Ancient as the Stars: Broken Union

Copyright © 2024 by Maya Darjani

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The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Except you, Tristan. You know who you are.

Book Cover by Maya Darjani. Stock art obtained at DepositPhotos.

To Adam. I get all my best jokes from you.

Author's Note

A warning to the reader: This book contains subject material that may be disturbing or upsetting, including emotional and physical abuse, self-harm, and terrorist violence. Also, gratuitous profanity. (Sorry, mom.)

Time heals all wounds. —some asshole, probably

1

Ren's Horrible, Not-So-Good Day

Ren Yilmaz, the 24th century, on Earth Sailship Hawking

Ren was in danger.

Not really. Not really, Ren, calm the fuck down. But she stood at attention in Commander Deneld Riley’s office, and her endocrine system thought she was in danger and fuck the Ancients, Ren, you’re supposed be this tough bitch and gods help you if you break down crying in Deneld Fucking Riley’s office.

Deneld’s office stood well-appointed, but small, situated next to the captain’s on the bridge. Family heirlooms and mementos filled his shelves. The Rileys of New York were a large, elite clan.

Everything proved tasteful in his office; tasteful old-style hardback books, tasteful plant, tasteful depiction of the Union’s home planet and colonies. Deneld matched the aesthetic, with a patrician nose and coiffed blond hair.

In Deneld’s presence, it was important to be sophisticated. Refined.

Deneld looked up from the report he was studying, taking his sweet-ass time.

You assaulted a superior officer, he declared.

Assault. If she weren’t at attention she would’ve snorted, the derision momentarily displacing her paralyzing fear. Lieutenant Commander Lanson, that göt lalesi, wouldn’t know assault if it hit him in the head. With a sandwich. Which is what she had chucked at him.

But there was none of that, of course, because she stood stiff at attention and wasn’t allowed to talk, or, in fact, move a muscle.

Oh, screw it.

Look, Commander—

No, Yilmaz.

She clenched her lips.

Deneld didn’t outwardly respond to her obvious breach of protocol, but the winds shifted. Ren beheld it with the practiced air of someone alert to supernova explosions from angry men.

Deneld, of course, was the source of her flashing Danger, Ren Yilmaz! senses. Years of conditioning. Ren’s penultimate superior officer also happened to be her ex-husband. Irony, thy name was the hollow promise of love.

As it was, in her imagination she was this breezy, sassy snarkbucket, but in reality, here she was, trying to not betray her shallow breathing. Her hammering heart. Her bladder, suddenly full.

Because Deneld could hurt her. Not physically—well, he could but he wouldn’t—but it took just one remark, to ouch. Tear her apart.

Deneld read off his codex, detailing all the dire misfortunes that were about to befall her, and yes, this was her life. The classic star that flamed out too early, who gave up on her career, who used words and scowls as armor, standing humbled in front of a man she used to love who could hurt her, maybe, but wouldn’t. Maybe.

And because she stood expressionless, she projected the rude wench attitude she had carefully cultivated, and Deneld Riley was none-the-wiser she was falling apart inside.

So on she continued, at attention, made of stone.

Gods, she was dramatic. Deneld’s office was like some hermetically sealed mood-altering chamber where she went in and questioned all her life choices, but after leaving—and after she controlled her shakes—it was like she could just, ugh, kick herself right in the face and rev back up because baby, if she didn’t act fabulous then who else would…

Ah. Who was she kidding.

Not too skittish then. And not too fabulous. Just Ren. Plain old Ren.

And here she now stood, in a large barrel, literally up to her shins covered in fertilizer.

This assignment really stunk.

One of Deneld’s inspired disciplinary measures, of course. Assigned to the cramped agricultural shoot-off alcove of the cargo bay, doing grunt work. Not that she was too good for this type of work. Everyone on a sailship had to pull weight beyond their official assignment. But still. Why couldn’t it be kitchen duty? Or swabbing the deck?

Stirring the shit. That’s what she was doing. The fertilizer mixer was on the fritz, so she was trying her hand at repair. First step, unfortunately: figuring out if something had gotten stuck.

