CHAPTER ONE
Aleina... pistols
Colonel Aleina Iravani fixed the gold rank insignia on her white Ýdalir Militia officer coveralls so that it aligned with the iceberg blue Independence ribbon below. Somehow the two had become misaligned, and she couldn’t allow the crew to notice their commander’s disorder--the illusion of organization was the pillar of control. As she finished the aesthetic correction, her fingers brushed gently over scarred flesh below the fabric where two branded phrases rested above her heart: “Born to Die,” an edict to Earthers that life was finite; and “Í Stuttan Tíma,” taken from a poem about Dauðadags--Day of Death--, and Iceland’s relatively short time existence. This branding was common for Ýdalics, seared into skin in the same manner their ancestral home perished: first by fire, then by ice. But there was something different about Aleina; she was not born on Ýdalir; her lungs took in Earth air at birth… and by Ýdalic social judgment, that made her a Dearther.
Nevertheless, she was one of the highest ranked vessel commanding officers in the Ýdalir Militia. But as Earth-born, modified DNA made Aleina appear younger than her twenty-seven years. Consequently, and considering the Ýdalics took pride in the natural aging process of blossoming, then decaying, she was still viewed by some as an outsider. Being singled out had been a large part of her early life with the Ýdalics, made especially difficult during her teen years when kids were vicious. However, by living among them, then serving in the Militia and exceeding every demand, she was able to demonstrate enduring allegiance to the people who mattered, earning the right to call herself Ýdalic.
Aleina cherished the honor but knew some in the Militia, even those who no longer dared call her a Dearther, thought she had been given it, and the rank, based purely on her closeness to the Royals of Ýdalir. She knew it was useless to try and convince them otherwise; some people needed conspiracies to survive. Her history, though public knowledge, had survived a series of summarized misconceptions that included: the ugly little Dearther girl rescued by the First Raven, who grew up in the Royal home and was best friends with the one they called Tommy, the Fifth Raven.
It was somewhat true. Tommy and Aleina were once best friends… as kids, but became more intimate as teenagers when they attended the Prep-Academy in Manchester, England. Her emotional need to avoid people’s judgment fit well with his desire to escape responsibility since his family’s fame carried an almost unbearable weight of expectation. Tommy swore he wanted no part in it, and would rather hide from the world, with her, forever--if they could find a way. She had loved him even more because of it and happily sought quiet and passion with him wherever possible. Their last day together, on a St Austell meadow, had filled her soul with joy and a belief they were going to be together forever. Sadly, it took but one moment of bravery, and Earther fame, for Tommy to abandon every promise… when he became Tommy Raven, the Savior of Earth and a ghost to Aleina.
She knew people in the Militia talked as if Tommy and Aleina still maintained a friendship. She never corrected them… perhaps because the truth was too sad to speak. Maybe she didn’t say anything because it benefited her if they believed it, something easy to justify when she’d never been given an ending… and never received an answer to one little question that, even a decade later, was still a sad, deep, invalidating perplexity: How was I so easy to discard?
As time went on, the once overwhelming feeling became easier to push away, but Aleina knew that the darkness could only stay hidden for so long before it crept back up into light. Time wouldn’t close that wound, she accepted. No amount of success in life could heal the festering infection that was the unknown. Stress only seemed to make it worse… like now, as the Independence searched for a missing pilot.
Enough of this, Anxiety. Focus your thoughts on what is important right now! Aleina told herself, then straightened her back and felt the Colonel take over. “Give me some news,” she commanded the intercept officer, Lieutenant Skúli Skúlason, a man in his late 50s just beginning to grow white hairs in his monstrous red beard. He was one of two men on her vessel but also its most respected combat officer, having fought in two Dearther conflicts and dozens of pirate engagements as a non-commissioned officer. He had only taken a promotion to officer for the retirement benefits.
“I am not getting anything on Gunna,” he replied, “but am tracking another vessel traveling at high velocity; inbound from sector one-three-six-niner. It is not transmitting a tracking signal but is actively pinging us for contact. Seems they want us to know they’re coming.” Skúli’s eyes broke from the tracking device to look at the Colonel.
She nodded at him, then turned to her communications specialist, Corporal Eu-meh, a Chinese exchange volunteer, and said, “Send a ping back to the approaching vessel. Let them know we’re aware of them. Then open channels and listen. If they’re coming for us, perhaps they want to talk.” The Colonel completed giving the order and let a bit of doubt creep in before pushing it out of her mind.
“Pinged, Colonel,” Eu-meh reported. “Would you like me to continue until we receive a response?”
“Affirmative, Corporal.” The Colonel turned back to her intercept officer. “Anything on the floater?” she asked, using the nickname for unidentified crafts.
“It’s big? Fast? And… coming our way?” Skúli said in an amused but patronizing tone.
“Alright, now tell me something more useful, before I demote you to private,” she said jokingly. Though the situation was a serious matter, the crew regularly used humor to stave off stress--too much stress caused people to make mistakes.
Skúli groaned, stuck out his tongue, then snapped into professional mode, “At its current velocity, and my best approximation of its size, it is an assault vessel of some type. I’ll know more as it gets closer,” he glanced over at Eu-meh, “unless she gets them to talk to us.”
The Colonel looked at Eu-meh, but she had one hand on a hold-grip at her station, keeping herself in place in the micro-gravity, and her free hand palm-up in their direction, “I’m getting something,” the Corporal announced.
“Talk to me, Corporal.”
“It’s thin.”
“Are you referring to my patience?” the Colonel asked, chuckling nervously.
“It’s a message,” Eu-meh informed her, “on a loop. I can hear certain inflections repeated over and over. But I can’t make out what’s being said. I will let you know--“
“Immediately,” the Colonel--or Aleina, she wasn’t sure which version of her was speaking--said forcefully, as the darkness attempted to emerge again. No matter the internal madness, she knew it was her duty to project calm and confidence for the sake of everyone else.
“As soon as I hear anything worth reporting,” Eu-meh finished while still staring at the antique communications console. The Independence was very old in general, like most Ýdalir Militia ships, but old didn’t mean bad, and their instruments were more than capable of getting the job done.
A familiar voice came from behind, “Should I ready my squad?” The Colonel twisted her hand on the hold-grip to turn her body around. It was her XO, Major Karin Fjallhafsins, commander of the ship’s defense troopers and a giant--appropriately, her family name translated to Mountain of the Sea.
“We should be prepared,” the Colonel replied, then turned toward Skúli and asked, “ETA?”
“We’ll likely make visual in ninety.”
She twisted back to the XO and said, “Go to Condition November. Stand by for further orders.”
“Understood. We’ll be ready soon.” The Major twisted her massive frame around, reached for a hold-grip with a giant paw, pulled herself up through the small bridge entry--barely--, and floated into the main corridor.
The Colonel turned back to address the crew, “I’ll be back,” then nodded to Skúli, “you have command, old man.”.
“Promoted again?” Skúli said with a smirk. “I’m climbing the ranks quicker than you.”
“You sure are. But don’t worry,” she said, raising her voice to address the rest of the bridge crew, “I’ll be back before he gets you all killed.” It was met with nervous laughter from the officers followed by Skúli cursing at them in Icelandic to shut up.
The Colonel pushed off the hull and floated through the bridge entryway into the main corridor. There were hold-grips along the entire length and she walked them with her hands, one after the other, until she reached a cross-section 10 meters beyond the bridge entry. She then twisted her hand around a red hold-grip at a new cross-section and pushed off into what was called Officer’s Alley. The section had eleven compartments, one each offsetting either side of the corridor. The compartments were given to any of the eight officers and three doctors on-board. Some ship commanders made it their prerogative to take the first compartment since it was the shortest travel distance for them, but the Colonel had taken the last.
She pulled herself forward the final few meters, floating in the micro-gravity. Once at her compartment, she grabbed the heavy plastic latch on the door and twisted it counterclockwise, opening it. She was home, but not to seek comfort. Though the latest Armistice Agreement disarmed the Militia of most firearms, commanding officers were allowed to have pistols on-hand in case the crew attempted mutiny. In this instance, she wanted them to protect the crew… in case something bad was coming.
Aleina went to her bunk-safe, opened it, and retrieved an old leather gun belt. She next grabbed a box of 60 projectiles and painstakingly transferred them, one-at-a-time, to the belt’s loop holders. Finally, she retrieved two holsters, a 20-shooter occupying each, clipped them onto the belt, then checked the mirror to make sure everything looked right. Yep, perfect. It made her feel imposing, like one of those American frontier gunslingers from the old movies, Bass Reeves maybe… but cooler. She smiled at the thought as her hand gently stroked the multi-colored braids atop her head.
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