by Ralph Prince
RUBICON CROSSING
by
Ralph E. Prince
Rubicon Crossing Copyright © 2018 by Ralph E. Prince. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Ralph E. Prince
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: Aug 2018
Dedicated with love to my wife, Angela, and my children, Desdemona, Seraphim, and Ariel James-Mathew.
And special shout-outs to Ellie Sharrow, who was a friend and mentor many years ago when I needed one most (and still is), and Rachel Harshbarger who gave me the final push I needed to strive to be something more than average.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART 1
CHAPTER 1: The Die is Cast
CHAPTER 2: Awakening
CHAPTER 3: Spectres
CHAPTER 4: Miracles
CHAPTER 5: Electric Sheep
CHAPTER 6: The Asimov Contingency
CHAPTER 7: Strange New World
CHAPTER 8: One Small Step
CHAPTER 9: Encounter
CHAPTER 10: Not So Alien
CHAPTER 11: Native Woman
CHAPTER 12: Not of Our Earth
CHAPTER 13: Hell’s Angel
CHAPTER 14: Old Wounds
CHAPTER 15: A Matter of Sex
CHAPTER 16: Strange Attractors
CHAPTER 17: War and Roses
CHAPTER 18: The Green-Eyed Monster
CHAPTER 19: Confessions
CHAPTER 20: Waiting Out the Storm
PART 2
CHAPTER 1: Stalked
CHAPTER 2: Meet the Family
CHAPTER 3: The Underdwellers
CHAPTER 4: Home, Sweet Home
CHAPTER 5: A Call to Arms
CHAPTER 6: Broken Boy
CHAPTER 7: Under the Gun
CHAPTER 8: To the Rescue
CHAPTER 9: Why Do We Fight?
CHAPTER 10: Unto the Breach
CHAPTER 11: Escape
CHAPTER 12: Against All Odds
CHAPTER 13: Saved
CHAPTER 14: Growth and Evolution
CHAPTER 15: Vigil
CHAPTER 16: Enemies at the Gate
CHAPTER 17: Unwelcome Guest
PART 3
CHAPTER 1: The Leader of the Tants
CHAPTER 2: The Calm Before the Storm
CHAPTER 3: Do Not Go Gentle
CHAPTER 4: The Challenge
CHAPTER 5: Preparing for War
CHAPTER 6: The Sands of Doom
CHAPTER 7: Betrayal
CHAPTER 8: The Hardest Part
CHAPTER 9: Exodus
CHAPTER 10: Legacy
CHAPTER 11: Aftermath
CHAPTER 12: Unexpected Assistance
CHAPTER 13: Band of Brothers
CHAPTER 14: Delays
CHAPTER 15: Change of Plan
CHAPTER 16: Who Watches the Watchmen?
CHAPTER 17: Solo Mission
CHAPTER 18: A Noble Sacrifice
CHAPTER 19: Bombardment
CHAPTER 20: Requiem
EPILOGUE
Rubicon Crossing
PROLOGUE
After nearly a half-century, the war was over, but the wounds were still fresh and bleeding. Dozens of worlds were rendered uninhabitable, and countless species were permanently erased from the universe; the scars would never fully heal.
Little was known about the invaders. They swarmed like locust from the outer fringes of the galaxy, making no attempt at communication. Their migration across the intergalactic void must have depleted their supplies. They were ravenous, devouring everything in their path. They plundered for the sake of acquiring raw materials, without the slightest regard for indigenous life, intelligent or otherwise. Their monstrous mining machines ravaged planets of their resources, leaving them barren wastelands with toxic atmospheres, before moving on to the next.
The first advanced civilization they encountered was the Gris, the eldest of the known races. Benevolent and technologically gifted, the Gris dubbed the invaders Quillans: “bringers of death” in their language.
The Quillan forces were immeasurable, dwarfing any single known race. Their technology was superior to even that of the Gris. They fought without compassion or mercy, killing like a predator gone mad with hunger. Most horrifying of all, the soldiers were not the true menace, they were merely the harbingers.
The architects behind the invasion veiled themselves with armies of crystalline warships and infantry troops, orchestrating the incursions from the safety of their massive control ships. The manufactured drones unquestioningly carried out the orders of their unseen masters, even at the cost of their own destruction.
After their home world fell to the Quillans, the surviving Gris rallied the leaders of the seven most advanced races to combine their military forces. They formed the United Systems Space Force to combat the marauders and protect lesser-developed civilizations. Though unable to halt the advance, the combined forces managed to slow it.
It was a war of attrition. Planetary system after planetary system succumbed to the Quillans’ voracious appetite until of the original seven United Systems, only three were still fighting the war. They were losing.
While resisting forces dwindled in numbers, the Quillans continued adapting and developing newer and smarter drones in greater numbers. Hope of defeating them waned, and desperate measures were taken, all to no avail. By all estimations, barring a miracle, the United Systems would fall in less than a year, and the human occupied systems were next in their path.