She reached into the machine and felt around, but her thick gloves made it impossible to detect anything. She’d practically kitted up like she was going EVA. Heavy coveralls, wellies up to her knees, the gloves. If only she had an oxygen mask. It was a curse, working for an XO who knew her squeamishness so well. Fertilizer was no big deal to most people, but it was smelly and clumpy and a wee bit goopy—

Nothing for it. Gloves off. She winced as her hands slid through the grainy nodules and into the machine cavity. Definitely clogged.

Out in the spacious main bay, clanks and curses as technicians prepared for Hawking’s jump test, bolting everything down before spin gravity slowed and came to an eventual stop. If it were a real jump, the weightlessness would be momentary until thrust grav took over, but in this case, they were merely testing the drive.

She wriggled bare fingers through a narrow hole and there! They found purchase. Small, cylindrical. Glass? She pulled it out and examined. Shatterproof, likely, but not unbreakable. A miracle it hadn’t cracked in there.

Hey Yilmaz!

She startled, bobbling her new discovery. She recovered and sighed in exasperation.

"What … um, sir?" she added, eventually placing him, and his lieutenant rank.

We’re starting the spin-down for the engine gear. He looked her up and down, nose wrinkled. Ahead of schedule.

Great! she said brightly. I’m done—aaand you’re already gone.

Well, it was fun being visible, for even the moment.

The ship wasn’t in the optimal location for an FTL jump. The far side of the Kuiper Belt was outside the solar system’s heliopause, but barely. But this test was a spin-down, then activating the drive without going anywhere, in order to study the effects in surrounding space.

She returned to contemplating the tiny ampule. A hint of a memory, struggling to the forefront. Wasn’t it a few months ago?

Lanson insisting he had a source leave something important in the cargo bay. In the composite. They’d searched the building materiel in the bay, and nothing. The source was deemed a hack. Lanson embarrassed.

Composite … compost … fertilizer? It was a stretch. But the item was supposed to be a scientific discovery. Smuggled out of Tau Ceti. ‘Destined to change the nature of propulsion,’ the source had claimed. Could this be it?

A thrum as the bay shuddered. The slow-down. She hastily covered up the fertilizer drum and engaged its maglocks. Time to peel her coveralls off and get the hells out of there. But what to do with the vial?

Easy. There was a box of evidence kits readily available in the bay, kits that would furthermore cushion and protect the vial from inadvertent breakage. But—

Lanson, redeemed. And no credit given to her, obviously, for actually finding the damn thing.

Changing the nature of propulsion. You know who needed that more than the Union? Her home planet Coralis, a Union colony planning to make a bid for independence. And if Coralis seceded, it wouldn’t get the Union’s proprietary FTL drive mix—not without an exorbitant cost.

She could discredit Lanson and help her homeland at the same time.

Did she have the guts?

Did she?

No. She didn’t.

Instead, she exited into the main cargo bay, grabbed an evidence kit, and filled out a short description. Now that she’d pulled the kit, it was immediately tagged and logged as pending. No turning back now. The vial belonged to the Union, not Coralis.

The blare of an alarm cut through the background chatter. Another shudder, this time not from the module slowing.

A master chief jumped on top a pile of crates. Find a place to strap in. Got a proximity alert. Now! he bellowed. Move, people!

She shoved the bottle into the padded kit and scrunched it into her pocket. She held her ears as the ship’s faster-than-light Albertson-Bradley Drive started up.

That shouldn’t have happened yet. The spin down wasn’t complete. But she could swear the drive turned on, and that the ship was beginning to move.

The ship was not supposed to be moving.

What in Neptune’s nutsack?

She’d know the whine of that engine anywhere, but it sounded wrong, more pitched.

She felt that subtle squeeze everyone experienced when the ship went into drive mode, but then it intensified. The pressure encased her, a bully holding her down. Like she was being simultaneously pressed into nothingness and also exploded into existence.

Then it stopped. Like nothing had happened.

Eons seemed to pass. Around her, chatter began anew. Grunts of exertion. The squeal of containers pushed back in place. The backup generator must’ve cut on. Warning lights flashed yellow and red but seemed washed out. She blinked, but her view remained blurry and watery. And she could swear, in the haze, she saw … the future.

Time stood still. Maybe literally, maybe not. Maybe in her imagination, or maybe not, she experienced an unidentifiable something. A feeling. A hand, just out of reach. It spoke of family. It spoke love.

