Page 2 of Galactic Sentinels, Vol. 1 (Chronicles of Pherebos #1)
I take my feet off the table and grab the bottle of baijiu, a spirit that must've been smuggled into Farid's hands. I get the cork off and pour him a big glass.
“Cheers, my friend! Long live the Su... Sup… Supre... Supreme Coalition!” I stammer while skillfully pouring myself a tiny amount of the precious coppery liquid, making sure my companion can't see exactly how much I'm serving myself.
For nearly two hours now, I've been toasting with Farid, a portly human, to the health of the consortium of renegades, smugglers, and other merry band of individuals that make up the Supreme Coalition. This Coalition's goals are the exact opposite of those of the Intergalactic Confederation.
I raise my glass and give Farid a deliberately blurry look before downing its contents in one decisive gulp. Following my lead, he empties his glass with conviction and lets out a deep sigh of satisfaction.
Unlike mine, I think his state of drunkenness isn't feigned. While we started with low-alcohol fermented drinks, we switched to baijiu about half an hour ago, and my companion's relaxation becomes more evident with each additional toast.
In the eyes of Farid and the Coalition, I'm just a lone smuggler scraping by with occasional deals with them. And that's perfectly fine with me.
Having arrived two days ago on CS-8, the Coalition's eighth space base, I'm fully immersed in my current mission, taking all the time I need for the task at hand.
I don't want to risk jeopardizing the operation, and above all, I want to make sure I don't blow my cover.
That's why I've been lounging in Farid's ship's lounge for nearly two hours.
“I've gotta pee!” he says, his voice waning.
Finally! I thought we'd never make it and that the man's bladder was bottomless!
“You're right!” I say, looking at him like he just hit the jackpot, as if that's the first idea that popped into my head.
I watch him stagger towards the cabin's rear hatch, where the living area of his spationef is located.
As soon as he's gone, I jump to my feet and start a quick countdown in my head. I have less than two minutes to get this done.
I hurried to the command console, a few meters from the living room where we'd spent the evening. I've studied the plans and know where to look.
I find the unlocking surface to access the backup disks. I run my index finger, coated with an undetectable acrylic since my arrival and a carbon copy of Farid's index fingerprint, recovered two days earlier, over the sensor.
The compartment opens up without making a sound, and inside I find a set of discs small enough to fit in the palm of your hand.
I identify the one I want as black, the official color of the Coalition.
I grab the copy I've prepared for the occasion, do the exchange, and quickly close the compartment.
I skillfully hide the precious object where I kept its copy and slump back into the chair, just in time for Farid to find me half-asleep where he left me a few minutes earlier.
“Hey man, you dead?” he slurs.
“What? Oh... I think I'm done for!” I announce in a regretful tone. “I'm gonna head out...”
“OK. I'm going to bed too!” he says, escorting me to the access ramp leading to the spaceport.
We stagger to the exit, leaning on each other. At the bottom of the ramp, I turn to him, hesitating.
“Where'sh my bunk again?”
“Isn't it that one?” he slurs, pointing with his finger to the spaceship parked two spots to the right of his.
“You're right!” I confirm, looking surprised. “Farid, you're a bro! Thanks, buddy!”
“Shee you tomorrow?” he asks.
“Nah, I'm outta here ash soon ash I'm able.”
To be honest, I could leave CS-8 right now, but I have to keep up the act.
So I'm going to do as if I'd really gone on a bender with a fellow smuggler, go and join SIL, my personal spationef, spend the night there, and leave without haste, after a good night's rest. If Farid decides to check his secret compartment, which I doubt since I've left it a mess, he won't find anything strange because I've put everything back the way I found it.
At the foot of SIL, my flying home for the past two years, I activate the lowering of the access ramp using the control box built into my left wristband. I climb the ramp, but not too quickly, since I don't want to disappear completely from the outside world.
As soon as the airlock closes, my demeanor changes. Following standard procedure, I address the onboard AI, Artificial Intelligence:
“SIL, it's me! Any information to report?”
As expected, the AI responds in its standardized mechanical voice:
“Welcome aboard the SIL, how can I assist you?”
“Were there any visitors during my absence?”
