Invasion (Contact Book 1)

by David Ryker

  It was practically a death sentence; everyone on the bridge knew it. She had to know.

  “Affirmative,” she said and the comms fell quiet.

  Still nothing from the Exile ships. After the laser had destroyed one, it turned on the others. These were old enemies, Loreto understood. There’s bad blood between them and I’ve done nothing to help. One scimitar ship remained. It hadn’t moved with the battle and seemed almost distant now.

  They’re losing their bottle, he thought. They’re already thinking of running. Perhaps a suicide pact isn’t the best basis for an alliance. Another mistake, one more to add to the list. But the time for hating himself was later.

  Sliti acted, spinning her Spartan fighters on a dime and diving into the battle. They twisted and turned, their ships a marvel. They fell through the fight like shooting stars. The Symbiot fighters tried to give chase, but collided with rubble and wrecks and found themselves on the wrong end of Sliti’s guns.

  “Hell,” Hertz said aloud. “Thank God we never had to fight them.”

  Loreto snorted. A moment of laughter. It felt alien. The whole battle plummeted incessantly toward Sparta, just as the last line of defense engaged. Ghoulam’s last plan had been to rig his orbital space docks with enough bombs to kill a colony but the Leviathan might just shrug them off. Maybe it’ll at least buy some time for the people on the ground to evacuate.

  “Send the order to open the trace gate,” Loreto told Hertz.

  The captain, one hand tugging anxiously at his beard, opened his mouth. Then he just nodded and sent the order back to the ground, ready for Saito’s approval.

  Loreto watched the crew on the bridge, the hundreds of worried faces lit up by console screens and the projection. The engines weren’t just humming now; they droned and screeched and they squeezed every drop of power they could from the infected ship. It brought them closer to the Leviathan, almost in position. He knelt down and laid his palm flat against the holo-plate floor. His ship, his last chance.

  There was one person left to call as the Vela almost broke free from behind the Leviathan.

  “Cavs.” Loreto spoke into the comms unit quietly. “You ready? Please tell me you’re ready, Cavs.”

  “Aye” was all he said.

  Blunt, Loreto thought, but fair. I don’t have time for guilt now. I’m not his father, I’m his admiral.

  “We’re moving, Cavs. Wait for my command. Study what I sent you. We need this. I don’t need to tell you how much.”

  A sharp intake of breath. “The calibrations…” he began and then stopped. “I can’t repeat myself anymore.”

  “Just hit the targets, Cavs.” The admiral waded in over the anger. “It’s our only chance. I…”

  He paused, wondering whether to say it.

  “Please, Cavs.”

  He cut the call before the kid could respond. The sincerity scratched at his skin. My relationship with him is dead anyway, Loreto mourned. I hope it’s worth it.

  “Move her out!” he shouted, feeling the crew react. “Starboard side! Scan as we go.”

  He knelt down beneath the projection, feeling the shudder rising up through his feet. Even from the other side of the ship, he felt the surge in the thrusters. He felt the engine tremble as it burned more fuel. He felt the ship stretch and struggle, accelerating. He felt every crewmember and their tight breathing and their nerves and their worries and their fears. He felt it all. My ship, he told himself. No matter what alien tech infects her or what anyone else says, the Vela is mine. I know her. I trust her.

  The Spartans whipped around the Leviathan and the laser chased them, snipping at their heels. One fighter turned red. Down. I hope it’s not Sliti, Loreto thought. I can’t lose another one.

  He stalked around the dais, bending his neck and trying to see the Leviathan from every angle. It was monstrous in the way it moved; the skin shivered and tightened, as though it were an animal waking from some great slumber. Hideous and beautiful and horrifying.

  The twilight glow of the projection fell across Loreto’s face. He could feel its seething, twisting energy. The enemy, beyond hatred and horror. His heart beat a storm in his chest, the percussion of fear, the undulating dread he’d never felt before. He stared into the belly of the beast and the machine moved on, uncaring. The Vela edged out to the starboard side and Loreto could not stop staring. Show me, show me. He knew he was desperate, rubbing both temples with his jittery fingers.