Magic wasn’t real. Magic didn’t exist. Right? But this felt like magic. Like a hovering mystical presence that would blanket her with comfort if only she could possess it.

A siren’s call, pulling her toward something greater.

Something better. Somethi—

She must have fallen then, because when she came fully to her senses, she was sprawled on the ground. The master chief stood over her, clucking.

You didn’t strap in.

She sat up laboriously, groaning as her stomach twinged. "I didn’t have time. What—she coughed—what in the stomach-dropping, nipple-twisting shit is going on?"

He looked up and over, speaking as if from a million lightyears away. Not getting much from the bigheads up on the bridge, but my department head said something about another one of those anomalies. That’s all I got.

Her forehead seized in pain. Urk. She reached into her pocket for her little discovery, hopefully snug and secure in the evidence kit. It would be up to the lab techs now to extract it and inspect it, ensuring it hadn’t broken.

She took a few minutes before attempting to move further. A great perk of being a nobody: the ship folding into an existential triangle was someone else’s problem.

Thank the gods the fertilizer hadn’t spilled. Ren stripped off the coveralls she had been wearing over her uniform and chucked them in the incinerator, gagging at the smell.

By the time Ren rolled her bedraggled freckled ass onto the watch floor thirty minutes later, she had already detoured twice due to hull breaches. Her auburn hair hung loose and tangled and she tucked a strand behind her ear, trying for calm.

Ren wearily sank into her station—she, a lowly Intel tech, the department’s admin bitch. She tried to log on to see what the heck had happened. The chief had said something about another anomaly. Those had been happening all over this sector. Tearing up bits of space. Part of the reason for their engine test today, in fact—

Yilmaz. You look like shit.

Lanson. That pelvic hobgoblin. Short as one, too. Weaselly.

Breathe, Ren, breathe. Don’t kill your supervisor. Not yet, anyway.

Found something for you, Lanson.

Wordlessly, she held out the evidence bag. Lanson reared back, and Ren sighed.

"I know, I know. But trust me, you want to take it. It’s the dead drop you’ve been looking for for months."

He gaped, looking back and forth between the bag—still held out suspended on her fingers—and her face. She could practically see the calculations going on behind his eyes. Why is she helping me? Will she ask for something in return?

She probably should, at that. Lanson reached out with bony fingers, and she quickly snatched the bag back. His eyes returned to hers, wary.

Access, she explained simply. "Get my classified credentials back, and I won’t mention how you confused composite for compost."

Fine, he growled. Now give it here.

Not now. Access first.

He stepped closer, and there it was. The first inkling of miscalculation. Like the first hateful stirrings of a urinary tract infection. Raw. Throbbing.

I know what you did, he said. That day at the comms array.

Her stomach dropped, but she forced herself to smirk. You don’t know shit.

Fine. I can bring my suspicions to Riley then. He waggled his eyebrows. Knowing he had something, whatever it was, on her.

Dammit.

Wordlessly, Ren handed him the vial. Don’t forget to fill out the paperwork. You’re technically now first in the chain of custody. Lanson waved noncommittally and left her then, whistling tunelessly.

She should be angry. Livid. Defeated. But instead, Ren’s mind returned to the vision. That feeling, right before she passed out in the cargo bay. Who knew what it was. But it had left her jittery. Giddy yet wary.

Despite her exhaustion and general desire to not do anything else for the rest of this godsdamned day, she looked wistfully at the activity around her. All the other ensigns and flight officers and lieutenant junior grades bustling near her, ignoring her, doing their own very important work.

And she wished.

She missed having a place in the universe.

Close her eyes, pray upon a star. Wish she may, wish she might. Family. Home. A place. Whatever she felt next to a tub of fertilizer, in the bowels of a sailship. One day.

She was going to be somebody, one day.

62 Years Later

2

The One Where Things Go Pear-Shaped

Captain Karenna Lakhani, the 25th century, on Earth Sailship Khayyam

Hitting one’s captain in the face with a cheese danish likely wasn’t insubordination, but Karenna’s bridge crew was lucky, nevertheless, that the long arc of pastry sailed over her head and landed neatly in the hands of the tall, salt-and-pepper-haired officer standing behind her.

