Stargazer the ultimate a.., p.1
Stargazer: The Ultimate Artefact, page 1
Stargazer: The Last Artefact
(After Terra 1)
1st Australian English Edition May 2021
Novel by Ivan Ertlov
Translated by Marly Gram
Edited by K. O. Chapman-Paton
I recognise the Darug as the first peoples and traditional custodians of the land on which I live and work. I pay my respect, gratitude and tribute to their elders - past, present and future.
Further acknowledgements and greetings:
Cover: MNS Art Studio
German Editing: Sven Bergmeier
German Proofreading: Kay L Storm
Karl Fehringer - Years of mentorship
The Müllers feat. Laura Ertl
Chapman-Paton family
Table of contents
Foreword
1.Of prospectors and diplomats
2.Ready for battle
3.Good plans, bad cards
4.The leap of faith
5.The stubborn comet
6.Yrsha-Gahar
7.The Heirs of Gahar
8.Underground
9.Gahar-2
10.Stargazer
Stargazer 2? Seriously? Yes, but without seriousness !
English Books written by Ivan Ertlov:
Imprint:
Foreword
What? A foreword? Why is Ivan starting with that again? After all, we have known since "Colony - In the Shadow of the Matriarch" that no one has time for that!
Yes, that's true. But this time, after a long time, I am making an exception to this rule - for a very mundane reason:
I want to apologise.
For the fact that this space opera uses the terms and units of measurement we know. Distances are measured in metres, light years and parsecs, time units in minutes, hours, days and years. Well, I have to apologise again, this time to my U.S. readers, for using primarily metric units and not bald eagles per floating ounce and similar, totally reasonable measurements.
But why?
In the two years tinkering with Stargazer / After Terra, I've designed an entire cosmos with countless civilisations, two opposing coalitions with dozens of very different spacefaring peoples. Mankind (through no fault of its own!) plays only a minor supporting role.
To reflect this, I have invented a time measurement based on the rotational speed of a pulsar and created a distance designation from this combined with the reasonably constant speed of light in interstellar space.
I came up with creative names like "Toka-darar" for what is probably close to a light-minute. Accompanied by "Basthadoka" for the measurement unit that most closely corresponds to our hour (but is actually 72.375 of our minutes).
Fancy, isn't it?
Yes, and a pig's work. Unfortunately, the first test runs (no animal experiments, everything was tested on human nerds) showed that the readability suffers.
No, that's another euphemism.
The human brain breaks off the action; puts it on dry ice to quickly convert the creatively chiselled technical terms into known quantities.
The reading flow is gone, the reader is torn out of immersion, the writing pig has failed. What works well in the Bladesinger's novels (at least we can imagine handbreadth, fingerbreadth, step and mile) simply doesn't check out in the distant future.
The alternative of simply equating the terms with our measurement units (e.g. simply letting a frirash-darar be one metre long) was too cheap and cheesy for me. So we are back at square one. Or square-metre one.
- Ivan Ertlov, January 2021
§ 1 Civil rights
Even if, for the reasons described in the preamble, the partially rational, spacefaring species, which in its self-definition is dubbed humanity, continues to be regarded as:
a) an enemy force,
b) a threat to the peace and internal security of the Protectorate; and
c) an invasive, destructive, parasitic phenomenon
(definition in § 97, secondary subsection 4).
the Protectorate shall, with immediate effect and until revoked, grant universal citizenship rights to each and every representative of the species "human being" subject to the limitations set out in §§ 3 to 96 and with the separate obligations explained in §§ 98 to § 143.
- Lex Humanitas, the first version from the year 27 AT
1.
Of prospectors and diplomats
Silently, the drone hovered over the splinter city's battlements, gliding for minutes between the kilometre-high radio towers of the primary strategic space coordination, elegantly avoiding the orbital lift's gigantic fibre cable connecting dozens of docks and shipyards at airless heights with the metropolis on the ground.
Saranta-Kai, you magnificent one!
Pearl of the Hurushka system, a unifying mediator of the fourteen peoples on more than eighty planets and hundreds of moons, keeper of the peace. The Protectorate's capital sheltered millions of rational (and a few thousand deeply religious) beings from the horrors of uncharted space, the Plachtharr-Alliance and the dangers of untaxed income.
Divided into habitat zones, also called splinters or quarters, each giving one species represented on the Council a sense of home. A vast steppe landscape for the Creesh, bubbling wet swamps where the Durash wallowed, snow and ice-covered miniature mountains where the Borsht could just be Borsht and go about their day's work with only their fur on their bodies.
A semi-sentient rainforest, in which the Tarjah sailed from tree to tree with their enormous ears, bordered directly on the methane lakes of the Olbadjar, who unfortunately could not participate in the social life outside without sophisticated Spacesuits.
In the centre, built with the best technology and planning genius, rose majestically the dominion's citadel. Thousands of towers and halls reflected the light of both suns on the shimmering silvery surface of their façades and windows — two suns which met briefly ind the sky during the morning hours.