  Twisted, knotted welds and strange materials sealed together. Scabbed and gangrenous and glowing and pulsing: Fletcher’s ship, corrupted from the inside to the out. If there was anything left of the old Pyxis, he had a chance. One last shred of humanity somewhere, the buried memory of the man’s arrogance.

  “Where is it?” Loreto said aloud, his frustration breaking free. “They can’t have covered it.”

  The crew were talking. Buzzing. They were telling him everything about the ship and the battle, but he wasn’t listening. The words washed over him, the bore tide of his nightmares abandoning the beach and leaving his rotting hopes behind.

  “I can’t see it, sir,” Hertz’s words broke through. “Are you sure it’s there?”

  “A vent,” Loreto said, his frustration telling. “An exposed vent. Leads right to the engine.”

  Even saying it aloud dragged up a bitter memory from the past. As soon as he’d pointed out the flaw to Fletcher, as he’d laughed and mocked during the meeting, he’d sealed his fate. The man had been so angry, so determined. He’d pushed Loreto all the way out to the edge of the Pale, destroying his career and his future and his legacy. That vent is why I’m here, Loreto knew. It’s why I was stuck out on the edge of space. It’s why I’m an old man with nothing but broken oaths to show for it. It’s why Eddie Pale died. It’s why I was the one standing there, watching while the aliens invaded. It’s why I’m going to end this damn war right now.

  It couldn’t be true, that such a small detail could change the course of everything. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered, not unless he found that vent.

  “Get me closer,” he shouted to the bridge.

  “Sir… sir, we’re dangerously close already,” stumbled Menels.

  “Closer!” Loreto shouted so loud his lungs crumpled. “Get me closer!”

  He gazed up into the projection and the thoughts thundered through his head like scavengers running through trace gates. They flashed around, avoiding inspection. Terrified sentiments. I need to see it’s still there. I need to be right. I need to be vindicated. I need to succeed where Fletcher failed. I need to win. I need to keep my oath.

  They were so close now, slipping up the starboard side of the ship, the Vela scanning the enemy herself, reaching into the nooks and crannies where the Sirens couldn’t see.

  “Where is it? Where is it?” Loreto growled through gritted teeth.

  “Sir…” Menels interjected. “Sir, I think the laser is… moving, sir.”

  The admiral ignored him.

  “Where is it? Where is it?”

  A flurry of chirps and beeps and warnings from the consoles, and Loreto felt his muscles spasm, his arm kicking out, rebelling against the tension.

  “Sir!” Menels asserted himself. “We’re being targeted… sir, it’s moving.”

  “There!”

  Loreto leapt up and ignored the pain shooting through his body.

  “There!” he shouted again, delirious, spotting the vent. “Look!”

  He reached out with his finger, pinpricking the vent and turning it red on the projection. Marking it for death.

  “Cavs,” he shouted. “Cavs, hit it hard. Whatever we have left. Right now.”

  The Vela creaked and groaned. The laser moved. The orbital stations lurked, ready to detonate. The guns fired. A wild, thundering shudder surged through the ship. Loreto held his ground.

  “Again, Cavs!” he shouted. “Hit it again!”

  He studied the projection, his eyes firmly focused on the vent. Nothing wa
s happening. The cannons were missing. The Vela creaked and ached with the effort. The target was tiny, but a healthy ship would hit it. His damn calibrations…

  “Please, Cavs,” Loreto shouted. The guns would be overheating, he knew.

  No response from the gunnery office. The midship cannons fired again. Maybe if we had our forward guns, Loreto thought. But he chased away the idea. It didn’t help. He laid a hand on the holo-plate to steady himself, kneeling down and looking up. The dark bridge surrounded him, a cathedral of his own design. His crew watched, worried.

  “Laser activating,” said Menels and the admiral could hear how scared he was.

  “Sir,” said Hertz, “Maybe we should alert the orbital–”

  “Fire again, Cavs!” Loreto shouted and drowned them out. “Everything. Drain the boosters, the thrusters! Drain the shields! Take power from everywhere and drive it into the guns!”

  “Sir,” Hertz approached him. “We’ll be shot to pieces in seconds. The laser, sir…”

  “Power to the guns!” Loreto shouted. Calibrations be damned. They were close enough accuracy shouldn’t matter. Volume could suffice. Coat the vent in everything.