Karenna turned to her XO, eyebrows raised, the quirk in her lip hopefully the only sign of her internal squeals of laughter.

Shucks, she whispered to the man, who was looking at the confection with distaste, they’re doing it to me again.

Commander Brett Shakeem, her executive officer, the aforementioned Shucks, didn’t smile. Brett growled. Karenna put a hand over her mouth, but her eyes crinkled. Brett knew, of course. Brett always knew.

Karenna had one rule: she never dropped the mask on the bridge. Nevermind her engineer’s snort-inducing down-home expressions, nor her comms officer’s snark.

Or how much her Flight Leader’s antics made her smile.

She and Brett stood aft, just outside her office, staring at the scene in front of them. The Flight Leader, Lieutenant Tim Lakhani, was stationed astarboard at navigation, tossing assorted confections to every member of the bridge crew, his jet black curls bouncing with the effort.

Of all the impossible-and-weird she had experienced in her life, marrying that guy six months ago had to be near the top.

Stationed astern, their comms officer went to catch a jelly donut. The spin of the habitation ring, which included the bridge, had slowed in anticipation of FTL drive engagement later that day. The ensuing half-gravity—and getting lighter by the hour—made Tim’s aim far but not true, and not an insignificant amount ended up on the comms officer’s jumpsuit. Thankfully not on any consoles or sensitive equipment, or then they’d really have a problem.

Why was she letting him do this again?

Brett surreptitiously grabbed a cloth napkin and pocketed the danish. We’re okay with this? he whispered.

It’s Alby Day, she whispered back, despite her agreement. Relax. Brett grunted and crossed his arms.

Are we quite done, Mr. Lakhani? she called coolly to Tim, fooling absolutely no one. I’d like our bridge equipment to not suffer death-by-creme-filling, today of all days.

Tim winked, returning to his station, and her heart danced a little jig.

Where’d he get those damned things? Brett asked, voice still pitched low toward her.

Morale office.

Remind me to have words with them.

Relax, she mouthed at him again, suppressing a twisted grin. Because today was Alby Day—named by her ridiculous crew in honor of the day they get to engage the Albertson-Bradley Drive toward home—and all was well.

Brett strode toward their pilot for a pep talk, looming over the station in a way that would look threatening if he were anyone else. Loyal, evertrue Brett. He had been by her side for years, from even before she took command of Khayyam.

Brett ended his confab with a high five, then the pilot grabbed the tart out of her lap and resumed munching. Karenna winced. Crumbs everywhere.

XO, she called to Brett, trying to inject some order back on her bridge. How’s the secure-down in preparation for float?

Critical systems done.

Okay. How was everything else going?

Amidship, technicians checked wires and bolted down panels. Near her, the aft engineering station displayed a countdown of time until departure.

A chill went through her, good cheer evaporating like mist.

Something was wrong. Heart-hammering wrong.

She breathed in deeply, grounding herself. Focused on the vibrations of the deck. Usually she could catalog every heartbeat of her ship, detect the minute change in harmonics with the loving precision of a mother.

Dammit. It wasn’t working.

The vibrations growled louder, leaving her ears ringing.

Ramrod straight, a mannequin frozen in trepidation. Not a good look. She closed her eyes, clenched her fists by her sides, and took more calm, slow breaths.

Maybe it was just stress. Today, of all days, before an eighteen-month hop toward Earth, was nerve-inducing. As long as things didn’t go pear-shaped, she was in business.

In the background of her perception, someone approached. An item fell into Karenna’s hand, and she jerked back.

Woah, girl, her comms officer said. Just giving you a treat.

Oh! Karenna wiped away her thoughts like a vanishing spell and took a tentative bite. Mmm. What flavor is this?

The younger woman shrugged. Maybe pear?

And the clock counted down and down.

Karenna found refuge back into her office and called Brett to join her. The space served as her oasis, an antidote to the frenzy and irreverence of her bridge. On this small ship, few places existed where she could breathe. Windows abutted the door portal, but her office otherwise benefited from privacy. The obligatory plant stood sentinel in the corner; almost every cabin in the ship featured one for ambiance and mood.

She made her way to the desk. What’s up with our pilot? she asked Brett.

Brett stood behind the guest chair, one he barely fit into when sitting. She’s nervous. Remember, she’s never taken the ship into AB Drive before.

