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A Star Filled Sea: The Ashteraiverse
A Star Filled Sea: The Ashteraiverse
A Star Filled Sea: The Ashteraiverse
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A Star Filled Sea: The Ashteraiverse

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Monsters are real and they hide in plain sight.

Living on Earth pretending to be human, linguist and translator Joshua Jordan is happy with a quiet life until his alien employer asks him to attend the top secret and much-anticipated ceremony where Earth will become a part of civilised alien society.

It should have been easy, a trip off world but when Josh gets involved nothing is ever is, particularly not when a body-jumping parasite  kills a member of the human ambassador’s staff. 

No one is safe, not even Josh.

Assisted by his reptilian boss and an empathic intern, there are just hours until the Tsura Medan docks on Mnemosyne and the creature vanishes into the local population. 

Separated from his soulmate and star systems out his comfort zone, Josh finds himself forced to walk a fine line between being human and his responsibilities as an Ashterai Elder. 

He’s going to learn the hard way that sometimes there are worse things than a murdering monster only he can see—like having to ask your friends for help.

The clock is ticking and the entire future of Earth hangs in the balance.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherAsha Bardon
Release dateMar 1, 2016
ISBN9781524208134
A Star Filled Sea: The Ashteraiverse
Author

Asha Bardon

In a former life, Lesley Smith was a freelance journalist, but now writes fiction full time as Asha Bardon.  Asha's hobbies include baking, archery and binge-watching box sets. She lives in a quaint Norfolk market town with an ever-growing number of cats and her guide dog, Unis.  Find Asha at: Twitter: @AshaBardon Facebook: /tenthmusepublishing Pinterest and Instagram: AshaBardon Blog: www.ashabardon.com The Ashteraiverse Facebook Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1607302972847560

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    A Star Filled Sea - Asha Bardon

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    The acrid smell of chargrilled pancakes is unmistakable and usually quickly followed by the earsplitting noise of the fire alarm going off. I swear that thing is pitched at just the right tone to make my brain leak out of my ears. I’m not a great fan of screaming babies, alarms, that sort of thing, but knowing it was coming just made it far worse.

    A half second and the wail began.

    For fu- I swallowed the oath. Tess had a swear jar and it was too full already. -Pete’s sake.

    Good job, Dad. Tess started golf clapping, her tone exactly like her mother’s. For a second, she could have been my wife’s childlike clone, especially as she was making fun of me. Then she covered her ears and, for once, I could empathise. Okay, enough now. Ow, loud!

    Thanks, munchkin, I muttered, pushing the skillet off the heat and searching, vainly, for a dishtowel.

    We always had them lying around, until the very moment they were needed and they fell into obscure pocket dimensions that not even I could find. I briefly wondered if Tess had inherited the ability. Nope. Her hands were still clamped over her ears, the noise causing her much more discomfort than it was me.

    Make it stop before you wake Mom!

    I’m trying.

    I wished I was still telekinetic. It’s an easy enough trick to do, to mentally poke the sensor, but without my abilities, rendered esper blind in modern parlance, I needed to be able to push a fiddly little button that even at six foot something I couldn’t reach.

    Shit.

    My daughter wailed: Hurry up! My ears are bleeding!

    Over-exaggerate much? Right, team effort time. Tess. If I boost you, can you hit that button?

    She squinted. It must have seemed impossibly high to her. Maybe. Can you lift me?

    Yes, I lied.

    She was heavier than the last time we’d had to do this. But then, this wasn’t surprising; Tess was nearly twelve and already growing. She’d be closer to my height than her mother’s when she was done. After a minute of frantic poking, the bleeping stopped, but the ringing noise of it continued in my ears for a good ten seconds. I’d be lucky if it didn’t set off a migraine, another joy that came with my esper blind status, even if that was more to do with other reasons I don’t like to think about.

    We rock, Tess said, grinning as she fist bumped me.

    I set her back down, my back complaining, and I suddenly felt ancient. I was getting old, every advancing year dragging me down to my inevitable death. We do indeed.

    Her eye fell on our ruined breakfast. I don’t think those can be saved.

    I poked the pancakes for confirmation. Yep, unsalvageable. Looks like Chaya’s getting cereal then. Why do I do this to myself?

    I don’t normally cook, in fact, I try not to. Things burn when I play with the stove, but Sunday, as an almost universal day of rest (and that includes my own calendar), was the one morning when it was my turn to take parenting duty.

    Chaya, my wife, normally works late into the night, and sleeping is her reward. Sunday, being Sunday, also seems to require more than just cereal and toast; pancakes are easy, even if I’m still capable of messing them up, and Chaya makes the batter, leaving the jug in the fridge overnight. Even I can stir a jug’s worth of almond-coloured liquid without too much going wrong. It’s the act of cooking them where the problem lies.

    Tess stepped on the bin for me so I could hide the failure from all sentient eyes; she was used to being my accomplice. Because I’m not allowed to use the stove?

    It worries me, you know, that you’re smarter than I am. I ruffled her hair.

    Well, Mom does say I have to look after you.

    You’re eleven. I’m supposed to look after you, not the other way around, I muttered and, just to add insult to injury, the phone started ringing. Go get that, would you?

    Sure, she said, skipping past a bleary-eyed Chaya.Morning, Mom!

    "Morning, Kaiyai," I echoed. My calling her ‘beloved’ in a dead language didn’t help; it’s like buying apology flowers and does nothing but set off suspicion.

    Chaya rolled her eyes and yawned. I really hate being woken up by the fire alarm, you know. What did you burn this time? The toast?

    The pancakes, I said.

    I’m banning you from the kitchen.

    As tempted as I was to retort with something passing for humour, I retaliated by putting the kettle on. Chaya is more human with a mug full of tea in her hands.

    Sorry, I said, trying harder than usual to sound like I meant it.

    It’s okay. She gave me a weary smile. It wouldn’t be the weekend if you didn’t burn something, and at least we know the fire alarm actually works.

    True.

    Uncle Ren! Tess’ voice echoed into the kitchen, brimming with that childish delight I envied as she switched to Standard. Are you back on Earth already? Do you want to speak to Dad? Yeah, he’s here.

    Chaya took the pan and ran it under the tap. I’ll do the next batch, you go talk to Ren.

    As years go, every so often an important one comes along. Sometimes—in the case of World War One or 9/11—it’s for the wrong reasons, but now and again, you get a really good year for all the right ones. 2015 was the year of Contact; it was also the year I stopped being a teacher and discovered something else that I enjoyed just as much but came with added bonuses, an almost karmic reward in the form of a much better paycheck and a nicer employer.

    2018, the current and much more interesting year, was the end of the Great Recession and, of course, the signing of the accords, which saw Earth joining the Union. I’d been waiting for this, and the older, more aware part of me had put the math together and made the right number. I knew the charter signing, secret as it was, was coming up, and even I knew Ren would always get the best people to do the important jobs. Was this it?

    When Ren wanted me, he normally sent a message via the traditional channels and the Union’s embassy in Geneva. It was kind of like sending a telegram but without the use of the word STOP to totally fuck with the context.

    I kissed her. Even a peck on the cheek is most unlike me, but for a moment, the promise was there, and if I was going to leave my wife on Earth while I went gallivanting, I was going to need to make an effort. I love you.

    Really?

    Always,

    Tess was still chattering in an alien language, and I was suddenly stupidly proud of her. She spoke several languages like a duckling swims in water. That’s my gift to her, an ability to understand which goes beyond nouns and declensions. She can speak at least four languages fluently, and that doesn’t include English. Eventually, I imagine, she’ll beat the number I officially know.

    Phone, thank you. Go help your Mom with the pancakes, I said and took it from her and switched to Standard. "Kira, Ren, when did you get back planet-side?"

    Yesterday. What’s this about you being allowed in a kitchen?

    Chaya was sleeping in, or trying, I said. "And it’s not like I try to burn the house down, it just happens."

    If I can cook, why can’t you? I have talons as well and, let me tell you, that really makes things complicated.

    You had an excellent teacher in Ani. I’m just clumsy and even Chay doesn’t have the patience to teach me. I’m a lost cause, I replied. So what can I do you for, Ambassador?

    My use of his formal title signalled the shift. I know how much transatlantic phone calls cost, even when an embassy is involved. Ren seldom calls me for friendly chitchat, even though he’s about as close to an uncle as my daughter is going to get.

    Are you busy, Josh?

    That depends. For you: never.

    I’ve been freelancing for him since Contact. Good translators are hard to find. Good translators who are fluent in a couple of Terran languages and Standard are even harder. I’ve been Ren’s preferred translator, his cultural attaché to use my full and someone pompous title, since just after Contact, and I can honestly say I love my job. It’s a hell of a lot better than my last one.

