After Earth: A Perfect Beast (12 page)

“What else?”

“We’ve been talking with the Savant’s team,” said a third officer, “about ceding satellite monitoring to
them except for periodic checks. That’ll save us on personnel.”

“By how much?” a fourth officer asked with an edge to his voice. “And how long will it be before we’re relieved of satellite duty completely?”

“He’s right,” said the second officer. “You give the Primus a hand, he’ll take an arm. He won’t stop till we’re too small to matter.”

Wilkins held her tongue. This was what it felt like, she guessed, to be nibbled to death by a thousand insects. A
layer at a time gets stripped away until I wake up one day and there’s no one left to command
.

But she didn’t have a choice. If she was going to preserve the Rangers, she had to do this. “Next?” she said, and waited to hear the next cost-cutting suggestion.

Looking at his sister, Frank Raige was reminded of what his mother had been like when she was alive.

Rosaria Raige had been a slender woman with bright blue eyes and auburn hair, just like Frank’s older sister, Theresa. She had been quiet and thoughtful, just like Theresa. And like Theresa, she had been a voice of spirituality in the family.

An unwelcome voice at times but one that none of them would dare deny: not Frank’s father when he was alive; not Frank’s younger brother, Torrance; and not Frank himself, even when he was old enough to have his own family.

It was that last quality that came to Frank’s mind as he met Theresa’s gaze across a scarred wooden table in an old-fashioned Irish tavern called Tir Na Nog. “Bad day?” he echoed. “These days, they’re all bad.”

His sister, who was still wearing her brown augur robes, looked sympathetic.
Just like Mom
, he thought. “Sorry,” she said.

They had been close as kids despite all their obvious differences. Frank was tall and broad where Theresa
was petite. He had been rough and tumble where she was reserved. But separated only by a couple of years and older than Torrance by half a dozen, they had been coconspirators growing up, most notably in the “Frankie Has Run Away from Home” caper, in which his sister swore she had seen him take off for the mountains when he had been hiding in the broom closet all along.

Unfortunately, they weren’t coconspirators anymore. “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “You’re not the one bad-mouthing the Rangers on the vid.”

But the Primus was, now that he had made it clear he was siding with Trey Vander Meer. Frank left that part out.

Theresa patted his hand. “I know. That seems to be all anyone wants to talk about.”

“I’d rather it be about who serves the better sandwich, us or New Earth City. Or some hybrid flower that fights chromosome damage like the one that engineer came up with last year. Anything but the Rangers.”

Theresa took a sip from her cactus ale. That was one thing Frank and his sister still had in common—a love of good brews—and Tir Na Nog had as good a beer list as anyone this side of Earth.

“I understand,” she said. “But we’re all in the public eye, aren’t we? Even augurs get their share of criticism.”

Not really
, he thought. “Vander Meer’s not just in the public eye. He’s in the public ear.”

“He’s got a right to say what he wants,” Theresa reminded him.

“Except we listen even when we should know better.” He looked to a waitress passing by with a tray and three glasses, each one beaded with perspiration and topped with sudsy foam. “Are we crazy?” he asked her on a whim.

She flashed a smile and said, “No more than the other customers. Get you a refill?”

“Not me,” Theresa said.

“I’d like one,” said Frank. He drained the last of his beer and passed the waitress his empty mug.

“Do you think Wilkins will give in?” his sister asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Mainly because he hadn’t asked. And he wouldn’t. Wilkins could handle the situation without any help from him.

“What about the augury?” Frank asked. “What’s the drone?”

Theresa seemed to hesitate. But then, his sister wasn’t one for confrontation. But if she didn’t want to answer, it meant the colony’s priests had turned against the Rangers, too, just like their Primus.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“Frankie,” Theresa protested, “it’s not a simple answer. Of course there are some who agree with Vander Meer. But not everybody.”

Frank looked at his sister, as much an augur as any who had ever taken vows, and still couldn’t believe their father had allowed her to take her life in that direction. Joshua Raige had still been the Prime Commander when Theresa had sat him down one night after dinner and gently explained why she had decided to become an augur.

