Rogue Galaxy Episode 2: Command Material Read online

  Rogue Galaxy, Episode 2: Command Material

  Rogue Galaxy, Volume 2

  J. Boyett

  Published by J. Boyett, 2016.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  ROGUE GALAXY, EPISODE 2: COMMAND MATERIAL

  First edition. February 12, 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 J. Boyett.

  ISBN: 978-1519970121

  Written by J. Boyett.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Rogue Galaxy | Episode 2: Command Material

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  MAILING LIST

  EXCERPT FROM THE UNKILLABLES

  Rogue Galaxy

  Episode 2: Command Material

  For more by J. Boyett, please sign up for my mailing list at www.jboyett.net

  Cover by Brent Nichols of www.coolseriescovers.com

  One

  Captain Farraday, Lieutenant-Commander Miller, and the xenolinguist Lieutenant Richard Cosway followed their guide Shinjo through the halls, sections, and neighborhoods of Bayawah Spaceport. After the Hanging Gardens, the Apothecaries’ Arcade, and the Tech Bazaar, the Galaxy crewmen began to wonder if the place would ever run out of things to show them. It wasn’t the size that surprised them—the station’s shockingly huge dimensions had been plain enough from outside, when they’d docked with the umbilical corridor extending out to meet them. The station dwarfed the Galaxy, as it did the other couple dozen ships docked there.

  Including even the Imperial Marines Dreadnaught, now calling itself a ship of the Provisional Marines. Despite all the assurances of safety Bayawah could offer, nobody aboard Galaxy could look at that ship, the Galaxy’s former comrade turned deadly enemy, without a shiver.

  As Shinjo walked them through literally miles of the spaceport’s interior, Farraday wondered what the odds were of them happening to bump into Ferdinand Chavez, the Provisional’s envoy. Judging by the bustling crowds in the Apothecaries’ Arcade and the Tech Bazaar, not very good. The crews of the visiting starships made up only a minority of the spaceport’s cosmopolitan population, he knew—the vast majority of these alien folks made their home here. Many were born and died upon the behemoth space station, without ever setting foot upon a planet.

  They were walking along a wide corridor, basically an indoor boulevard. Shops and apartments were set into the bulkheads, and despite the milling crowd there was enough space for the three officers and their guide not to have any trouble sticking together. Shinjo led them to yet another bay window set into the bulkhead to show them yet another amazing view of the station’s interior. This time it was a panorama looking down upon the Hanging Gardens that they’d passed through half an hour ago. Farraday found himself getting dizzy trying to keep the station layout clear in his head; he hadn’t even realized they’d ascended a level.

  Shinjo stood aside and held his hand out to the view. The gesture was almost that of a salesman trying to get them to buy a piece of real estate, but otherwise there was nothing sleazy or phony about his manner. Of course, this was the first time Farraday had ever met a member of Shinjo’s species, so he couldn’t be sure he was reading the guy’s facial expressions and body language correctly. Still, he reminded Farraday of nothing so much as a young monk, with his simple eggshell-colored robe, his calm demeanor, and his ghost of a distant, peaceful smile. On the smooth, hairless yellow skin of his face were a complicated set of abstract black patterns—Farraday couldn’t tell if they were tattoos, makeup, or part of the natural skin pigmentation of his species.

  The three humans dutifully stood at the window. But no matter how legitimately impressive the view was, the men were beginning to have trouble feigning interest. Miller wasn’t even bothering to try anymore—he just stood with his arms crossed, glowering at the lush, exotic plant life below, and the aliens frolicking or picnicking there. Cosway was a perpetual bundle of nerves anyway, and Farraday thought he was frustrated by not yet having had the chance to use his expertise—so far they had all been speaking Bahng’Doh, which was more or less the galactic lingua franca. Shinjo spoke it, and naturally all Fleet officers were required to know it fluently.

  Farraday was just impatient to meet with the Provisional envoy and get it over with. He’d known Ferdinand Chavez for years. When Farraday thought about it, it wasn’t such a big surprise that he and Chavez had officially wound up enemies.

