Carina Korhil
Translating from FTL to real space-time was always a disorienting transition. When the laws of mass, speed, and time once again reasserted themselves on the world within the ship and the ship itself was inserted into the world outside, it felt, on good days, like running full sprint into a brick wall.
It was a wall the mind didn’t see, but the body perceived it in every way. Early records indicate that the first travelers did die from shock, or hemorrhages in the brain tissue.
Advances in technology inoculated us from the danger, but it was still no less jarring. No less shocking to the point that many with weaker constitutions were encouraged to let themselves be put to sleep before translation on vessels with the resources to distribute the necessary drugs.
We had those facilities. But I, perhaps, was too stubborn, and I would not have it be reported or even rumored that I was some delicate flower who needed to be coddled during her first diplomatic mission.
Neira, as ever, stayed beside me, though I could tell she wanted nothing more than to let herself be put to sleep.
“Beginning the deceleration process,” Captain Ceitus called from the helm, his fingers flicking over knobs and buttons, the co-pilot doing his share beside him.
I took a deep breath, feeling my heart beating perhaps a bit more strongly under my ribs than it should have.
“It’ll be all right, my lady,” Neira whispered, just loud enough for me to hear. “You’re more than capable of seeing this mission through.”
I nodded, feeling distinctly grateful she’d chosen to accompany me on such short notice on this trip. I’d thanked her, of course, but perhaps it hadn’t been till right this moment that I truly appreciated her.
“Decelerating.”
There was no gentle transition. One did not go from faster than light to light to ever diminishing percentages of the speed of light until reaching something “gentle.” The jumps were calculated with pinpoint perfect precision.
One second off could see one overshoot or undershoot their target by literally astronomical degrees, or worse, have the ship destroyed by coming into contact with any small infinitesimal bit of solid matter.
FTL required an exacting place to transition into a capable state of transportable matter and to retransition safely.
Kinetic dampener technology prevented us from becoming smears on the walls, but still I felt the air knocked out of me, the sinew and bones in my body lighting up with flares of pain.
Before the Shroud, this technology was grossly outdated, used only in the most dire of emergencies, if even that. The vast network that had simply folded space between two points made transportation not need, any real speed at all, FTL or otherwise to move something from one end of the galaxy to the other.
But now, that technology was gone, leaving this as our only recourse..
Distantly, at the back of my thoughts, I remembered my lessons, and I knew that if any sensors looked on the ship now, it would seem almost like another small star in the black of the void, venting heat through every possible heat sink, and would continue doing so for at least a few hours even with the freezing cold void of space rapidly cooling the exposed vents.
I struggled to keep my breathing even and slow, taking deep lungfuls of air as my hands clenched at the armrests and Neira beside me hissed through clenched teeth.
When the pain had passed and I was calm enough to open my eyes, I saw it.
Urun.
The planet hung there in the black sea, a faded, jade green, with veins of mottled blue crisscrossing its dense jungles, deep bogs, and lush forests.
The capital city of Urun I could see, even from here. A mega city by all accounts, a long continuous mass of construction and people and buildings. Tiny pinpricks of light reflected off of the red gold of its structures, the central palace rising like a spire, or perhaps a spear, planted onto the planet to claim it—or kill it.
I thought for a moment of that old fable, the tower of Babel, that had been built so high it brushed the heavens themselves. Close enough for its king to fire an arrow at the ancient gods of mankind.
They were cursed for their hubris if I recalled the story properly.
“My lady Korhil,” Captain Ceitus called, looking over his shoulder. “We’re being hailed, my lady.”
I nodded. “Patch them through, Captain.”
The man nodded. Requesting my permission was a formality, I knew. There were remarkably few options, limited precisely to “accept the hail” or “turn around and leave,” but I appreciated the formality regardless. It perhaps made me feel a bit more in control of all this.
An image appeared across the primary view screen, a woman in full combat armor, her features obscured by a full helmet, sporting a single slit for a visor. The style was perhaps, reminiscent of ancient greco-romans from Old Earth, the colors of rust-red, gold, and black adorning her.
