Brought Down

32. The Reception

Garrett

As the shuttle approaches the mothership, all conversations cease, and all the eyes focus on the screen. The huge construction ahead of us looks menacing against the backdrop of black sky dotted with stars.

It's the first time I see the sky and the stars, and yet the mothership gets all of my attention. It's growing larger until it's filling the whole screen, and we are not even close yet. It's enormous. And the space stations are even bigger. Hopefully, I'll get to see them one day, too—along with the sun.

One step at a time. Today, it'll be the thirty of us in the enemy camp. A bunch of ants trying to bend an army of giants to their will.

I wonder if my father had similar thoughts before the first negotiations a decade ago. Twenty people went with him, and none returned. It was a trap, an attempt to lure the most prominent commanders to their deaths.

It's going to be different now. We have Julian and the information he's given us. We know they depend on us. We can have our way.

Can't we?

I glance at Julian. Strapped in the seat to my right, he's looking at the screen with a mildly bored expression. He's seen it before. He's been there. It's only coming home for him.

"Ready to meet your Daddy again?" I say.

He looks at me distractedly, then returns his gaze to the screen. Since it has been decided that he would be a part of our delegation, he's been slipping gradually back to his old ways. His aloof, distant personality has surfaced again, and my attempts to make conversations or jokes were met with coolness. Perhaps that's his way to prepare for the unpleasant interactions that are about to come.

My eyes travel over the heads in the row before me and pause on a blond ponytail. Angie didn't have to go, and even Rykar protested, but she's had her way, as she always does. My heart sinks when I imagine she could get hurt. Of course, she's as capable as any other member of our delegation, but still, she's my Angie. No matter how she feels about me, I will never stop being protective of her.

The landing goes smoothly. It's strange to be a passenger and to have no influence on what's happening. The screen now displays the walls of a giant hangar, compared to which the one we had in our hideaway would have looked like a children's playground.

The engines die, and people start shifting in their seats, exchanging looks and stretching. There are clicks and clings of the unbuckled safety belts. My eyes find Julian again, but he's too busy examining his fingernails.

We gather at the exit and wait for the cargo ramp to lower. Twenty people will attend the negotiations, and ten more will remain in the shuttle. There are some experienced and wise people in our group, yet as the ramp reaches the floor and stops with a clunk, I find myself at the head of the group.

In the hangar before us, we see two dozens of people, all of them wearing light blue uniforms, all of them armed. They stand in two lines, forming a path. The guns in their hands point up, their posture solemn and official. It's a royal welcome, not an ambush.

I start walking down the ramp and the others follow. Our boots make screeching sounds on the gleaming metallic surface. The two rows of soldiers stand unmoving, staring in front of them. Not a single curious glance in our direction. Well trained.

By the time we reach the ground, a group of four people is approaching us. A tall, slim, broad shouldered man in a green and blue uniform walks first, the other three follow him at a respectable distance.

My mouth goes dry. Could this be Lord Maynard himself? I didn't expect to see him so soon.

"Damn," Julian whispers behind me. I throw a quick glance at him. He's paler than usual, his wide eyes fixed on the approaching stranger.

As the man gets closer, I can distinguish his face. He's wearing dark glasses and an elaborate hat that covers most of his forehead, but it's the lower part of his face that draws my attention. It has a strange, lifeless color, like dirty wax, and seems to be covered by a multitude of deep wrinkles that make his skin look both drab and uncomfortably stretched. More wrinkles run down his neck and disappear under his high collar.

He stops in front of me and smiles. It's then that I notice that he has no lips, and the smile stretches the pale skin where they were supposed to be, exposing the white row of upper teeth and the dark hole of his mouth.

"General Connelly of the royal forces, at your service." He speaks with a lisp, but I can understand him. "I hope you have had a pleasant journey." He offers me his hand clad in a long white glove, decorated with silver flowery design. Then, he glances over my shoulder—or rather I assume he does, for I can't see his eyes behind the dark glasses. "I see you have brought my lovely spouse. What a marvelous surprise."

In a daze, I reach out and accept Burnface's handshake.

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