Torian Reclamation 3: Test of Fortitude (16 page)

“You’re in league with the dark enemy. We know this. I’ve come to assure you that you’ve chosen the wrong side. The war for the Erobian Sphere looms. Soon it will rip through the stars around us, and come to the steps of our very homes. Worlds may be destroyed.”

“The dark enemy?”

“Yes, General. Let’s not play games. Listen. Tora does not consider Azaar to be an enemy. Not now. Just as we did not consider Latia an enemy before they fought against us alongside the enemy. There is still some time left. Time for you to become our ally instead of our enemy. But the time is growing shorter, as you well know.”

The General studied Brandon for a moment.

“You’re an Earthling.”

“Correct.”

“Where is Earth?”

“Not relevant, General. Outside the sphere somewhere. A primitive world, in any case.”

There was no way Brandon was about to give him any clue as to the possible location of Earth. He didn’t really know himself, except that it was beyond the far edge of the sphere.

“How many Earthlings live in Tora?” the general asked.

“A little more than a thousand now, counting children.”

“You’re soft. And frail. Alliances of war are negotiated by military commanders. Why does Tora send a member of such a minuscule minority, and a weak alien race, to openly confront us? Does Tora wish to insult Azaar?”

“Quite the opposite, General. I came at the request of our High General as a personal favor to him. He sent me because he considers me the best he has.”

The Azaarian general finally broke his frown as he laughed to himself. It was encouraging to see a change of emotion in him, however brief and snooty it may be.

“Soft,” Brandon said. “Perhaps. Frail? Maybe. Who isn’t, when modern weapons are considered? But not weak. You might appreciate meeting me if you were better informed. I have personally inflicted more destruction on large Azaarian warships than any other fighter pilot in the galaxy—of any race.”

The general’s frown returned, but Brandon recognized a subtle change in his composure. A trace of respect? The way he eyeballed Brandon was slightly different now. Brandon continued speaking.

“Also, the High General thought it wise to send me, rather than a native Torian, because of trust issues. He hoped you would be less standoffish.”

“He was wrong. Explain to me, if you will, exactly who this dark enemy is you so rashly accuse us of being in confederacy with.”

This was it. The general was calling his bluff. Brandon realized his next response was critical. The success of his mission hinged upon it. This was the point where Olut6 was counting on him to come up with something clever.

He was going to be disappointed. Brandon had nothing.

But Brandon’s intuition told him Olut6’s apprehensions were well-founded. Something really was going on out here. The Azaarians weren’t acting right. All of them, even the Chenel, had contributed to Brandon’s growing suspicion. Whoever the dark enemy was, it was likely they had made contact with Azaar, and maybe also with some of those other worlds along the edge who had suddenly withdrawn from all interstellar activity. Was there a rational reason for this conclusion? No. But Brandon had long since learned to trust his intuition. He was, after all, famous for it back home. Perhaps that was the real reason Olut6 sent him here without a script.

“We know they’re out here.” Brandon waved his arm in a circle.

“Where?” the general asked. “At Azaar?”

“Out here, in this portion of the sphere, along the outer edge. Everywhere except Dirg.”

The general’s expression hardened when Brandon mentioned Dirg.

“Go on.”

“That’s it,” Brandon said. “Except that we’re not going to let this penetrate any deeper. One-third of our massive fleet now patrols this region. We’ll be bringing out another third when the time comes, which will result in a force nearly twice the size of any other world’s entire military. And we have Dirg.”

“And the light weapon,” the general said.

“Right. But my point is we don’t need it.”

A slight smile formed on the general’s face. “It’s not mobile, is it?”

“To what are you referring?”

“The light weapon.”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, General. I’m not at liberty to discuss military secrets, other than to inform you that the war will be fought in this section of the sphere, close to your own home. The choice Azaar needs to make is which side they want to be on. Will you foolishly align yourself with evil, for no other reason than your perception that evil is strong? Or will you take up the right cause, the cause of freedom for all intelligent beings, not the least of which is Azaar’s own sovereignty?”

