Invasion (Contact Book 1)

by David Ryker

The whole cockpit rocked; his body fought against the restraints. A chorus of chirps and screeches meant he’d been hit. Check the shields, Eddie thought. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to know the damage; it would only make him worried.

  The training came back, Hertz’s voice. Feel the fighter, let her do the work. He looked at the screen. Half power remaining. Glory be, they’d knocked out half his shields already. He only had one more hit in him, maybe two. With frantic fingers, Eddie adjusted the dials and moved his power out of the comms, out of his guns, all toward the boosters.

  One hard lean on the stick and Eddie bent back around himself. A quick right turn, enough to catch another glimpse of the bogey through the cockpit. Damn, damn, damn. No time to stare at whatever the hell it was. He hit the reverse thrusters, slowing without warning and dropping down, sliding the Wisp through a floating tangle of carbonized wreckage.

  The whole sector was filled up with junk, the smashed shells of dead ships, floating wastefully through space. Out the corner, Eddie saw the bogey again. Time stopped, held frozen in a moment. Shaped like a stiletto knife, the invader’s fighter favored speed. But Eddie had never seen anything like it. There were familiar parts – wings and engines and cannons – but they were all held together by some strange, terrible element. It was almost natural. A putrid, woven shell like a giant black wasps’ nest holding together a scuttled ship. Swooping skeletal lines littered the surface, all knotted together and streamlined. There was no cockpit, no pilot at the helm. Eddie felt his mouth hanging open. It wasn’t human.

  Time started again, everything fast. Jerking the stick to the right, Eddie swallowed his terror. The moment he’d spent staring at the fighter would stay with him the rest of his life. He knew, right then, that nothing was going to be the same. He had to get back to the Vela, he had to warn them. He had to see another human, to speak to them, to feel the warmth of their skin and escape the sudden, heavy dread which had swallowed him whole.

  Thump. Thump. Two more shots hit against the starboard wing of the Wisp. Eddie couldn’t dodge fast enough. Both shots caught him in the same spot, alarms screamed. Shield readout said nearly empty, left thrusters down. One more hit and he was dead.

  Can’t outrun them. Can’t outgun them.

  With every passing second, the radar shrieked louder. Every instrument in the cockpit raged, as though the Wisp knew time was running out. The bogey drew closer.

  “I know! I know!” Eddie shouted, his throat raw. “But what can I do?”

  The biggest ships passed through the battle almost gracefully, barely registering the buzzing fighters. Eddie found himself closer and closer to the center without realizing. Farther and farther from the Vela, farther from home. His eyes danced around the space ahead. The colossal battleships protected the mysterious structure, allowing no other ship near. They targeted any hostile fighter that flew too close without hesitation. A dead zone circled them as they shot outwards.

  Before the idea fully formed in his mind, Eddie acted. He didn’t have time to explain it to the Wisp or even to himself. With a deft flick of his wrist, he steered toward the center of the battle, toward the massive ships, toward whatever the hell they were protecting.

  The bogey followed. Eddie gunned the thrusters, full speed ahead. He prayed to the Pale, to his dead parents, to whoever the hell might be listening.

  “Don’t let me die… please don’t let me die.”

  Eddie closed his eyes. He couldn’t outgun whoever was chasing him. But the others could. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, he thought. Let them shoot the bogey down. Please. Just understand that I’m not a threat.

  Squeezing the control stick, feeling his fingers almost bleeding, Eddie opened his eyes. Still some way from the biggest ships, he entered the dead zone. Empty space but for all the skeleton ships and his Wisp, streaking through.

  The radar reminded him about the bogey. Ahead, a pair of cannons turned to face him. He saw them through his own crosshairs, away in the distance, pointing. Eddie pushed the Wisp harder, wrenching every possible drop of energy from the engines and then raised his hands up into the air in surrender.

  The Wisp flew faster, faster. The cannons fired. Two huge red bolts, molded from raw energy, searing and spitting as they tore through space. He couldn’t close his eyes. He watched, horrified, hands in the air. Please, he begged. Please.

  The shots ripped toward him and passed overhead before he could gulp. They vanished from sight and the screaming radar calmed: bogey eliminated.