“Welcome aboard the SIL. Would you like to initiate a departure maneuver?”
In reality, my AI has two levels of access: a generation 5 interface, outdated but the most commonly used in the Coalition.
However, the generation 8 interface, the latest with the newest features, is accessible to only a handful of individuals, even within the Intergalactic Confederation.
It can be activated with a single command:
“SILMAR, it's me, Pherebos, ID 215.”
The proper phrase combined with my voice print immediately validates this much more sophisticated version, unlike the decoy activated whenever I leave the ship.
My spaceship is a former smuggler's vehicle, confiscated many years ago by the Intergalactic Confederation and fully repurposed for infiltration missions.
It may look a bit outdated compared to the latest generation of ships, but it is secretly equipped with numerous upgrades that are accessible only when I request them.
This is why the procedure requires me to start by questioning the AI in a standard manner, in case I am being coerced or accompanied, before activating the special super-SILMAR code.
Once this process is completed, the familiar tone of my dear Silmarwen resonates in the cabin. I have configured my AI to use the beloved voice of my adoptive sister. I haven't seen her in over two years, and I miss her immensely.
“Welcome, Pherebos. How was your evening?”
“Long, but fruitful. Any news?”
“You've had three visitors, who made it all the way into the ship and gave it the once-over. Well, only the parts they were supposed to see, of course.”
“What species were they? Did they share any interesting info?”
“There were two Humans and a Vendor. They questioned me about your previous whereabouts and the location of Asgarne.
I told them we came from CS-2, without mentioning our stops, of course.
I also assured them that my internal memory had been reset when you took possession of the ship.
I recorded their conversations if you want to listen, but there's nothing particularly interesting that might concern you.”
“Okay, go to level 2 alert. I'm going to take a shower. That won't be a luxury.”
As I suspected, SIL, my ship (yes, I renamed it SIL after my dear Silmarwen, much more pleasant than its former name "ROVER" given by its previous owner) was visited during my absence. I'm not particularly worried about it; this always happens when I stay at one of the Coalition bases.
From the outside, SIL is a small, somewhat old two-seater spaceship, simple and unremarkable, without any distinctive markings of the Confederation.
As for the interior, there's nothing particularly remarkable either.
It offers minimal comfort, with an ovoid room featuring a cockpit for two people.
At the other end, there's a door leading to the sanitary area.
In between, there's a space of about twelve square meters, serving for meals and any other activities compatible with the limited space available.
This includes, on either side, a pull-out sleeping drawer.
I also have some equipment typical of what you'd expect to find with a lone smuggler: nondescript clothes and a few illicit goods hidden in a not-so-discreet compartment.
No, nothing on board the SIL can betray my role for the Confederation: that of a snooping spy.
I move to the back of my aircraft, to the area solely dedicated to hygiene: a restroom, a small shower, and a tiny sink for washing hands and brushing teeth .
I remove my garment, heavily soaked with baijiu, while praising the ultra-absorbent quality of the fabric lining the large pockets of my long black coat.
This isn't the first time I've tested it this way.
It allows me to discreetly get rid of excess alcohol without anyone ever questioning the strong smell I emit after a heavy drinking session.
The downside is that it needs to go through the cleaner afterward.
I salvaged my cleaner from the carcass of an old ship sent for recycling.
So, it's an outdated model that, if it draws attention, will make people think I acquired it through unofficial means.
All I care about is that it gets the job done.
I toss my alcohol-soaked clothes into the machine located under the sink and start a cycle.
In ten minutes, they'll be clean and dry.
Naked, I slip into the narrow shower cabin and let the water wash away the boozy fumes from the evening.
I carefully wash my long white hair, the only remnant of my life on Asgarne, my home planet.
Then, I meticulously clean every inch of my skin to rid it of the nauseating smell.
When the water jet stops exactly two minutes later, a blast of warm air dries me in no time.
I put on a pair of light, dark canvas pants and head back to the main cabin.
“SILMAR, I'm going to sleep. Wake me up if you hear anything weird.”
“I'm keeping an eye on your sleep, Pherebos. I'm working on our itinerary for tomorrow.”
I place my hand on the starboard panel and reveal the integrated bunk, just over seven feet long and three feet wide .