Ghosts of the Vale

by Paul Grover

  Priority 1 - IMMEDIATE ACTION.

  The Office of the President is moving against fleet assets. I believe the Frontier Company will assume command of Navy vessels and facilities.

  The legality of this situation is yet to be determined. The authority of the President to recall fleet assets under such ambiguous circumstances is uncertain.

  Vessel commanders are granted full autonomy to act in the best interests of the Federation, the Navy and their crews.

  In the likely event of my position becoming untenable, I appoint Fleet Admiral Jonathan Richard Flynt as my successor.

  I fear this will be the final communication from Fleet Command in its current form. It has been my privilege and honour to serve alongside such a fine body of people.

  I wish you clear skies and a fair wind.

  Adm J.G. Foster

  Fleet Command

  Flynt could play this one of two ways. He could exert his new authority and bend the crew to his will or he could appeal to their hearts.

  Below him was every member of the Valhalla’s 304 flight crew and 80 strong marine detachment. The crowd shuffled and mumbled before falling silent.

  In the faces below he saw his sadness and fatigue echoed back. They had pulled together in the wake of the Mizarma incident. An atmosphere of uncertain optimism had permeated the ship as they had aided Mizarma in the aftermath of Frontier’s attack.

  Mars had changed everything. News of the uprising and Conway’s power grab was filtering through to the Fleet. Flynt’s gaze met the faces of men and women who needed a leader, someone to give them purpose and direction.

  The Admiral cleared his throat. Silence fell. It made the throb of the engines and the whirring of the air scrubbers seem just a little louder. A holo-drone hovered in front of him; his address would be relayed to Navy vessels in the system and then to all ships capable of receiving the message.

  “By now you will know of the events that took place on Mars. You will also know the Office of the President has executive control of Earth Governance and the Federal Government. The Senate has been suspended.” Flynt paused, looking down at the expectant faces beneath him.

  “Earlier today I received an open channel burst transmission from Fleet Command.” Flynt read Foster's message. A ripple of voices broke the silence of the hangar. He waited for the tide of anxious words to ebb.

  “Admiral Foster’s message leaves me in no doubt that if we return to the home system, the ship will fall under the control of the Frontier Company. I have decided the Valhalla will not return until the situation is resolved and a clear political mandate is in place.”

  Every eye was fixed on him. No one moved or uttered a word.

  “It is our mission to protect the citizens of the Federation from threats internal and external. We are the sword. We are the shield. We are the first and the last line of defence.” He quoted from the oath of allegiance. “I believe President Conway has illegally invoked Article 43 and it is a threat to the people we are sworn to protect.”

  A wave of whispers rippled through the assembled crew.

  “There are those who would describe my actions as mutiny; it is a fair description. Mutiny is not the preserve of one man; if I am to succeed, I must have the cooperation of my crew. By implication those who join me in this criminal act will become accessories.

  “I place myself in your hands. In a moment I will ask you to decide but before I do, I want to be plain. Whatever your decision; I will respect the majority. You will never be questioned. You will face no penalty. Should we choose the path of mutiny, those who choose differently will be treated with respect. If you vote to return home as ordered, I will hand command of the vessel to my XO.”

  He pointed to the Naval Ensign painted on the bulkhead behind him.

  “Under these colours, we take care of our own.”

  Flynt pointed to the centre of the bay.

  “There is a line, right down the middle of this hangar.” He paused as the crowd shuffled with unease.

  “Those who want to return to the home system move to my left. Those who think they could linger a little out here move to my right.”

  After an unpleasant pause and many private conversations the ship’s compliment moved as a single mass to Flynt’s right. Three members of the Marine detachment lingered until one broke ranks and joined the rest of the crew; his buddies followed.

  “Overwhelming, support Admiral,” Alex said.

  “They’re good people, Mr Kite. It’s difficult; they all have friends and family back home.”

  Samantha Clark put her hand to her earpiece.

  “Sir,” she said. “The Kenya and the Brisbane have reported in. They are with us. London, Texas, Canberra… also unanimous.” Sam’s lips quivered as she spoke. “The whole fleet is with you, Sir.”

  “Admiral, may I speak in private?” Jason Lambert said.

  Flynt asked Alex to dismiss the crew. He took Lambert to one side.

  “Sir, I want to resign my commission.”

  “It’s okay Jason, I understand…”

  “Sir, it’s not political. I have a daughter. I have never met her; she is three months old.”

  “And you are concerned about an extended stay out here?”

  “Sir, my place is with my family. It sounds selfish given the stakes, but I lost my father at a young age and I don’t want Hannah to go through the same…”

  “I understand Jason. I will plan to get you home. Damien Lightfoot has agreed to supply a vessel and I think I have just found the right person to captain her.”

  Flynt extended his hand and Jason Lambert gripped it firmly.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Lambert walked away. Flynt watched him go. He was a good officer, popular with the crew and competent in his work; he would be difficult to replace.

  Flynt tuned to Alex.

  “Mr Kite, get your arse to the flight deck and prepare to take us to the inner system. I have an engagement on the Scarlet Angel.”