Her voice, when it came, was a stern one. A woman used to barking orders and seeing them followed through. “This is Yeritza Voltzner of the Urun Palace Guard.” I noted, somewhere in the back of my mind, the weapons strapped to her hip. I didn’t recognize them. They were not standard in any way. Custom works? Or modified so much they would scarcely make a difference?
“You have been flagged as a high priority VIP. As such, you are to be extended every courtesy during your visit.” Noting some of the other soldiers walking behind her, I noticed then her armor was perhaps a bit more elaborate, the shoulder sporting some kind of bird, etched onto the pauldron, the chest plate more gilded, with etchings of fine gold tracing along the edges. Expensive on a soldier’s salary. Was she perhaps a captain? A general? Personal guard?
“Please confirm your ship's identification code and the identity of the VIP on board to receive docking clearance.”
The captain looked at me, and I offered a nod, relieved because it was only now I realized, stupidly, I didn’t know the ship’s identification codes.
“Good evening, Ms. Voltzner, this is Captain Ceitus of the Stardust Song. Identification number V.177.8862.584. Escorting VIP lady Carina Korhil of House Korhil; arriving from planet Isa. We are here to extend diplomatic negotiations with House Gilson.”
“Identity confirmed.” She nodded sharply. With a few hard raps over a keyboard only she could see, the woman spoke. “Coordinates for your private docking bay have been sent. An escort will meet your VIP at the bay.” She planted a fist against her chest, offering a shallow bow. “Welcome to Urun.”
—
As we descended into the atmosphere and began to fly over the city, the sheer grand enormity of Urun became more and more apparent, more and more… undeniable.
Isa was not considered a “small” or backwater world. Our buildings were solid, our cities vast and well maintained.
But comparing Isa to Urun would be akin to comparing a torch to a bonfire.
The buildings that glimmered like primordial red gold were enormous things, each the size of city blocks at their foundations, the travel lanes wide enough to fit six ships from wing to wing, and deep enough that one could rightly call them gorges.
I could see drones and machines constantly cleaning a city that already seemed to gleam, and looming tall above all of this was the palace itself. Its towering spire rose into the sky, cradled on a base that seemed to slope and swoop out to embrace the city entirely. Ships, which by their silhouettes alone I knew were twice or even three times the size of our own, looked like nothing more than insects, buzzing around a much larger beast.
Was this the true testament to how powerful the Federation had been at its height? Was this the legacy we’d lost along with our true FTL capabilities alongside our empire and sense of unity when the Shroud emerged to strangle us?
The thought was a humbling one.
Grandfather always lamented the Federation's absence. And perhaps, for the first time, I was truly beginning to grasp why.
As our ship drew near, I wondered if the whole of Isa could have fit within a single wing of this… impossible palace by itself.
Drawing closer, two fighters bearing the House Gilson colors of red and gold flew up to our sides, hailing us as escorts.
Falling into the shadow of the palace, I took a deep breath and mentally steeled myself for the encounter to come.
—
The hangar we were escorted to was a private one, with space for a single ship of our size and no other, near the upper levels of the palace spire. As soon as we landed, there were servants and attendants ready to greet us as we disembarked.
The servants did not need a word of order or direction; the moment the ramp had descended and my feet touched the hangar floors, they began to move, engineers beginning to attach fuel lines and the servants quietly made their way to the cargo bay to gather our belongings and see them to our rooms.
Whether this was an eagerness to show hospitality or competence, intimidation, or any number of other motives, I wasn’t sure, so I pushed it from my mind as I stared at the woman across from me.
Dressed in the armor I’d seen her wearing when she contacted the ship, Yeritza cut an even more impressive figure in person. She was perhaps an inch taller than me in her armor, a roaring lion’s head emblazoned on her pauldron. She offered a formal bow as she stepped forward.
“Lady Korhil, I presume?”
I nodded. “Yes… Captain? Would that be your proper title?”
“It will do,” she answered as she straightened. “I am to escort you to your rooms. The men behind me are your protection detail while you’re within palace grounds. If you need to speak to me, you speak to them. Your problems are my problems.”
“I appreciate that, Captain,” I said, offering a nod in thanks and acknowledgement. “However, while I am pleased to enjoy the hospitality of House Gilson for as long as the lord of the house would like, I am afraid we did not travel solely for pleasantries. When would Lord Alexandre be available to meet?”