The general sat still for a few minutes. Brandon couldn’t come up with anything else to say, and thought it best to leave his remonstration where it stood. He noticed the general’s finger gently tapping the desk.

Finally, the general laughed. That probably wasn’t a good sign.

“Your High General is a clever being,” he said. “And you are admirably brave. You risked your life, your crew, and your ship on a desperate stratagem in the hopes of gaining intelligence. We know of the attack on your system several years ago, and how the identity of the attackers remained a mystery to you. So now you come here with this ploy, to try and see if we possess any information about them. I’m almost sorry to have to disappoint you. We don’t know who they were, either. I commend you on your effort, however.

“Now I must bid you goodbye. You may tell your High General that you acted with all earnestness, and not be ashamed upon your return. But you must leave. I have granted you more leniency than I should, and will tolerate no further antics.” The Azaarian general stood.

“I’m sorry to hear you speak like this.” Brandon stood. “I feel you are making a detrimental decision. I leave you with this hopeful promise: Tora will not consider Azaar an enemy until the first shot is fired upon us by an Azaarian gunner. Please contemplate this. There will be time to reconsider your position up until that moment. But not after.”

The general pointed at the door. “No more, Brandon Foss. Your imagination has carried you too far from home. There will be no war with a dark enemy here, because no such entity is here. The only battles taking place at Azaar will be those with intruders who refuse to respect our privacy.”

Brandon looked at the flute and the bracelet on the desk and thought about leaving them there. But he picked them up.

“We’ll need several additional hours before we can distort away, General.”

“Why?”

“Equipment issues.”

“I can send a team of technicians to help you affect any needed repairs.”

“Not necessary, General. We just need a little time.”

The General shook his head. “No. Leave orbit immediately upon returning to your ship, or we will destroy you. No more games.”

“I can leave orbit, but we must remain in your space for a period of several hours.”

“You test my patience, Earthling. I don’t recommend that. But I will grant you several hours in our space, removed from orbit. No more. Do not tempt me further.”

“Thank you, General.”

*

“They’re continuing to amass, Commander. Five large warships, at least two dozen fighter squadrons, and some unidentified vessels as well. That’s an awfully large show of force for scaring one small transport ship away.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Brandon said. “I know I didn’t endear myself to the general down there, but he afforded me an appreciable degree of courtesy before I left. What they’re doing now I find to be irrational.”

“Should we pull farther away?” the captain asked.

“No. I don’t want our ITF1 crew to show up and find themselves alone and facing all that. I think we’re about as far out as we can get and expect Perry to see us when they come out of distortion drive. He’ll probably make the same approach that we initially did, so this is a good place to wait.”

Brandon watched the magnified screen on the bridge as he wrenched his hands on the Azaarian flute repeatedly. Even on the non-magnified screen, you could see more and more objects in the space over the large planet. Azaar’s military force was continuing to build, and the clock wasn’t moving fast enough.

Ten hours. Why did he say ten hours? He should have said seven. They had pulled out to the front side of Azaar’s far moon, near the point where they originally arrived in this star system. That was three hours ago. They still had one to go before Perry was due back. Brandon didn’t figure the Azaarian general would give him much more leeway.

“This is going to be close,” Brandon said.

“Yes.” The captain looked up at him. “And when the ITF1 reappears, your ruse will be exposed. They’ll know why we had to wait here, and it will take them about one second to realize no communications could have been sent home. By that time most of their fleet will be assembled, the way this is going. From what I’ve heard of Azaarians, they’re not taken to getting all dressed up for nothing.”

“Why don’t we send another message?” Milon4 asked. “To plead for another extension, or maybe leave them some coordinates to relay to our expected interstellar fighter?”

Brandon saw the captain shudder.

“Thanks for the suggestions Milon4, but neither of those is attractive.” Brandon paced the bridge. “No, we’ll have to wait here until they start to come at us.”

Milon4 nodded. “Yes, Commander. What’s that pipe you’re death-gripping?”

Brandon stopped and looked at the object in his hands.

“A gift. Peculiar people. They offer you a present, and then kill you if you don’t leave fast enough. Then again, given the history of Azaarian gifts, Tora might be better off if we don’t make it back home with it.”

