No Peace Without War
Well, this sucks tits, and not in a good way. "Who was it that said the Meditherians were a peaceful lot?" Captain Edmunds said aloud.
"I only assumed so from the text I translated. They called this meeting as part of a peace treaty." Petty Officer Castor spoke up timidly.
"Castor, do you see those pulse cannons?"
Castor turned his face from Captain Edmunds to the blue glowing openings of the cannons on the Meditherian ship.
"And the fleet of destroyers coming at us. And this screen, that clearly indicates that they have locked onto us. Hacked into our system and shut down our ship. We are a sitting target Officer Castor. This is not what peace looks like."
"Yes, sir I do see them." Castor's voice was breaking.
"Do you hear that alarm blaring so loud I can barely hear myself think? That's not what peace sounds like."
- INCOMING MISSILES DETECTED -
The onboard computer said through the PA.
- INCOMING MISSILES DETECTED -
- INCOMING MISSILES DE ... -
Eighty Light-years from Home
"Oh no," Porter thought. Space itself twisted and folded. One minute ago, Porter worked on the interferometer on the Icarus probe. Commander Jensen had been clear on the matter. Only the interferometer mattered. Porter let go of his powered screwdriver, which drifted towards the edge of the anomaly. The space-time lensing enveloped the tool like a rock dropping into a pond. Porter shook his head in anxious disbelief. "I must be high, please just let me be really, trippin' high!"
"Come again, Lieutenant" his radio crackled.
"Please, just tell me someone slipped me LSD in the air supply," Porter responded.
"Lieutenant, ah..." Porter noticed. Commander Jensen had been stumped exactly once before. Birthday cakes inspired by the Aliens movies did not sit well with that guy.
"Either I am high," Porter said - no begged. "... or I may have accidentally set off the wormhole generator."
"Lieutenant, it's called a quantum-foam-generator."
Porter sighed. The ripples the screwdriver had made faded along the edges of the wormhole. He could fire the RCS thrusters on his suit. He could scream in panic. Or pray to god. But the wormhole was forming and it would engulf anything within a kilometer. Porter felt like a ball rolling in a roulette wheel.
"Lieutenant, your bio-metrics are going wide," Commander Jensen said, his voice icy calm. A voice so calm it sounded more appropriate in the company of divorce lawyers. And who in their right mind described bio-metrics as wide anyway? Porter sighed again. Porter's tombstone would read "LOST IN SPACE" under his birthday and date of death. His dad would grunt in disapproval. Porter's rebellion had been signing up for engineering college.
The wormhole widened, filling Porter's field of view. So this is how I end, Porter thought.
I was very suprised that Master Tsien was allowed out of China. It had been a treaty condition that gong fu be restricted to the People's Republic of China.
It had been a typically Martian kerfuffle. The Emperor asked to be awarded the martial dignity of shaolin master. The temple, being touchier than any mere military, refused. That almost sparked the war right there. Finally the UN worked out a deal and the Crown Prince Imperial was allowed to study gong fu at the monastery.
Ten years later he abdicated to devote himself to his vocation. Mars exploded in rage, but the Chinese were hit in the soul for the second time and preferred a fight.
Now Tsien was in America. I was just curious, because it wasn't my problem, when my phone howled.
"Watching CNN? Tsien is in America. Get down here now. Word is he wants political asylum."
"But nobody admits China represses anybody."
"Asshole, that's a political decision. No court can be held to it. And that's as far as we go over the phone. Come in."
We had already gone far enough. I got moving. To be late would be the same as handing in my resignation. And I wasn't sure it was that serious.
A ninja assassin has to set limits, after all.
To the uninitiated, one communications station looked much the same as any other. To Devon Fragoza, though, as he paced the control deck of the Relay 4 Station with his lanky frame, everything about this place was different. Every line, every curve, every sound, was an extension of himself, ingrained into his subconscious, It gave him a sense of comfort to know man and machine together made them greater than the sum of their parts. Although he was only 35, he had earned his veteran’s stripes before most people had even begun their careers. Born on Mars, and shuttled from one station to another as a child, he entered the Academy at age 15, climbed up the rank ladder with lightning speed, and earned his first solo posting a mere 10 years later. As his boots tapped out a rhythmic echo on the metal decking beneath him, he felt there was nowhere else in the solar system he’d rather be.
Computers, consoles,and 2-D and 3-D holo displays that monitored all the systems’ status throughout the station lined the small but efficient space. Colorful lights on the panels gave the otherwise gun-metal grey surroundings a splash of color.
The view from the ports lining the deck and hallways beyond was just as compelling; it revealed a stark yet achingly beautiful display of the heavily pocketed crater of the asteroid on which the station rested, as well as the vastness of space beyond its confines. Yet it was not bleak within the station -- the faint sounds of the power sources, and the constant whir of the air-recirculator fans, provided a sense of life to an otherwise mechanical construct. Devon, his ebony skin and wide brown eyes glowing in the light of the displays, grinned appreciatively.
The Golden City
Tawque sat like a bird of prey, perched on the stone cliff face, watching the ghostly apparition weaving its mystic dance over the sacred valley’s moonlit sky. Vibrant hues of green, red and purple—silhouetted in a streaming glory of colors; ribbons twisting and intertwining to a silent song, calming the early winter winds to a whisper, marking the seasonal change to fall. The warrior had little knowledge of the science behind the phenomenon, but the strange occurrence appeared regularly at the full moon of the fall equinox every seven years after the “Battle of Flaming Eagle.” The light-dance was a reminder to the Blackfoot people of that desperate day over twenty years earlier when his tribe battled the “Sky Gods” in this very valley. It was believed the glowing aurora was the souls of the lost trying to exit the confinement of the firebird’s wrath.