Tim’s not helping, he added. Keeps going over there and making adjustments. He needs to learn to let go.

Tim was touchy about no longer being at helm. He’d been promoted to Flight Leader—a supervisory position—only a few months before. I’ll talk to him, she said. Explain backing off is the generous thing to do. Maybe the spirit of Alby Day would make his heart grow a few sizes bigger.

She leaned back in her chair and stretched. Throw her feet up on the desk? No, though Brett wouldn’t have minded. She rested her chair back down, staring in dismay at the pre-launch to-do pile, which had grown.

I need coffee.

He stood. I’ll get you some.

Aw, Shucks, don’t do that for me. He narrowed his eyes at the nickname but didn’t comment. I’ve got some instant pods in my drawer.

Rocket fuel.

It’s what I need. It’s gonna be a long day.

Brett was watching her, as he was wont to do. Worrywart. She waved him off. You’ve got stuff to do. I’ll see you on the bridge right before launch.

The big man hunched as he stepped out of her office. See you then, he said, turning back toward her, blocking the hatch open. "I’ll save you some good coffee, ma’am." Through the open portal, the bridge busied. She nodded curtly at Brett and sat up straighter while she was still in view, then slumped as the hatch closed.

She shook her head free of torpor and began the tedious job of organizing before they activated the drive.

Just a year before, she and Brett had stared at each other in consternation, in this very office, after Khayyam’s faster-than-light AB Drive failed on the way back from remote Omicron Ceriani, leaving them stranded in the black between systems, no Union sailship within two years, which might as well have made it butt-fucking Andromeda for how screwed they were.

And then she had cried.

Because she had one job. One—no two—jobs as captain. Keep your crew alive. Bring ‘em home.

It had damn near broken her crew, the fear of it. Hell, it had damn near broken her, like she somehow had failed them. Yes, eventually, they would have been rescued. Yet the helplessness grated. It punished.

She forced herself to unclench her jaw. Relax, she reminded herself, just as she had Brett. Everyone was okay. All was well. She was going to get them home. She was.

(But what if she didn’t.)

(No, no, stop catastrophizing.)

This was why, long ago, she had sworn she never wanted to be a captain. Why did everyone always want to be on top? Being in charge meant holding the fate of many hundred souls.

She had broken, but this crew, her crew, had put her back together again. Over the months, they had put their ship back together too, without outside help.

After initial patching, instead of heading immediately back to Earth, they had stopped here, Baumgarten’s Star, for further repairs. The ultimate dusty podunk of a galactic truck stop—though the government of Baumgarten would bristle at that description. Look under the hood, replace a few parts, try to diagnose what had gone wrong. But now they were finally leaving Baumgarten, back on their way.

A glance up at the clock. An hour to go. Karenna stored her flimsipaper securely in her desk, and cleared the detritus.

Last minute office-prep done. Gravity hanging near zero. Her trusty holocam stored away, after a loving stare. Karenna would’ve liked to use it, but she’d have to capture this moment in her memory instead. And thus she observed her crew with a practiced eye, imagining every blink as a moment captured in time.

Blink. She always oriented toward Tim first when she entered a room, as if her soul were a compass straining toward magnetic north. And there he was, coaching the pilot on her first drive, hand on her shoulder.

Blink. Her comms officer staring deep in thought at her holo-projection screen, chewing her hair in concentration. Such a far cry from the short-tempered sprite she had first met on board.

Blink. Brett’s rare look of approval at Tim’s coaching. Tim’s pleasant surprise.

She loved them all so.

Long-haul crews coalesced, by the nature of the time they spent together. But that scare on the space lane back from Omicron bonded them even more. They would follow her to the edges of the galaxy, if asked.

She didn’t deserve them.

Karenna shuffled through her messages on her arm console. Personnel reports from Brett. A summons to chat from a Marine general. No time for that. Admiral Montague sent her a note too, still trying to sell her on the deputy director job—no, she couldn’t deal with that right now.

And then the engineering assessment. What the—

As if on cue, her engineer, Foster Grady, commed the bridge, his voice sounding tinny over the speaker.

