Torian Reclamation 3: Test of Fortitude (7 page)

“Sorry, Alan. There’s no way she was letting me go without her on this one. Don’t worry. I’ll probably do something to make her mad at me anyway.”

“Then I’ll have to listen to you fight instead. I’m not sure which is worse.”

Jumper laughed. “It’s not gonna be like that. Hey, I’m sure they’ll let you bring another friend if you want. What about Doreen? No, not Doreen. I forgot. Bring another guy if you want. Marvin or Troy maybe. Heck, bring Rupert.”

“We’re trying to make friends with this race, remember? And we’re leaving in a matter of minutes. Too late for me to do any recruiting. Besides, I can’t think of anyone I’d really want along. Guess that’s why it’s always just you and me on our camping trips.”

“Yeah,” Jumper said. “I know what you mean. Neophytes are a burden. Come on. Let’s see if they have the crate loaded.”

Alan followed Jumper through the store to the observation deck out back. The Mparian shuttle was parked on the far side of the mercenary course. Its loading ramp was down and an all-terrain flatbed hover truck was making its way across the course.

In the grassy field, near the final target range, a portable beam-hoe leaned against a large slotted crate. Kayla was there. She looked to be testing the door of the crate to make sure it was latched. Next to her was a noticeable patch of freshly turned ground.

“Nice of you to let the Mparians have some of your goliagrass,” Alan said.

Jumper nodded. “Erob knows we have enough of it. And this strain on the course is resilient. I think it’s much more likely to survive the trip, and take in foreign soil, than the other batches they were given. They seem pretty happy about it.”

The two of them watched as the hover truck eased its way over uneven ground until it came to Kayla and the crate. Four Mparians got out and unloaded a small beam-crane. It didn’t take long before the crate and Kayla were both sitting on the truck bed and the vehicle was making its way back to the shuttle.

Kayla looked up to the observation deck. When she saw Jumper and Alan she waved. She then pointed to the Mparian shuttle and motioned for them to follow.

“She’s all ready,” Jumper said. “I have to admit her enthusiasm for this trip surprises me. But then, I’m the one usually going on vacations. I don’t think she’s ever had one, other than that excursion she took with us five years ago.”

“That’s one I think she could have done without.” Alan waved back at Kayla. “Although, it cured her fear of animals. She hasn’t been separated from Casanova since then, has she? For any length of time, I mean.”

“That’s why this trip is good for her. Dad will take care of everything here, and she knows Casanova loves him. You ready?”

Alan nodded. Jumper slapped him on the shoulder as they reentered the building. Up in the storefront, Jumper’s dad was at the main counter looking confused behind the computer screen.

“Jumper, where’s the vendor contact lists? In case I need to reorder something. Man. I can’t find anything on this newfangled contraption.”

“Kayla said her instruction video covers everything, Dad. Just watch that. And we have extra stock on most items in the back, so I seriously doubt you’ll need to place any orders. It’s been kind of slow on the retail side lately.”

“All right,” Derek said. “Sorry I can’t run your warmonger games for you.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Jumper came around behind the computer screen and touched something on the console under the cabinet.

“There. This interface should be more your style, like the old university computers. It’s time for us to go. See you in about a week.”

Derek looked back and forth between Alan and Jumper. “Heading off across the galaxy with your profiteering friends now? I’d tell you to have fun but I’m worried you might not come back.”

“We’re coming back. We have a company gig we have to prepare for on the warmonger—I mean the mercenary course. It’s marked on the calendar, so whatever you do don’t book any appointments during that period.”

“Gotcha. Have a good time, son. Not a great time—just a good time.”

“Thanks, Dad. Oh, and Casanova can get out of his pen when he wants. He’s good about coming back before dark, so we don’t have the heart to fix it. So don’t worry if his pen is open and he’s gone. He likes to go sleep in the deep grass in the afternoons.”

They said their final goodbyes. Alan and Jumper left the store. As soon as they were outside, Trodenjo met them.

“I was just coming to get you two. Are we ready?”