  “Laser moving,” said Menels as he backed away from his console. There was nowhere left to run. “Will hit us in 10… 9…”

  “Sir,” Hertz said quietly. The softness in his voice made Loreto turn. The captain raised a hand in salute. “It’s been a pleasure, sir.”

  Loreto looked into the man’s eyes and saw the sad acceptance, the failure of the mission. The breaking of their oath. He gazed around the bridge in a moment of stillness and saw the same grief in every face. They’d all felt it. They’d all been shattered and broken. I’m not alone, Loreto realized. We’re in this together. He returned the salute. Hertz dropped his chin on to his chest, stroking his beard with a worried hand.

  “6… 5…”

  Come on, Cavs, Loreto pleaded. Come on. Shouting out orders wouldn’t help anymore. Wasted oxygen, but they’d be ripped apart in seconds. Save your breath, Red Hand. He closed his eyes, imagining that he could feel every movement throughout his Vela. He felt the cannons pause for a moment. Recalibrating. Moving. Adjusting target. He felt them pick up again. The shudder. The violent shudder. Shot after shot, hitting into the shields of the skeleton ship.

  Aim for the port, he thought. The weak point. Fletcher’s damn arrogance never sealed it. The Symbiot wouldn’t know. He opened his eyes. The paleness of the projection greeted him. The Pyxis was almost past them. They floated, engines cut, alone in the eye of the battle, next to the still-beating heart. Nothing was happening. Failure. Again.

  Kneeling on the dais, looking up into the ghostly shapes, Loreto saw it all. The smallness of the vent. The drifting patter of the cannon fire hitting everything else. The pulsing, throbbing evil of Fletcher’s dead ship. He watched and there was nothing else he could do.

  A shot landed. The vent flamed for a moment and the fire choked out.

  “There!” Loreto jumped up. “You saw that? Anyone?”

  No one had been watching. The cannons fired again and again. They hit the target again and again. The vent wrinkled and furrowed.

  “3.. 2…”

  Loreto held his breath. He could only watch. The world around him died and left him alive at the center but he knew it continued around him. The Spartan ships were dying. Blinking out of existence. The Exiles were fleeing. That was how they lived. The laser was swinging round, ready to end the Vela, ready to end the last hope the humans had.

  He glared at the projection, daring the universe to change. The cannons had hit, he’d seen them.

  One of the metal surfaces which covered a section of the Symbiot ship began to ripple. A burst of flame blew out of an exhaust outlet, instantly swallowed by the vacuum. Loreto held his hand over his mouth, feeling his hot breath, feeling his stomach churn. He’d risked everything. The ripple spread. Vents blew out short-lived flames. The laser vanished.

  “It’s exploding!” Hertz barely managed more than a whisper but everyone heard him. “It’s exploding from the inside!”

  Loreto didn’t waste a second. He ran to Menels.

  “Power back to the shields. Quick!” He shot a look over his shoulder to the ghostly image of the exploding ship. “Engines, too. Get us out of here. Now!”

  The man didn’t waste any time. The spell of silence which had been cast over the bridge shattered. Everyone moved at once. Shouting. Yelling. The Vela rumbled to life. The cannons stopped. The engines started.

  “Full rear thrusters,” Loreto shouted. “Put us in reverse!”

  The Leviathan ship continued, drifting dreadfully forward toward Sparta. Every inch of it was shaking and Loreto knew it was dead. But he didn’t want to be near when it died.

  The Vela lurched backwards as the Symbiot vessel began to stretch away. The Leviathan exploded and Loreto saw it in slow motion. The ship seemed to break in two, the midpoint filling with fire and fury. He convinced himself that he could see every scrap of dust, every shard of metal, every rivet and every bolt and every wire and every piece of corrupted scabbery which held the damn thing together. He could see it all, all at once. Dragging in tight and then bursting outwards.

  The bridge rattled and turned to the side. The gravity struggled to adjust. The shockwave from the explosion quaked everything around them. Loreto rolled off the dais and into the darkness. He stood up to see the Leviathan, Fletcher’s ship, born again. He saw it die.

