Valmoran Republic, Planet Kronai, Temple of the Seven

  Callum Torion, Representative Arbiter for the Valmoran Republic

  The pompous ass had been bad enough sober, and now the fool was starting in on his third glass of Iorian wine. As if this hadn’t already been the longest, most wearying day in memory, Callum had to contend with Vargus Trix on top of it.

  The scent of fermented fruit wafted across the table, mingling unpleasantly with the delicate aroma of the Temple’s incense.

  Unfortunately for everyone at the table, the wine further loosened the crime lord’s vile tongue. While Callum typically prized his empathic senses, he was currently cursing the fact that he had the added displeasure of experiencing the man’s megalomania and sadistic tendencies grow with his inebriation.

  He could not, for the life of him, understand why the Temple would choose to associate with such a monster.

  Thankfully, Vargus didn’t appear to be using his powers to inflict pain or pleasure on anyone yet—Callum had been monitoring his dinner companions’ emotions for signs of the man’s signature antics—but the nonsense falling from his lips was bad enough all on its own.

  “But slavery just makes fiscal sense!” He punctuated the assertion by slamming his fist on the table, rattling the wine glasses. The man’s emotions revealed that his indignation was an act. On the inside, Vargus brimmed with gleeful anticipation.

  Callum gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching so hard he could almost hear his molars crack. The bastard was baiting them, trying to provoke a reaction.

  Callum resisted the urge to roll his eyes, then took a calming breath and focused on the soup course. He wasn’t hungry—at this point, he only wanted to find a transport, head home, and sleep for three days straight.

  It’s not that there was anything wrong with the banquet. Priests played uplifting instrumental music, the room was a kaleidoscope of joy, excitement, and reverence, and the pleasant chatter of polite conversation filled the hall.

  Callum’s gaze drifted to the head table, where Matthai sat among the High Priests. If only Matthai didn’t seem so off this evening. The contrast between Matthai’s vibrant emotions earlier that day and his current emotional void was jarring. Where there had been a tempest of feeling—fear, hope, determination—there was now ... nothing.

  Outwardly, Matthai was eating, drinking, smiling. Inwardly, he was ... gone. Callum was aware of Matthai’s empty presence at the head table behind him like a hovering ghost, and couldn’t seem to stop monitoring the Scion’s emotional state. It was as if someone had erased Matthai’s spirit, leaving behind a shell performing the motions.

  It was unnerving, and Callum was further annoyed by how much it bothered him. After all, he had only met the man this afternoon—why should he care if something was wrong with Matthai? Yet the wrongness of it all gnawed at him, a persistent itch he couldn’t scratch.

  He turned around, hoping to catch sight of the Scion, but before he spotted him, Vargus made a loud announcement.

  “Fine. I’ll say it.”

  Callum turned back to the table and wished he hadn’t when he caught the glint in the crime lord’s eye.

  “It’s about time we address the obvious problem with this picture.” Vargus glared at the Threllian Ambassador, his leathery wings rustling with barely contained aggression.

  The Threllian Ambassador had spent most of the meal sitting quietly, observing. Its skin rippled with subtle patterns of blue and green, the meaning of which Callum could only guess at.

  Callum assumed he had been content to do so, but couldn’t be sure—Valmoran powers didn’t work on Threllians, and he didn’t know how to read the alien’s body language. It was a strange sort of emotional blindness, being unable to know or even guess at the Ambassador’s emotional state.

  He hadn’t spoken much to the Ambassador this evening, regrettably. The opportunity to broker communication between the Republic and the Empire was tempting, but how could he have guessed there would be a Threllian at Matthai Valtrellin’s ordination? Without ambassadorial authorization, his hands were tied.

  Callum had worked hard to distinguish himself as an expert war historian and strategist—often considered a useless specialty after generations of Peacekeeper oversight—so he would have been the perfect candidate for the role of Ambassador.

  It was a shame, but he could get himself in a galaxy of trouble if he acted without voters’ approval.

