YELLOW BULBOUS EYES flicker with a nictitating membrane as Nytalyan reviews the information streaming across her handheld computer. Instructions for her reassignment on Shalenotun VII.
She skips past reports on the recent assassination of the political leader Micah Donkor. The insurrection sparked by his death reveals that the masses no longer desire Mokarran control or the stripping of planetary resources.
The Mokarran surrendered the agricultural resources of Summersun, but Shalenotun VII’s orbital shipyards construct Tri-Star Federation battle cruisers and have prompted the constant arrival of Mokarran military forces.
Now as protests increase, the Mokarran are relocated command and much of the non-Mokarran Tri-Star Federation support staff to the surface, determining it would quell hostilities. According to these reports, the riots are increasing.
Nytalyan’s unsure if her choice of window seat on the monorail tram keeps her far enough away from Saltāl. She never glances in his direction making sure to never encounter him on the transport shuttle. She swears by her dead children she will transmit the information they gathered to the UCP before her discovery ends her tenure with command.
Her eyelids blink to keep the membranes, designed against the forces of oceanic pressures, flooded with constant moisture. Some aquatic-evolved humanoids operating among land-based people contract physically uncontrollable tics. While working at the Tri-Star Federation command center, her eyes never fluctuated in such a manner. This planet’s atmosphere lacks the moisture that the Mokarran artificially pump through their ships and bases to permeate their own moisture needs. Despite her growing discomfort and constant blinking, Nytalyan won’t leave Shalenotun without transmitting her evidence.
Tolerating the pain means little to the visual receptors connected to her brain. Her Aequipinatus synapses allow for direct connection of microprocessors, allowing her to be converted into a living language translator prized among her Mokarran oppressors. Despite this evolutionary gift sparing her people from enslavement, it does not keep her loyal.
Nytalyan’s window seat affords her a chance to view the capital city. None of the disturbances are visible from the monorail. As long as the protesters keep from violence, the Mokarran won’t enact martial law. She needs time to establish herself at her station before she contacts Saltāl. Fighting will forestall her attempt, forcing more security on the command staff.
Messages download to her handheld computer. Many fail to open due to her limited security level. Several briefs on the armistice renewal between the UCP and the Tri-Star Federation flash. Headlines over the recent battle on Summersun beep for attention. Reports on agricultural production and increases in grocery pricing stream across the bottom of the screen. More reports of the engagements with the Throgen Empire on the opposite sectors of the TSF beep.
She lacks tactical knowledge to appreciate the military advantage of maintaining peace with the UCP. Peace within the UCP sectors allows the redistribution of the Mokarran fleet to the Throgen frontlines. Shalenotun shipyards are essential to renewing the battle fleet. Without these new cruisers under construction, a large section of the Federation will fall to Throgen control. The Mokarran must be defeated, but not at the hands of the Throgen Empire. What they offer is worse than death.
Her electronic device chirps again. Mokarran sensor controls prevent many subversive broadcasts from reaching her view. Those safety checks had disengaged. Message after forbidden message streams across her screen.
The woman next to her takes notice of the flood of ISN general news podcast.
“You need to activate the device’s filter system.”
“I ran the standard Mokarran protocols,” Nytalyan assures herself more than the woman sitting next to her.
“The riots must have brought down a transmission tower, allowing an influx of restricted traffic.”
“I don’t want to view any unapproved broadcasts,” Nytalyan says, now concerned the riots have escalated.
“Reset your security measures.”
“I’m a linguistic specialist. I’m unsure how,” Nytalyan says.
“I work in communications. May I?” she offers.
Within a few clicks the message flow ceases. “Now you have to clear out the undesired transmissions.”
“How will they know I didn’t view prohibited communications?” Nytalyan asks.
“Are you wanting to view them?”
Nytalyan’s eyes blink until they moisten enough to offset her dry throat. The wrong answer here could lead to her being reported, a report will lead to an investigation and an investigation will lead to the discovery of her research on the secret Mokarran religious teachings. Carefully choosing words keeps her safe but fails to introduce her to a new ally.
Before she responds, the female Kapono says, “You don’t have clearance to view such videos. I thought all members of command did. I spend my time editing them for distribution.”
Nytalyan knows that without the correct response she’ll lose this would-be ally.
“I relay battle commands in proper linguistics,” Nytalyan says.
“You’re one of those. No mistranslated orders from you during combat.”
Nytalyan detects the disgruntled animosity. She knows that more of the non-Mokarran command staff felt as she did, but none of them she knows well enough to incite—trust.
“The Mokarran overseer’s orders must be conveyed or even more of our fellow soldiers will perish.” Using disdainful inflection, Nytalyan reveals her hand.
She flutters her twelve fingers over Nytalyan’s device. “You should view the news unedited.”
Test?
Multiple choice. Nytalyan understands why her education was full of such exams.
A. If she reports this woman for her actions and the woman is a traitor, Nytalyan will be rewarded.
B. If Nytalyan fails to report this woman and she works as an informant, Nytalyan goes to prison.
C. She could be a possible ally. She works in communications. Saltāl was to acquire a communications officer in order to contact Admiral Kantian in the UCP.
Nytalyan needs fluid. Her constant blinking dehydrates her. “This is a reportable offense.”
“So is recording Mokarran meetings.”
To even imply such a deed might mean prison.
This woman must be the communications officer who gave Saltāl the unedited frontline battle footage displaying the Mokarran refusing to assist the non-Mokarran aliens piloting fighters engaged with Throgen forces. Saltāl keeps his distance to protect them and their discovery, but he sends a confederate.
“Saltāl’s confidence was in a male communications officer.” Nothing condemning in her statement.
“I’ll remember next time he asks for a date.”
“He’s quite the protector,” Nytalyan says.
“Many males of a species assume they must be. I’m sure he does as well.”
“You understand what he has asked?” Nytalyan probes.
“The Mokarran command seeks a final solution. Being discovered means it happens sooner rather than later.”
“The risk comes at great cost.” Nytalyan presses in on her abdomen. Her next brood of eggs will be born, and not born under the Mokarran rule. Nytalyan accepts fate. “How long before you’re able to transmit—”
“Slow down, sister.” She holds out her hand. “I am Svetlana.”
“I failed to respect you before I asked your life commitment.”
“After we’re settled and integrated back into the command structure on this planet, we’ll imbibe some local customs. Once comfortable, I’ll consider a transmission outside the Federation.”
Blunt. No way this Svetlana rats. Her self-incrimination places her in danger, as does the information Nytalyan carries. She must speak with Saltāl to confirm this woman’s confidence.
The Mokarran have diligently ensured none of them trust one another.