This was the epicentre of power!
It was a government and administrative quarter, carefully constructed as a compromise, as an Architektona Franca, a universal architecture that paid equal respect to all peoples.
Well, almost all of them.
"Humans are asked for hygienic reasons not to indulge in masturbation or copulation during the flight."
Although he had read this sentence hundreds of times, it still evoked a certain alienation in Frank.
And shame.
Because he knew that none of the guidelines and regulations projected into the passenger compartment were pointless or even pulled out by the hair (feelers, tentacles, mandibles ...).
The commandment to only use the drone service with sufficient account coverage was self-evident. Nothing was given for free, not even in the officially infinitely hospitable splinter city.
The recommendation to abstain from food and drink during the flight also had a good reason, which was evident to anyone who had ever experienced one of the amazingly frequent near-collisions. Nothing ruined the day more thoroughly than a Shrava larva accidentally crushed not in the mouth but on the uniform's collar. Or a pot of hot seaweed broth in the crotch, a genuinely unpleasant experience.
All of this made sense; it affected every passenger equally.
However, as the injunction to refrain from sexual activity hovered over their heads, half a dozen other drone users cast indignant glances from around thirty eyes (you never really knew the number with a Durash) in the direction of the only human on board.
Frank Gazer, his ears red, trying in vain not to let on. One might as well try to smuggle a Trioloran snow titan in a handbag or conceal an erection in the temple of the enlightened nudists.
Frank Gazer, who was well aware that there had to be a precedent, no, rather a whole bunch of precedents, which made this shameful additional regulation in Saranta-Kai public transport necessary.
Frank Gazer, the future prospector.
*
"Dear Ambassador, let me get to the point. According to our information, the Plachtharr-Alliance fleet is still approaching the Null Zone, despite our protests. Would you have the goodness to explain this violation of the Aringosh Agreement to us?"
Aarashkvachora herself was most surprised at the politeness with which she had asked the question. Only - it was not that astonishing at all.
Forty years in diplomatic service, the last ten rounds of which as the first Speaker of the Council, Chief negotiator of the entire Protectorate, had brought her to this point. Giving her the ability to actually negotiate with obnoxious muckrakers and stoic taskars like the Emissary, instead of just biting the other person's head off.
Oh, how she would have loved to do just that!
Her mandibles clicked unconsciously; her gullet was already secreting digestive enzymes that she probably had to neutralise with a lump of substrate after the audience. After all, it was considered indecent, a gross violation of the ambassador's diplomatic immunity, to eat him. This was probably even explicitly stated somewhere in a subsection of the regulations.
So she kept herself and her appetites in check, leaning back into her meeting recess, seemingly wholly relaxed, and crossing her upper pairs of legs, visibly awaiting an answer.
And it came, not from a mouth, but from the entire surface of the ambassador's body, from the hundreds of Plachtharr that formed a layer on it that was impenetrable, at least to glances, clothing and armour at the same time.
"System we call Juratar, known in the Protectorate as Jashkvachanor, l
At last, an honest statement, as one expected from a Plachtharr. The Speaker straightened up from the hollow and braced her top pair of legs on the table that separated her from the ambassador. Pulling the segments of her body apart, the Creesh thus grew to a length of more than three metres - larger than a Borsht and certainly larger than the unidentifiable biped stuck under the living shell of the emissary.
"We want all of that as well, Ambassador. Apart from the Null Zone's strategic value, it is also the possible artefacts on Jashkvachanor-2 that we covet. Your governments have fought three wars against ours in the last two hundred years, and each time the mass killing ended in a draw. That's why the Aringosh Agreement exists."
A short twitch went through the flat, armoured leeches on the body in front of her, a communication, a consultation between the actual messenger and the swarm intelligence surrounding him.
"Yes. The agreement makes the Null Zone a restricted area. We are not allowed to enter. Neither is the Protectorate. But now we want the Juratar system for ourselves. We always wanted it."
The Speaker withdrew, relaxed a little. Leisurely, she let her stream segments shimmer green briefly, changed her body language from reproachful to lurking.
"Then why did your predecessor sign the agreement?"
The ambassador replied with a gesture that would have passed for a shrug in a Borsht, a Tarjah or even a human.
"Because it was reasonable. Protectorate had a strong fleet. Many ships on the way to Null Zone. We would have lost. Today your fleet there is weak. Ours is strong. We cannot lose."
He was right. As condemnable as the Alliance's actions were, there was no questioning the logic itself. Within several light-days of the Jashkvachanor system, there was no single wormhole, not a shortcut through space-time - an area of treacherous silence in the ocean of space.
The Null Zone.
The Protectorate's small observation fleet, which operated from one entry point far outside the system, regularly circled the gravitonic void there and did so in a three-year rotation. One Borsht destroyer, two auxiliary cruisers, a few dozen fighters and bombers. None of the ships was even remotely modern or in top shape; service to the void had been far too uneventful for that in recent decades. The cost of an entire battle group had been unjustifiable. The Chief Strategist had made it unmistakably and unsparingly clear to her before this audience - the Observation Fleet was a handful of deserving Borsht on the verge of retirement, in ships that were also already facing scrapping.