To Tawque the reminders burned deep. He became an outcast before the war, but fought with his brothers at the battle to rid the land of the strange warlike demons that had plagued his people. Many of his tribe died when the winged goddess belched forth fire,—striking mother earth. The ground shook with pain and the wound that was opened spewed forth winds leveling the plains, bringing a sudden end to the war.
Tawque didn’t know about aliens, flying ships or understand the advanced weaponry of the visiting creature’s technology. Few, even in our day could explain how the explosion that ensued,— fused the elements buried deep within the surrounding mountains, charging their resources like a battery, and acting against the magnetic fields of the iron rich soil,— could open a portal of mystery deep within the confines of the hidden crater below. Every seven years the energy built up to a point...
Our ways of life are corrupt. The society chose to let us live in utter chaos, the majority of us lacked certainty why we were sent here except me. It was all an experiment. How we live. How we eat. How we communicate. The adjustments per say were challenging to adapt in three decades. Rules were ambiguous which always led to misconception from it being too vague. From the beginning, it frightened everyone, no leader, no messiah, no king, czar, nor emperor was there to guide his fellow people. The Creators would do nothing to terminate our wrath with one another and the yellings were always involved. With food being so scarce citizens would punish anyone who went against their motives.
To this day the people created what was called "The Patharchy" which did not benefit us especially our health and was probably functioned by the people who claim "Above the normal". They believed The Creators have favored them and chose with purpose to distinguish them into showing impeccable traits of grace no one could be able to rival. Everyone calls this group The Euvitas since they bring pleasant lives to themselves.
Astonishingly I was brought to join the "Euvita's coven" yet the chances were incredibly small. When I was seven years of age I discovered I obtained the ability to read thoughts of any living creature, but this gift wasn't given by The creators. After nine more years I finally ceased the opportunity to see The Creators and confront them about the situation. Will my abnormal gift or gifts bring harm to this world? Yes. Yes it can.
Ahold of the Shoulder Straps
--Instantly tunnel a telescopic view –shocks! Static Pakmer. Scourge arrangements rearrange power surges keeping alight the blurring. View aligns, again ... Secret planet chambers before him, bending. Temperate fuse blows. A force that detracts swarms. Magnetized temperaments. Electrostrung, magnetic chagrins, dark ignorance separately inundated.
An ancient protrusion, pustule -glows in the mushing; visions of civilizations, Atlantis; tunnel a glimpse, immense, triangulates Pakmer’s perfect view.. snuck//stream-sequence _shallow-charge-across, cloaks escalating sound [whisk between] pulses, crisp thrusts.… A lifter on one hip, hydraulic clicks. (1) mile below surface. Circuitry snaps, static rips.. Heliox connection breaks..
Mars telescopes unbelievably into fluttering view.
Curious Pakmer turns (knots throat) with both hands... glowing cog in a hub and spoke configuration. Surrounding hyper-explodes ... Naturally rotating.. . .
Frisson rifts lifts--fires phoom! shhhhhhhhizz whip, c-cuts him to particles, instincts, turns inside out, quick shudders but further onto/upon_wires/tubes -reverse through folds_overlapped in; soft blasting tunnel; twists, spinning sickly, supercharged in the excess, flashing scrambles. Reaches for the expected other side .....
.. finally awakes.. Constant beep beep-beep beep beeeeeee.. Facing slivering chunks of full-face burst. Out to froth-covered rubble, fuzz wrath unrecognizable. Vehicles. Bridges. Buildings. Equipment...? No. Rocks and stones.. – Awestruck Pakmer.
Wonders burst centuries before or after... ? A maroon sand pours and stretches over marred points, softens mountainous, neat corners, reflects fiery in electricity. Watering electrically.
Covered Pakmer... -immensely sand/fine-mold-covered. Remnants spill....- spits quickly in tubular spat froze before reaching ground. Starred.
Ahold of shoulder straps, malfunctions seine. With steps amped, ineffable charges, high resistance, visible heat streams; bending grains, dusts, surge. Soft stems and branches//petrified lightning//multitude of fulgurite blooms in a background of infinite pearls, sparks surge. Coin-flicker crests, coated rubble down the drains of arroyos . . . . All to a fine fine moss that trickles off, through Pakmers grip….
Decisions at the top
"And you're sure about this? I don't think travel moratorium to and from the Califato is wise. If they didn't hate us enough to go to war already, this will push them over the edge," the foreign affairs minister said.
"Listen to you: 'if they don't.' Obviously they're likely to attack us in some way already. But the Planetary Armies are well prepared to intervene on any such action. No one has launched a fleet action in over a century, there's no reason to think they'll start one now. Not that the Califato has a significant space navy, anyway," the defense minister replied.
"I don't care what the President says! This is a poor decision. The Califato are chomping at the bit to send a message - any message - that will justify their world view," the foreign affairs minister retorted. "If we give them cause to think we're bigots then they'll hammer that point home with the public. We'll lose public and intergalactic sympathy and therefore, confidence."
"Bah! It's a small conglomeration of a few nation-planets. They can bemoan the 'unfairness' of our decision all they wish, they can take no real action against us."
"And if they send a nuke through one of the Gates? What then? You want that resting on your conscience?"
"If - if, which I doubt - that were to happen we'd be fully justified with launching the fleets in an all-out war and invading their systems."
"The galactic community will hate us."
"I'm not in this for the opinion of the galactic community. Neither is the President."
"So we have been keenly and repeatedly reminded..."