  “Yes!” Eddie thundered, letting go of the stick to punch the air. “Yes!”

  No one else in the galaxy has ever done that, he told himself. How’s that for your pilot’s test? The cannons moved again inquisitively. Time to drop out of here, Eddie realized, delight and relief washing over him in equal measure.

  He pushed forward on the controls, the Wisp dropping nose first, right through the bottom of the battle. No one chased him; he just had to cut through the swirling chaos. Eddie steered with confidence. He’d never felt an adrenaline rush like this. It turned his entire body numb with the abject terror of the chase and the thrill of the risk. The fear and the panic and the strain and the victory: everything. He still couldn’t believe it. He was alive.

  And there was the Vela. He could see her, the long ship in the distance, sitting still and watching the battle. He had to get back there.

  “Vela, come in.” He tried to sound calm. “It’s Pilot Eddie Pale. Vela, come in.”

  Cold hard nothing. Adjusting himself in his seat, Eddie took a firm grip of the stick. Even from a distance, he saw her shields rippling, taking hit after hit. Already in his head, he could imagine Loreto’s orders: “Pale, get back here. Clear our path, we need a shot at these invaders.” The growl would rumble again. “Get it done, now!”

  Following the imagined order, Eddie pointed his Wisp at the Vela and opened the throttle. Checking his instruments, he saw that the energy levels were low. He didn’t have time to charge. Those blasts had knocked the hell out of the shields, and whatever reserves he had left were already drained by the chase.

  Snaking and slicing around the obstacles, Eddie approached the edge of the battle and tried to remain unseen. There was still plenty of space between him and the Vela and it wasn’t all empty.

  Fighters leaked out from the battle. He looked down at his map and saw everything drifting, moving closer toward human space, further toward the Pale. None of the invaders paid any attention to the insignificant humans.

  Again and again, the Vela’s shields struggled, each burst of blue light an impact. Could be just regular junk knocking against them, Eddie thought, or an attack. He tried the comms again. No answer. That meant they were diverting power. Not even a static burst? Loreto had shut everything down. The admiral had lowered the shields, put himself at risk.

  “He’s trying to contact someone,” Eddie decided.

  Me? A flourish of pride hit Eddie, filling the perpetual cavity in his orphan heart. That he should be so important, that he would be worth saving. No, don’t be dumb. He’s trying to warn a colony. He’s trying to get a message to the Senate. They probably think I’m dead already. I should be.

  The radar buzzed and whined. Something big appeared on Eddie’s left. A battleship, a big one. Burning on his shoulder, smoldering. The flickers of flame shot out from within, caught in the vacuum, and simpered into nothingness. Charred and dying, a ship twice as big as Eddie’s own. It raced him home.

  It must have exited the battle fast, he thought. Blown out of the fight and sent plunging along the one trajectory that actually mattered. Heading straight for the Vela. Looking at the radar, Eddie made his calculations. Thirty seconds–if that–until it hit. This wasn’t just junk; it was almost a whole ship. Smash into the bridge or any of the decks and it’d be good night for the Vela.

  Eddie analyzed his readouts. Energy levels low, enough boost to get him back to the ship, barely any shields, nothing left for the guns. Eddie u
rged his Wisp forward, not knowing what to do. That was a lie, he told himself. He knew. He definitely knew. But he didn’t want to think it, he didn’t want to admit it.

  The Vela was silent. No space for emotions. Eddie Pale watched the tumbling wreckage as it sped toward the only home he’d ever known. Despite himself, he felt calm. It was nice to have a plan.

  Eddie knew his duty. It seemed like a choice but it wasn’t, not really. This ship would crash through the weakened shields, severing the comms-link to the rest of the colonies, exposing humanity to whatever the hell had just arrived, all without warning. I know the oath, he thought and imagined Loreto’s words telling him what not to do:

  “Don’t do it, boy,” the admiral would snarl. “We’ll find a way.”

  They wouldn’t. There was only one option. Eddie opened the throttle, keeping his eye on the wrecked ship, and pulled out to his right. He sped up, burning through what little fuel he had left. The Wisp cut a smooth vector out of the sky, careful and planned. It was textbook.