Joshua Raige had expected all three of his children to join him in the “family business.” But Theresa was firm in her resistance to the idea. She didn’t have the instincts to be a soldier, she said. She was made for more spiritual pursuits.

Bitterly disappointed, Frank’s father had blamed his wife for their daughter’s decision. In fact, it came close to breaking up their marriage. On his deathbed, Joshua Raige had said he accepted Theresa for who she was, but Frank never believed he meant it.

“Frank?” Theresa said, bringing him out of his reverie.

“Sorry,” he said, focusing on her again. “I was—”

“I
know
what you were doing. It’s not the first time
I’ve seen that look in your eye. You’re thinking about Dad and what he thought about my joining the augury.”

“Here’s your refill,” the waitress said.

As she breezed by, she plunked down Frank’s beer.
None too soon
, he thought. He could buy time by taking a swig before he responded to his sister’s observation.

“I was,” he said finally, putting his beer down on the table. “To be blunt, he wouldn’t have liked Vander Meer any more than I do. And he wouldn’t have liked any Primus who stood with Vander Meer.”

Theresa nodded. “Probably not. But he’s our Primus. And as an augur, I’m bound to look to him for spiritual guidance.”

There was a moment of silence between them. An uncomfortable silence. Then Theresa asked, “So what’s happening with my nephew?”

He managed something like a smile. “Conner could be better. But he’ll get the hang of it. As Torrance likes to say, it’s in the blood.”

“Would you like me to talk with him?” Theresa offered.

“Not necessary,” Frank said, maybe a little too quickly.

And they sat there, together in some ways yet so far apart in others.

The High Minister awakens and is—to some degree—surprised. When he had settled into his sleep pod for his embarkation on this great adventure, he had considered the possibility that he might never awaken from his forced slumber.

Warlord Knahs, as far as the High Minister was concerned, was perfectly capable of sabotaging the sleep chambers of him, his nest brother … indeed, just about anyone who posed a threat to his ambitions, whatever they might be.

Yet here is the Minister, hale and hearty. And he senses the stirring of his nest brother as well a short distance away.

The sleep pod seeps open. Mist wafts from it, and the Minister is jolted as he feels the warm air from the ship’s atmosphere mixing with the cold in every part of his body. He stretches, shivers, and then braces himself as he emerges from the pod. He extends one clawed foot, then another, and carefully eases his full weight onto them. His knees buckle, and he almost spills onto the floor but catches himself at the last moment, clinging to the pod to keep himself upright.

There is a loud thud close to him. He turns and—as much as he hates to admit it—is somewhat amused as he perceives his nest brother sprawled flat on the deck. Apparently the High Chancellor’s reflexes are a bit slower than the Minister’s.

“You are smirking,” says the Chancellor in a foul temper.

“It is not my fault if you do not appreciate the amusement of it.”

The Chancellor’s only response is a grunt.

As soon as the two of them are secure and on their feet once more, they check on the welfare of the scientific crew, who are adapting to their emergence from their years-long coma. They then head down to the command center. Neither of them is surprised to perceive that the Warlord and his followers are already hard at work.

The Minister knows this for what it is: a pompous effort to appear indispensable. Of course, the ship is fully automated. There is nothing that either the Warlord or his people are going to bring to the vessel’s operation. Yet they busy themselves like walking redundancies, making sure every system is operating as it should.

“How kind of you to join us,” says the Warlord with a sneer. “We reached the outer rim of the Holy World’s solar system some time ago. We were beginning to worry about you. After all, the strain of extended flight is not for everyone.”

“Your consideration is appreciated,” replies the Minister, who cannot resist adding, “even if your presence here is suspect.”

And suddenly the Warlord’s mind rips into the Minister’s with volcanic force.

It is an insane breach of Krezateen protocol. Although nest brothers such as the Minister and the Chancellor communicate with each other routinely, if another is going to engage in telepathic conversation, it is absolutely mandatory that a preliminary probe be made, permission be acquired.