  He smiled at Shinjo, trying to express himself more graciously and diplomatically than his sour, fuming Security head did. “My crewmen and I greatly appreciate the tour, Shinjo,” he said. “And we look forward to exploring Bayawah more fully, once our business is done. But for now, perhaps we could see our quarters?”

  Shinjo’s smile deepened. “My apologies, Captain, I fear I have exhausted you, in my enthusiasm for my home and my desire to make you welcome. And in my desire to learn about you, since you humans are rare in this section of the galaxy. Please forgive me.” Shinjo closed his remarks with a bow.

  Farraday returned the bow, though he discovered he wasn’t quite flexible enough to bow as low as their guide. Cosway bowed too, and so did Miller, though Farraday thought he did so a bit impatiently.

  Shinjo started to lead them toward an intersection in the boulevard-corridor. “I had planned to show you our Casino next, as it’s a popular spot with our guests. I understand that you would prefer to go straight to your quarters and probably are in no humor for gaming. Unfortunately, given the itinerary I concocted for our tour, the most direct route from here to your quarters passes through the Casino. Have you any objections to a quick stroll through it?”

  Farraday exchanged a glance with Miller. The other man gave him a look that made it seem almost as if he could shrug with his eyes alone. If it was the shortest way to their rooms, why skip it?

  Once again, they pushed off through the crowd, following Shinjo. The surrounding aliens were mostly oblivious to them—when they did attract notice, it was because they were with Shinjo. To judge from the way people would occasionally bow or otherwise do obeisance to him, Shinjo was recognized as a high-level spaceport functionary, either because of his robes or his facial markings or maybe because he was just personally renowned.

  Farraday took note of some of the more exotic sentients as they passed by. The fact that he wasn’t more excited and curious about them was a true testament to how distracted and preoccupied he was by the upcoming meeting.

  The corridor-boulevard they were walking down ended at what looked like a tunnel of flashing neon—the crowd there was thicker.

  Farraday noted with interest, and annoyance, that throughout the known galaxy casinos seemed to follow the same basic format. Perhaps whatever primeval mystical force had spread the seeds of supernatural meta-species like werewolves and vampires throughout the cosmos had also spread the basic layout and decorating ideas for gambling establishments.

  Once inside, the crowd wasn’t too bad, and people continued to defer to Shinjo when they noticed him, nodding a bow and stepping aside. It took a moment for the humans to get their bearings, what with all the mirrors and flashing colored lights, but they soon noted with relief that the chamber given over to the gambling hall wasn’t very deep, though its breadth was such that it was hard to make out its side walls in either direction. They were able to cross the room in less than five minutes.

  Along the way was a group of four aliens sitting around a table ov
er their drinks. It was impossible for the humans to read their facial expressions, what with their bulbous black eyes, blue skin, and the spray of thick squid-like tentacles bursting out from where noses and mouths should be. But to judge from the way they slumped over their drinks, they seemed like a dejected bunch.

  Confirming this, Shinjo turned to Cosway and said, “Perhaps you would later like to practice your xenolinguistic skills with those gentlemen, Mr. Cosway—they’ve recently suffered a disappointment, and I’m sure they would welcome the distraction.” Like the gracious host that he was, Shinjo wanted to insure that the quiet, nervous Cosway felt included in the conversation.

  The three men weren’t particularly interested in conversing, though; Farraday was hoping to finish the welcome-wagon formalities soon, so he could have time left over to psyche himself up for the meeting with Chavez.

  They arrived at the exit (or the other entrance, depending how one looked at it—it was just as crowded as the doorway on the other side), and stepped back out into a boulevard-corridor that looked a lot like the one they’d left. Maps of the spaceport were posted at frequent intervals in the corridors, labeled in Bahng’Doh and what Farraday supposed were other popular local languages. Shinjo showed them to their quarters. They were snug, and a little dimmer than humans usually liked, but comfortable enough. The captain had been given the luxury of his own room, whereas Cosway and Miller were to bunk together.

