring sternly at the young Isitian.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“McIntyre?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Wright gathered her briefing papers and angrily stuffed them into her briefcase. “You two are confined to this auditorium for the next ten minutes. You can use it to talk over your differences, or you can sit in silence like a pair of stubborn jackasses and not say a word. I really don’t care, as long as I hear nothing more about it.

“Follow me, Lieutenant. Let’s leave the children alone for a while.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The two women walked up the aisle toward the door. Soon the two wing commanders were alone with their thoughts, their eyes drifting everywhere around the room except toward the figure sitting two seats down. And for ten minutes—to the second—the only sound in the hall was the soft hiss of the ventilator, echoing in the stillness.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky