Obliquity

One Stone in a Cold River

One of the worst things about being in charge, reflected Cam, was the lack of anybody to hit with a quality excuse. Could be an absolute humdinger, a work-of-art, the greatest alibi in the history of dodging-stuff-you-don't-wanna-do-dom and it wouldn't matter one bit. It would just go to waste. That was the problem with making excuses to yourself. You saw them coming. You had the inside scoop, so to speak.

That didn't stop him trying, of course. Take today. There were a hundred good reasons not to keep his meeting with the Chief Executive of the Galactic Conglomerate. In fact, there were so many good reasons he wouldn't even need to include stuff like how intimidating she was or how much she didn't like him.

The principal reason, though, and the one he thought might actually have a chance of working on himself if he wasn't such a stubborn bastard, was what a complete waste of time it would be. He would provide his advice, she would—with clipped, diplomatic precision—tell him where he could shove his advice and he'd go home with his tail between his legs.

Given he was already at home with his tail between his legs, any reasonable employer would surely see the evident good sense of simply staying there in the first place and saving everyone the trouble. And perhaps (if they were a really, really reasonable employer) of retiring to the rec club for a few drinks instead.

But, no. As a human, an Earthling in a galaxy that still—even decades after Earth's tempestuous induction into GalCon—viewed his kind as primitives (quaint and plucky primitives with great taste in music, but primitives nonetheless) he'd spent a lifetime proving himself. It was a tough habit to break.

Even if he was now the chief Sentinel. Especially now he was now the chief Sentinel. Hell, that had just made it worse.

Still, although his conscience wouldn't abide giving the whole sorry exercise a miss, it wasn't averse to spreading the misery around a little. Glancing across the launch bay at at the sleek, gleaming interceptor parked beside his own, he smiled at the expression on his wingman's face.

"Cheer up, Kaz. It could be worse."

Rigellians weren't much for smiling, but the younger man managed a sour grin as he replied via his headset radio. "Yeah, I could be on another date with Lolo. Or even worse, in charge of this little expedition."

"Touché, my friend, touché."

"Huh?"

"Just an Earth expression, Kaz. Something my grandfather used to say. It's French, I think."

"Your grandfather? You mean—?"

"No, no that one. The other one. The normal one."

"Right. Shame. I was almost interested there for a second. Anyway, what's a French? Actually, never mind. If it's to do with Earth, I don't want to know."

"You know, some things about Earth are interesting."

"Pfft. Oh, please. Who did they ever conquer?"

"Well, nobody, I guess. But I seem to recall we did give you guys a run for your money back when you tried to conquer us."

"Yeah, that's not really how Rigel remembers it. It was only a technicality that saved your butts. Well, that and the baristas, I guess. You know, your non-normal grandfather and his buddies." 

As ever, Cam was both gratified and annoyed at this mention of his famous forebear. Gratified because he was fond—and proud— of the old bugger. Annoyed because that same old bugger cast an awfully big shadow. "Maybe, Kaz. I'm not sure it was quite that simple. Anyway, as hard as it may be for a Rigellian to believe, there's more to history than war and conquest—you know, things like literature and art and music and culture and—"