  After Miller had performed a quick, discreet security scan, Farraday absently scratched his left cheek, which was their agreed signal that he wanted to be left alone with their guide. Miller clapped a hand on Cosway’s shoulder with unaccustomed camaraderie and led him next door to their quarters.

  Shinjo was savvy enough not to leave yet. He waited behind as the other two officers left. Then he and the captain stood smiling politely at each other for a long preliminary moment.

  Finally the captain began. “Shinjo, I’d like to thank you again for your kind hospitality in showing us around your home.”

  Shinjo gave yet another light bow—he had an endless supply of them, after all. “The pleasure is mine. We here at Bayawah are always fascinated to make the acquaintance of visitors to our humble sliver of the galaxy. Particularly when it seems they may be staying in the neighborhood a long while.”

  “As I said, it’s appreciated. And I hope that the Bayawah leadership has been just as solicitous of my counterpart, Commodore Chavez? I would hate to think I’d been shown any favoritism.”

  “One of my fellow functionaries, Yfir, is with him as we speak. Captain, we here at Bayawah do not take sides. This spaceport’s policy of neutrality goes back centuries—that is a matter of historical record.”

  Farraday wondered if Chavez’s quarters were nearby, in the same local section of the station. The idea was unsettling. There was a small table with two chairs—Farraday sat in one, smilingly gesturing Shinjo to do the same. The functionary did so, but only after a brief hesitation, as if he found it vaguely improper.

  Farraday said, “I just want to make sure your mind is at ease about us. I know that you are obliged to consider the possibility that, as newcomers to this sector, we represent a threat to the local balance. But I assure you, we do not. Our exploratory charter, and our orders from my superiors in the Fleet, are all non-invasive. And you don’t need to worry that we’re going to bring our war to your doorstep. The Provisional Government strongly favors a stay-at-home, Earth-based policy—that’s part of what the war was about. That’s why we feel safe in this sector, so far from our homeworld. The Provisional won’t be sending many warships this far out, to hunt us down and disturb the peace.”

  Farraday realized that he really did want Shinjo’s mind to be at ease about him, and not just for the sake of the ship. The guy just seemed so wise, that a part of Farraday craved his approval. It was silly, but there it was.

  Shinjo smiled a sad, apologetic smile. In his soft and polite voice, he said, “Yet I must point out, Captain, that there is a Provisional warship, docked at our station at this very moment. And I think we both can agree that it would not have strayed so far from home, had you not come first and had it not come seeking after you.”

  “True. But I think you’ll find that they won’t often be sending their big guns so far afield. And you don’t have to worry about any violence while we’re all here. My crew and I have sworn by the True Names of our hyperdrive spirits not to break the cease-fire, and Commodore Chavez and his people have done the same.” At least, Farraday sure as hell hoped they had. And he hoped the Provisional’s spell-casters had had no more luck than the Fleet’s in figuring out a way to break such an oath, without crippling their faster-than-light capacity. He worried that Chavez, with his rank, might have access to the True Names of the Imperial ships’ spirits (or, rather, ships of the former Empire, if Farraday wanted to be bleak and defeatist about it), including the Galaxy. Not even the captain was privy to that sort of data about his own ship, and there was no telling what an array of override power it might bestow.

  Shinjo continued to smile that regretful little smile, seemingly not so much at anything particular the captain said, as at the futile foibles of all sentient life. “Never would I imply that you or your crew have any intention to break your oaths, Captain. Yet the fact remains that, even if it is through no fault of your own, you humans have carried your war to our very doorstep.... In any case, yes, you were correct. Much as it gives me joy to share my home with an honored guest, I have not spent so much time with you merely to be kind. Yours is a race unfamiliar to us. Your flight to our sector on the heels of your conflict at home brings unknown forces into play. And we must needs learn about you.”

