mark laporta

December 19 2022

Coming of Age on Tuvulot, Episode 8: Changing Fortunes!

Chickadee Prince Fiction, Science Fiction aliens, mark laporta, science fiction serial finale

[Editor’s Note: Read the whole story from the beginning!]

After a few more days, the Omah-Drunan, which had already waned, was now passed. Their heads clearer, Lozlian and Aldruvet knew it was time to return to everyday life. That meant living apart for a while until they settled their accounts and found a new place to live. Though Lozlian wasn’t eager to return to the Kroleni civil service, he couldn’t contemplate raising his children, who were already on the way, on the tiny stipend granted by the insectoids to the Yonopcry who remained on the reservations.

And yet, as he boarded the train for Hanaplero for the first time in weeks, he felt as if he were seeing the world for the first time. The Kroleni Administrative building, which had once seemed mighty and imposing, now looked dull and functional. Besides, as he approached the entrance, he noticed, for the first time, that it was overdue for minor maintenance. Up until then, he’d never seen the slight misalignment of a few of the building’s obsidian tiles, which must have started to come loose from their moorings.

In hindsight, he told himself, that made sense. As important as Tuvulot was to the Yonopcry, to the Kroleni it was a minor province in a vast, interlocking collection of colony worlds. In any case, the building was still in good working order and once he entered his familiar office, it was as if he’d never left. Except, that is, for the unmissable air of calm. His coworkers, once nervous under the eye of their Kroleni overlords, seemed unusually relaxed. A few meters past the main reception desk, he was greeted with a round of spontaneous applause that went a long way to explaining why their mood had shifted. As one of his fellow administrators mentioned:

“You made the Yonopcry look good,” she told him. “Now the insectoids know we really count for something.”

Lozlian smiled. Though he was glad to take the praise, he knew better than to think their masters would ever go that far in their assessment of a “subordinate partner species.” At the same time, he had no argument with enjoying a few weeks of reduced scrutiny from the Imperium. Soon enough, when the next quarterly reports were due, the Treasury would be no more tolerant of substandard performance than before.

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Yet, for now, the Kroleni’s attitude toward the Yonopcry had shifted. Thanks to Lozlian’s intervention, the war with the Chyloradrin came to a halt much sooner than the Kroleni Council anticipated. That suited the newly mated Yonopcry perfectly. Now instead of either fighting or pitching in with the administration of goods and services to the insectoid fleet, he could concentrate on more important matters. He could shop for a home with Aldruvet and help her arrange for parental leave from her position at the Finance Ministry.

Yet in the midst of these happy chores, the Kroleni didn’t let him off the hook. Once the last Chyloradrin ships had been swept back to their homeworlds, Lozlian received a summons to appear before the Inner Ring of the Kroleni Council.

The night before his appointment, Lozlian tortured himself with a thousand imaginary worries. Would he now be punished for taking an unauthorized initiative? The next morning, he was inconsolable, despite Aldruvet’s soothing reassurances.

Despite his anxiety, he took the slightly longer train ride out to the Hanaplero Civic Center to learn what the insectoids had in mind. When he arrived, he went straight up to the sixteenth floor where three Kroleni, including Achimlemoor, were seated behind a raised stainless-steel desk that, at four meters tall, towered over him. Gruelinaphliar, a female Councilmember he was unfamiliar with spoke to him in a clipped, emotionless style.

“Regional Trade Liaison Lozlian, we would like to officially commend you for the bravery and … ingenuity … you showed in contributing to our recent war effort against the reptilians. Now, on to today’s business. We have a proposal for you.”

Lozlian’s throat went dry, yet he tried to stay calm. So far, the word “prison” hadn’t come up once.

“Based on your astounding success in battle with such limited means,” said Gruelinaphliar, “we would like you to assemble, train and lead a permanent Telepathic Corps, to be the newest branch of the Imperium Military.”

Lozlian gulped. This was a lot to absorb.

“I’m honored” he said, yet he was hard pressed to elaborate. Fortunately, the three Kroleni were eager to fill up the airwaves with detailed plans and stages of deployment. The more they talked, the more uneasy Lozlian became. Though he’d taken up the Kroleni cause in a moment of desperation, he had no desire to become a career soldier, no matter how bloodless his role would be on a personal level.

Besides, as he’d seen from the incident with his own unruly strike force, the risks to the Yonopcry he enlisted were real and far from minimal. Finally, Achimlemoor, who had been the last speaker, looked Lozlian in the eye.

“What do you say, Regional Trade Liaison Lozlian?” she asked.

Lozlian bowed his head, shuffled his feet a moment, then looked up.

“With respect,” he said. “I believe I know a better way for my telepaths to serve you.”

To the insectoids’ astonished abdominal ears, Lozlian improvised a description of a telepathic diplomatic corps. Rather than being exclusively composed of Yonopcry, the corps would draw recruits from each of the other eight telepathic species in the Kroleni Imperium.

“Instead of resolving conflicts through combat,” he said. “We’d use telepathy to bring non-aligned species around to the Imperium’s point of view — and to the advantages of joining us or forming an alliance. Instead of fighting wars, we’d prevent them.”

As his final words echoed through the resonant meeting room, the three Councilmembers greeted Lozlian’s proposal with stunned silence. Finally, Osheakriduan, the one Kroleni who’d remained silent the entire time, spoke up.

“Talk our enemies into submission?” he asked. “Don’t be absurd.”

And yet, Lozlian’s recently enhanced awareness told him that the other two Councilmembers were already seeing the wisdom of his plan for a new Telepathic Diplomatic Corps. All the same, it would be a few days before they made a final decision and, for once, he was grateful for a bit of administrative delay. It would give him time to orient himself to his changed status in the world and the rich new emotions that enveloped his every action and aspiration.

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As he walked back to his office, his mind floated in a bubble of warm, self-satisfaction. So it was hardly surprising if the perky alert that popped out of his comlink was even more irritating than usual. He took a deep breath and answered without checking the link ID and was surprised by the fluty sound of Elizabeth’s voice.

“Lozlian?” she said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Lozlian smiled. That curious human expression always sounded odd in translation. As if Time itself could have attributes like sentients did. But what she said next sounded even stranger, if for a different reason.

“My father’s team is heading home tonight,” she said, “and I can’t leave without saying goodbye.”

Lozlian’s eyes widened as she asked him to meet her for a late lunch at a small outdoor café off the city’s main square. Now that he was mated, he was free to do so. All the same, he was caught off-guard. Yet, knowing how urgently Achimlemoor wanted to keep solid diplomatic ties with the humans, he agreed. Within a half hour, he was sitting opposite her at a glass-topped table at “Cozy Cove.” It was one of several touristy eateries in the area that Lozlian would not have chosen on his own.

But when he arrived, Elizabeth’s bright smile was so broad, the irony drained out of him.

“There you are, you fuzzy ball of kindness,” she said. “I really have to thank you. If you hadn’t contacted your shamans, I’d probably be dead by now.”

Lozlian nodded though he knew there was no way to tell how much impact the shamans had had on her recovery.

“Sorry you didn’t get to finish your research,” he said. “You must be disappointed.”

“Oh no,” said Elizabeth. “I learned a lot about the Yonopcry. You’re kind, brave, loyal and … I don’t know, you’re ready for whatever life throws at you. My people could learn from that.”

Asked what she would do once she returned, Elizabeth gave him a sheepish smile.

“Maybe I’ll follow your example and get married,” she said. “But maybe you’ll let me stay in touch so you can answer questions I have about the Yonopcry. Now, you know what, I have to run. The ‘flight window’ as they call it, is pretty narrow. Guess I’ll never see you again, but I promise I’ll never forget. Now let me go before I start crying.”

Lozlian was about to stand when this surprising alien did the one thing he least expected. She leaned forward, stretched out her thin arms and hugged him around the neck — before running off down the polyslate tiled sidewalk in the direction of her hotel. In spite of himself, he waved after her.

Hard to believe, thought the now-mated Yonopcry. So much has changed.

Realizing that Elizabeth’s bill hadn’t been settled, Lozlian fed his credit tile into a designated slot at the side of the table and clucked his tongue. He’d have to explain that expense to Aldruvet and the thought of it made him chuckle.