“Yes!” they both replied. Alan was suddenly getting excited. The fact that Kayla was coming had dampened his mood some, but he found he was now able to brush that aside. There’s something invigorating about the beginning of a trip. Unbridled optimism. The stimulating prospect of seeing new places and learning new things. Disappointment is a foreign concept. Alan wondered if life got any better than the moment you were leaving familiarity behind to embark on an exploratory vacation.

The three of them began walking down one of the trails through the mercenary course towards the Mparian landing craft. The hover truck with the crate of goliagrass was now moving up the ramp.

“This should be fun for me as well,” Trodenjo said. “I’m looking forward to learning more about your culture and seeing what you think about The Measure. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

*

“Why me?” Brandon asked. For the first time ever, he found himself resenting his blind obedience to Olut6’s requests.

“Because you’re so extat good, Brandon.”

“I don’t know if I’m buying that this time, General. I’ve never negotiated treaties or done any kind of intelligence work. The only thing I’ve ever excelled at—that’s been helpful to you, anyway—is, let’s face it, playing video games. And, to be perfectly honest, I think I’m finally outgrowing those.”

“That’s okay. You’ll have a full crew with you. A good one, Brandon. You can help choose it if you like. You don’t need to do any flying or shooting yourself. Especially shooting. Hopefully. This is mostly a diplomatic mission.”

“For which I’m woefully unqualified.”

Olut6 shook his head. “Incorrect. You’re the only one who
is
qualified for this, the way I see it. The Azaarians don’t trust us.”

“Oh,” Brandon said. “Now I see. You want an alien to approach them.”

“An unimposing alien. No offense, but Earthlings are one of the least threatening species I’ve come across, physically speaking.” Olut6 laughed. “Particularly when facing off with a large-framed Azaarian. They even make Torians nervous.”

“Great. You want to send a small weak guy in to interrogate big strong guys.”

“That is precisely what I mean to do. I believe it’s my best chance for success.”

“Success at what?” Brandon asked.

“Finding out where the dark enemy is, and what they’re up to—or better yet, drawing them out for a fight somewhere other than Tora.”

“Draw them out? My role in this is starting to sound more like bait than diplomat.”

“Call it what you want,” Olut6 said. “If you’re concerned about the risk, I won’t deny there is some danger in this assignment. Especially if my suspicions are validated. But I think we can design a process that will keep you and your crew reasonably safe. Plus, we’ll send some special gadgets along I think you’ll appreciate.”

Brandon gazed out the window of Olut6’s office. “It’s nearly 5,000 light years across the galaxy,” he said with a sigh.

Olut6 nodded “A three-day journey. In a nice, comfortable Class-3 transport ship. There’s a full gym on board, video games, all the—”

“If I went that far in the opposite direction, I could almost be back at Earth.”

“Would you like to go back to Earth?”

The question gave Brandon pause. Olut6 never offered him that before. Brandon had certainly pestered
him
with it, along with every politician who would listen to him, several decades ago. That was back before the humans had come to appreciate life on Banor. Now the High General finally volunteers it after all these years. And Brandon could tell he was serious.

But Brandon also knew the High General expected him to decline the offer. Maybe he should call his bluff, just for spite.

Ultimately, though, something as prodigious as an Earth pilgrimage wasn’t Brandon’s call to make. The idea would need to be circulated and discussed in the human communities on Banor. Brandon already knew most of them would be against it. But there were a small number of misfits who would, no doubt, jump at the chance. Such an undertaking would be too monumental of an event to arrange for only a few rogues. There would need to be a rally in favor of this cause significant enough to divide the Torian humans. If such a thing happened, it would be bittersweet and even a little tragic. Families, friendships, and homes would be split.

Brandon’s daughter, Rachel2, would probably be against the idea, as would most of the second generation. They never knew Earth. The stories they heard of it were a mixed bag at best. Yes, the first-generationers would often look starry-eyed at the night sky and reminisce about “home.” But other times they would relay tales of crime, poverty, natural disasters, unjust governments, and astonishing cruelties carried out in the name of political activism. By comparison, Banor was a paradise void of those particular elements. Its hazards mostly came from outside its society, not from within. That seemed more appropriate to Brandon.