I felt more than heard Woolsey shift her weight somewhere behind me and wondered if perhaps I’d misstepped.
The captain, however, took it in stride. “Noted,” she remarked easily. “It will please you then to know that you will have this day to settle into your accommodations. My lord Gilson will meet with you and your entourage later today, informally, to celebrate your arrival with a special dinner where you and yours will be guests of honor. Tomorrow morning, he will meet with you again, formally to discuss matters of your respective houses.”
I blinked, surprised. That was… remarkably fast—even, dare I say it, ideal.
“Thank you again, Captain.”
With a sharp turn, she held out her hand towards the hall ahead of us. “If you’ll follow me, Lady Korhil, I will show you to your rooms.”
(X)(X)(X)
In short order we were led, as promised, to our rooms.
I may be an amateur in such things, but even I can recognize when someone is trying to impress.
My suite was an expanse of space, with two bathrooms, a second, smaller bedroom, and even a kitchen, living room, and small dining area. It was an apartment rather than a simple room. But its greatest feature by far was a wide, platform-like balcony overlooking the glittering, glimmering sheet of diamonds that was the vast city of Urun far below the spire. The millions upon millions of lights sparkled like jewels.
The servants arranged my belongings on my direction, following instructions to the letter. They were professional, courteous, silent, and perhaps they would go and report to their lord once they left here as well.
After all… servants make very good spies, or so I’m told.
It wasn’t long after that the first of my visitors arrived.
Neira knocked on the door, entering when I gave permission. Her smile was tentative, but her eyes lit up with an amazed sort of wonder I hadn’t seen since we were children.
“They have bedsheets made of Torelian silk.”
I chortled, surprised at the sudden declaration.
“I take it you’ll be swearing your eternal allegiance to House Gilson then?”
“Do you offer me Torelian silk sheets?” she cheekily accused.
Before we could continue much further with the joke, there was another knock. Bidding the person to enter, I wasn’t really surprised to see Madam Woolsey and Master Deckard at the door.
I settled in my seat, one ankle crossing over the other as my hands rested over my navel. “I take it that I misstepped?”
Master Deckard bowed his head quietly, it was Woolsey who stared straight at me.
“If you need to ask the question,” she drawled.
I did not glare. Such a thing would be unbecoming of myself towards my teacher, but it was a close thing. “Perhaps point out where the mistake was?”
Master Deckard cleared his throat, clearly cutting in to soften the blow. “Madam Woolsey feels you were perhaps… too eager. Too forward in asking when the Lord Gilson would see you.”
“We came here for a purpose,” I argued.
“We did, but tipping your hand like that tells him of your urgency,” Madam Woolsey said. “It means if he delays, he knows you’re more likely to become desperate. The more desperate you are, the less generous his terms need to be. Now, all he needs to do is delay.”
A new voice spoke, “But if we don’t treat it with urgency, he could also view it as our simply playing politics when there is a genuine need for his aid.”
All three of us were surprised, and all three of us turned as one to the owner of the voice.
Neira, seemingly just now realizing that she’d spoken aloud, blushed scarlet in mortification, casting her eyes down as she mumbled, “I’m sorry. I… just don’t think you made the wrong choice.”
Madam Woolsey’s frown was a severe thing, and I cut in before she could speak to Neira in a way that would upset me.
“She makes a good point.” I took up the argument. “Desperation isn’t an impression I’d want to give, but neither is a lackadaisical attitude.” I stood up from my seat, trying to emphasize the point. “We need the help House Gilson can provide. Not at their leisure, but now. Otherwise, this whole thing is academic. I trust my grandfather to see us through this crisis, but he was very clear that efforts here are an important cornerstone to his plans. So this must proceed well and in a timely way.”
I straightened where I sat, gathering my composure with all the dignity I had in me. “Now. What’s done is done, so let’s cease dwelling on a single encounter with his bodyguard and get ready to meet the man himself tonight.”
Master Deckard nodded. Woolsey’s eternal scowl deepened, but she did not argue.
I’d take it as a small victory.