Guess I really am mated now. he thought.

The next day, word came down from the Kroleni Council, giving him authorization to start a new Telepathic Diplomatic Corps. The position provided a healthy salary increase, a separate budget to cover his living expenses and authorization to submit a staffing plan. In this respect, as in all others, he was glad to have Aldruvet with him. Her experience in finance would come in handy with writing up a plan the Kroleni would approve.

But beyond such nitpicky details, Lozlian knew he had broader concerns. First on the list was using his new leverage to secure the release of the shamans from their long interment at Tergidinoor-Telsidinoor. Just as crucial, he had to find the best way to approach representatives of the other telepathic species in the Kroleni Imperium. Of that he had no idea. Unfortunately, the title of “Diplomat” didn’t actually prepare him for the task.

In that moment, he decided that his best option was to let the cause speak for itself. Not only would the other species contribute to the reduction in interstellar war, but his new diplomatic corps would raise the status of telepaths across six galaxies. If his new venture succeeded, he figured, it could give rise to a new power dynamic within the Imperium. The more dependent the insectoids became on his efforts to manage trade and advance their grasp of science and technology, the more power would accrue to the telepaths.

A smile crossed his furry mouth as he remembered his brief encounter with the street performer Humsecta a few weeks earlier.

We’ll see who’s ‘superior’ now, he thought.

In hindsight, he wondered if the threat the human had outlined on his data cube message was real. Could Dr. Duval’s new star drive double as a dangerously destructive weapon? Yet he was immediately reassured. With a well-honed team of telepaths, working together, not only would he be able to keep the Kroleni’s enemies in line, he could keep a watchful eye on the insectoids’ own bad actors.

By now, Tuvulot’s slightly rosy sun was beginning to sink behind the hills surrounding Hanaplero and Lozlian turned gratefully toward the high-speed train station that would take him home again. Just before entering the station, he paused to gaze at the sky and wonder if, had his father known what was coming in about two dozen years, he might not have despaired so deeply. But as another passenger pushed past Lozlian impatiently to reach the train platform, he realized that the most endearing quality of life was that, no matter what, it continued to rush on. It had led him this far and now his only concern was with traveling the rest of the way — starting with a fast ride on a familiar train to the warm embrace of home.

^^^

Mark Laporta is the author of Probability Shadow and Entropy Refraction, the first two novels in the science fiction series, Against the Glare of Darkness, which are available at a bookstore near you, on Amazon and at Barnes & Noble.He is also the author of Orbitals: Journeys to Future Worlds, a collection of short science fiction, which is available as an ebook.

December 5 2022

Coming of Age on Tuvulot, Episode 7: The Battle is On

Chickadee Prince Fiction, Science Fiction #science_fiction, aliens, mark laporta, space opera, space warfare

[Editor’s Note: Read the whole story from the beginning!]

Three days later, after following a supposedly untraceable route away from the predictable safety of the established space lanes, the Chitinists’ two refurbished ships spiraled in for a landing. A short time later, they were ready to disembark at Intrialadaar, a heavily guarded military base on the outskirts of the Kroleni Imperium. Lucky for the Chitinists, their movement, still in its infancy, hadn’t yet caught the attention of every sector of the Imperium. In the confusion of war, they were able to pass themselves off as cut-rate cruise ship personnel, who were shepherding a flock of passengers on a tour of settled space.

No sooner was Lozlian’s ship at rest than he was hustled out of his acceleration chair and nudged into the brisk night air of an alien world. Exhausted, he still managed to cast an anxious look over his shoulder at Elizabeth, who had passed out and collapsed almost as soon as she disembarked. He stretched out a hand to her and called to one of the insectoids

“She needs a physiobot,” he said.

“Keep moving, or you’ll need one, too,” said the guard. “Don’t worry, your girlfriend will be well treated, you little pervert.”

Lozlian grimaced and turned away. The way his hormones were raging, the guard had no idea how close his crude remarks were to the truth. It he didn’t find a mate soon … but it was better not to think about any of that.

“Why are we here?” he asked.

“The Chyloradrin invasion,” said the guard. “Don’t you know anything? Sounds like the reptilians didn’t like the trick her father played on them. Now we’re at war. Another reason it’s time for a new order. We would have known how to deal with those stupid reptilians.”

With only a split second to spare, Lozlian turned his head away and the insectoid never saw his involuntary eyeroll. As if this ratty band of insurrectionists could manage to unclog a drain if they didn’t have robots to do it for them. Then again, he realized, he was getting distracted. The shaman-circle that he’d connected to telepathically had promised him that things were about to change. Yet as he clomped along on an unfamiliar planet, he wasn’t sure which way his luck was turning.

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Soon he and the rest of the Chitinists’ captives, minus Elizabeth, were corralled into a large meeting facility. Its high parabolic arches gave the hall an eerie, spiritual quality, despite being decked out with all manner of garish military insignia and flags. Lozlian was relieved to see that Elizabeth had been placed on a gurney and whisked off to what he hoped was the military camp’s dispensary. He and the others were ushered into an auditorium that Lozlian guessed was used to brief soldiers before launching a tactical mission. A tall Kroleni female walked onto the auditorium’s polished wooden stage. Pinned to the chest of her garish, orange uniform was a shiny mass of colorful metallic hexagons, arrayed in a tight geometric pattern.

“Good evening,” she said. “I am Lieutenant Colonel Velsilurnaa. Know that you are all now official reservists in Kroleni armed forces. As such, you will be prepared for battle — in a support capacity, of course. You will soon be issued species-appropriate weapons and drilled on their proper use. Just remember, your primary responsibility is to follow the orders of your commanding officers. Heroism will get you killed, if not by the enemy than by me, personally. Do we understand each other?”

The captives let out a nervous murmur.

“Ha! I thought at least some of you would get the joke,” said the insectoid. “But I see I got your attention. Now, the mission at hand is as follows.”

Lozlian’s heart raced as he listened to Colonel Velsilurnaa rattle off the latest news of the Chyloradrin attack on the Tuvulot Science Center where Erwan Duval, Elizabeth’s father, had been demonstrating the prototype of his new star drive. In hindsight, the Kroleni might have called less attention to Duval’s visit by holding it on their own capital rather than telegraph its importance by attempting to cloak it in the secrecy of a backwater planet.

But now, the fight was on and yet, in Lozlian’s terms it was nothing compared to the violent hormonal changes that tormented his body. The more the Colonel spoke, the harder it was for him to grasp what she was saying. After a lot of confusing talk, a junior officer rushed up on stage, carrying a shiny quantum tablet and speaking in an unusually reedy voice, even for an insectoid.

“I am Ensign Ushlarianoog,” he said. “You will now report to Sick Bay for a routine physical before basic training. This way. Let’s move!”

Barely able to grasp what was happening, Lozlian had just enough awareness left to follow the others, zombie-like into the shiny, modern Sick Bay and wait on line to be seen. Mere seconds after he arrived, a white, spherical physiobot rolled up to him and pulled him out of the line.

“Regional Trade Liaison Lozlian,” said the physiobot. “Sensors indicate dangerously high hormone levels. You are in no shape to fight. Come with me to the transmat bay. Your family has been informed. You are going home.”

Through the fog of his increasingly impaired condition, Lozlian smiled, though the trip to the Intrialadaar transmat center seemed like an epic journey. At last, he was led to a circular platform inside a large, steely cylindrical contraption, studded with status lights, displays and input consoles. As an extra precaution, given his erratic state of mind, he was strapped in a narrow metallic chair. A female Kroleni technician took her place beside the transmat pod’s command console.

“Don’t speak,” she said. “And by the Rings of Valcrila-Golduan, don’t move!”

Lozlian, nearly unconscious, found it easy to comply. Minutes later, his dematerialized cells had sped across two galaxies and most of a third and came to rest inside a similar pod at the center of the largest Yonopcry reservation on Tuvulot. A joyous cry reached his ears, and, through half-open eyes, he thought he saw his mother. Then, with the summer sun streaming behind her, the young female that he knew instinctively must be Aldruvet, his mate for life, came forward and put her gentle hands on his face.