“What is it?”

“Some kind of a wind instrument. I believe the emissary called it a …tupinx.”

“Have you tried to play it?” Milon4 asked.

“No!” Brandon shouted without knowing why. All the bridge personnel recoiled in their seats.

“Sorry.”

Brandon looked closer at the tupinx. He thought back to his middle-school days on Earth when he used to actually play the flute. There was still one in his closet somewhere when he was abducted. Sheri, his first wife, laughed at him when he tried to play it for her on one occasion. That was his only adult performance.

Perhaps unconsciously, or perhaps from the stress of the moment, Brandon allowed his arms to raise the instrument to his mouth. As his fingers naturally found their way to the key holes, his lips formed the appropriate contortion and he began to blow. Softly at first, without taking his eyes off the video screens.

A gentle thumping noise emitted from the tupinx. The sound made him stop blowing. The thumping ceased. Brandon looked around the bridge and saw two crewmembers cocking their heads at him. He put the instrument back to his mouth and blew a little harder this time.

The thumping came back, at a significantly stronger volume. The Azaarian flute produced percussion beats, not flute music. That was odd. But it wasn’t a disorderly drum noise. The beats were pleasant. Brandon found it soothing. He experimented with the key holes and found he could play a pacifying progression with the different percussion sounds. It was nearly a melody.

Brandon continued his spontaneous performance as he circled the bridge. It was gratifying to think he could still play the flute after all these years, even if the resulting music was typically from a different family of instruments. It didn’t take long to discover a rhythm he liked.

He fell into a dulcet repetition. As he played, he noticed it seemed to have a calming effect on the crew. That was a good thing. Everyone had been on edge. Important decisions were better made without the influence of stress.

The mellow drumbeats of the tupinx took Brandon’s mind off to tranquil places. The Sheen villages he knew, certain camping places he had been with Jumper and Alan, fishing for candeer fish with Derek, Virginia Beach on a sunny spring day before the summer crowds arrived. He thought about Arkan9 living on Milura with the expatriate half-breeds from a dozen other worlds. The last time Brandon saw Arkan9 he was with a special friend, a being surrounded by unapproachable light. A being who also possessed the awesome light weapon half the galaxy now feared and attributed to Tora. But Arkan9’s friend only seemed willing to wield it defensively. Was he an Erob? Five years ago, Brandon was certain he must have been. But the passage of time makes one question former certainties. What was it about intelligent beings that caused them to question a known truth if they hadn’t seen evidence of it lately?

Arkan9 had invited Brandon to come to Milura. It was an open invitation. He wanted Brandon to come. Yes. Brandon would be welcome at Milura, wouldn’t he? The peaceful half-breeds would be there, living simple lives in beautiful villages. Serenity. That’s where Brandon should go. There was tranquility there. Yes. Of course. The subtle melody of the tupinx beat was clearly carrying Brandon off to Milura to spend time with his old friend. Why shouldn’t he go? He might even get to meet an Erob. And wasn’t he close to Milura now? Yes, he was, wasn’t he? Milura. Coming to Milura. There was no reason not to continue there. He was almost there. See Arkan9 again. Smile, sleep, laugh, and be at peace. Why shouldn’t he be going there right now?

Suddenly, a mental image of Arkan9 frowning shook Brandon’s daydream. It was rare to see him frown. Something was wrong, wasn’t it? Yes, there was an object of some sort in the way. An obstacle keeping Brandon from visiting Arkan9. Arkan9 had warned him about it, hadn’t he? What was it? Brandon couldn’t remember now. But there was a breach of peace in the galaxy. Something interfering with the placid drum beats. Some reason Brandon couldn’t relax and laugh with Arkan9 in front of the halcyon arc. It was an …insult? No. An inference? No. An …infection. That was it! There was an infection!

At that moment, the image of Arkan9 frowning became so clear in Brandon’s mind it caused him to drop the tupinx, which clanged on the floor. Brandon looked around in a panic. He was back on the bridge of the Class-3 transport ship. The crew appeared stunned by the sound of the flute dropping, as if they had also been awoken from a dream.