Visit from Division Thirteen – 27

“You’re lucky to be alive,” the station’s Officer of the Deck tells Eli. “The XO was completely serious about opening fire if you hadn’t decelerated.”

Eli works to restore a control panel on the bridge. Station security personnel are posted at the hatch and members of a station damage control team sort through the mess made by their docking. Chip hovers near Eli, unsure of how to proceed in this company.

“We were sure he was going give the order until the CO showed up.”

“I’ll be sure I thank the CO,” Eli says.

“Well, you better be prepared to do more than that,” the OOD says. “An admiral arrived late last evening. No official orders were routed through routine message traffic and a friend of mine with station security says he saw Intelligence tabs on his shoulders.”

Eli absentmindedly snaps a panel back into place. “That doesn’t make it any less routine,” Eli says. “We just sailed an alien vessel right into your space station. Of course intel is going to show up.”

“But an admiral?” the OOD asks. “And my friend says he saw a Division 13 chest device.”

Chip’s jaw drops. Eli feigns concentration on the control panel.

“That’s not so routine,” the OOD says.

“And neither is this conversation, Lieutenant.” The men turn toward the open hatch, toward the captain standing in its place. “See yourself reprimanded and strike yourself from the OOD roster. I want the name of your friend in security. Report to the XO in one month’s time for reappraisal.”

The lieutenant snaps to, “Certainly, sir.”

“I wasn’t suggesting this done at your convenience,” the captain says.

The lieutenant quickly makes his way off the bridge and disappears into the darkness of the passageway.

The captain steps forward, sliding debris aside with the polished leather of his boot. “The lieutenant was correct, however,” the captain says. “The admiral is aboard and he is a member of Division 13.”

Lieutenants Noble and Memphis are at attention now. The captain makes his way around the perimeter of the bridge, inspecting the alien technology with cursory glances. “Of course there are any number of reasons a Division 13 admiral might board our station.” The captain nears Eli and Chip, but his focus is on Eli. “There are any number of reasons I’d prefer he not be.” He leans in close. “Have you nothing to say, Lieutenant?”

“Thank you for not blowing us up, sir,” Eli says.

The station captain smiles. “I am sure I won’t regret that decision, Lieutenant.”

“If I have anything to do with it, sir, you won’t.”

“Noble,” the captain says. “You certainly have the family air about you. I wonder,” the captain says as he moves toward the door, “if your proclivities reflect those of your father or those of your brother.”

“My proclivities are my own, Captain.”

The captain half-turns and looks at Eli over his shoulder. “Certainly,” the captain says. Two sentries snap to attention as the captain makes for the door. “The admiral will have you join us for dinner at 1830. Bring your XO and engineer with you.”

“Aye sir,” Eli says.

Chip closes his mouth.

 

Ian Trains – 26

The training hall is dark. The blues and grays of the metal bulkheads creep into midnights and smokes as the overhead lighting panels sleep. Captain Noble kneels. The floor is bare, perfect, and cold. The pain in Ian’s knees gently whispers to him, his mind hidden behind closed eyes. The room is cold. The breath lingers in the space before him, swirling faintly in wisps of slight light. His fists, wrapped tightly in strips of black cloth, press firmly into his upper thigh. His feet, wrapped in the same black material, are folded beneath him. His back is straight, his elbows bent and extended, like a cobra’s hood. His chin is tilted toward his chest, his lips are singular and straight. The black of the warrior’s robe shows blue at the shoulder, the thigh, the forearm, the side of his head. His head is covered by a blue-black that descends to chest. The space is cold. It is dark. It is quiet.

His concentration is fixed. The pain in his knees is no more than a breath, a whisper, hardly a memory. His mind is everywhere. His mind is nowhere. There is only solitude here, there is only darkness.

What features of his are visible in the trickle of light, the bridge of his nose, the contour of his brow, the chiseled edge of his jaw, slowly transcend from moonlight pale to violent violet. The edges of his warrior’s dobok take on the same purple hue as the glow materializes in the shadows behind him.

“You handled that well,” the glow says from the darkness.

Ian hears, but remains motionless. He’s a statue of perfection, malleable marble, in the pre-violent throes of meditation.

“The circle grows,” says the glow. “Their numbers are being revealed to us.”

The glow materializes into the sharp features of the man it used to be. Ian’s eyes remain closed, unflinching.

“Fortunately for you your XO returned.”

Ian is motionless.

“What if she hadn’t? What would you have done? How would the Noble name have continued in your absence?”

Ian says without the slightest degree of movement, “The Noble name will always continue.”

“Yes, your brothers will ensure that. But to what end without the guidance of their eldest brother? Their captain.”

“Just as it always has,” Ian whispers in the dark. “There were Nobles before. There will be Nobles after.”

“And if you’d been killed?”

“I was in no danger,” Ian seethes.

“No?” the glow asks. “You were prepared to dispatch that villain? The one with the gun?”

“He would have surely died.”

A man materializes in front of Ian. He is standing not ten feet away. His arm is extended and a gun is pointed at Ian’s head.

“You sure?” The glow asks.

“Unquestionably,” Ian whispers.

There is silence for a moment. The breath at Ian’s face stops. The swirls there vanish. The shadow focuses his stare on Ian and says, “Show me.”

Ian’s fists press further into his thighs. His eyes open, the deep brown merging with shadow. In an instant Ian is on his feet.

The man before him touches the trigger. Ian glides toward him. The man’s finger presses into the trigger, the metal of the blaster glints with electric light. Ian is instantly at the shadow. He slaps the gun under his arm and grips it furiously. He immediately fires an elbow into the attacker’s face. The man’s nose crunches under the impact. His head rocks back and his eyes, instantly flooded with tears, strain to see through the blur. The man staggers backward from the blow, but Ian still has the gun-wielding arm wrapped tightly in his own. Ian’s elbow-blasting arm snakes around and grips the man by the neck. The attacker is yanked forward into a rising knee-blast to the tip of a lower rib. The man grunts as the air is compressed inside his lungs and the bone snaps under the pressure.

Ian fires a second knee to the body and corkscrews the man to the floor. The man doesn’t even have time to writhe from impact before Ian kicks the gun across the compartment. And without missing a beat, raises his knee to his chest and slams his foot onto the neck of the downed attacker.

There is a crash of electronic sound as the image of the man deteriorates into pixels and is absorbed by the deck plating. Ian regains himself. His arms moving closer to his core, his knees bending, and his motion slowing as he prepares for additional attacks.

The glow speaks, invisible in the darkness, “It has always impressed me how you’ve managed to combine both form and function. The effectiveness of your movements, as brutal and raw as they often are, contain their own innate beauty. Watching you fight is … disturbing artistry.”

“You would know,” Ian says. “You taught me.”