“Mate of mine,” she whispered. “Awake. This time is ours.”

It was, in fact, the ritual phrase they’d both learned as children and the sound of it, accompanied by the soothing telepathic signals she transmitted, revived him. With renewed strength, he clawed out of the harness that the Kroleni technician had strapped him into and held her in his arms.

“This time is ours, mate of mine,” he said, “now and forever.”

Outside this quiet bubble of peace, familial warmth and love, the war between two competing powers raged on across three galaxies. The Kroleni, taken by surprise, suffered significant casualties in a fierce space battle dangerously close to the Lactriadnoor event horizon. That is, until an armada of Kroleni warships from the Jaldrokaar Sector barreled out of fold, not ten AU from the Chyloradrin position.

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From the edges of settled space to its inner core, each side sought tactical advantage, both in space and planet side, by damaging critical communications, refueling and manufacturing centers on worlds held by either party. In this sense, the Yonopcry homeworld was fortunate, in that it had not yet achieved the density of high-tech centers needed to make it a worthy target of the reptilian fleet.

And yet, for it to remain completely unscathed into the third day of this horrific war was something of a miracle. Or was it? Lozlian, wakening in the arms of Aldruvet, sensed a powerful telepathic presence hovering over his mind.

“The shamans are with us,” he whispered to his mate.

“I’ve been dreaming about them, Beloved,” said Aldruvet, “since before you arrived. And now it’s as if they were among us again.”

Was it possible, Lozlian wondered, for the shamans to protect their homeworld? Surely this soothing thought was simply an after effect of the Omah-Drunan. It hardly mattered. In his present state, it would be several days before he could rejoin the world outside his reservation. Yet he couldn’t help wondering, based on his experience at the Chitinists’ asteroid base, whether the combined mental energy of Yonopcry villagers could bring the conflict to a swifter end.

There was no harm in trying. But how could he convince Aldruvet, let alone the others? Traditionally, only shamans had initiated a telepathic ring. He himself had no experience in joining with other minds. And yet, what if they started small?

With that in mind, Lozlian spoke to his immediate family. Once he had their support, he made a presentation to the Village Board and met with fierce resistance. Cries of “blasphemy” and “sacrilege” split the air. All the same, as the Board meeting adjourned, a handful of Yonopcry came up to him in private. In hushed whispers, they agreed to take part in his experiment and spread the word among their closest friends.

The next day, Lozlian led a group of forty eager minds in a series of improvised group exercises. Could they, for example, use the power of their minds to clear the long-neglected irrigation ditches in the reservation’s southern quadrant? The biggest obstacle was a lack of formal training and, in fact, Lozlian was now in the awkward position of advising his elders.

As it happened, they were eager and willing to learn, as an elderly male told him.

“We’ve been away from the old ways for too long,” he said. “We need this.”

And so it was that, within the first week, the irrigation ditches were cleared. After a few more ambitious projects across the surface of the planet, Lozlian felt confident enough to reach out into space. His plan was to interfere with the minds of enemy pilots. Though Lozlian’s clan agreed with him in principle, his mother added a note of caution.

“The Chyloradrin are aggressive and strong,” she said. “Their minds will push back — and could damage yours.”

That’s when Lozlian decided to divide his forces into two-member teams. That way, every Yonopcry who entered an enemy mind would have the support of an ally. However, Lozlian insisted on a limited assault

“Do only what’s necessary,” he told them, “to ground the Chyloradrin. Be satisfied with confusing them and leading them away from the center of the conflict. Let the Kroleni do the rest. We don’t know what effect actually destroying an enemy ship might have on us.”

The nods of agreement he received from every member of his elite fighting force buoyed his spirits. In the next phase of his project, he directed his team to identify enemy pilots and make them swerve off course. Yet as their confidence rose, a few of the Yonopcry hit on the idea of making one Chyloradrin pilot attack another — and formed a strike force of their own.

Unable to disengage from the Chyloradrin pilots’ minds in time, however, the small Yonopcry strike force suffered the agonizing pain of a full weapons blast along with the enemy. One such folly was enough to dissuade anyone from trying it again, but by then, it no longer mattered, Lozlian’s mentallic “army” had given the Kroleni time to regroup and formulate a counterstrategy. Gradually the insectoids wore the reptilians down.

Now, at the end of nearly a month of continuous conflict, the Chyloradrin turned tail and fled en masse. The Kroleni had won and Lozlian had succeeded in protecting his homeworld. So why, he wondered, did it feel like a hollow victory? Maybe it was because the only thing he cared about was his new life with Aldruvet.

To be continued….

A new episode appears every other Monday.

^^^

Mark Laporta is the author of Probability Shadow and Entropy Refraction, the first two novels in the science fiction series, Against the Glare of Darkness, which are available at a bookstore near you, on Amazon and at Barnes & Noble. He is also the author of Orbitals: Journeys to Future Worlds, a collection of short science fiction, which is available as an ebook.

November 7 2022

Coming of Age on Tuvulot, Episode 5: Food for Thought

Chickadee Prince Fiction, Science Fiction #science_fiction, #space_travel, #space_travel #symbiotes, aliens, galactic warfare, mark laporta, space opera serial sf

[Editor’s Note: Read the whole story from the beginning!]

Several hours later, Lozlian awoke aboard a battered old scow. It was the kind of ship that served a number of different purposes. And because such ships were used throughout the Imperium, only someone paying close attention might have found it odd that this particular vessel had taken off on a deep space trajectory. As if happened, on an average busy day in the capital city of a colony planet, no one was paying attention at all. After a generation and a half of low-key browbeating by the Kroleni, the Yonopcry operatives that ran the civil service had learned to keep their heads down and their mouths shut.

For his part, Lozlian was oblivious to everything except the agony that had jolted his eyes open. His entire body was a mass of aches. His head throbbing, it took a good minute before he could make out the high-pitched sounds coming from somewhere in the room. As his senses came into sharper focus, he recognized the high-pitched voice of a human female. After several painful tries, he raised himself to his hands and knees.

“Eli …Eliza … beth?” he asked.

The light scamper of small, bare feet reached his ears as the human visitor ran to his side and stopped about half a meter to his right.

“Lozlian!” said Elizabeth. “I didn’t know if you were ever … Oh, I’m so glad you’re all right.”

“Not sure about that,” said the Yonopcry. “Gonna try standing. Better back up in case I … case I fall over.”

Elizabeth retreated to the other side of what Lozlian would soon recognize as the ship’s narrow cargo bay. Through half-squinted eyes, he made out the bay’s stark, functional design and drab, gray interior. Now if only he could only get his stiff back to cooperate! Maybe, he thought, if he pulled his legs under him, and started in a crouched position, he’d have a better chance of standing. With his arms outstretched and fingers spread, he eventually did get his feet under him. He took a deep breath and, with one hand gripping the corner of a large crate to his left, pushed himself up most of the way to a standing position.

If he paused halfway, it was only because it seemed his knees were a bit too … no, they were holding and with one final push, he was upright, if still too dizzy to think of walking. Hands firmly planted on the crate; he looked up cautiously at Elizabeth. Her human face, smudged with dirt, marked with bruises and wet with tears, told the story of the rough treatment she must have received.

“How long?” Lozlian croaked.

“Feels like forever,” said Elizabeth, “But I doubt it’s more than a quarter rote.”

“Are you, you know, OK?” asked Lozlian.

Elizabeth flipped her disheveled hair out of her eyes.

“Could have been worse,” said Elizabeth. “I’m just grateful that none of them were human. Don’t ask.”

Puzzled, Lozlian realized he had more important worries than every nuance of her conversation. He shuffled over to her side of the cargo bay, settled down on the edge of one of the larger wooden crates, and glanced up at the bay’s gently sloping ceiling, which was studded with bolts and layered with conduits for, he assumed, electricity and water.

“So where?” he said.

“A ship, I think,” said Elizabeth. “But I’m not sure we’re moving or still in a spaceport.”

Lozlian stared at the cargo bay’s bare metal floor.

“Probably in space,” he said. “No sense bringing us here otherwise. Maybe I can … can find the navigator’s thoughts.”