Warlord Knahs does not bother with such niceties. Instead, the sheer force of his personality hammers the Minister, so much so that he staggers. He becomes instantly
aware that the link is three-way: The Chancellor is hearing it as well.

My presence here is entirely your responsibility. Ever since the presentation of your monstrosity to the assemblage, my bravery has been questioned. You have undermined my honor, and I will retrieve it. And when these creatures fail—as they inevitably will—then you will all see what a true Warlord can do
.

“Warlord, we are ready to block the feed of their security satellites.”

The Warlord’s first officer reports as stoically as he can, but the excitement in his voice is readily apparent, almost as palpable as it was when their vessel sighted the Holy World’s system in the first place.

He has obviously never been on a pilgrimage, either
, thinks the Minister.

The Warlord releases them from the hammerlock of his mental hold. Then he says out loud, “Good. Let’s get this over with.”

The technology required for obscuring their arrival from the Vermin is simple, mostly because the Vermin’s technology is so hopelessly primitive. It is in the power of the Krezateen—with their eight fully armed vessels—to simply blow the Vermin’s satellites out of space, but that would trigger alarms. This way, it will take the Vermin time to realize that something is wrong—something other than natural signal interference such as solar radiation. The Krezateen will have all the time they require.

For a moment, all is silent in the command center. Then the first officer says, “Satellite feeds are blocked.”

Knahs raises his arm in a gesture of disgust. “Take us in, then.”

A cheer goes up among the Krezateen, for they know they have taken the first step in the elimination of the beings that have befouled their Holy World. Soon they will enter Zantenor’s atmosphere and discharge their lethal cargo, as will all the other vessels in their fleet.

The High Minister cannot resist taking a dig at his
old rival. “You seem less than enthused, Warlord. A great day dawns for the future of the Krezateen—a day in which we take back our Holy World.”

“Animals are taking actions meant for warriors,” the Warlord tells him. “We shall witness their efficacy.”

“Yes, we will,” says the High Minister. “And perhaps by the end of this endeavor, it will be you, Warlord, who will come to have more respect for what science can accomplish.”

“Do all that you wish with your brains,” says the Warlord with studied indifference, “while I stick with my arms, and we shall discover who is ultimately triumphant.”

Yes. Yes, we will
, the High Minister thinks to himself, but not anywhere near the telepathic range of the Warlord.

Vander Meer couldn’t have been happier about the way his shows had gone lately. But his happiness was punctured as soon as he walked into his house and felt the sting of his daughter Elena’s greeting.

“Too far, Pop,” she snapped angrily, reading something from her tablet rather than looking up at him. “
Way
too far.”

“Good afternoon to you, too,” he said, smiling sweetly despite the rebuke. “And in what exactly did I go too far?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Elena said.

She criticized him a lot these days. Even more than her brother Michael, and in a more unrelentingly confrontational way.

“Whoa,” said Vander Meer, patting the air. “If you’ve got something on your mind, let’s talk about it.”

“That’s the problem,” Elena told him. “You talk. You don’t listen.”

Vander Meer sighed.

He and Elena disagreed on just about everything these days. And she was only thirteen. What was it going to be like when she got older?

“Okay,” he said. “I’m listening. In fact, I’m all ears.”

It was a joke she used to enjoy. “You’re
not
all ears,” she would say. “You’ve got arms and legs and a nose and a mouth …” and then she would break into giggles.

Not this time. And maybe never again, he reflected, feeling a pang of loss. His baby was growing up.

“You’re treating the Prime Commander like a criminal,” Elena said in an accusatory tone.

Finally, she looked up at him. Blond and blue-eyed, she was nothing short of adorable, and years of dancing had left her well toned. He despaired that the boys were already noticing her.

“Am I?” he asked.

“Yes. She’s just trying to do the right thing, and you’re killing her for it. All for the sake of your ratings.”

Thirteen and already wise in the ways of a wicked world
, Vander Meer thought.
Why couldn’t kids hang on to their innocence anymore?

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll reconsider the way I treat the Prime Commander. No promises, but I’ll give it some thought. All right?”