  At his furthest point, Eddie adjusted the stick and straightened up. Ten seconds to impact, if that. He felt numb and happy so he gunned the throttle, giving up everything he had. The Wisp charged. Eddie looked one last time at the stars: so dim, so disappointing. All he’d done was swap one desert for another. Five seconds to impact. He sped up again, ignoring the warnings.

  “I will be the guiding light,” he said aloud, “which shields humanity from the darkness.”

  The words were a comfort. Eddie looked beyond his target, out into the Pale, into the nothingness that welcomed him home. He sped up again, hitting top speed with a second left, no time for feelings.

  The world turned black and burned.

  4

  Loreto

  The Wisp collided with the wreck and knocked it off course. Together, the two ships plunged into the void.

  “That damn fool!” Loreto thundered, moving across the dais.

  The admiral shadowed Eddie Pale’s last flight as it fell off the projection forever.

  “He was a good kid, sir.” Hertz coughed into his sweating hand. “We’ll send a message to his parents.”

  “He didn’t have any damn parents, Hertz.” Loreto reeled himself in. “Now he’s dead.”

  Shifting from foot to foot, Captain Hertz was a cask of a man, brimming with well-fed loyalty. Loreto noticed his friend already perspiring through his uniform, dabbing at his considerable red beard with a cloth.

  “Fletcher’s ready, sir,” said Menels.

  Hertz’s gimlet eyes fidgeted. Every crew member up in the shadows of the bridge watched Loreto carefully, waiting to follow his cue.

  “There’s a dead man out there, Hertz.” Loreto addressed the darkness. “We’d be dead if it wasn’t for that act of raging stupidity.”

  “You know, Richard...” Hertz’s back stiffened, as it did before any controversial thought. “You’d have done exactly the same thing, sir. The right thing.”

  Loreto allowed only a few people to use his first name. A pause hung between them as the bridge turned back to the battle.

  “There’s no right thing, Hertz,” Loreto cursed. “I didn’t ask that boy to kill himself.”

  “He was a man, sir. He made his choice.”

  The ever-moving projection threw a blue glow over both their faces.

  “Fletcher’s ready, sir.” Menels cut through the moment.

  Loreto dipped his chin. His body struggled to process these turbulent emotions.

  “We’ll remember his name, Hertz. Eddie Pale. Don’t let me forget.”

  The admiral’s eyes danced over the dizzying projection and he raised his voice.

  “Put Fletcher through to my quarters. Hertz, take the helm. Don’t let a single ship past us. Remember what that kid gave up. Remember the oath.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” The captain ripped off a salute.

  As Hertz’s words lingered in his ear, Loreto exited the bridge. His footsteps echoed through the metallic, utilitarian corridors. The interior of the Vela felt cramped and he stepped aside numerous times to let runners past. The constant drip-drip of coolant in the distance timed out his walk to the office and tension laced the typical rusted taste in the air. If he had to talk with Fletcher, he damn sure wasn’t going to do it in front of the crew.

  His footsteps echoed around the engine rooms as he snaked his way all the way up to the top of the ship. He knew every zinc-plated rivet and every rattling mezzanine crossover by heart but regret and fascination fought for his emotional attention. There were battles everywhere: inside his thoughts, out there in space, against that officer, Cavs. After a lifetime of waiting, this was finally a war.

  That kid died on my watch, he remembered. Never had Loreto felt so helpless, never had he felt so alive. Cavs was right about one thing, Loreto thought. Any shot fired at a Federation vessel meant an act of war. He held up his gold wriststrap and stood still while the cameras scanned his features. As always, the door stuttered as it opened.

  “I’m ready, Menels.” Loreto slumped behind the desk and hit the comms button. “Connect me.”

  The office was small, a vestige of the ship’s dated design. The claustrophobically ornate ceiling and low lighting made the office feel separate from the ship. Not as big as the admirals’ quarters on other, newer flagships, but he wouldn’t swap it for the world. Loreto waited for the call to connect as it bounced across untold numbers of satellites, through trace gates and colony worlds across half a galaxy. As he waited, he inspected his possessions.