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the bridge of a typical space vessel, based on the few times he’d been offworld for training sessions with the Kroleni. Sometimes on a small ship, there was no separate navigator. Instead, the pilot relied completely on the ship’s AI to plot its course. Lozlian’s brow furrowed. If he’d been able to study with the shaman in his old village, the task would have been much easier. But the Kroleni had arrived when he was still a young boy and changed … everything. The only thing he remembered was an odd phrase he often heard the shaman say to his mother:

Purify your thinking.

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Though he had no clear idea what the elder Yonopcry had meant, the phrase stirred something in his imagination. Almost immediately, the minds on the ship’s bridge began to come into focus. Despite being insectoid, the familiar patterns of sentient thought slid into view, like pieces in a kaleidoscope, slowly converging into a coherent mental image.

Soon, Lozlian seemed to see blue Kroleni numbers and letters displayed on a small, navigation console through the eyes of the pilot. Though these characters were as unfamiliar to Lozlian as the astrometric details they spelled out, the young Yonopcry could now tune into the mind viewing them. The ship’s position and destination were as clear to him as if he were reading the display himself. A moment later, he heard the insectoids mulling over the next stage of their mission.

Lozlian lifted his head and let his eyes blink open. Sitting opposite him on another crate was Elizabeth, her expression glum, her body tense as a drumhead.

“We’re halfway to the Nashturi asteroid belt,” he said. “About six light years out. Any idea what that adds up to?”

“Thought you’d never come out of it,” said Elizabeth. “And no, the flight data means nothing to me, except I assume the Chitinists must have a base there, you know, off the radar.”

“Guess they plan to use us as hostages,” said Lozlian. “Or maybe you. Maybe they think they can turn me into a double agent and send me back to spy on their own government.”

“Sounds about right,” said Elizabeth. “But tell me, if you found out all that out … telepathically … couldn’t you also signal for help? You know, contact one of your superiors on Tuvulot?”

Lozlian rubbed the back of his neck.

“Wish I could,” he said. “But they’re too far away. I haven’t had the training the old shamans had. And anyway, my mother said they used to sit in a circle, hold hands to combine their thoughts when they needed to reach a mind on a nearby planet. Even if I knew how, connecting to my homeworld at this distance on my own would probably fry my brain.”

The young human female stood and began pacing.

“Not worth it,” she said. “But there has to be something we can do. I don’t want to think about how worried Father must me.”

Lozlian tried to reassure her that Achimlemoor and the other members of the Kroleni Council must know where the Chitinist home base was and would anticipate their moves once the ship arrived in the asteroid belt. Yet all the while he was talking, Elizabeth foraged around the cargo bay for anything that might help them escape.

Sadly, instead of uncovering a crate of contraband lase rifles, all she found was several large crates of food. Lozlian’s eyes widened as the seemingly fragile young woman smashed a heavy metallic orb containing, who-knows-what into one of the lightweight wooden crates.

“Dried fish,” she said. “Who knew insectoids ate that?”

“Pretty sure this is a Yonopcry ship,” said Lozlian. “Far as I know, the Chitinists don’t yet have wealthy backers. They probably hijacked a mini freighter from a local delivery service. Surprised it could travel this far. Hey, can I ask you something?”

Cautiously, considering the tight quarters they were in, Lozlian asked Elizabeth if there was any truth to the story Ralshinatinoor had told him the night before in the town square — or to Humsecta’s warning about the Kroleni’s plan to weaponize her father’s star drive.

“What?” said Elizabeth. “No! The star drive has only one purpose, as far as I know. And to your other question, my father hates non-humans, sorry to say. But he hopes the new star drive will earn us back a little independence. I don’t what it was like for your people. We had a high-tech culture of our own, going back hundreds of cycles. We put up a bloody fight, except the Kroleni … they were too far ahead of us in every way. They were also more unified.”

In response to Lozlian’s quizzical expression, Elizabeth explained that one of the obstacles the humans faced was their own internal division. A significant faction of human opportunists wanted to capitulate to the Kroleni right from the start, in exchange for special treatment. Worse, they couched their political position in false religious terms and claimed that one of the humans’ most ancient sacred texts had prophesied the arrival of the insectoids

“It’s sickening,” said Elizabeth. “But our history has always been mixed.”

“It was different for us,” said Lozlian. “Our shamans fought hard against the Kroleni, but we were a simple people. Still are, really. When the chance came for me to go to a Kroleni school and live a better life, my mother pushed me into it. Now, I don’t know any other way to live. But my father was a little like yours.”

“Was?” asked Elizabeth.

Lozlian’s shoulder shook, and he covered his round eyes with one furry hand.

“I barely knew him,” he said. “He got a rare infection, maybe from the Kroleni, that made his pelt fall out.”

Though the Kroleni were more than capable of curing him, Gastrilan refused any help from ‘the bugs’ and preferred to die when the local shaman’s last treatments failed.

“Sorry to hear….” said Elizabeth.

“Yes, so sorry,” said a reedy voice behind them.

The two captives turned around to see Ralshinatinoor leaning against the round entryway to the cargo bay with his spindly arms folded across his narrow chest.

“Sorry to interrupt this melodrama,” he said, “but we’ll be landing soon, and you’ll need to strap in. Tough luck. Our luxury passenger cruiser is in for repair. Come on, get up.”

“What do you care what happens to us?” asked Elizabeth. “I’m more inclined to stay here and get squashed between two big crates than be your bargaining chip.”

“Oh, my child,” said the Chitinist. “You’re as bad as my fuzzy friend. So much to learn.”

Ralshinatinoor made a hand signal in the air. A bulky servicebot clomped in and dragged them to a pair of low-slung acceleration chairs at the back of the bridge. Despite Elizabeth’s futile resistance, she was strapped in almost immediately. Lozlian, who had no illusions of making an heroic escape, did the robots’ work for them.

“Soon, my children,” said Ralshinatinoor, “you will witness the future of the Kroleni Imperium. In a way, I envy you, seeing this vision for the first time.”

Lozlian shook his head.

“I’ve seen it,” he said. “At the bottom of a trash can.”

In a blur of motion, the Chitinist produced a e-mag knife from his sleeve and held it up to the Yonopcry’s neck — close enough to singe quite a few strands of fur with its quietly buzzing blade.

“Yes!” said Ralshinatinoor. “Just the sharp wit we want in our new order. But it needs … redirection.”

With that, he stormed up to the front of the bridge, only to call out over his shoulder.

“You’ll see who holds the upper hand in this universe. I’ll give you a hint: If you want to win your freedom from the Imperium, you’ll have to fight like the sand devils of Caliens 3. You’ll never take it back with weakness.”

(To be continued)

A new episode appears every other Monday.

^^^

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October 24 2022

Coming of Age on Tuvulot, Episode 4: Trouble Times Two

Chickadee Prince Fiction, Science Fiction #science_fiction, aliens, galactic war, mark laporta, space opera

[Editor’s Note: Read the whole story from the beginning!]

The next morning, after a night of fitful dreams, Lozlian sat bolt upright at the sound of his alarm, not sure at first that he was safely home. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of rain spattering against his bedroom windows in a familiar pit-a-pat rhythm, that he regained his composure.

Still too young for his elders’ morning stiffness, he walked groggily into his shower room, determined to get the smells of city nightlife out of his pelt. He adjusted the water and, before stepping in, dug at his itchy scalp with both hands — only to find a small, red data cube nestled in the fur at the top of his head.

Startled, he backed out of his shower room, dried his hands and studied the foreign object closely. Though his technical training had been strictly practical, he recognized the data cube’s configuration as human. Had the human street performer buried it in his fur during their theatrical hug? He shuffled into his home office, where a light gray, trapezoidal, all-purpose data reader sat next to a black state-of-the-art quantum tablet and a bevy of other standard office equipment on his metallic workstation. He took a deep breath and popped the data cube into the reader’s receptacle, which was specially adapted to accept a variety of physical formats.

The filtered voice that Lozlian heard when he pressed PLAY sounded exactly like the street performer Humsecta from the night before.

“Pay attention,” said the voice. “You need to hear this.”

Perplexed, Lozlian listened as the speaker laid out a detailed analysis of the political climate. According to him, the Kroleni’s benign reign was facing a serious challenge from the warlike Chyloradrin. That’s why they were so eager to accommodate the humans. If Erwan Duval’s star drive proved itself, it would give the Kroleni a critical edge. Yet the star drive’s promise wasn’t confined to increased speed. It could also be the basis of a deadly new weapon.

Instead of hurling torpedoes or blasting the enemy with particle weapons, an offshoot of the star drive could engulf an enemy ship in a pocket of attenuated space-time. Completely disabled, its crew suffocating, the target vessel would drift in space until the Kroleni recycled it.

“But here’s the kicker,” said the voice. “The new weapon would kill us all.”

If used over a decade or more, the percentage of space-time damaged would grow exponentially. And once the Kroleni’s competitors developed their own version of the weapon it would cause environmental disaster on a scale that dwarfed anything sentient life had seen before.

By now, Lozlian’s mounting anxiety was compounded by the fact that he was way behind schedule. With barely enough time left, he paused the data cube, rushed through his morning rituals and hurried off to the station mere seconds before his usual high-speed train was about to glide out of its moorings. Inside the subdued ambiance of his train car’s lavender interior, he tried to sort through the conflicting accounts he’d heard in the town square and on his data reader. He was astonished to see how many strange ideas had surfaced about the human star drive in such a short time.

Between the menacing Chitinist who had accosted him the night before, and the data cube’s disturbing promise of impending disaster, he wasn’t sure what to believe. Were the Kroleni about to embark on an aggressive campaign of territorial expansion, or were they the deluded pawns of the Chyloradrin and their human servants?

Instinctively, he hesitated to buy into either of these extreme views. Now that he’d had a few minutes to settle down, he realized he had no idea which was closer to the truth. Or was it all propaganda? Stranger still, was why either side was so anxious to approach a low-level civil servant?

Has to be because of the hooms, he decided.

One way or another, Duval’s arrival had set off a firestorm of political maneuvering. Lozlian vowed to reserve judgment until he could assess the situation on his own. Yet how, he wondered, would he do that? It wasn’t as if he were a trained detective.

By now, the commuter train was pulling into his station stop and Lozlian’s first thought was to rush to the nearest exit door. But not wishing to create the impression that he was “on to something,” he strolled out as nonchalantly as he had the morning before.

Yet as he exited the maglev station and reached street level, its calm ordinariness felt positively surreal. How was it possible for the outside world to appear so normal when, inside, his heart and mind were in swirling disarray? Regardless, it was time to focus. Even if he could see himself as a player in a grand political game, he couldn’t afford to lose his insider status — not to mention his livelihood. What if, after so much excited chatter, the events of last night and this morning amounted to no more than the wishful thinking of a few overheated radicals?

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With those thoughts competing for control of his mind, Lozlian entered his office floor to the usual cascade of ritualized morning pleasantries, including a soulful look from one of the females who managed the front desk. Was this, he wondered, how a female might one day look at him when he was mated? For better or worse, her attention was still lost on him. He simply breezed past the dark, hardwood reception desk and hurried to his workstation, located in a secluded, windowless alcove.

The placid color-scheme of the office, a combination of eggshell white, sky blue and medium brown, which was usually quite soothing, failed to work its magic. Instead, nearly breathless, he switched on his standard-issue Kroleni quantum tablet, an object his ancestors could never have imagined. As he waited for it to boot up, he thought back to the time when, at five years old, his grandmother had taken him to visit the village shaman for advice. Only two years after that, the Kroleni had arrived, to utterly transform his world and his worldview. Would that shaman from his old village have the wisdom to help him parse the humans’ true intentions?

But it was a foolish thought. Yonopcry village life was gone forever, not least because the shamans had bravely mounted a defiant resistance against the invaders — and been systematically undermined. Those who weren’t executed were spirited off to a remote “religious conference,” from which most never returned. The few survivors who did eventually come home were affectless husks, their minds blunted by incurable drug addiction.

No, he decided, he was on his own, all the more so when he saw the official communiqué he’d received overnight from his immediate supervisor, Phaldisran. It read in part:

In the past rote you were seen speaking to a known Chitinist and to interact with a member of a rogue human cell, known for spreading seditious conspiracy theories.

I must caution you, my boy, against associating with such fringe personalities. You are off to a good start in life, on the verge of Omah-Drunan, and I would hate to see your bright prospects snuffed out by reckless behavior.

It is especially important that you understand the delicacy of the situation, given the special assignment entrusted to you by Councilmember Achimlemoor. Trusting to the good nature you have shown me, I have decided for now not to mention last night’s incident to her. Nevertheless, I need your firm promise that it was an isolated moment of indiscretion, which I am even prepared to consider may have been accidental.

Now, regarding your mission, know that the human Elizabeth Duval will contact you soon to arrange a first meeting. I know you will give her your full cooperation. To reassure you, I have explained our customs clearly, to avoid any embarrassment on your part, should certain topics form part of her inquiry into Yonopcry culture.

Go forth, Regional Liaison Lozlian and make the Department proud….

Lozlian sank back in his flexible, mesh office chair and fought to dampen his rage. In an office full of telepaths, any strong emotion would soon spill over into the minds of his co-workers and cause a serious commotion. But how could Phaldisran be so quick to assume the worst? Lozlian took a deep breath. Most likely, a colleague, jockeying for position in a busy administration, had seen the young Yonopcry in the town square and jumped at the chance to put him at a disadvantage. For his part, Phaldisran was simply covering his bets to avoid being accused of inaction if there were trouble later.

It was, however, a classic case of being both a hundred percent right and a hundred percent wrong. No matter how justified, neither hurt feelings nor righteous indignation would help him weather office politics, let alone interstellar intrigue. If only he could see to the bottom of it. What did each of the players hope to achieve? And what part would he be expected to play? Given his restless state of mind, it was probably for the best that his comlink chimed in at that moment. Shoulders tense, he read the ID tag that scrolled across the comlink’s bright, 2-D screen:

ELIZABETH DUVAL

There was nothing for it but to answer and plunge deeper into the mystery that threatened to drag him either into a fiery pit of recrimination, or elevate him to the heights of heroism. Or maybe, he reflected, these recent incidents, as disturbing as they were, would amount to nothing.

“Ms. Duval,” he said into his comlink, “How nice to….”

“Think you can meet me in a few blinks?” said Elizabeth. “I’m sending you’re the coordinates now. See you there. Must dash.”

As before, the human’s fluty voice was at once irritating and oddly irresistible. Regardless, he’d received his marching orders in the strongest possible terms. To be on the safe side, he sent out an automated confirmation notice. After shutting down his office equipment, he retraced his steps down to the street. With luck, a hover taxi was waiting at the stand, right outside his building. He jumped in, gave the coordinates to the AI and leaned back against the car’s comfortable tan seat cushions. After the disturbing note from Phaldisran, any excuse to be free of his office was a blessing. As the car sped on, he felt his thoughts settle down. Finally, his taxi came to rest in front of the low-rise, stodgy human consulate building where Elizabeth had asked to meet him.

What, he wondered, did she want to “study” about the Yonopcry? Was her interest purely biological or, if the humans were really in league with the Chyloradrin, would she actually try to ferret out his species’ vulnerabilities? After being announced and following a rapid ride in a state-of-the-art maglev lift, the lift doors opened onto a spacious laboratory, decorated in multiple shades of white. At its center was Elizabeth, seated on a high stool, bound and gagged and surrounded by three insectoids, one of whom looked familiar. Lozlian’s shock made him blurt out the obvious.

“Chitinists!” he said.

Just as surprising were the “food service” uniforms worn by the three conspiratorial insectoids

“Oh, very astute,” said Ralshinatrioor. “You’ll go far … only not in the direction you expected. ”

Frantic, Lozlian turned this way and that in a vain search for some kind of weapon that he could use against Elizabeth’s captors. Though he was hardly a trained fighter, as a Yonopcry, he had a natural weight and strength advantage over the spindly insectoids.