  “Admiral?” Alex replied.

  “If you want to be my XO, you better get used to following my orders.”

  “Yes, sir!” Alex said. He broke off his conversation with Sam Clark and headed for the access corridor.

  Sam lingered. She appeared ill at ease. “Permission to speak freely, Admiral?”

  “Sammy, always. You know how I run a ship.”

  “That was a brave and clever move. Admiral Foster appointed you Fleet Commander. You could have just ordered us to stay out here.”

  “I could… but we need hearts and minds to win this. We have the chain of command but I need volunteers. People fight for what they believe in.”

  “I’m with you Admiral,” she said.

  Samantha Clark was more than just a competent officer, she understood how ship and crew worked. He was in no doubt that one day she would have his job.

  “Thank you, Sammy; I appreciate the support.”

  A strong ship and a good crew. Whatever the coming weeks held they would meet it head on. If it came to a fight, they were ready, and they would win.

  The airlock pressurisation light turned green. Flynt imagined the sound of compressed air flooding into the coupling tube; although physics and a lifetime of experience told him he was being foolish.

  No fool like an old fool, he thought.

  The airlock opened. Flynt walked through the tunnel. Thin skin aluminium was all that separated him from the freezing vacuum. Two of Xander’s people were waiting on the Angel side. The pirate crew had forgone their normal mix of civilian clothing and ill matched flight suits; instead they dressed in Federal Navy fatigues, devoid of official insignia save for those denoting rank or assignment. He knew there were those who resented the change but none of them had quit, not yet anyway.

  The galaxy has changed. The old order is gone and we don’t know what will come next. Right now the future rests in the hands of mutineers and thieves. Strange times, Jono, strange times indeed.

 
The future: it was a subject he had given little thought to in recent years, preferring to tread water in the now or drown in his memories.

  He thought of Mira’s advice to make peace with the past. Ruth and Amy were both dead; he could not bring them back. He was over the grief; at least that’s what he told himself when he lay in his rack, alone with the dark. Forgiveness was tough. Ruth had been another of Amy’s victims. Were it not for their daughter’s addictions she would still be alive, waiting for his return in the bayside house where the redwoods met the ocean.

  Mira had forgiven Amy. Despite the pain she had suffered, she had found a way. He hoped he might do the same.

  A vibration in his pocket roused him from his thoughts. He pulled out his datapad and waited while the burst transmission decrypted.

  We have met our friends and will visit you soon.

  It was tougher than we thought but we made it out.

  We are taking the back roads, so subject to re-supply we estimate arrival in 12-14 standard days.

  R.B.

  A weight lifted from his heart. He had sent Mira and Tish into the eye of the storm and they had come out the other side. He expected to be on the wrong end of Mira’s temper when she arrived. He would sit in his chair and let her rant as much as she wanted; he would be grateful just to have her back.

  Flynt entered a transport tube and after a few seconds he emerged on the upper decks of the Angel. This part of the ship was far from the artificial gravity well and he sensed the change as he stepped out of the pod; it was only one or two percentage points yet noticeable to an experienced spacer.

  His mind turned to the problem at hand: too many commitments and not enough ships to meet them. It was the same problem admirals and generals had faced throughout history. It was about making do with what you had. War was simple; it never changed. All you had to do was inflict maximum attrition on your opponent while minimising your own. A numbers game. A large force used badly could be bettered by a smaller one, but reality seldom worked that way. If you had more hardware and more troops, you had an advantage. Use a large force wisely and you were unbeatable.

  It’s not numbers, it’s lives. Humanity is adept at keeping the jaws of the war machine oiled, ready to feed it our children.

  He had resources, more than he expected. Lightfoot had placed his private fleet under Flynt’s command. He planned to deploy ships to systems closest to the trade routes, hoping to split them between system defence and policing the lanes. Lightfoot Mercantile, the shipping arm of LDC, was already reporting disruption from Frontier Company Vessels. It had not come down to fighting but ships had been stopped for what were described as routine inspections. Tensions were running high and it would not take much for the cold war to heat up.

  It was as if the galaxy was at war, yet also in a state of denial. No shots had been fired and warships on both sides were avoiding each other. In his youth Flynt had been a boxer; the Federation and Alliance reminded him of two nervous fighters, circling the ring eyeing each other for weaknesses. The first blow was coming and he wondered which side would strike first. Would it be a tentative jab or an attempt at a knock out? He figured it was only a matter of time until he had his answer.

  He entered the conference room. It was a circular chamber, twelve metres in diameter. A round table hewn from a synthetic white marble occupied the centre of the room. The ceiling was a high dome open to the void. Light from Mizarma’s yellow-white star illuminated the table with a natural warmth the ship’s lighting system could never match.

  Damien Lightfoot sat in one of the deep filled chairs. Franz Kramer sat at his side; the executive had lost weight since his return from Arethon, his face was still round and red, yet healthier than Flynt remembered.

  As for Lightfoot, Flynt had never seen the old man look so well. It was as if the challenge of bringing the Alliance together had invigorated him. His blue eyes held a sparkle and his sallow skin had taken on the faintest of glows.

  “Gentlemen,” Flynt said. He motioned for them to remain seated.

  “Admiral, I am sorry I called this meeting so soon after your return,” Lightfoot said. “As I am sure you are aware, the galaxy has changed.”

  “It has Damien, not for the better.” He walked to a credenza and used the coffee machine, pouring a full mug of Mizarman blend coffee. He added synthetic milk and a single saccharin cube.

  He sat.

  “Admiral, have you heard from Thorn? Was she successful in extracting anyone from the Senate?” Kramer asked.

  “Mira has rescued two members of the Senate; I assume Meyer is one, as that was the original plan. The other is a mystery. We’ll know in two weeks.”

  Lightfoot turned to Kramer. “Franz, would you be kind enough to brief the Admiral on recent events?”

  Kramer retrieved a datapad from his briefcase and placed it on the table top.

  “Jon, much has happened since the attack. As you have been busy supporting our aid effort, I regret we could not share certain information with you. I apologise for this,” Kramer said.

  “Franz, I have spent 40 years in the Navy where they feed you bullshit or nothing. Please do not apologise,” he replied, wondering where this was leading.

  “We have been working with Saskia Hart. Until this morning she was living in a high security facility off the coast of Delain,” Kramer continued.

  “Was?”

  “She was found dead in her cell.” Lightfoot flicked on a screen an image shimmered above the table. “This is security footage from the cell block.”

  An old man in an outmoded frock coat walked into the frame and approached the cell. He was thin and gaunt. There was something wrong with his appearance; Flynt could not put his finger on it.

  “Where did he come from?” Flynt asked.

  “No one came on or off the island; no one passed through security,” Kramer replied.

  A shadow moved behind the bars. Saskia Hart stepped out of the gloom.

  The ensuing conversation lasted for three minutes. Saskia became agitated. The old man spoke and rested on his cane.

  “No audio?” Flynt asked.

  “Unfortunately not. It breaches human rights,” Kramer said, somewhat bitterly. Flynt detected a flash of irritation in Lightfoot’s eyes at his deputy’s lack of respect for the prisoner’s privacy.

  The conversation concluded and the man turned. Saskia collapsed on the floor and lay lifeless as the old man walked away. He made a point of staring at the camera and twirled his cane before disappearing out of the frame.

  “Who was he? How did he get in?” Flynt asked.

  Lightfoot rewound the footage and played from the point the man vanished. He selected the next camera position. The time stamp was continuous, but the man did not appear.

  “It appears Admiral,” Lightfoot said. “Our mystery man is a ghost.”

  Flynt stared at the screen. He would normally have dismissed it as a camera trick, footage shot at different times with a spoofed time stamp. The problem was neither Lightfoot nor Kramer would have anything to gain from producing a fake recording.

  “Cause of death?” Flynt asked.

  “Massive organ failure. Her heart exploded in her chest,” Kramer replied.

  Flynt watched as the scene replayed. It rolled on until a guard entered the frame for a routine inspection.

  “What had you been working on with her?” Flynt asked.

  Kramer stood and walked to the credenza, refilling his mug.

  “Saskia is a bloody difficult woman. She was uncooperative for the first few weeks of her incarceration but opened up when she realised no one was coming to get her. We have the data gathered from Arethon after the machine was activated and we used it as an incentive. She thought we were prepared to offer her a deal; she was mistaken.”

  “Did you learn anything from her?”

  A glance passed between the two men.

  “Saskia did not say who she was working for but she was open about her motives. She wa
s on Arethon to access the data stored in the machine. She was looking for an object she referred to as the Mothernode. Saskia requested we ship the Ark to Arethon to activate the facility. When the Ark fell into Xander’s hands her associates directed the Mercs to destroy the planet.”

  “Destroy it, rather than let it fall into your hands?”

  “We can only assume this Mothernode is extremely important,” Kramer said.

  “You have the expeditions data. Surely it must contain useful information?”

  “The cores contain very valuable data, but nothing of the matter in hand.” Kramer paused and took a sideways glance at Lightfoot. “The data cube Mira Thorn took from the machine may be another matter…”

  Flynt had only heard of the cube from Kramer. He knew Mira had turned it over to Xander to take to the Verani.

  “Saskia became agitated when we raised it with her,” Lightfoot said. “She would not elaborate to its purpose. Chloe Song has been researching in our archives and believes the cube is connected to this Mothernode.”

  Lightfoot’s deputy shifted in his seat.

  “Jon, as you know, Damien is not in the best of health. Seven years ago we discovered certain artefacts indicating the former residents of the region were bio-engineering specialists. I think the re-incarnation of Mira Thorn lends credence to that assumption.”

  Flynt held back on an angry retort. He did not care for how the fat man trivialised Mira’s experience.

  Kramer explained how the Astro-Archaeology division of LDC had concentrated its search for viable technology on what he referred to as precursor worlds.

  “We soon built an understanding of what happened. It was clear a conflict had scrubbed our forebears from the galaxy. It was also apparent that Regina Enterprise, Quantum Infinity and David Conway were pursuing similar aims.”