Old material, old warriors.
Experienced veterans. The oldest among them have successfully defended the Null Zone against the Plachtharr twice. Do not underestimate them.
Her inner voice may have practised expedient optimism, but she could not change the facts. Just as the swarm allies had never been able to occupy Jashkvachanor-2, the Protectorate had not either. Not two hundred years ago, not fifty, and certainly not thirty. The victorious battles had always been fought around neighbouring systems; the Null Zone continued to be largely unknown territory, apart from the few reconnaissance missions between wars. And against a thirty-fold superiority of modern combat spacecraft, even the most experienced Borsht captains could do nothing. Worse still, the home base had no way of warning them in time.
But maybe a good old bluff would help. No, even better, a solid threat combined with psychological warfare.
Seemingly lost in thought, she let the top right leg slide to the bowl on her left, pushed the lid aside and fished one of the wriggling Shrava larvae out of the ice-cold brackish water.
A tremor went through the Plachtharr on the emissary's body as she stuck the snack between her mandibles, gently applying more and more pressure until the larva burst with a panicked squeal and the sweet, delicious slime flowed into her digestive tract.
"Ambassador, I remind you that your Alliance has less than two-thirds of the Protectorate's production capacity. We may not have positioned our capital ships at the Null Zone - but we will, within a few months, field a force that can devastate your fleet. What will you do then?"
Another twitch from the symbionts - and yes, they were undoubtedly such, not parasites. The Plachtharr were far too choosy when it came to the species they offered their children to. They didn't really affect the Emissary's mind either but provided him with additional information, enhanced his brain with more computing capacity, secreted drugs into his bloodstream that made him faster, more innovative and more enduring, like all Blessed Ones.
And apparently also more pragmatic.
"Then, we sign a new agreement."
The Speaker stared after the ambassador as if she had stepped away, her iridescent faceted eyes still fixed for a long time on the entrance area of her audience chamber, which towered over the splinter city at the height of almost a kilometre —the third ring. With a magnificent view over the city, the Outer sector was one area where history was written.
What might this have been today? The prelude to another Plachtharr campaign, a new pointless trial of strength that would consume so many resources?
"You might as well negotiate with a wall. Maybe I should have just torn him in two after all."
Matosh's voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and she could only too well understand what was going through her assistant's mind. No doubt, it had its advantages to employ a two-and-a-half-metre-tall and almost three-hundred-kilo Borsht veteran as a receptionist, right-hand man and bodyguard all in one. Even after years of civilian service, he still carried his assault rifle on his back. An argumentation booster that had decided many a situation in their favour - but did not impress the Plachtharr-Alliance in the slightest.
"Unfortunately, he still enjoys diplomatic immunity. This wasn't an official declaration of war yet, and even if we had one - ambassadors don't get torn apart. Or eaten. Unfortunately."
Matosh nodded sorrowfully.
"I understand, Speaker. Shall I convene the Council? Preferably for tomorrow?"
Aarashkvachora paused. Why not earlier? Suspicion crept into her mind.
"Let me guess - I have some important appointments today that slipped my mind?"
The Borsht smiled in understanding.
"You've got me for that, haven't you? A meeting with the Mining Consortium in the afternoon, dinner with the Crown Princess of Durash in the evening, and the lift has started moving from the base with none other than Betshrachthora, the Metaltaster on board. Whom you have summoned for the day."
Was there a hint of reproach in his voice after all? No, she just imagined it, a product of her own guilty conscience because of an extraordinary appointment that she was not allowed to forget.
"Send her in to see me as soon as she gets up here, and yes, please, summon the council for tomorrow morning."
The Borsht nodded servilely, without appearing obsequious, and left the now very thoughtful Speaker. With drooping antennae, she crawled to the glazed outer wall, straightened up and let her gaze slide over the splinter city. Why on earth had she gone into politics? Admittedly, the Protectorate had become accustomed to a Creesh occupying the Speaker's post over the past centuries - but did it have to be her, of all people? She would much rather have been sitting at the helm of a research vessel - or in one of the administration building's audience domes deep below her. There, decisions were made that did not affect the fate of worlds but rather steered individual citizens' lives in hopefully better directions. That was true magic!
*
Frank was sweating blood and water, nervously sliding back and forth on the too-big metal chair he had been assigned.
For sixteen years, he had been looking forward to this moment, this one all-important chance that only came once in a lifetime for someone like him.
If at all.
Like its artificial atmosphere and the all-unifying language Talash, the administration building had been constructed on the principle of equalising compromise. Too bright for his eyes, too warm for his skin, far too hot for Borsht, too gloomy cold for Creesh. A stupid philosophy, borne of the premise that true compromise made no one happy.