But any thought of heroism drained from his mind as a dark red, heavy gauge Kroleni servicebot with powerful, articulated limbs, pinned Lozlian’s arms to his back while a smaller, more delicate model stuck a hypodermic needle into his neck. The room went dark, his mind blank, his body limp and he fell to the consulate’s lush, carpeted floor with a luxurious thump.

“Idiot,” said Ralshinatinoor. “Come on now. Get these two into the transport.”

(To be continued)

A new episode appears every other Monday.

^^^

Mark Laporta is the author of Probability Shadow and Entropy Refraction, the first two novels in the science fiction series, Against the Glare of Darkness, which are available at a bookstore near you, on Amazon and at Barnes & Noble. He is also the author of Orbitals: Journeys to Future Worlds, a collection of short science fiction, which is available as an ebook.

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October 10 2022

CINN Acquires Chickadee Prince Books, Announces New Mystery Novel by Harold Goldberg

Chickadee Prince Entertainment, News All Your Base Are Belong to Us, Beacon International, CINN Global, donna levin, ed rucker, Harold Goldberg, mark laporta, Polish Mystery Novels, Steve Acunto, steven drachman, steven s. drachman

(Greenwich, Connecticut, October 10 2022) CINN Group, Inc has acquired Chickadee Prince Books LLC, the eclectic and innovative publisher of acclaimed, high-quality fiction and nonfiction of all genres. Chickadee Prince titles in recent years have included The Last-At-Bat of Shoeless Joe, an acclaimed baseball novel by the Emmy-nominated playwright Granville Wyche Burgess; Figs and Alligators, the memoir by journalist Aaron Leibel; He Could Be Another Bill Gates by bestselling novelist Donna Levin; Mark Laporta’s space opera trilogy, Against the Glare of Darkness; and the Bobby Earl legal thrillers by prominent former Los Angeles defense lawyer, Ed Rucker.

Chickadee Prince also announced today that in 2023 it will publish The Skinny, a gripping new hardboiled mystery novel set in the 1990s, written by Harold Goldberg, whose nonfiction titles, My Life Among the Serial Killers and All Your Base Are Belong to Us, were bestsellers for Morrow and Crown, respectively. Goldberg, who has written for The New York Times, Vanity Fair, New York Magazine and The Washington Post, is Founder and Editor in Chief of The New York Videogame Critics Circle.

The publishing company will be managed for CINN by Beacon International, a multifaceted media company with offices in London, Singapore, Milan, New York, Chicago, Tampa, and San Francisco. Both CINN and Beacon are owned by Mr. Steve Acunto, a publishing and media entrepreneur.

Chickadee Prince founder Mr. Steven Drachman will remain as managing director, and Ms. Rebecca McLean will serve as executive director, administration.

Mr. Steve Acunto has indicated that the company’s plans for new titles and formats for content spanning the literary and non-fiction spectra will begin apace.

For further information kindly communicate with Ms. Rebecca McLean at Rebecca@ChickadeePrince.com and 212 808 5500, x113.

October 10 2022

Coming of Age on Tuvulot, Episode 3: Agitators

Chickadee Prince Fiction, Science Fiction #science_fiction, aliens, mark laporta

[Editor’s Note: Read the entire story from the beginning!]

After filing a report about the incident at Hanaplero spaceport — an elaborate process that required the rest of the day — Lozlian sent Dr. Duval the agenda for the following day’s meeting with representatives of the Centers for Imperium Science. Exhausted, he left the sky blue hexagonal alcove assigned to him in the Kroleni Regional Administrative tower, an unadorned cylinder of steel, glass and shiny stone, which sat only one high-speed train stop east of the now-shattered spaceport. His soft brown eyes squinted in the typical Tuvulot twilight, as the planet’s brilliant sun eased down into the horizon.

On an ordinary day, Lozlian would have headed home as soon as his shift was over. Years of Kroleni education and indoctrination hadn’t taken the “country” out of him. He still felt his best in close contact with nature. That is, even though the domed suburban complex he lived in was nothing like the burrows and grottos of his early childhood. What mattered most were the smells of the soil, the decaying leaves in fall and the sound of the running brook that was only a half-day’s hike from his sedate neighborhood. Improbable as it was, he still entertained the fantasy that, should he tire of the civil service, he could return to his home province and take up the simple life again.

Yet a fantasy it surely was. For one thing, the Kroleni had subtly, yet permanently altered the terrain of Lozlian’s homeworld. Though a marvel of ecological balance and health, Tuvulot would never be “wild” again. On the reservations where they now lived, Lozlian’s mother and the rest of his clan could enjoy only a shadow of the old ways.

“You’ll never know what you lost,” his mother had told him. “The Yonopcry world, my world, is gone.”

Lozlian shook his head and forced himself to think about anything else, lest thoughts of home trigger a telepathic connection he didn’t want to deal with. Maybe that’s why he decided to have dinner in town for a change. Besides, he was too weary to cook. If he were mated already, he reminded himself, he’d have someone to share the household chores with. But that was another touchy subject he dared not entertain. In any case, if he’d really been so bothered by cooking and cleaning, he could have put in for an android assistant as his Yonopcry supervisor had. The thought of it made him shiver.

What do I want with a creepy metal-face? he asked himself.

“Metal-face” was a slur that he’d never think to use in front of Achimlemoor or any of the other Kroleni officials he sometimes dealt with. Some of them were cyborgs and one, known as Kichliaardonta, was a full-functioning, independent android. Funny thing was, Kichliaardonta was probably the most personable Kroleni that Lozlian had met. Maybe it was because he lacked the subroutines for arrogance.

Lozlian snickered. How easy it was to think stupidly smart thoughts when you knew just enough about a topic to get it all wrong. His mood lightening, in spite of himself, he could feel his stomach yawning. But where to go? In the last five years since entering the Kroleni civil service, he’d only occasionally been asked to entertain visitors at a restaurant and only at establishments selected by his office.

Fortunately, only a few meters into the square that surrounded his office tower, a sleek, silvery city directory came into view. Its bright touchscreen winked out at him invitingly and displayed a series of menu buttons, arranged in a tantalizing pattern. The third button on the right read “restaurants” and, on a whim, he tapped it with the furry index finger of his right hand.

A 3-D, angled aerial view of the square hovered in the air at waist level. It even included a tiny avatar of himself, which turned and waved at him. Lozlian smiled. After the day’s disturbing events, he was grateful for even the smallest touch of humor.

“What kind of food?” the avatar called out to him.

He was about to answer, when he felt a distinctively insectoid hand grip his right shoulder. A reedy male voice echoed in his ears.

“I know a fantastic eatery, right around here,” said the voice. “I suggest you follow me … unless you’d prefer to lose your appetite altogether.”

Lozlian gently brushed the shiny, narrow hand off his shoulder and turned around. A tall insectoid in a frayed, dark green flight suit snarled at him. Lozlian’s spine stiffened.

This guy must be a Chitinist, he thought.

According to the official Imperium news service, the Chitinists were an anti-government cell that proclaimed the superiority of exoskeletal species over all others. A nasty bunch, they advocated harsh repressive laws to curtail the civil liberties of “bone-luggers” like the Yonopcry.

“Look at you,” he said. “Aren’t you hot in that fur coat? Never mind. The restaurant’s over this way.”

Lozlian stayed put.

“I’m a member of the civil service,” he said. “Anything that happens to me happens to Councilmember Achimlemoor.”

The middle-aged insectoid shook his head.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t make me use force. You’re young and I’ll wager you haven’t even been mated yet. Get on your high horse with me, and I’ll make sure that never happens.”

“What do you want?” asked Lozlian. “You can tell me here as well as in a restaurant.”

“Fine,” said the insectoid. “Thought you might like to meet a few operatives who could help you up the Kroleni ladder. But since you’re determined to stay a peon, here’s the deal: Whatever you think is going on with the human delegation, you’re dead wrong. That star drive talk is

pure ventilator slime. The real news is that they’ve developed a sonic weapon that could kill every insectoid in the sector in a matter of three rotes. You sure you want to be part of that?”

“So you know this and the Kroleni Council doesn’t?” asked Lozlian. “Kind of hard to believe.”

