Gibraltar Sun (4 page)

So, despite bitter disappointment, Sar-Say began plotting once more toward the day he would be awarded the Mastership of Earth. So long as they kept him penned in this cell aboard their orbital habitat, he could do nothing. However, should his situation change, he must be ready to take advantage of any opportunities that came his way…

#

Lisa Arden stood on the balcony of the resort hotel on Lake Constance and watched as a full moon lifted its gibbous form over the distant tree-studded horizon. Down below, the surface of the lake reflected back the multicolored lights of the far shore, while in the middle distance, an entertainment ship ablaze with lights made its way toward Friedrichshafen, the soft strains of a string quartet wafting softly to her across the dark waters.

Lisa inhaled deeply, held it for a moment, then exhaled with gusto. It was good to be back on Earth! At least for tonight, all was right with her world. The night breeze was just cool enough to be refreshing. Her man lay sprawled inside on the spacious bed, snoring softly, as men were wont to do following lovemaking. The moon was rising, turning the lights reflected by the lake into a kaleidoscope of colors.

In the sky above, Jupiter was a brilliant white spark and Mars a duller red one, while the stars twinkled as they had for millions of years. On a night like this, it would have been easy to pretend that those stars were the same as they had been for millennia, sparkling diamonds put in the night sky for lovers rather than the home of a comic-looking race of megalomaniacal monkeys.

Her contemplation was interrupted by the sound of a door opening, then by a strong pair of arms enveloping her and warm hands slipping through the opening of her robe to fondle the warm flesh beneath. She leaned back into a bare muscular chest and sighed, content with the world.

“Good evening,” a soft voice whispered in her ear as lips nuzzled her disheveled hair.

She twisted her head back to plant a kiss. “Welcome back to the living, darling. I didn’t wear you out, did I?”

The soft breath emitted by the ensuing chuckle wafted into her ear as lips nibbled an earlobe. “Want to find out?”

“Not just yet,” she replied. “Maybe later. Now I just want to enjoy the night.”

“It
is
beautiful, isn’t it?”

“More beautiful than just about anything I have ever seen. It’s easy to forget how gorgeous the Earth is when you are in space.”

“Yes, it is. So, my love, what brings you outside? Did my snoring wake you?”

“No, I am just enjoying the night air… and wondering, I guess, if we did any good today.”

“They listened,” Mark replied, nuzzling her hair. “That is about the best we could expect.”

“But did they believe?”

“I think the Coordinator understood our arguments and probably sympathized with them, not that that will do us any good if the political opposition decides to side with Vasloff.”

She sighed. “I suppose they can’t keep him locked up forever.”

“It wouldn’t do any good. Lots of people will see the temporary safety of hunkering down and prefer it to the real danger of fighting back. That is the way it has always been, and the way it shall always be.”

“But we
have
to fight, Mark. It’s what we
do
and who we are.”

“You and I have had a chance to think it through,” he replied, suddenly serious as he pulled her tighter against him. “Earth’s teeming billions are going to take time to sort through the risks. Who knows? Maybe there is a middle ground between digging a hole and pulling it in after us, and going out to conquer the Broan horde.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No, I don’t. Many will.”

They fell silent and stared out over the darkened waters for long minutes, enjoying each other’s presence and the night. Finally, Lisa said, “We’re going to be fighting the Broa for the rest of our lives, aren’t we, Mark?”

He nodded into her hair. “You knew that when I first laid out my vision of Gibraltar Earth.”

“I guess I did,” she replied. “It’s just scary to think about all the troubles that lie in front of us.”

He laughed. “Name a time when that hasn’t been so. At least the Broa don’t yet know that we exist. With luck, when they find out, it will be too late.”

