Dark of the Void (Forged Alliance Book 1)

by Anthony James

  Dark of the Void

  Forged Alliance Book 1

  Anthony James

  Contents

  Normality Aberration

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Amber

  Other Science Fiction Books by Anthony James

  © 2021 Anthony James

  All rights reserved

  The right of Anthony James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

  Illustration © Tom Edwards

  TomEdwardsDesign.com

  Normality Aberration

  The view from Fleet Admiral Carl Recker’s window was one of driving rain - a deluge which blurred outlines and turned every colour to the bleakest of greys. Indistinct shapes travelled along the road below, chasing the drab puddles of illumination from their own headlights.

  For a time, Recker squinted into the approaching night, hoping the downpour might relent and allow him a view of the Amber military base’s landing strip. Somehow, the sight of the local fleet always improved his mood. The weather did not grant his wish, though the rain couldn’t hide the rumbling drone of overstressed ternium propulsions from the warships several kilometres away.

  Recker stepped back from the window and returned to his chair. The dark woods of his desk contrasted uneasily with the burnished silver of the two-metre-wide communicator which occupied much of its surface – antique and modern thrown together in a way that made both look out of place.

  “Two more hours and I’ll call it a day,” Recker muttered, his eyes on the glowing digits of the clock in one corner of the communicator screen.

  These were the first moments of quiet since arriving at his office fourteen hours ago and he didn’t expect them to last. Every day was the same. Weeks, months and years of preparation for an attack which might never come.

  His mind’s eye wandered to his Daklan wife – Lera-Vel – with her perfect, alien features and slender, graceful body, and he wondered if she’d escape the research lab before midnight.

  Probably not.

  Recker flexed his shoulders and the polymer covering on his chair squeaked in a way that was meant to sound like leather, but wouldn’t fool anyone who’d ever come within a hundred metres of the real stuff. Clenching his fists tight enough for his fingernails to dig into the skin of his palms, Recker knew he was agitated about something, but not able to put his finger on exactly what it was. One of his personal team – Lieutenant Christy Garber – kept nagging him to cut back on the caffeine, saying it made him irritable. Maybe she was on to something.

  Ignoring the remembered advice, Recker took a drink from the pale mug on the side of his desk. Somehow, the coffee inside had turned stone cold without him realising it and he grimaced, before taking a second mouthful.

  A buzz from Recker’s communicator ended his brief respite. He accepted the channel request.

  “Sir, I’ve received the daily report from the analysis team,” said Lieutenant Garber. “You need to see it.”

  “The report was due two hours ago,” Recker said, feeling an unexpected chill running down his spine.

  “I spoke to Research Lead Mills. He tells me they’ve refined some of the algorithms. Not only that, one of the obliterator cores was offline for maintenance this afternoon. Add them together and it slowed things down by those two hours.”

  “Bring me the report,” said Recker.

  Five seconds later, the wood-clad door to his office slid open and Lieutenant Garber entered. She was no more than thirty, dressed in dark blue and with her long brown hair in its usual ponytail. In her hand she held a cardboard folder and on her face was an expression of poorly disguised uncertainty, bordering on fear.

  “All day, I’ve had a feeling like I’ve forgotten an urgent appointment,” said Recker. “Now you tell me there’s something I need to see in the daily analysis report and you arrive in my office looking as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Garber tried a smile. “It might be nothing. Here’s the printout.”

  Climbing to his feet, Recker took the folder. He opened it and extracted the single sheet of paper, which he scanned quickly. As usual, RL Mills had condensed the output into a few dozen lines of text and numbers.

  “Probability of normality aberration: 0.7%,” said Recker, reading the conclusion of the report aloud. “Yesterday’s probability was 0.3%. What did RL Mills say about the new algorithms? Could they be responsible for the difference?”

  “The analysts ran a normality aberration report on the new algorithms and concluded there was no significantly increased likelihood of an aberration resulting from those algorithms.” Garber kept her face straight.

  “And did they run an aberration report on the aberration report?” snapped Recker, suddenly angry. He took a deep breath. “Don’t answer that.”

  “I’ve requested an immediate re-run of the analysis, sir. The updated version should be available within four hours.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s been twelve years since we beat the Lavorix, sir,” said Garber. “Twelve years to get ourselves ready.”

  “I know.” Recker turned once again to the window. The rain hadn’t let up and the base lights had come on at a low intensity. He found himself mesmerised, like a fish staring out from its bowl into a strange and frightening world.

  “You think this aberration could be caused by the Kilvar?” Garber continued.

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “What are you going to do, sir?”

  Recker glanced at the report paper again. The 0.7% normality aberration figure was derived from countless data sources, many with a relevancy he didn’t understand. He’d always struggled to accept the significance of these reports and tried his best not to dismiss them as the result of over-engineered guesswork. It was only because his predecessor – Devon Telar – had such faith in predictive analysis that Recker had kept RL Mills and his team fully funded.

  Personally, Recker preferred monitoring stations, satellites and a fleet of technologically advanced warships to keep the citizens of the human-Daklan alliance safe. And yet, here he was, feeling like he’d been punched in the guts all because of one tiny percentage on a sheet of paper. He read it again. 0.7%.

  Garber waited quietly on the opposite side of Recker’s desk.

  “Go,” said Recker. “I won’t be getting any sleep tonight. As soon as you receive the new report, bring it to me.”

  “Do you want me to call up the rest of your team, sir?”

  “Not yet. I’ll let you know.”

  Nodding once, Garber left the office. When th
e door closed, Recker dropped back into his seat, the report on the desk in front of him. Perhaps the updated version would produce a figure within the usual range. Recker doubted it. Something big was on the horizon.

  He entered a series of commands into his desktop communicator and checked the status of several high-priority research and construction projects the military was working on. One or two were lagging, while others were ahead of schedule.

  For a brief moment, Recker closed his eyes and hoped everything he’d done over the last twelve years would be enough for humanity and the Daklan to weather what he feared would be the coming storm.

  Chapter One

  The Axiom class heavy cruiser Loadout’s grumbling propulsion fell to a background idling hum. A moment later, the warship’s ternium drive allowed the lightspeed tunnel it was holding open to collapse and the vessel re-entered local space at a near-standstill and with its sensors offline.

  Captain William Flint did his best to ignore the aching muscles and numbness in his fingers which always came from a lightspeed transition, in or out, and got on with business.

  “Lieutenant Becerra – scan and report as soon as the sensors come online,” he ordered loudly, switching the propulsion into overstress and pushing the control bars along their runners. Thunder filled the bridge and the warship accelerated blind into what Flint hoped would be empty space. The life support modules showed a vastly increased power draw, and they were unable to completely mask the forces which pushed him hard into the dense padding of his bucket seat.

  “On it, sir,” said Lieutenant Rita Becerra, a recent addition to the Loadout’s comms and sensor team. By her voice, she hadn’t enjoyed the exit from lightspeed any better than Flint.

  The sensors came online all at once and began streaming data into the warship’s twin, blisteringly fast main processing cores. A moment later, the curved bulkhead screen illuminated, showing darkness and nothing else.

  Becerra wasn’t the only new face on the bridge.

  “Lieutenant Bolan,” said Flint without turning. “What do the lightspeed logs tell you?”

  “No reported errors in the logs, sir,” said Lieutenant Wes Bolan, the warship’s backup propulsion and hardware officer. “We’re on target.”

  “Qastus-91N system,” said Flint. He backed off on the controls and allowed the Loadout to coast at two thousand kilometres per second. The propulsion dropped to a background hum, enabling normal conversation. “Lieutenant Becerra, we’re looking for a planet. Have you found it yet?”

  “Still on with the local area scans, sir.”

  “Outside of a simulator, the alliance has not encountered an alien spaceship – hostile or otherwise – in the last twelve years, Lieutenant. Stop wasting our time and find that planet!”

  “I’m required to complete the local scans first, sir,” said Becerra, her voice hardening.

  Flint turned his head slightly, so he could see Commander Amy Maddox in the adjacent seat. She caught him looking and gave a tight smile. Becerra was newly promoted and Flint was turning up the pressure to find out if she’d crack. So far, there was no sign of it happening, which would be a good result for everyone.

  Twisting further, Flint could see Becerra with her face close to one of her console screens. She was young, confident and came top in her class. Although fourteen years out of training himself, Flint remembered how little he’d really known back then, when his younger self had thought he was ready to lecture a veteran of the Daklan wars on tactics and strategy. Now, he wanted to learn if both Becerra and Bolan came with the same bad attitude he’d possessed.

  “Lieutenant, we don’t have all day!” he said, increasing the volume a notch.

  Lieutenant Sophie Garrett sat next to Becerra at the comms station, watching and saying nothing. She lifted her head and raised a questioning eyebrow in Flint’s direction. Want me to step in?

  Giving his head an almost imperceptible shake, Flint waited to find out how Becerra would deal with the situation.

  To his relief, Becerra didn’t crumble beneath his onslaught. “Local scans complete and all clear. I’ve put Tibulon on the feed, sir. It’s fifty million klicks from our position. I’m scanning for open comms receptors.”

  The bulkhead screen was huge and could be divided to show all of the warship’s individual feeds at once, or a selection of the most relevant. Becerra had chosen to fill the entire display with one of the portside data streams and, in the centre of the screen, the Loadout’s destination was little more than an overmagnified, shimmering disk.

  “Not much to look at,” said Maddox. She had a gravel voice that made Flint wonder if she was part Daklan. Her medium height, lack of fangs, and the fact that human and Daklan unions produced no children suggested his idle guesswork was wide of the mark.

  “A grey sphere,” said Flint. The universe had variety, but with a few septillion planets floating around out there, plenty of them were going to look like plain old balls of rock. “Any contact from the refinery comms station, Lieutenant Becerra?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir – I have checked in with the ground flight controller.”

  “What about the Lucerne and the Ferocious?”

  The battleship Lucerne and the heavy cruiser Ferocious were both stationed at Tibulon – permanently as far as Flint was aware. For a mining and refining operation, the local facility was surprisingly well protected. A bit of digging had turned up hints and rumours as to why that might be, but not enough to entirely quell Flint’s curiosity.

  “Both warships have responded, sir,” said Becerra. “And they aren’t alone.”

  “We have other resources out here?” asked Flint.

  “The Daklan warships Kantilvor, Scavaron and Langinstol are all within a million klicks of Tibulon, sir. Two annihilators and one desolator.”

  “What the hell?” said Lieutenant Stan Fredericks. He was the Loadout’s primary engine officer and a veteran of the Daklan and Lavorix wars. Fredericks had served onboard the heavy cruiser Pulveriser, which was the only Human Planetary Alliance ship to survive a brutal engagement with the Lavorix at the Daklan planet Trinus-XN.

  The exclamation echoed Flint’s own surprise. Although old, the Langinstol was a legend from the Lavorix conflict – the battleship had suffered tremendous punishment in that same engagement at Trinus-XN. The Daklan had subsequently patched it up and modified the warship’s hull and weaponry before sending it back into service.

  “I saw the Langinstol once,” Flint said. “Way back when we were still fighting the Daklan. Damn, it made me glad to be alive when my crew and I got out of there.”

  “A shame you didn’t get to fight alongside them, sir. That warship’s crew were among the best, no doubt about it,” said Fredericks wistfully. “I wonder if Captain Vazox is still in command.”

  Flint didn’t know and made no effort to find out, even though he was tempted. He was also tempted to check out the files on the Kantilvor and Scavaron to find out what they were made of, but he had other issues to deal with first.

  “They know we’re here, so where’s our invitation to the battle network?” he asked.

  “It just arrived,” said Garrett. “I’ve accepted.”

  At once, the Loadout’s tactical screen populated with the five warships stationed around Tibulon, while the surface facility was represented by a green square. Around the planet, concentric rings of monitoring satellites provided blanket coverage of anything within thirty or forty million kilometres. The local defence force wasn’t straying far and each one had line-of-sight on the base.

  “See that satellite half a million klicks out?” said Garrett. “That one can read lightspeed tunnels. If anything comes here and then leaves without destroying that monitor, we’ll know exactly where it went.”

  “Tibulon isn’t quite a fortress, but it’s getting there,” said Flint. “Why did high command send us here?” he wondered, not expecting an answer. “Seems like the place is well enough defended.”

  He
got an answer, of a sort.

  “The ground controller has received updated orders for us – we’re to approach the planet at lightspeed,” said Lieutenant Garrett.

  “Have you received corroboration from Basalt?” asked Flint.

  “No, sir. Wait…yes. We have confirmation from base – we are to follow local orders. There are accompanying documents which I have sent to your console.”

  “Great,” muttered Flint. “Here was I thinking we were being sent on a straightforward patrol mission.”

  “What’s in that order documentation, sir?” asked Maddox.

  “I’ll take a look,” said Flint. The newly arrived file glowed softly at the top of his received list. He opened it with a touch of a fingertip and scanned the contents. “We’re here to pick up some cargo.”

  “Cargo?” asked Garrett in astonishment. “There’s barely enough room for a crew to fit inside the Loadout.”

  Garrett wasn’t far wrong. Like every other fleet warship, interior space was at a premium. If there was a way to squeeze a larger magazine into the hull, install an engine module with a 0.002% greater output, or even fit some extra cooling around the obliterator cores, then that’s what the engineers would do. Comforts for the crew and whatever soldiers were onboard came way down the priority list.

  Soon, Flint thought, he’d have to walk sideways to reach the mess room, and the officers’ quarters – already cramped – would be removed, forcing him to bunk with the Loadout’s twenty-four soldiers.