  “Look,” cried Hertz. “The Exile ships are coming around.”

  Loreto saw their ship circling. Their last remaining battlecruiser swept around the battle and passed through it now, dicing up the Symbiot ships as if they were nothing. The dart-shaped fighters didn’t stand a chance under the scimitar’s guns. The corrupted human ships fell with them.

  The battle might be won, Loreto dared to think.

  The Symbiot ships, what was left of them, regrouped. They clustered together, aiming their swarm away from Sparta, and Loreto saw it all. There was no sound. No taste in his mouth. There was hardly anything else but the flickering lights before his eyes as the enemy fighters chased right into the path of the Exile ship. Red dots littered the projection. Kills.

  “A few got through,” Menels said.

  Loreto followed them. They’d broken out through the rear of the fight and they flew away from Sparta, escaping out into the dim reaches of space. It was cold on the bridge. There was no warmth to victory.

  Loreto had expected a warmth, a sense of accomplishment or joy. All he had was relief and tiredness and every pain he’d endured recently flooding back through his body all at once. He was alone, crouched on the floor. Then he heard the cheering.

  “We won!” Hertz danced around. The lights lifted on the bridge. “We won!”

  The crew shouted and twirled, delighted. Menels grabbed Cele and swung her round in his skinny arms. Hertz leaned against a wall and mopped at his sweat-soaked beard, a huge smile spreading across his face. There was nothing else for them to do. The emotions, bottled up so tightly, unleashed all at once.

  But Loreto didn’t stand. He felt the cold metal of the Vela under the palm of his hand. His ship, his crew, his sacrifices. Eddie Pale. The name wouldn’t leave him. Eddie Pale and all the others. One day, he would find time to learn their names.

  Behind closed eyes he worried about Jimmy Cavs. He worried about the Spartans. He worried about the Exiles, chasing away the Symbiot behind the nearby sun as though they were the dogs of eventide. He worried about everything he’d lost, and he worried that nothing would ever be the same. He had everything he had ever wanted but the cost seemed unassailable.

  The applauding and cheering and shouting were loud. A blanket of heavy noise. He wished he could join them. The sound, it seemed, of redemption.

  Redemption, sure, he thought. But at what cost?

  He felt the cold floor of the Vela and tasted the victory burning through his tongue. A saccharine delight. Admiral Lor
eto stole a smile.

  36

  Hess

  Was this the world I wanted?

  Acton Hess stood at the back of the crowd. Around him, wounds were still open. The medics had repaired what they could. They’d stitched skin and set bones. Emotional holes, though, would never heal.

  The crowd was thin. The dead were present, unmentioned. From the rear, Hess saw over the heads of the hundreds of people—thousands—gathered in a Spartan square. Smoke rose up over the mountains. The falling wreckage had left its mark. The battle had come to them.

  At the front, almost too far away to see, was Admiral Richard Loreto. The war hero, the brilliant strategist. The man who had saved humanity. Hess had heard all angles in the last few hours, the different ways the story was being written by the victors.

  A crowd of thousands, he thought. Gathered around a distant platform. They were angry, their muscles tensed and ready to rise up, conditioned by the loss of their loved ones. This was what victory looked like. Hess listened to the speech. He heard talk of honor and duty and compassion. Well-rehearsed words which would reach far, right into the hearts and minds of the intended audience.

  Alien emotions, Hess decided. This did not feel like an end, a great and final victory. This felt like the start of something greater. Something worse.

  “We mourn the dead.” Loreto’s words reached him, carried by loudspeakers placed around the square as the admiral began to name names. People. Ships. Colonies. “We have to tell people what happened here, we have to let the memories of our heroes endure.”

  The idea made Hess laugh. He knew the Senate too well to imagine that they’d send these stories untouched into the rest of the Federation. The nameless men below the Alcázar would edit and arrange and present this history in their best possible way. Men would be made heroes. Truth would be made to tremble.

  What did the Senate have to gain from a great victory? All he could picture was Van Liden, sitting in his dark room, making plans. They controlled everything; this would be no different. No colony kid, burdened under their heavy yoke, would know how much his life had changed in the last few days.