“Listen, Kid,” said the insectoid. “You look like a nice guy, so I’ll let you down easy. Your contacts on the Council are the dimmest bulbs this side of a brown dwarf. They want that star drive and figure they can fight off any human attack later on if they need to. Only problem is, they’ve overlooked one thing: The humans are ruthless. That attack at the spaceport? Pure theatre. The Chyloradrins bought them out ten cycles ago. They’re the perfect decoy.”

“That’s … that’s some story,” said Lozlian.

“Right,” said the insectoid. “Be skeptical. That’s good. Now train that skill on your masters. Ask yourself this: When was the last time Achimlemoor answered a direct question about her plains for the Yonopcry?”

“I …” said Lozlian.

“Gotta go,” said the insectoid. “There’s a patrolbot about twenty meters ahead of us that keeps looking in my direction. We’ll talk later. My name’s Ralshinatinoor. Input me into your comlink the next time you feel suspicious. Don’t look at me like that. I’m telling you: You will.”

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His head spinning, Lozlian watched as Ralshinatrioor crept away into the crowds that were streaming in for the evening meal and a night out. In the near distance, he thought he saw the bright orange, conical patrolbot heading his way, until it, too, was swallowed up by the growing crowd. Still hungry, he cast about for a small cook shop to get lost in, but was again distracted. A large cluster of townsfolk had formed a semi-circle around a street performer.

Eager to push his encounter with the conspiratorial insectoid out of his mind, Lozlian insinuated himself into the edge of the crowd and peered over the heads of the performer’s avid audience. What he saw, of all things, was a human, masquerading as a Kroleni in a hilariously grotesque mask. A miniaturized sound synthesizer, hidden in the mask distorted the human’s voice into reedy pomposity. On the ground next to him was a bright red metal casket.

“We are your natural … superiors,” said the masked performer.

The way he tripped over his ill-fitting silk robes on the word “natural” foretold more physical comedy to come which, Lozlian realized, was the main attraction. A small ovoid device in the center of the circle projected a holographic display reading “Meet Humsecta!” Despite the Kroleni’s low-impact type of domination, this was about as provocative a name as anyone could imagine.

But the audience took no notice, especially when Humsecta went into his signature array of flips, spins and mid-air kicks. He landed with astonishing grace, bowed and opened the metal casket. A cute, diminutive android version of himself climbed out and worked the crowd for donations, with a credit tile reader in each hand. After several more bows, Humsecta continued his banter.

“I mean seriously,” said Humsecta, “You furry types are OK, as long as I remember to … talk … real … slow. Just kidding. You’re all telepaths so I don’t have to. Do you know what I’m thinking? No you don’t, and you know why? BECAUSE I NEVER THINK ABOUT ANYTHING!”

A garish brass fanfare blasted the airwaves from inside the metal casket. Humsecta raised his arms in triumph and strutted about with his knees jutting up high on each step like a crazed marionette. The crowd clapped and cheered. The fanfare quit as abruptly as it started, and left him hanging, in an embarrassingly awkward pose. He rolled his eyes, straightened his costume and returned to the center of the circle.

“Anyway,” he said, “at least you’re not nasty little scaly things like the Chyloradrins. They remind me of a handbag my grandmother used to take out on holidays. OH COME ON! IT’S A JOKE! And anyway, they’re nothing compared to the hooms. Sizzling seismographs, when did the Cosmos cough up that glob of I-don’t-want-to-say? Must have had indigestion from eating in one of your restaurants….”

At the mention of restaurants, Lozlian remembered he still hadn’t eaten. He turned away and began inching out of the crowd when Humsecta spotted him.

“Oh, a deserter eh?” he said. “Well, aren’t you a disgrace to your uniform?”

Lozlian waved him away and started moving again.

“Aw, I didn’t mean it,” said the performer. “Give me a hug.”

The crowd clapped and stomped its feet so vigorously that Lozlian knew he’d better play along. He shuffled up to the strangely clad human, with his arms out. Humsecta, miming a hug, drew him close enough to whisper in his ear.

“Watch out how you handle yourself around Chitinists,” he said. “Once they mark you, you’re in for it.”

Lozlian nodded, pulled away, and pushed through the crowd as fast as he could. As he headed toward a small cook shop he’d seen earlier on the holographic directory. he heard Humsecta rouse the crowd once again.

“See, all better,” said the performer. “And I didn’t even have to throw him a fish!”

The laughter faded as Lozlian entered the cook shop and sat down at a tiny table. But the human’s words, like those of Ralshinatinoor, seemed to blare out at him louder than when he’d first heard them. And how in the shaman’s sacred grove had the human known about his encounter with the Chitinist?

To be continued….

A new episode appears every other Monday.

^^^

September 12 2022

Coming of Age on Tuvulot, Episode 1: Strange Request

Chickadee Prince Fiction, Science Fiction #science_fiction, alien colonies, aliens, insectoid aliens, mark laporta

After a peaceful night’s sleep, filled with pleasant dreams, Lozlian sat up in bed at the gentle toll of a cheerful alarm. The mid-summer sun that streamed in through the nearest window seemed to caress his soft, brown pelt and reminded him of his cherished childhood. Those bright mornings in between sessions at the Cove were a joy — with plenty of time to stretch out in the forest and let the fragrance of the leaves, the soil and the blossoms wash over his nostrils. He couldn’t help but luxuriate in that memory.

That is, until he walked out of his spacious bedroom, decorated in soothing greens and dark oranges. Across the threshold, his dark brown eyes came to rest on the steely workstation tucked into the spare room on the way to the kitchen. Memory flooded in, his heart sank and he realized what day it was.

“The hooms are coming,” he whispered. “The hooms!”

He shook his shaggy, rounded Yonopcry head and plodded into his sky blue-tiled shower room. As the Regional Liaison for Interstellar Trade, he knew what was expected of him: Deny his culture, his upbringing, and conform to the Standards and Practices Guidelines set out by the Kroleni Council of Three. That meant reducing his natural scent to a minimum and cropping his pelt in key locations to ensure a proper fit for the required uniform. He even had to ignore the immanent onset of Omah-Drunan, or Mating Day — a ritual aligned with a biological threshold he was destined to cross in less than three weeks. Though by human standards Lozlian might have appeared a “late bloomer,” the Omah-Drunan perfectly in step with the average Yonopcry’s one-hundred-and-twenty-five-year lifespan.

Yet right at that moment, what Lozlian dreaded most was the need for talking. Evolution had been kind to the Yonopcry. His ancestors gradually learned to anticipate the attacks of large, indigenous predators. Over a few hundred thousand years, what began as an instinct eventually changed into a direct perception of aggression in the minds of a distant pack ofjolokany or a vicious pelethaleph on the prowl. In time, they were even able to strike fear into their enemies’ hearts, or make them lose their way in the depths of the forest.

With so many advantages, he often though, why aren’t all sentient species telepathic?

In that respect, the hooms were especially frustrating, because they were so close! Lozlian could sense it in individuals, and even more clearly when he observed groups of hooms working together. They quickly developed a common set of goals (telepathy) sensed each other’s receptivity to new ideas (telepathy) were subject to group mood swings from elation to dejection (telepathy). And when they failed, it was often because a toxic perfectionism spread from one hoom to the other until they no longer believed an achievable goal aligned with a fashionable ideological construct. Telepathy!

In fact, the hooms lacked only the conscious-level telepathy that came naturally to Lozlian and the rest of the Yonopcry, not to mention a good fifteen percent of the other species in the Kroleni Imperium. Maybe, he told himself, if this one distinction were the only annoying aspect of dealing with the hooms, he might find the experience less stultifying.

But they’re also stupid, he thought, and literal-minded and rigid and contentious and….

Lozlian stepped out of the shower and shook his body nearly dry. This was no way, he realized, to start his work day. As he reached for a large, royal blue wrap-around towel, he forced himself to count his blessings. As the Regional Liaison for Interstellar Trade, he had privileges far beyond those his family had enjoyed when he was growing up. That was also partly because, during the twenty-three years of his young life, the Yonopcry homeworld had been acquired by the Kroleni after a bloodless invasion. The tall, bottle-green insectoids had arrived in ships unlike anything the Yonopcry had seen. They displayed such superior might that there was almost no question of resistance.