    Ah good. I heard the hiss escape his lips that passed for an amused chuckle in his species. To most human ears, it came across more like a lisp, but that’s not surprising, given Ren is a reptile, with a forked tongue, scales and a tail. The UN has met and agreed, in the wake of the elections, to join the Union. Ambassador Stone will appear before the Union Council and sign the document on Mnemosyne later this week.

    At the sound of the Union’s headquarters, my heart nearly skipped a beat. I knew what he was going to ask, had dreamed of it since the day we’d met in a bar during the initial talks.

    Ren, are you saying you need me off-world? I asked, needing him to say the words.

    Unless your translation matrices are that good. He was poking fun at me now. "Yes, I do. Technically, it’s not me who needs you, it’s Antony Stone."

    Then why isn’t he asking me?

    Because I employ you. Think of it as a temporary secondment. And, I’m sorry, but it’s just you. Security is much tighter than usual, so please do pass my apologies on to Teresa and Chaya. We’ll sort something out for a less sensitive time.

    That’s not going to make her any happier, I said, momentarily unsure if I meant my wife or my daughter. Chaya, at least, would understand, and Tess could deal with it, providing Chaya couldn’t go.

    We’ll find both of them a souvenir then, eh?

    So when do you need me? I asked, checking my watch. I travelled enough to know the flight schedule without needing to pull out my phone.

    Ren’s voice went quiet. Tomorrow. In Geneva.

    I groaned. That was a tight schedule even by my organised standards. I prefer time to mentally prepare. I’m told it’s a side effect of being me, that I hate change, that I hate unexpected things even more, and Ren knows that. This wasn’t unexpected, but I’d hoped for a couple of days to get in the right headspace.

    Ren! Didn’t we talk about notice?

    Apologies, but I didn’t expect things to advance so quickly. He paused, and I heard my phone ping. He’d been waiting for that. I’ve emailed you a ticket. You fly this afternoon from Midian International to LAX, with a transatlantic flight leaving later tonight. First class.

    You’re assuming I’ll say yes.

    Josh, I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t refuse something this huge, Ren hissed. And I need you, so does Antony. Your impossible ego won’t let you skip out on something this big.

    I quietly grumbled. I hated my predictability, but he was right. This was what I was born to do. Not quite literally, but close enough to make my refusal very unlikely. First class, you say?

    I’ll have Hebe meet you at the airport tomorrow.

    Hebe? I knew her name; she was the daughter of a friend of ours. As in Rheia’s Hebe?

    The very same. I persuaded her to intern for me.

    And Bry was not involved in this at all? I asked, mentioning a mutual acquaintance who lived on Mnemosyne.

    He might have convinced her it was a good idea after I offered her the position.

    I chuckled. Sounds fun. So you have a minion.

    This is serious, Josh.

    I know, I replied. All right, Geneva. Tomorrow. And Ren, you know I appreciate this, right?

    Of course I do, my friend. I’ll see you tomorrow then. The line clicked off, and Chaya stopped pretending she hadn’t been eavesdropping.

    Well?

    I couldn’t hide my delight. He wants me to go to Mnemosyne for the end of the week.

    Calm and collected, she processed the information. So you need to be in Geneva by?

    Tomorrow, I replied.

    It’s a good job I keep the case packed then, isn’t it? she asked, eyes smiling. Go have a shower and change into something befitting the Ambassador’s staff. Then we’ll break it to Tess.

    * * *

    Teresa took it pretty well, considering, and made me promise to bring her ‘something awesome and alien’ back from Mnemosyne. I passed on Ren’s promise that he would make sure she and Chaya would get to come next time, and she beamed. Three years ago, she’d have begged and wheedled (and she had), but now she just bided her time, patiently. My little girl was growing up.

    The connection to LAX was tedious. I don’t like flying, but I can survive short hops within the same time zone. Once off the plane, I pulled out my VIP frequent flyer card, a black thing chiseled out of metal, that saw me to a quiet corner of the traveller’s lounge, a good meal and the best scotch the airport had to offer.

    I liked it because people were paid to actually leave me alone, and I spent the time using the lounge WiFi to make sure I had enough torrented TV shows and movies to keep me semi sane for the next fifteen hours. I might not watch them, but it was the having which made all the difference.

    I was glad the transatlantic flight was a night one. I don’t travel well, once I leave the ground, once time falls away; it confuses me. As a result, I hate flying. I hate airplanes. I hate trains too, just so we’re clear I’m not being flightist or something stupid like that. I travel a lot, but I prefer to do so under my own steam. Enmeshed in this corporeal form, however, this usually involves driving a car or sometimes taking a bus. Planes, when I need to take him, involve first class, just so I don’t lose my mask of calm in public.