Then there were the babies. Lots of adorable human babies, whom even the native females were smitten with. Rachel2’s boyfriend was a good man who was respected in Banorian culture. Brandon liked him. They had been dating for two years now, which probably meant that Brandon could expect to be a grandfather soon. It was rare on Earth for people to know their great grandchildren, but on Banor parents had every expectation of playing catch with their great great grandchildren. How could you possibly transport so many happy, booming families with small children across the galaxy to their “home planet” when most of them only know of it by legend?

Did Brandon even want to go back? That was a question he was embarrassed to explore. By all reasonable logic, he should. Rachel, too. They could probably drag Rachel2 with them, as could many first-generationers also likely coerce their children to go wherever they went. It would take coercing, because to leave the known for the unknown was a tough sell.

And the state of Earth was unknown. If the pending orbital shift had not yet occurred, assuming there was truth in it, it was entirely possible they could all get back just in time to be wiped out in a massive worldwide disaster. If not, then perhaps they would be able to settle in and, if all goes well, live out life expectancies that were half of those on Banor.

But what kind of lives would those be? It was probable that most Earthlings still considered themselves alone in the galaxy. A thousand new humans suddenly showing up from outer space as a “returned abductee race” would result in worldwide social upheaval. They would all be celebrities, and perhaps not the good kind. Brandon could envision them being slandered, labeled freaks, and forever drawing the suspicion of others. They might even be relegated outcasts by the ugly reality of human bigotry.

Unless they could be returned covertly. That’s the only way. It would be quite a challenge to accomplish, but it could be done. Imagine that. A thousand humans with no identity, no history, no dental records. Was this undertaking included in the High General’s unexpected offer? Assuming they pulled it off, where would that put them all? On a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific somewhere? What kind of life would that be? How could they get rescued, and what would their story be?

“I didn’t mean to send you off to a mental boot camp,” Olut6 said.

Brandon refocused and realized he’d been staring at the High General all this time.

“Let’s forget about Earth for now,” Brandon said. “Why don’t you run by the specifics of this proposed assignment again, slowly?”

“There’s not that much too it, Brandon. I’ll send you and a carefully chosen crew to Azaar on a specially equipped Class-3 transport ship. You’ll take up orbit there, open a general broadcasting frequency, and request to speak to their foreign relations ambassador. They probably won’t respond immediately, and might send some fighters out to try and scare you. At that point, you should make your identity known and stress the fact that you are a Tora-authorized delegate, but also let them know you’re an Earthling come to have a parley.”

“And you think that will convince them to receive me?”

“Maybe,” Olut6 said. “If not, I trust you to convince them in your own profound way.”

Brandon nodded. “It’s a wise leader who allows his trusted subordinates a wide degree of discretion.”

Olut6 ignored his comment. “Once you’re in conference with them, don’t waste time on cordiality. That’s a weakness. Clobber them over the head with a demand. Ask them flat-out what their transport ship was doing hiding in the sub-atmosphere of HD28.”

“And how do you think they’ll respond?”

“By stalling, of course, while they communicate with higher authority. Hopefully, someone from the high command will then show up. They’ll grill you with questions first. Put up with it for a short while only, and then repeat your demand. At that point, you’ll need to use your brain again and figure out how to let them know we mean business. Don’t threaten them with war, though. You can get close to that, but stop short of it.”

“All right,” Brandon said. “Assuming I get this far, and they don’t lock me up or toss me out on my ass, they’ll now offer some kind of explanation for their transport ship being spotted acting suspiciously. Then what?”

“Whatever it is, tell them you don’t believe it and that the Tora military suspects them of withholding knowledge about the dark-ship enemy who attacked us five years ago.”

Brandon shook his head. “But that has no logical connection to their ship being seen at that hydro-dwarf planet.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“This whole thing is a ruse, Brandon. It’s just an excuse to accuse them. I want to see what kind of reaction they give you.”