Then it ended. More rapidly than they appeared, the Quillans vanished. Their drones receded to parts unknown, not to be seen again. All that remained was the swath of devastation left in their wake, unanswered questions, and the lingering fear of what might happen should they ever return.
PART 1
CHAPTER 1: The Die is Cast
The rhythmic pulsations of the photon engines resounded softly throughout the USSF Nova, like the throb of a forlorn heartbeat. It was a sound that would have passed unnoticed in the light of day, but which seemed thunderous in the solemn stillness of the vessel’s night-simulation mode.
As the wormhole closed behind the small cargo ship, the engines slowed to an idle while the ship’s AI plotted the course of the next jump. Such layovers were frequent and necessary, due to the complex nature of extended wormhole travel. Precise calculations ensured the nil-space tunnel did not pass through, or interact with, stellar material that could rupture it or drastically alter its path. Even with such calculations, a prolonged jump could place the ship hundreds of light-years from its intended destination due to the gravitational currents and eddies of the universe.
Nestled beneath the blanket of dusky twilight, the crew slept peacefully in their quarters. All the crew, that is, except for one. Reclined in his pilot’s chair, his feet propped on the main control panel and his arms folded across his chest, the captain gazed silently, through bloodshot hazel eyes, at the star field displayed on the front viewing screen. His sinewy body, garbed in a snug-fitting dark-blue flight suit, sagged wearily under the weight of three restless nights. His stubbled face was haggard, the deep lines of fatigue lending years to his youthful visage. It was as though his typically rock-solid
features had turned to mud.
Roused from his slumber by a recurring nightmare, he had come to the bridge seeking solace; it was an effort doomed to failure. Dismal thoughts clouded his mind; thoughts of a conflict-filled past, and of a future of unforeseeable horrors. They were not new thoughts to the battle-hardened captain, but tonight they were somehow different. Tonight, they carried with them an underlying sense of impending doom.
For the past five weeks, the Nova’s long-range survey and relief mission had taken her deep into the territory formerly held by the Quillans. The crew of three had been to four formerly occupied planetary systems, searching for survivors and providing what relief they could until larger supply ships could be dispatched. Though only two of the systems yielded remnants of their former civilization, the mission was deemed a success.
Now, their deliveries completed, they were returning to Earth. The course, suggested by their newly installed navigational-tactical agent, had brought them into a scantily explored, seldom traveled, sector of space; and, barring any untoward incidents, would have them home a full week ahead of schedule. So far, the trip had been uneventful.
“Captain Donald Benjamin Garris,” a voice addressed him from behind.
Startled, he spun his chair toward the source of the utterance: the navigation and tactics station. The soft glow of the volumetric holographic display danced with a flurry of diagrams and symbols, as multicolored status lights blinked out of sequence on the operator panel below it. In the dazzling luminance, he could see that the tactical officer’s chair was vacant. Above a circular holographic emitter on the panel, hovered an image of a hairless human head surrounded by a nimbus of light. It scrutinized him quizzically.
The captain’s tension eased as he realized it had been the ship’s intelligent virtual agent that had spoken. “Yes, Nav-Tac,” he replied, taken aback by the synthesized vocalization. The flawless enunciation and intonation of its androgynous voice gave it a disquieting more-than-human quality.
The agent’s pseudo-organic “brain” consisted of billions of carbon-based wetware memory cells, forming a complex bioelectric neuronal network capable of storing virtually limitless amounts of information in the form of electrochemical impulses. The brain was suspended in a nutrient-rich oxygenated liquid that kept it “alive”, while micro-fiber “nerves” interfaced it to the ship’s electronic systems. It wasn’t programmed in the sense that computers were; all its information was learned through visual, audio, or tactile sensations. In structure and function, it was nearly identical to the human brain; and, the ship was its body. In addition to navigational and tactical support, the virtual agent regulated all the ship’s functions from inventory control to life-support. With ease, it carried out a multitude of duties throughout the vessel, from the most mundane to the most critical. Optimally, the Nova needed a crew of six to operate efficiently. With the end of the war, and the installation of Nav-Tac, the crew had been reduced to three, as the agent could, in theory, perform the duties of the entire crew.
“Sir,” continued Nav-Tac, the facial movements of its holographic interface meticulously synchronized to its every word, “it is three hours, forty-two minutes into night-simulation mode, and you are not sleeping. I have observed similar behavior from you on numerous other occasions. Please explain.”
“I’m not tired,” lied the captain, reassuming his reclined posture. He knew Nav-Tac would not understand the real reason behind his sleeplessness. What could it possibly know about human apprehension? The captain couldn’t understand the reasons for it himself.