  “What are you going on about now, Vargus?” Regla spoke as if to an unruly child, her fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the table.

  “I’m just saying, now that we’ve got past the pleasantries, it’s about time we all admit that there’s a parasite sitting at the dinner table, right?”

  Callum’s shock was mirrored by Arilla, Regla, and Priest Ollem. Arilla’s face paled, Regla’s jaw clenched, and Ollem’s eyes widened in horror. Many Valmorans still mistrusted the Threllians, even twenty generations after the ceasefire. And while some still used derogatory terms such as “parasite” or “space bug” to describe them, it was not done in polite company.

  And this moron had the gall to say it to the first Threllian Ambassador to grace Valmoran space since the war. Centuries of careful diplomacy, teetering on the edge of ruin because of one drunken, bigoted idiot.

  The Republic had been trying to reopen communications with the Empire for several generations, and was almost desperate to gain access to their superior medical technology. Vargus was likely the last Valmoran Callum would want to represent their species.

  Ambassadorial approval or not, he couldn’t allow Vargus’s comments to stand.

  Callum turned to address the Ambassador—X’ilxis was his name, according to his Hix overlay. He had no clue how to pronounce it, and his Hix wasn’t helpful—information on the Threllian Empire was still sparse.

  “Ambassador ...?” Callum began.

  As the Ambassador spoke, the effect was unlike anything Callum had ever seen. Every inch of the Threllian’s skin morphed in bright colors as his robotic chair projected a male voice, speaking eerily perfect Valmoran Standard.

  “Zil is fine, Representative Torion. I understand that our language is quite challenging for Valmorans.”

  The Threllian Ambassador was genial, almost scarily diplomatic, in the face of Vargus’s brazen rudeness. It was remarkable how his synthetic voice mimicked good-natured amusement.

  Callum still found it unsettling to feel nothing coming through his empathic senses. Yet somehow, even without, he got the impression that the Ambassador was ... pleasant.

  “Ambassador Zil, I apologize for my dinner companion’s unforgivable rudeness. I assure you, he does not speak for all Valmorans, and most certainly does not speak for the Valmoran Republic. We deeply regret our ancestors’ actions during the Threllian Wars, and hope to one day call ourselves friends of the Empire.”

  The Threllian’s skin morphed through a soothing pattern of green and blue tones. “Thank you, Representative Torion. We are very pleased to make your acquaintance, and see that your reputation precedes you. As for you, Vargus Trix, we are content to address your concerns.”

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  The silence hung in the air, but it didn’t take long for Vargus to shatter it. When he did, he didn’t even deign to address the Ambassador. Instead, he turned to each of the Valmorans in quick succession, his wings flaring with each accusation.

  “Are we just going to sit here and act like it’s not a big deal that there is a Threllian in our space? In our holy Temple? These ... things ... used Valmoran females as hosts to their filthy offspring.”

  For the first time tonight, Callum felt something other than pride and amusement from Vargus. This was no simple shit-stirring—he was well and truly disgusted.

  “They enslaved Valmorans, on our own homeworlds—”

  “—undiscovered homeworlds—” Callum interjected.

  “—and stuck their spawn inside our women! Why the hell didn’t they just use their own females? Just the thought makes my skin crawl.”

  This was getting out of control.

  “Vargus,” Callum raised his voice, leveling his gaze at the crime lord. “Perhaps we should move back into the realm of facts, lest we cause a scene for the Valtrellins. In their holy Temple.”

  Vargus snarled and shot Callum a look so deadly that he braced for pain reflexively. The crime lord had a reputation for correcting those who displeased him.

  Instead, Vargus lurched to his feet, nearly toppling his chair in the process. “You bug-lovers can do as you like. I’m getting another drink.”

  Then he stormed off.

  Callum let out a breath, relaxing now that the threat of pain had literally gone away. Then he turned back to Ambassador Zil. “I sincerely apologize—”

  “—No need, Representative Torion. Master Trix’s reputation is well known to us. As is yours. Our Emperor finds great inspiration in your political philosophies.”

  Callum wasn’t sure how to respond to that. How did the Threllians have so much intel on Valmorans, when none had visited Valmoran space in over twenty generations?

  Also, the thought of the Threllian Emperor following his political platform was so strange, so completely outside the realm of anything he had considered possible, that he didn’t know what to think.

  The Threllian Empire remained an enigma, shrouded in centuries of isolation. In texts from the time of the Threllian Wars, their Empire had been brutally hierarchical—a far cry from the progressive ideals Callum championed.

  Things must have changed a great deal if their current Emperor appreciated his progressive philosophies.

  “That is ... unexpected. Granted, my understanding of Threllian culture is quite outdated. May I ask—”

  “—you are wondering how we know so much, fearing what it could mean.”

  Callum couldn’t deny it. Any military strategist would be wary to hear the Threllians had been secretly gathering intel.

  “I assure you, our interest is nothing nefarious. Our Emperor is an avid student of philosophy, and his curiosity soon surpassed our own cultural and sociological technology. Valmorans have had many governments, many philosophies to study and compare.”

  Callum relaxed slightly, but he would need to report this information to the Republic. That would mean explaining why he had broken protocol and spoken in an ambassadorial capacity. Navigating bureaucracy would be a headache, but he couldn’t think about that right now.

  “Fascinating. May I ask—”

  “—you may ask the Emperor when he visits the Temple. We have been invited, and Our Great Emperor would like to accept. He will want to meet with you during his visit. For now, I must go. We have seen all that we need today.”

  With that, the Threllian Ambassador made his farewells and left the hall, his electronic chair gliding across the polished floor.

  That had been ... unsettling.

  Then again, the Ambassador hadn’t seemed threatening. He had been perfectly reasonable. More than reasonable, with the way he handled Vargus.

  Of course, a cunning enemy would present themselves in the best possible light. It didn’t matter—it wasn’t Callum’s responsibility or right to decide how to handle foreign affairs.

  However, he should handle this delicately. Others might blow this incident out of proportion if he gave the wrong impression. Callum wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t think the Threllians were a credible threat.

  Urgency level 2, then, and security level 1. That would show that Callum was taking the matter seriously but wouldn’t raise any alarm bells. He asked his AI to request a meeting with the Department of Foreign Affairs.

  Such an unexpected turn of events. Now that Callum had time to reflect, it was odd that the Ambassador could speak perfect Standard, since Threllians used a combination of visual and electromagnetic communication.

  The initial conflict with the Threllians had unfolded from a series of misunderstandings—two species, with a nearly insurmountable language barrier, and stark cultural and theological differences.

  Violence had been the unavoidable and catastrophic result, and it seemed many Valmorans still hadn’t learned their lesson.

  “Do you travel often?”

  He started at the sudden question Arilla directed at him and turned to look at her. “What was that?”

  Arilla cleared her throat and blushed, a rosy tint creeping up her neck. The wine seemed to be getting to her, though Callum was sure she hadn’t imbibed as much as Vargus. He may be the only sober person left in the room, which meant he would have the pleasure of watching the evening devolve around him.

  She gave a self-deprecating smile. “Oh, I was just wondering ... you must travel a lot as a politician, right?”

  Callum suppressed a sigh. Small talk was mind-numbingly inane, but snubbing the woman beside him would be rude.

  “Some, though not as much as you might think,” he answered, in a flat tone he hoped would discourage further inquiry.

  “Oh? I figured someone like you would be in our VIP network.”

  Tamping down his irritation, Callum applied his best “politician smile.” Public image was important, after all. “That’s right—you said you work for Anaris Station, didn’t you?”

  “Mhm—for the Anaris Station Spacefolding Syndicate. I was in charge of coordinating all the travel routes for the ceremony today.” She grinned, and there was a glint in her eyes. “It was quite the logistic puzzle, actually.”

  Interesting. Callum spared her a closer look. Arilla was an unassuming sort of woman—quiet, unremarkable, and slightly underdressed for the occasion, as if she hadn’t known quite what to wear to this event.

  Her fingers fidgeted with the stem of her wine glass, betraying her nerves.

  Hearing her talk about her role in the travel arrangements, he would bet that they had invited her as a thank-you for a job well done, not as a dignitary. That she was here on merit made her infinitely more fascinating.

  A second look into her emotions painted an intriguing picture—this woman may be awkward, but she was excited about her work, almost to the point of obsession.

  He had never given a second thought to how difficult it would be to coordinate the sudden influx of billions of extra Valmorans to planet Kronai. Still, now that he was thinking about it, his interest was piqued.

  “That sounds like quite a puzzle—did you complete the project alone?”

  “I led a small team. Have actually been working on this project my entire career.” She gave a shy smile, and Callum could feel the mix of excitement, pride, and embarrassment radiating off her. “Got promoted because of it.”

  “Congratulations! I’m guessing the project was a success, then?”

  She nodded emphatically, her earlier nervousness giving way to animated enthusiasm. “Oh, yes—there were a couple of hiccups with some of the rental orbitals, but we had backups lined up, so no one noticed.”

  Arilla was so earnest, so obviously invested in her work, that Callum almost wanted to pat her on the head. Almost. “So, what’s the new job?”

  She grinned. “You’re looking at the new Junior Director of Forecasting and Scheduling. It’s not easy, you know—since folders are immobile and take so much energy. We have to plan the trips to be as close to capacity as possible. And it’s a huge investment if we recommend a new set of endpoints to the Syndicate.”

  “I think I read something a while back about issues with people sneaking into the fold zone?” Callum asked.

  “Oh, slinkers? Yeah, they’re kind of inevitable.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but we actually plan for it.”

  “Oh?” Callum raised an eyebrow, his interest genuinely piqued.

  “Yeah, there’s always a few small ships that slink into the zone right before the fold. We ignore it as long as the trip isn’t too full, and they’re not too obvious about it.”

  Then she made a face. “Well, mostly. It’s too expensive to monitor every fold for freeloaders, so we have random inspections.”

  She assumed a mock authoritarian voice and gestured like a teacher. Her hand chopped the air for emphasis, nearly knocking over her wine glass.

  “If you get caught slinking during one of those, that’s it—blacklisted. That’s enough to keep slinking to a manageable level. It’s a bunch of math to minimize costs. Anyway, I’m rambling.” She looked at him sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  “That’s fi—”

  “—oh, hey—let me give you my contact info, and if you ever need help with travel, I can hook you up.”

  Her notice came across his Hix, and he hesitated. He rarely added strangers to his contacts. Off-planet travel was rare for him, since he conducted all his voting duties from his home Ansible chamber. It was one of his favorite perks of being a Representative.

  Space travel was a nuisance—hours or days cut off from communication networks, followed by the tedious catch-up with delayed messages. Only Ansible allowed for instantaneous interplanetary communication, and its exorbitant cost made it impractical for routine use.

  Then again, he didn’t have any contacts at the Spacefolding Syndicate, so he decided it couldn’t hurt.

  As soon as he accepted, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

  Arilla leaned in closer, her body language suddenly much too familiar. The scent of wine on her breath was cloying as she invaded his personal space. “You know ... if you ever want help with travel, or anything else ...”

  Callum coughed and resisted the urge to jerk away from her. His skin crawled at the unwanted proximity, his empathic senses irritated by her sudden burst of attraction.

  He never knew how to act when people insisted on flirting with him. Being considered classically attractive had its benefits, he knew that, but after a childhood where everyone treated him like a pariah, he was still very unused to—and uncomfortable with—people coming on to him.

  He glanced away, searching for an excuse to end the conversation.

  And immediately wished he hadn’t.

  Vargus was back, drink in hand, staring right at Callum. A cruel smile crept across the crime lord’s face.

  “Looks like I made it back just in time for dessert.”