Free The Fifth Civilization: A Novel by Peter Bingham-Pankratz Page B

jet white hair under
his captain’s beret, but his youth and his lofty position hid the fact he was
as clueless as a newly-hatched marocha .
    “Where is Talmar, Commander?” Sisal barked. Not even a greeting
for his superior—such rotten manners in the military these days!
    “He was killed,” Grinek said. He pushed past the surprised
Sisal, whose tail slithered in the air.
    “Did you succeed in your mission, Commander?” At this,
Grinek turned and snarled at Sisal. For some reason, this young officer was
considered a promising upstart by the naval services. Evidently, his skill in
handling a ship’s operations did not extend to knowing what to say to his
betters.
    “You need to assemble a new team immediately. Have them
prepared to disembark when I give the order.”
    “Commander, I don’t understand.”   Ignoring Sisal, Grinek hurried out from
the pod berth and wound his way through a few corridors, startling adjutants
and foot soldiers that straightened their backs as he passed. He couldn’t care
less if they saluted. As long as they moved out of his way, they were doing
their jobs. After a minute or so, Grinek found the bridge, popping open a hatch
with a lever that badly needed an oiling.
    The three bodies on the bridge turned to the door, then,
noticing who it was, threw up their palms in a salute that Grinek
half-heartedly returned. The bridge was trapezoidal and dim, with three
consoles ringing a padded chair that hung from the ceiling in the center.
Grinek went to the nearest console, where a still-saluting communications
officer sucked in air as the Commander approached. Her palm salute had shrunken
to a fist by the time Grinek towered over her.
    “You there. I need your console.”
    “Of course, sir,” and the officer moved to leave, but Grinek
clasped her shoulder and sat her back down in the chair.
    “No, I need you to
help me.”   Grinek searched his mind
for the female’s name but came up with nothing. Not as though it mattered. It
was remarkable that a member of her sex was serving aboard a Kotaran vessel,
but as long as a female did not serve in a combat role, her presence was
tolerated in the navy.
    He stared at the officer’s screen, which featured a
representation of Earth and dotted lines marching like ants across it. It was a
graphic of all the planet’s transmissions, currently being monitored by the
operations ship.
    “Do a voiceprint search on the terms ‘Aaron Vertulfo’ within
all police channels. Now.” The officer hesitated, unfamiliar with the spelling
of Earth names, and Grinek loudly spelled it phonetically for her. This crew
had better learn the local alphabets if they hoped to get by. Once the
technician got it right, the computer paused as it scanned the millions of
transmissions emanating from the country of Japan. The ship had been outfitted
with an array, courtesy of Kotaran Intelligence, that could capture and record
most com traffic off the surface. Earth was foolish to still use satellites and
relay stations for calls and eavesdropping on these was simple. Kotara switched
to global landlines a century earlier to counter precisely that problem.
    After a minute or so, a list scrolled down the side of the
screen, highlighting a half-dozen police communiqués on which the ship had
eavesdropped. They’d been instantaneously translated from English and Japanese
into Kotaran.
    “Go through them.”   The officer complied, selecting all to be played. A number of short
messages began, in chronological order, pertaining to the incident at the Earth
mall. One described the “persons of interest” in the investigation, which
included himself. He briefly thought of Talmar’s remains back in the mall, and
wondered how his death would be explained to his family.
    The Earth messages yielded nothing new. They confirmed the
identity of the dead body as a one Aaron Vertulfo, the Nyden of interest as
using the alias “David,” and the human fugitive as a