  A stack of projections sat on one side of the room. The squat black boxes contained holo-plate recordings of past battles, allowing him to analyze past victories. The time he’d put down a shipbuilders’ uprising on Breton; the time he’d wrested back control of a rogue trace gate without spending a life; the time he’d hidden behind Jupiter’s moons and ambushed a band of scavengers who’d pillaged a Senatorial envoy; the time he’d lined up the First Fleet above Inca, waiting for Sala Pym to return from a smuggling mission, holding her home hostage. That one made him chuckle–and he still had the scars.

  When an officer had spent enough time on the Vela, Loreto brought them into his office and they ran through the recordings. His running commentary was his closest approximation of a family meal and he searched constantly for the next rising star to groom as a future admiral.

  On the shortest wall hung the physical relics of Loreto’s past. The antique books he collected on war and warriors. Religious tomes and archaic histories made from real paper. The stream of medals had dried up these days but those he’d collected sat in faded boxes. Most importantly, he kept an old ceremonial dagger on a shelf. It had belonged to his ancestor, Rother Loreto, the founder of the First Fleet.

  Richard Loreto took it down and turned it over. The man had been a hero–to him, at least. A villain to many more. Red Hand, they called him. Richard had inherited Rother’s unfortunate nickname as well as his unenviable reputation among the colonies. He searched for bloodstains again. Supposedly, this blade had ended the life of the Clone King of Mars. But the blade was clean and dull, the handle worn and tired. An impractical weapon, even then. Loreto knew what it was to be obsolete.

  Over the years, he’d thought about retiring but could never bring himself to quit. It felt too much like failure. Instead, he was waiting it out, daring his superiors to snatch the dagger from his hand and turn him out of the Fleet by force. Fletcher and all the rest of them, the new president and his awful friends. They had the power now, not him.

  Loreto didn’t care for petty political squabbles. He kept his oath and tried his best to follow orders. But nothing could halt the half-life of his command. Not pride nor obstinance nor determination. Everything ended, eventually. One day, like the dagger, Loreto knew he would be confined to a shelf and forgotten. It had cost him everything, including his marriage, but he had sworn an oath and he knew what he had to do.

  A light blinked, warning him Fletcher was waiting. Impa
tiently, probably. He thought about the man’s face, held the dagger tight and placed it back on its shelf. There was no one else in the universe Loreto wanted to talk to less. Fossil, antique, past it. The man’s insults still stung. He touched the desk and the fuzzy, low-fidelity screen wavered into life. It was hard to make people listen out near the Pale.

  The square head filled the screen, pumped up with vacuous thoughts and bluster. That face, always in the midst of a smug smirk, twitched. A pair of round, muddy eyes sat beneath two thick, short eyebrows. The heavy jaw seemed to drag down the whole face and flatten Fletcher’s cheekbones. In the middle of it all sat a thick, thumb-pressed nose which begged to be broken.

  “What is it, Loreto? I don’t have all day.”

  The man curled out each word, indulging himself with every privileged syllable. Yeah, thought Loreto, he’s still an asshole.

  “Fletcher, listen–”

  “Ahh…” The man raised a stubby finger. “Chief of operations, let’s be specific.”

  Loreto dug his chewed-up nails into his palm, pressing harder as Fletcher’s smile widened.

  “Listen to me,” he said, “we’re under attack. Send help. A huge fleet, Fletcher. I don’t know where it came from–”

  The screen buzzed as the connection frayed.

  “Speak up, Red Hand,” Fletcher chuckled. “Is this another of your little jokes?”

  That goddamn nickname, Loreto’s subconscious screamed. At a time like this.

  He straightened his face. Play too emotional with Fletcher and the man wouldn’t listen. He demanded a certain kind of decorum. An officer’s class, he called it. Another stupid game.

  “Listen, please.” Loreto leaned forward, lowering his head. “This is a Code 10. A Code 11, if we had one. Fletcher, it’s an emergency. I’m uploading everything we’ve got.”

  As he tapped the desk, readying the transfer, he saw Fletcher examine his cuticles.

  “Uh-huh. Red Hand, my boy, is your relic of a ship malfunctioning again? I’ve already warned you, the decommissioning process–”