    Normally I blag my own upgrades. Being polite can get you a long way, and while I might be esper blind, there’s still a few abilities I have on automatic, like languages, making sure I’m understood and a tiny bit of compulsion. Technically, according to my wife, it’s cheating, but small mercies and what not.

    By the time we boarded I was on my … well, okay, the lack of any ability to count which scotch I was on probably says more than the number. I can act sober very well, and it’s not like I get drunk and disorderly. I become a little less high maintenance and I usually nod off. Sometimes I snore. The tethers, the straitjacket which binds me, loosen a little, and I feel almost weightless.

    The part of my brain which remains, forever, fascinated by the multiverse was basking: I was going into space, like deep, real space, to another planet. The only downside was this was top secret. I couldn’t tell anyone, and everyone I could, well they probably already knew. I suspected that was why Ren had left it so late, just in case, and I understood. This was going to be one of the most important events in humanity’s history and the perfect time for chaos to break.

    Boarding was the kind of ordered process I like; I found my seat and sorted my things. Ignoring the health and safety demonstration simply because I could. The seat next to me was empty, and the sun was setting outside the window, a thousand shades which would make even the muse of artists sit up and take notice.

    I could imagine Jessa, a muse friend of my wife and an artist of some repute, with a sketchpad and a selection of watercolours idly trying to record the scene on paper, even as I drank it in and committed it to memory. Just to be sure, I snapped a picture and emailed it to Chaya with a sardonic note that I knew would piss her off.

    Then I closed my eyes and tried to get some sleep. I dream, but most of the time I choose not to remember them. Chaya, on the other hand, uses hers as a source of inspiration, as a jumping-off point for a new short story or a writing exercise. She encourages them, her students, to record their dreams, and it’s a lot more of an acceptable technique than it was a decade ago. Some of the best stories come from your subconscious, bubbling up like magma from a sleeping volcano.

    Crap. Volcanoes.

    I dream of them a lot, and it took all my ability and considerable amount of mental control to quash the nightmare before it was more than a wisp of smoke. Once that was gone, I could think and focus on other stuff. My inner mentalscape was a star-filled thing, a melding of a glass floor, a frozen sea, and hundreds of blue-white orbs hanging in an inky black sky.

    Think of it as my virtual desk, a workspace in my brain. According to my official psych eval from the Bureau of Esper Affairs and Registration (the same evaluation that lost me my teaching license and that they refuse to update with a more recent and accurate one from my registered physician) I’m on the autistic spectrum. Albeit high functioning with an IQ that would make me a genius by anyone’s standards, but with a lack of empathy that is closer to sociopathy.

    When coupled with my former psychokinetic abilities that made me a risk, apparently, to everyone but particularly to the students I taught as part of my job at the University of Oregon’s Midian campus. I disagree with that latter part of that, by the way; I agree I can be rash, bad-tempered and terrible company, but I’m not a danger to anyone, which is what most people think when you use the words ‘psychokinetic’ and ‘sociopath’ in polite conversation.

    That said, the last man who called me that. Well, things didn’t end particularly nicely for him.

    The flight was becoming a chore now, so I tried ignoring the outside world; the claustrophobic cabin, the smell of recycled air and leather and the noise of the engines. The oddest thing, by far, was the lack of time zones. I, of all people, should have been okay with that, but instead, even with my auto-setting watch, it freaked me out. So I’d drunk and retreated inward. As coping mechanisms go, it’s the best one I have.

    A movie score played through my mind, swelling to epic highs and melodic lows as my residual image, the mental me, caught up with whatever needed doing. Most people count sheep or read books. Me? I re-code the universe. I fell asleep playing with molecules, changing atomic structures in a tiny pocket of reality where any resulting explosions wouldn’t do any harm to the real world.

    Pardon, Monsieur Jordan?

    I opened one eye and automatically started speaking French because I can. Officially I’m fluent in English, French, Spanish, German, Japanese, Korean, and the main Chinese dialects. Unofficially, I can speak anything.

    Are we about to land?

    The flight attendant smiled, and I recognised her from one of my previous trips; I definitely got ‘frequent flyer’, but the rest of me wondered what else Ren had to declare to the airline. They had boxes now, at least in the US, asking for your BEAR registration number and specifics. Answering yes normally meant a high insurance premium and, failing to do so, a prison sentence.

    "Yes, very shortly. We’ll begin our descent in about

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