“Perhaps if you were to take a relaxant,” Nav-Tac suggested. The image of the head took form over the recently installed hologram emitter on the front console between the pilot and co-pilot stations, again startling the captain. “They are in the ship’s stores with the other medical supplies. I need not remind you that sleep deprivation hinders a human’s ability to perform at optimum efficiency.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” replied the captain. “I don’t like taking medication, and I don’t like computers giving me advice I don’t need.” The truth of the matter was he didn’t like computers at all. They proved, in his experience, to be unreliable due to the rigidity of their programming. “Besides,” he added, folding his fingers behind his head, “I want to stay awake for a while longer.”
“I’m not technically a computer,” Nav-Tac proclaimed. “The term ‘computer’ implies quantum mechanical in nature, whereas I am organic in nature. I am, however, interfaced to the ship’s mechanical systems, so it could be argued that I am a hybrotic organism. There isn’t really a classification for what I am, as I am the first, and only, one of my kind. Nonetheless, computer is a completely inaccurate term.
“If you wish,” Nav-Tac offered after a brief silence, “I could implement day-simulation mode on the bridge so you may see more clearly. Human eyes are ill-designed to function adequately in such low levels of illumination.”
“Negative,” replied the captain. “I can see well enough.”
“Perhaps, then,” submitted the virtual agent, “you would like to play out some tactical combat simulations. I have developed several scenarios which should provide an adequate challenge for you.”
“I don’t feel like playing games,” Captain Garris said sharply, becoming slightly irritated by Nav-Tac’s persistence. Even silence was preferable to conversing with a “hybrotic organism”; especially one that mimicked the human thought process. “Resume normal functions, and don’t worry about me. Consider that an order.”
“I am sorry, captain, but I am unable to obey such an order,” it responded. “As the ship’s agent, my primary function is seeing to the safety and well-being of the crew. It is my duty to worry about you. However, if you wish me to cease communication, I will comply. I understand the need for solitude on occasion, even though I am not human such as yourself.”
The image vanished from the emitter near his station, only to reappear at its original position at the tactical station. Casting a ponderous glance over his right shoulder, toward the holographic head, the captain wondered if it had been a trick of his imagination that had given Nav-Tac’s tone a hint of loneliness. The holographic face showed no sign of emotion as the display above it continued cycling through its continuous diagnostic routines. He shrugged off the notion and resumed gazing at the star field, letting his mind wander to other random thoughts.
As time passed, fatigue began to overtake the commander. His eyelids grew increasingly heavy, and his head bobbed repeatedly as he struggled to remain awake. Finally, with a prolonged yawn, he rose from the chair and stretched his muscular arms, causing his weary joints to pop. Making a cursory scan of the ship’s status display board, he found everything to be in perfect order.
“How much longer before we make the next jump?” he asked Nav-Tac.
“I am double-checking my calculations now, as you requested,” Nav-Tac answered without hesitation. “The ship should be underway within the next fifteen minutes.”
“Carry on,” said the captain, nodding in acknowledgement. Raking his fingers through his course dark hair, he trudged slowly toward the opening at the rear of the bridge. Pausing at the exit, he cocked his head and looked back toward the holographic interface.
“What was that?” he asked, referring to an anomaly in the idling engine’s pulsations.
“It was nothing to concern yourself with, Captain Garris,” assured Nav-Tac. “It was just a slight energy fluctuation as I intensified the plasma shields.”
“Plasma shields?” echoed the captain. “Why are you intensifying them?”
“My sensors detected a four percent increase in the gamma radiation level,” replied Nav-Tac. “That is still well within the accepted safety tolerance; however, I compensated with the shields as a precautionary measure.”
“What’s the source of the radiation?” demanded the commander, all evidence of weariness having left him.
“It is apparently background ra
diation,” Nav-Tac reported. “How peculiar….”
“What’s peculiar?” the captain asked, hastily returning to his station. “Be specific.”
“I can find no explanation,” Nav-Tac reported, “but the ship keeps drifting out of position. I have made corrections three times, but I register a 17.4 kilometer starboard variance. There must be a malfunction in the navigational controls; yet, diagnostics indicate all equipment to be in perfect working order.”
Double-checking the navigational status display, the captain confirmed the agent’s findings. “Run a complete sensor scan on the area we’re being drawn toward,” he ordered, “particularly a gravity wave scan.”
“Affirmative,” Nav-Tac responded after a momentary pause. “Sensors detect high intensity gravity waves, abnormally high gamma and Hawking radiation levels, a powerful magnetic flux, high quantities of antimatter, and severe spatial displacement. The readings suggest the presence of an object of great mass; yet, localized scans reveal only empty space. The data suggest the presence of—”
“Sound red alert,” barked the captain, drawing the safety harness over his shoulders and adjusting his chair forward to the control panel. He felt a tingle surge through his entire body as he engaged the neuro-link to the ship’s sensors, effectively merging his nervous system with the ship. “Give me full magnification on the front screen. If I’m right, we could be in deep trouble.”
“Captain Garris,” