The Fifth Civilization: A Novel (11 page)

Amidst the hum of the engines, the unconscious Kotaran lay
sprawled on the floor. His snout enveloped a mean snarl, and his tail curled in
a spiral behind his back. Strange to be so close to such a beast and not
shaking all over. Roan’s heart was still beating like crazy, as there was
always the chance this guy was faking it, but as more time passed and the Kotaran
did not lunge forward, Roan thought it was safe to render him harmless.

Roan kneeled and removed the alien’s knife and pistol and
clipped them to his belt.

He’s defenseless. Out
cold. A perfect target.

Roan cradled the Kotaran pistol. Resembling some brass
knuckles, the mechanics of the thing were not hard to figure out. Putting his
fingers through the rungs of the pistol, Roan believed he could confidently shoot
the thing.

He aimed it at the Kotaran.

“Mr. Roan.”

It was David. Roan nearly pulled the trigger as he started.

“Yeah?” Roan barked. Christ, what did he want? He’d snuck in
behind Roan without making a sound, without even announcing himself on the com.

“Don’t do that, please,” David said. The Nyden’s head was
glowing gold, casting an otherworldly glow in the dark space. David slowly
inched toward the Kotaran.

“Do you know how many people he’s killed, David? He’ll go on
killing if he wakes up. For all I know he’s the same one that killed Aaron back
at the mall.”

David bent down beside the Kotaran. He’d be in the way of
any laser shot now. “He’s not,” David said, firmly. “Look, Mr. Roan. Look at
the hair. It’s white. This is a young Kotaran. The one on Earth had darker hair
and was older.” David pointed one of his talons at the Kotaran’s fuzz between
the ears. Indeed, it was white.

“So what?” Roan said.

“This Kotaran needs medical attention. It’s not right what
you want to do.”

“He’s a kanga bastard.”

“This Kotaran is defenseless. He’s your prisoner now.”

Roan’s com squawked. With one hand he kept the pistol aimed
at David and the Kotaran. With the other he pulled out the com.

“Roan here.”

“What’s the situation?” Kel asked.

Nothing would make Roan happier than putting an energy shot
through the Kotaran’s back. See the guy’s head explode into purple matter all
over the engine room. Based on all the slaughtered crewmen he’d seen, this one
deserved it. But David was watching him. His feathers were swaying every which
way; his head pulsed gold. The way he knelt beside the body, it was almost as
if David were about to sweep the Kotaran up in his arms and carry him away.
Like a goddamn mother.

“Roan?” Kel asked. “Nick, talk to me, please.”

David closed his eyes. Set his hands on the wheezing
Kotaran.

Roan lowered the pistol.

“I’m in the engine room,” he said into the com. “We got one.
He’s breathing.”

David opened his eyes, and Roan could’ve sworn he saw tears.

The
Hanyek
resembled a carefully-sculpted dagger, its edges filed so that no obtrusive
harsh angles graced the exterior. Like many atmospheric craft, it sported two
“wings” near its aft, bent downward for maximum aerodynamic ability and
connected to the hull with two cylindrical turbines. It couldn’t be called the
pride of the fleet, as there were many others like the
Hanyek
, but Grinek had grown accustomed to the vessel after many
months. He believed he could simply glance at it and tell it apart from all the
other tactical cruisers.

Grinek stared at the
Hanyek
through the operations ship’s window, the craft slowly making its way toward
the cruiser’s hangar bay. As pleasing as the mothership was, Grinek’s mind was
elsewhere. All attempts to contact Roh had failed. His last report placed him
in the engine room of the Earth ship, right before his line went dead. The
possibility existed that he’d been killed.

Grinek was an External Commander, the supreme member of the
expedition—he didn’t have to explain Roh’s silence to anyone. He did,
however, have to
report
it to Vorjos.
Oh, the political officer was going to delight in this information.

Once the operations vessel was safely nestled into its berth
and the hangar closed from the vacuum of space, the disembark light flashed.
Grinek, as protocol demanded, was the first to go, followed by Captain Sisal.
Grinek stepped onto the exit ramp and descended to the hangar floor, grateful
for the familiar hum of the Kotaran sublight engines, the chrome walls, the
smell of washed bodies, and of course, the high ceilings of the vessel. He did
not miss, nor care for, what welcomed him at the bottom of the ramp: Observer
Vorjos. The political officer stood rigid at attention as Grinek stepped onto
the hangar floor.

“Commander!” Vorjos yelled. He was evidently agitated. “I
have not received a report from you for some time.”

The fool could not even wait one hour for another update.
Grinek had simply been
waiting
until
they met up with the
Hanyek
to
provide one. “Forgive me, Observer,” the Commander intoned, “We were busy with
the mission at hand.”

Grinek cupped his claws in the standard greeting as he
regarded the slightly taller and beefier Vorjos. Everything physical about the
man was unsettling to Grinek. The Observer had a mane of brownish hair dashed
with silver, something Grinek suspected he dyed to suggest some hint of
virility. His tail was longer than it should have been and was darker toward
the tip, suggesting it had been surgically lengthened. The man did not trim the
fur around his snout and it drooped, like a human beard. As a final bit of
unpleasantness, Vorjos’ skin was a much darker gray than Grinek’s, a sign perhaps
of too easy living.

“So, your report,” Vorjos said. “What is the progress with
this mission?”

Was he really doing this in front of subordinates, in
earshot of the rank-and-file? Even in front of the hated Sisal, now coming down
the ramp behind Grinek?

“Observer, let’s retire to our chambers so we can discuss
this matter further.”

“No, Commander, please. I need an update immediately. My
bosses are impatient as well.”
 
The
comment was meant to suggest Vorjos was Grinek’s superior, but the truth was
more that they were equals—in the eyes of Vorjos’ “bosses” anyway, the
Ruling Council. On the
Hanyek,
Grinek
would always be king.

“If you must know,” Grinek continued, “We have operatives on
board an Earth freighter.”

“Ah, and after I asked you not to do so?”
 
Somehow Grinek believed this was not a
surprise to Vorjos, the insertion on the
Colobus
.
Vorjos surely had spies among his crew. Probably Sisal.

“We saw an opportunity, Observer. The information about the
ancient comet is on that vessel. With any luck, we can disable the ship
and—”

“
With any luck,
Commander, you have not caused another diplomatic incident. That would be most
unfortunate.”
 
Vorjos lifted his
head in smugness at this, apparently thrilled he had the chance to interrupt
Grinek. In his mind, the Commander pictured himself severely punishing this
bureaucrat.

“As you may know,” Grinek went on, straining to keep his
claws behind his back and stand at attention, “The human ship in question has
left Earth and we are following it as we speak. It is only a matter of time
before they are disabled and we can board them.”

“Is it? How are your operatives fairing on this ship?”

Grinek stood silent. By now, the officers and some of the
junior crewman had filed off the ship and were assembling at attention on the
hangar deck. Some of these men had tasks to do, but were instead gawking at the
conversation.

“As I said, Observer, we should discuss this matter in a
more appropriate setting.”
 
Grinek
glared at a crewman who should’ve been connecting fuel lines to the operations
ship and who quickly returned to his task.

“Very well,” Vorjos sighed. Grinek thought he detected a
smirk. “Walk with me, Commander,” and Vorjos gestured toward a door. Grinek
stood down from attention and dismissed his crew with a wave of his hand. He
walked with the Observer to the exit.

They entered an elongated hallway, fashioned in the typical
style with a vaulted ceiling. The design had always reminded Grinek of the
jungles of Degmorra, the division where he grew up, and its canopy that blocked
all sunlight. For a talk with Vorjos, the analogy couldn’t be more appropriate.
The man’s unceasing need to discuss politics could prevent any life and
vitality from entering an environment.

“You have been unsuccessful, Commander Grinek,” Vorjos said.
“I can tell this from your expression and your reticence.” Grinek realized he
was gritting his teeth.

“We lost contact with the insertion team,” Grinek admitted.
He said it in a low voice, paranoid a crewman might overhear him revealing a
failure. “It is safe to assume this is a temporary setback.”

“Oh? And how are you going to rectify it? Get in a spacesuit
and float over to that ship yourself?”

“Your sarcasm is unnecessary.”

They entered a lift, guaranteeing them some privacy from the
eyes and ears of the hallways. Vorjos pressed a button and the machine hummed
as it catapulted them horizontally and vertically to the level of his quarters.

“How can I convince you, Grinek? This whole operation is a
misuse of our resources. And that’s not only manpower and this ship, but our
valuable diplomatic resources as well. Already I fear this mission has cost us
the Earthmen’s trust. We are, after all, negotiating over the gas giant in the
Fortu System.”

“I was under the impression we were prepared to seize the
Fortu System.”

“The Ruling Council would prefer that be done without
bloodshed.”

Grinek simmered. Once again, the leadership was retreating
from what would surely be a just and glorious battle. If Earthmen could not be
defeated militarily, then how were the Kotarans supposed to react to a stronger
enemy?

Vorjos wheezed out a sigh. “But, Commander, the Fortu System
is not the point. The point is this comet. This hypothetical and rather
mythical
comet that you claim will bring
glory to our race.”

“Do not call it mythical, Observer.”
 
The hum stopped and the doors opened,
and the lift deposited them directly outside the burnt-orange doors of the
Observer’s quarters. It was the ship’s equivalent of a guest room, outfitted
with the most extravagant luxuries—some of which even Grinek envied. A
lone sentry barred the door, the blue sash of a government bodyguard across his
heavy chest, symbolizing the superior training he had received.

“Thank you, Misjrem,” Vorjos told the bodyguard, who stepped
aside. Vorjos gave him a slight respectful bow as he did so, which was
reciprocated by the guard. Vorjos pulled a ragged key out of his pocket and
inserted it into the door lock, sliding it open. No automatically-sliding doors
for the political officer: they were too easy to override. Grinek did not bow
to Misjrem as he followed Vorjos into the room, giving the bodyguard only the
briefest of glances.