  “Naturally. I can only reassure you that we intend no disturbance whatsoever. We hope only to fulfill our charter as non-invasively as possible, till the rest of our Fleet emerges from the Bubble of Fakkalohn. Then we’ll rejoin them, to resume our fight far from here, in the vicinity of Earth. After that I’ll send you the occasional postcard if you like, but otherwise you won’t ever have to hear from us again.”

  Shinjo’s sad smile got sadder than ever. “Yes, the Bubble of Fakkalohn. You know, I suppose, that the Bubble is an enchantment that it is passingly difficult to control? It should be used only in a desperate hour, for none can predict exactly when it shall release those who enter it for refuge.”

  “Yeah, well, the hour was pretty desperate. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure we’re square. And that we know what to expect from each other.”

  “As I say, Captain, I do trust you when you say that you plan to keep the oath you swore upon docking. And I also believe that, generally speaking, your intentions are more peaceful than not.” Shinjo stood, gathering up his voluminous robes. “My only concern,” he mournfully added, “is that one is so often called upon to act contrary to one’s best intentions.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” said Farraday.

  Two

  Commander Valerie Blaine, left in command of the Galaxy, couldn’t stop eyeing the Imperial Marines dreadnaught on her tac display, as if she had a superstitious fear that, the moment she quit double-checking, it would begin to power up its cannons. (Even though the ship was held by her enemy now, she refused to start referring to it as a Provisional dreadnaught, rather than an Imperial one.)

  Well, they seemed to be behaving themselves. Blaine turned away from the tac and back to the bridge crew. Everything was running smoothly—maybe especially smoothly, thanks to the tension caused by that looming dreadnaught.

  This parley had seemed like a worse and worse idea, the closer they got to the rendezvous point. She didn’t see what there was to talk about. Once the rest of the Fleet came back out of the Bubble of Fakkalohn, they would go back to war against the Provisional, and that was that. Meeting with the enemy like this might give the crew the morale-corroding idea that the command officers were hedging their bets against the possibility that the rest of the Fleet was never going to emerge from the Bu
bble, at all.... Of course, that was a possibility, but Blaine didn’t think they should be officially acknowledging it yet.

  It also made her antsy to have the captain on Bayawah like this. By rights, the commanding officer shouldn’t be risking himself on away missions. The massive, neutral space station was the safest spot in the quadrant for this kind of meeting, she supposed. They certainly couldn’t risk sending the captain into the belly of the enemy ship itself. Nor could they afford the still greater risk of inviting Commodore Chavez onto the Galaxy—having invited him aboard, they would be limited in what actions they could take against him without violating the guest rights, which some of their resident spirits got persnickety about. Moreover, a guy who’d once been as high as the Commodore in the leadership of the Empire might know the True Names of many of the Galaxy’s spirits, and with such knowledge he could possibly take effective command of the ship. Blaine had tentatively suggested that they send someone else in the captain’s place, but Farraday would have none of it. He was right, she supposed; it probably was not a role that should be left to underlings.

  Besides, Blaine had gotten the distinct impression that he wanted to go over there himself because he had history with Chavez. As if he didn’t want the other man to think Farraday was afraid to face him.

  Blaine watched as Science Officer Lieutenant Jennifer Summers left her station to hand a tablet to Helmsman Beach, containing an analysis of massive bodies in the surrounding five parsecs. Speaking of history, she thought, as she observed their cool politeness, and Summers’s embarrassment. Two weeks ago, Summers had changed into a werewolf when they’d unexpectedly come out of hyperspace right smack in front of a moon lit head-on by the system’s sun. Beach had tried to kill her with a blaster before she could wreak havoc on the bridge, but thanks to the captain’s intervention he’d only managed to blow out the helm controls. Summers had gotten loose in the ship’s Thompson Tubes and much chaos had ensued, including an attack on one of the Security men, Eban, which had left him in a half-rabid state that continued even now, and had nearly ended with Lieutenant Summers, Captain Farraday, and Ensign Dobbler all getting blasted out into the vacuum. Everything had turned out more or less okay, but Beach and Summers still were not exactly cozy again.