Chapter Four

A brisk breeze swept off the nearby azure sea to penetrate the office high above the largest city on the capital world of the Salefar Sector. The office was at the pinnacle of a golden tower that had no name. It needed none. Even the smallest cub of the planet’s indigenous species knew who dwelt in the tower and of the power he exercised over their daily lives. The city’s name in the language of the local autochthons was unpronounceable to the occupant of the tower office. He called it simply “Capital.” It was one of many cities throughout the galaxy that bore the same appellation. The planet was Sssassalat, a word that had been arbitrarily chosen without regard to the fact that the vocal apparatus of the natives had difficulty forming sibilants.

The wind brought with it a cacophony of alien smells, all of which were picked up by the acute olfactory sense of the small being who perched on the resting frame located behind the desk ornately carved from the expensive black-gold wood that could only be found on the home world. Within the gleaming expanse of desktop were imbedded the instruments the tower dweller used to communicate with his many underlings. Several auxiliary screens were lit at the moment. He paid no attention to any of them.

For the several demi-periods, he had been watching the antics of a multicolored vark as it rode the wind currents tumbling off the lee side of the golden tower. The vark was unaware that it was far from the crags and peaks of its mountain hunting ground. Its attention was focused on searching out a four-winged mardak for a midday repast. As the airborne hunter made micrometric adjustments to its wing shape in order to ride the tricky air currents, its long snakelike neck kept the head rigid in space as it spied what it had been searching for. Then, without warning, the vark folded its wings of taught skin, and dove out of the watcher’s view.

As it went into its stoop, the tower occupant felt a moment of wistfulness. The vark’s problems were confined to filling its belly each day, and come mating season, of fighting off the other claimants for its brood of females. For one on whose shoulders lay the responsibility for an entire star sector, such a simple life held an atavistic attraction.

Ssor-Fel was not a large being. Most intelligent species would have found his diminutive size unimpressive were it not for the fact that he and his kind were the unchallenged rulers of the known universe. He was a biped, as are most intelligent beings. On the rare occasions when he chose to stand erect, he topped out at a bare meter-and-a-half. His ancestors had been tree dwellers — if the multi-trunk, vine-like growths of home world could be called trees. His arms were long and designed for brachiating, swinging from stalk to branch, and during mating season, for holding his body aloft while he engaged in the ancient ballet of the sexes. When on solid ground, he moved with an alternating gait, first supporting his weight on clenched six-finger fists and then swinging his lower torso forward to ride on club-shaped feet at the end of stubby legs.

His fur was brown, with an intricate pattern of narrow black stripes that extended to his neck. Around his yellow eyes were the white streaks that signified the passage of lifespan. The white specks solidified into a solid mass around two paddle-shaped ears that jutted out at right angles from his head. His snout was likewise streaked with white around the four breathing holes on each side. Below the rows of nostrils, his mouth was open to show the teeth of an omnivore and a long tongue tinged with a healthy pink glow.

Having wasted too much time following the antics of the local fauna, Ssor-Fel reproached himself silently and turned back to the matter at hand. As was normal, there was too much to do and insufficient members of his species to do it. When in a bad mood, he often contemplated this eternal state of affairs. It was as though, having given his race dominion over a vast number of stars, some cosmic force had then decided to play a joke by limiting the number of administrators available to do the work.

His species was less fecund than most intelligent races. That was the consequence of the need for females to carry their young on their backs as they brachiated through the vine tops, and of prolonged droughts that had once plagued the home world. When the supply of purple fruit that had once been the staple of life was limited, it made sense for each mating pair to have one or two cubs each twelve-cycle.

With the invention of agriculture and the discovery that insectivoids were tasty, however, that imperative had gone the way of the giant crabs that had once roamed the golden plains. Yet, the birthrate remained low because the memory of drought had been baked into the Race’s life matrix.

Despite their habitually low numbers, his species had slowly built a high energy civilization, mastered first a world, then a star system, and finally, the surrounding stellar domains. For the great invention of the Race was the discovery that precisely modulated powers would open pathways to the stars.

It had been this technology that had allowed the Race, though small in number, to conquer every known inhabited star system. Nor were their conquests complete. A large part of Ssor-Fel’s duties was to search out intelligent species that had not yet been brought under control, and to remedy that oversight.