The benefits that had accrued to the Yonopcry, a forest people subject to the whims of weather, and larger predatory species, were immediate and lasting. Best of all, the Kroleni, though sullen and mostly silent, were not overtly aggressive. They simply set up conditions to ensure they could maximize the planet’s vast natural resources. That meant educating the locals, regulating the predators that had plagued them and generally raising the Yonopcry standard of living to the point where they could, like Lozlian, hold responsible posts.

Yet it would be a mistake to think that the Kroleni’s impulses were “humanitarian.” More precisely, they grasped the wastefulness of exaggerated oppression. Install a provisional government, housed in expensive facilities and then build a police force to collect taxes and keep the local population subdued? Ridiculous. As they had learned from centuries of expansion through sixteen galaxies, tolerant, equitable management was the most powerful form of subjugation in the universe.

At the beginning, as always, the Kroleni encountered difficulties. The shamans of Lozlian’s generation had protested when the Kroleni proposed mining expeditions at some of the Yonopcrys’ most sacred sites. When negotiations broke down, the Kroleni backed off. They had time. With an average lifespan of four centuries, they could afford to wait until the influence of other cultures in their domain would dilute the fervor of their latest acquisition. Already, Lozlian knew, the process was underway. When was the last time, he wondered, that he himself had thought to visit the Grove of Ramthiol or the temple grounds in the Thusian plains?

Regardless, he couldn’t imagine his life without the comforts of an above-ground home, of running water, electricity, heat and protection from predators, as well as from the elements. Not to mention, all of these luxuries were powered by a combination of ocean tides, geothermal heat pumps, solar panels and wind turbines. It was hard to hate one’s captors if they so clearly loved one’s planet.

Time to eat, he thought.

Then, remembering that his first meeting with the hooms was only two hours away, he decided to exercise his rusty vocal cords. After mid-season recess, this was usually a bit of a challenge, but there was no point putting it off.

“Tiaeyema otoo heeat,” his voice growled in a rough approximation of Versaling, the common language imposed by the Kroleni across the Imperium.

He’d have to do much better than that, he realized. If there was one thing the hooms — the “humans,” he reminded himself — were fussy about, it was diction. He tried again and continued to practice common, familiar phrases over and over again while he prepared his breakfast of fried river fish and dried fruits. As usual, by the time he slid the shimmering flesh onto a large green crockery plate at his broad wooden kitchen table, his voice was already much more flexible. The sound of his voice was even more important than it might have been because the hooms were clearly new to dealing with “aliens.” To them, Lozlian was forced to acknowledge, it wasn’t entirely clear if he resembled a bearish raccoon, or a raccoonish bear.

Still, at least for now, Lozlian was at peace. The fish was delicious. The hot plendalmor cider he washed it down with was its perfect complement. He was ready for anything. Except, that is, the insistent chirp of his dark red, ovoid Kroleni comlink.

Councilmember Achimlemoor, he thought.

A second after answering, a holographic image of an imposing insectoid hovered before his eyes. She was swathed in a lavender silk jumpsuit, pinched in at the neck to form a high collar behind the back of her roughly ovoid head.

“Regional Liaison Lozlian,” she said. “A word, if you don’t mind.”

Lozlian gulped. There was nothing more intimidating than a polite Kroleni. In his experience, the nicer they were to him, the more trouble he was in.

“Of course, Councilmember,” he said. “What can I….”

“It’s about your meeting with the human delegation this morning,” said the insectoid. “I want to stress how important it is that you make them feel welcome.”

“I understand,” said Lozlian. “Has there been an … incident … that I should know about?”

The insectoid’s mandibles clacked.

“No,” she said, “thank the Continuum. However, we are in the midst of important negotiations with their scientists, and need to ensure nothing jeopardizes the outcome.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Lozlian. “No disrespect, but may I ask why you care so much about the humans’ feelings? I mean, beyond common courtesy. Aren’t they simply one more component of your … Imperium … as we are?”

Achimlemoor’s antennae twitched. She leaned forward and continued in a low voice.

“Ordinarily,” she said. “you would be right, if slightly impertinent. However — and this is not for common distribution — the humans have developed a novel means of interstellar propulsion that could revolutionize everything from transport to warfare. Naturally, we would rather have that technology, if it pans out, under our aegis, than see it sold to, let’s say, those hideous, reptilian Chyloradrin.”

“I see,” said Lozlian. “A difficult situation. Don’t you have … means … to persuade them?”

“You know that’s not our preferred operating model,” said Achimlemoor. “That’s the reason we created the system of liaisons, in which you are privileged to serve. Humans are especially prideful, for reasons I personally will never understand. I mean, look at them. In any case, we’d rather keep them and their surprising technical ingenuity under our wing than let them slip away. If we crack the whip, they will bolt. You can be sure the Chyloradrins are already sweet-talking them. So it’s up to you to convince the humans that we offer them discrete advantages, including the ability to develop their talents in peace — with our guidance, of course.”

Lozlian’s heart raced. His superior’s surprisingly candid tone was a bit of a shock. It was either a sign that he had truly earned her trust, or that the Kroleni were feeling uncharacteristically desperate.

“Is there … is there anything in particular you need me to accomplish today?” he asked.

“Very good, Regional Liaison Lozlian,” said the insectoid. “I see you are finally catching on to the full scope of your responsibilities. In fact, there is an unusually delicate matter I need you to attend to. We have learned that the daughter of the human physicist who is chiefly responsible for developing the principles behind the new star drive is a biologist with a peculiar interest in the Yonopcry. She needs a subject to study. Naturally, I volunteered you.”

“To … to … study me?” asked Lozlian. “What exactly….”

“I have another call coming in that I must take,” said Achimlemoor. “You’ll learn more of the details after your official conference with the humans on matters of trade. I know I can count on you. Achimlemoor out.”

The holographic image winked out, leaving Lozlian gaping stupidly at nothing in particular. The idea that a human female wished to study him was beyond unnerving. With his Omah-Drunan so close by, to be alone with a female — any female — not a member of his immediate family was strictly forbidden. If he were seen in her company, how would he explain this lapse to his fellow clan members, let alone his mother? She would never understand and Lozlian could see why.

According to the most ancient Yonopcry traditions, his mate had been selected when they were both six years old from, the females in his village, after an exhaustive round of ritualized blood-letting. The village shaman had tested the effect of blood samples from both children on an array of forest fungi that he’d scraped from each of the seven species of dulantraItrees in the forest’s most sacred grove. Blood samples that stained the fungi in complementary patterns were considered “compatible.” Samples that produced the same pattern were rejected as were samples that produced wildly different patterns. Ultimately, Lozlian was paired with a female named “Aldruvet,” whom he’d met only once, according to tradition. Yet from Omah-Drunan forward, they would be joined for life, irrevocably, through biochemical, emotional and cultural bonds they could no more break than they could yank the stars from the sky.

These, Lozlian knew, were “village thoughts,” exactly what the Kroleni had taught him to ignore as the first step to finding his deserved place in the new order. He’d follow his latest assignment to the letter. Yet, it made him nervous to realize that in this sudden reversion to the old ways, might lie a clue to the biological imperative that was about to engulf him.

Could my time be nearer than I think? he wondered.

His anxious musing was cut short by an incoming wave of mental energy.

Mother, he responded telepathically, How nice to hear from you!

But his mother was in no mood for blandishments.

Don’t, gush at me Lozilanitro, she said. Not when you plan to stay with the bug people instead of returning home, as you promised. The Omah-Drunan is almost here. Aldruvet is already asking after you.

Lozlian wasted no effort repeating a promise his mother would only believe when he fulfilled it in person. A few minutes of mechanical small talk later and she closed contact. He hung his head and spoke his promise to his bedroom walls instead.

“After the humans are settled,” he said, “I’ll tell Achimlemoor I need some time off,”

Yet the icy dread that filled the pit of his stomach told him that would not be so easy.

(To be continued)

A new episode appears every other Monday.

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Image by Steven S. Drachman