Man, I went ass over teakettle exiting the drive ring today, Grady reported. Happy Alby Day to me. Just checking in. Engines are lagging and my deputy’s worried. It’s like the conditions for a drive bubble are there, but they’re acting weird.

Karenna skimmed the report and frowned. Serious enough to cancel the jump? Grady’s deputy engineer wasn’t usually a Cassandra, but she babied those engines more than Karenna had babied her firstborn—

Her heart skipped and then she blinked back to reality. Another false memory, dammit. She didn’t even have kids.

—think it’s within acceptable parameters, Grady was saying as she tuned back in, hammering heart thudding loud enough she had to focus to hear his words. But we might have to make a game time decision.

Great. Keep me informed, she sighed, and signed off.

What else? She stood and surveyed her realm.

The bridge echoed with the sounds of work, but a hidden silence loomed, one conspicuous to a captain in tune with her ship. No spin gravity, no power from the sails. The AB Drive stood ready, but that pre-jump hum wasn’t yet there. Soon.

Her hands twitched, missing the weight of the camera. She’d have to cope against nerves some other way, but maybe she should have planned, regardless, for some sort of recording for posterity. If nothing else, this was their personal history. Their family. Their journey home.

Of course, to her, home was Khayyam. Home was Tim. At least, until her next life.

And her next, and her next.

Hey, boss! called her husband. Think you can bless our pilot?

Tim. Godsdammit. As an Ancient, Karenna was a human somehow evolved to be immortal—which wasn’t actually the correct term, because she could die. She just couldn’t age. But immortality connotated mysticism and mystery, to the point her home planet of Coralis, jewel of Alpha Centauri, had synthesized an entire religion around the existence of Ancients. It didn’t hurt that sometimes Ancients suffered premonitions and false memories, like Karenna had been experiencing all day. And even though the officers of the Earth Union didn’t treat her like a cross between minor deity and saint, her blessing was still considered lucky.

She made a move to beg off, but Garcia, the pilot, awaited expectantly. So Karenna gathered serenity like a cloak and knelt down at conn, putting her hands on top of the pilot’s. If she truly had believed in this divine Ancient crap, she’d be wearing her special ring from Coralis. But instead she touched the appropriate spot on her finger and muttered a quick prayer.

With her pastoral duty reluctantly thus discharged, she rose.

Over the comm, Brett ordered the crew to stand ready as the captain made a ship-wide announcement. Karenna shook out her suddenly-clammy hands and waited for the formal naval whistle to sound before she began.

"ALCON, this is your commanding officer, Captain Lakhani. One year ago, I reached out to you as we prepared to leave open space toward Baumgarten. Our steps grew lighter as our habitation ring slowed its spin, readying for brief moments of weightlessness before our drive activated and thrust us back into gravity. But our hearts did not feel light.

We were scared. Demoralized. We had encountered trying circumstances and had spent half a year working to make it right. But you know what I told you then, that I had hoped this would be our odyssey, guiding us into stronger bonds, stronger hearts, stronger characters. That I hoped we would become a family.

The words caught in her throat. Something was wrong. A shift in the air. A ripple in space-time. Oh no.

It was her special thing. The knowing. It had happened that fateful day when their ship had broken down in the middle of nowhere. The whole morning, she had felt off. Then disaster had struck.

Karenna paused, as if for effect. Maybe no one would notice as she experienced one of her reality-altered moments. As if in double vision, in front of her, something came out of a cloud of dust, shimmering, fading in and out. In a moment of absurdity she imagined a flickering light bulb and had to swallow the panicked giggles.

Time to wrap the speech up, before she lost it entirely. And I can tell you, she continued with false vigor, I was right. We are kin. We emerged from our personal crucible and we were forged in the fire. We know now whatever we need to do, whatever we need to face, we can do it together. Happy Alby Day. May the gods guide and protect you all. As she finished, two stomps thundered as grav boots sounded in unison.

The bridge crew returned to their duties. Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it away, shaking out clammy hands. Only Brett or Tim would notice it behind her command mask. But Tim wasn’t looking her way and Brett, forever solid and true, knew the best thing to do was to help her punch through.

Grady, she called into the comm, everything working the way it should?

It’s working till it don’t work no more, came the drawl.

Killing it with the competence, there, Commander.

Should she cancel the jump? Yes, absolutely. At least delay, until