Thus, a race who possessed neither sharp tooth nor powerful sinew had taken control of a galaxy, forcing all others to submit to their will. It was how Ssor-Fel’s ancestors had built their star-spanning domain, and how they intended to keep it.

#

The Huntmaster of the Salefar Sector shook himself and willed that his mind concentrate on the day’s tasks. He recognized his vine gathering for what it was, an attempt to avoid hard decisions to real problems. Having bequeathed him and his fellows dominion over all other intelligent beings, his revered ancestors would not look kindly on this generation were they to do less than their utmost to pass the legacy on to future generations. It would have been easier, he mused, had there not been so many minor and boring details involved in running a Galactic Empire!

Take the report displayed on his primary screen. At first, it seemed mundane. A subject race, the Voldar’ik, were complaining about a shipload of strangers who departed without paying their port fees, and were requesting the sub-sector master levy a judgment against the offending traders’ planet.

Ssor-Fel flexed his mobile ears and wondered why such a minor report would wind up on his docket. Economic disputes between subject species were no concern of his. However, as he scanned the dot-and-swirl script on the screen, he quickly discovered something to pique his curiosity.

He reached out and signaled for his assistant.

The door to the office retracted and the assistant entered. Dal-Vas was a young male with a strong work ethic. One day he would be an excellent administrator. He might even aspire to Ssor-Fel’s position. Would that there were more like him!

“This report of the economic dispute between the Voldar’ik and these… Vulcans,” he said, pronouncing the unfamiliar word carefully. “Have you studied it?”

“Yes, Sector Master.”

“Enlighten me.”

“As it says, a trading vessel made orbit at Klys’kra’t and offered to exchange value. The beings aboard identified their home world as Shangri-La, some 12 jumps beyond Vith. They were on an extended trading voyage. They had a cargo of Vithian goods. Power units, production machinery, some delicacies for the luxury market.

“These Vulcan traders provided their hosts with samples of their wares and the haggling began. Then, with no explanation, the traders departed without paying their port fees. The Voldar’ik confiscated the luggage and samples left behind and filed a claim with Packmaster Daz-Ven on Nesantor.”

“Why is this important?”

“Because Daz-Ven could not locate the Vulcans in his Database of Civilization. Per regulation, he forwarded the Voldar’ik request to us.”

“Such searches often fail,” the Sector Master replied. “No matter how much we try to standardize species identification, subservients often deviate from proper form. Perhaps “Vulcan” is the name of the most prominent tribe or clan on their world.”

“That is what the Packmaster thought. He requested full records, including biometric recordings. When he received them, he searched for the Vulcan genotype. Again, they could not be positively identified.”

“Do you suppose Daz-Ven has been lax with his database updates?”

“Anything is possible on these third-tier worlds,” Dal-Vas replied. “However, our database was updated less than a thousand periods ago, and I could not identify these Vulcans either.”

That was the detail that had caught the Sector Master’s attention. A sub-sector headquarters database might well be cycles out of date. Civilization was so large and complex that it was easy to fall behind. But a sector capital had a massive staff dedicated to keeping the computers as up-to-date as possible. It was virtually impossible that the Vulcan genotype was missing from Ssor-Fel’s record, yet that seemed to be the case.

“What do these beings look like?”

“They are bipeds with orange skin and a thatch of blue fur on their craniums. They have five digits on their hands and are otherwise unremarkable. The arrangement of their internal organs is more or less the same as ours. They obviously evolved on a homelike world circling a yellow star, breathe oxygen, and may once have been tree dwellers.”

“Yet, we cannot identify them?”

“No, Sector Master. There is something else, news that I just received from Daz-Ven. I was preparing a written report when you summoned me.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Along with biometric data, the Voldar’ik forwarded some of the Vulcan commercial samples to Daz-Ven. They thought he might be able to obtain traces of Vulcan organic secretions from their surfaces, the better to aid in identification. He found secretions, all right, but not from these mysterious traders.”