Vorjos’ room was indeed stocked to the extreme. The standard
issue steel had been replaced with fine wood from Rou Laggin, streamlined and
gleaming. Statuettes of various Kotaran leaders decorated the room, all the way
back to Emperor Okrus four thousand years ago—as if men who lived and
breathed politics needed to be reminded of their more successful predecessors.
The guest room was also installed with its own bathing chamber, as well as a
shelf for reading material—all rare luxuries for a tactical cruiser,
outshining Grinek’s own spartan quarters. Vorjos paced over to the bookshelf
and pulled out a giant volume. To Grinek’s surprise, the book had been hollowed
out and a bottle stored inside. Without asking Grinek, he poured some of the
drink into two glasses on a table, handing one to the Commander.

“Degmorran ale, Commander. Your country really makes the
best spirits.”

Grinek wrapped his talons awkwardly around the glass. “If
you don’t mind, Observer, I do have work to do. I need to monitor the human
vessel so we can capture it.”

Vorjos took a drink from his glass. “Nonsense. The crew is
doing just fine tracking it. I visited the bridge right before you arrived and
thought the crew was acting thoroughly competent. Captain Sisal did a
remarkable job training them. No, Commander, I thought we could have a nice
discussion…and perhaps get back on the right path.”

Vorjos had invited Grinek to his quarters for a drink: a
suspect move. There were whispers back on Kotara that the Observer was
abthay
, a male who loves males, and
Grinek decided that it would fit with the man’s personality. He told himself to
stay at least ten steps apart from the man, and continued to stand firmly on
the other side of the room.

“Now you see, Grinek, our occupations do not leave much room
for compatibility! I am supposed to keep you in line, and you are supposed to
keep this ship in line. Naturally, we will clash now and again.”

Vorjos took another drink. Grinek did not.

“Understand that what I do I do for the good of the
Council,” Vorjos said, and emitted a small hiccup.

“As do I, Observer. This mission is for the glory of all
Kotara. I hope you will eventually see that.”

“Really, Grinek, what does that mean? ‘The glory of
Kotara?’
 
And I hope you don’t mind
if I use your personal name.”

“No, Observer.” He did mind, however. But Grinek was not
going to give Vorjos the satisfaction of hearing him say his own name. Perhaps
that is what aroused the Observer.

“Good. Grinek, please explain to me the great purpose behind
this search. I’ve looked through your report and it’s the usual staid political
garbage, with all the right phrases in its praising of the regime. ‘As the
Emperor wills,’ and all that. But I want to know what
you
think. What makes you risk your career and our relations with
the Earthmen, and what made you travel to
Earth
,
of all places?”

Grinek set down the drink on a table and took a breath. He
would try his best to explain the facts to this simpleton. “Observer, first of
all, I do not believe this mission jeopardizes anything with the humans. In
fact, if we can reach our objective, we won’t have to worry about our relations
with Earth again. I believe we will hold a great power over them. Not only
their present, but their past and future as well.”

“Oh?”
 
Vorjos
laughed, a horrible baying sound, and gulped the last of his ale. “You think
this comet, or whatever it is, will cause us to dominate the Earthmen?”

“The comet is irrelevant. If Vertulfo was right, it
disintegrated billions of years ago. But I am concerned about where it came
from. And if Vertulfo’s assumptions that it came from a particular solar system
are correct, then yes, I do believe we can control the Earthmen. And the
Nydens. And the Bauxens. Because the majority of them have no idea this place
exists. The discovery of the origin of life will shake them to their cores.”

Vorjos again laughed, and slowly walked over to Grinek. The
Commander, careful to avoid any sudden moves, began pacing the room in order to
remain far away from this creature.

“So you believe this Earthman? That there was a comet that
seeded all known life, and it had its origins somewhere many hundred light
years away?” Vorjos plopped down into his bed, a sling hanging from the ceiling
with a hole for his tail to jut through. The pose was ridiculous, but at least
he wasn’t inching toward Grinek. Obviously he’d drunk too much too fast and all
the alcohol had gone to his head. Grinek was a firm believer that Kotarans
should abstain from the stuff.

“I believe the Earthman, Observer. I have seen the science.”

“Since when have you been a scientist?” The question was
insulting, but Grinek said nothing. “I’ve seen your records. You spent most of
your days at the Academy of the Imperium drilling and fighting. And being an
External Commander leaves you with even less time to pursue scholarly efforts.
You look down more gun barrels every day than you’ve ever looked down a
microscope.”

“I have researched this question well. I know the science is
accurate. Besides, the Earthman did much of the work for me.”

“So you put your faith in science?” Vorjos asked. “Not in
Bar’Hail?”

Ah, so the truth was out there. Bar’Hail was the god of the
sky, the most revered god of the Kotarans. At least, the ancient gods, the gods
that until very recently, had been officially banned on the homeworld. Grinek
had long suspected Vorjos to be a closet
ghin,
a
religio
, but now he seemed to
confirm it. That fit with Vorjos’ personality, of course.
Ghin
were sentimental. Feeble. They did not love truth, only
convenient stories.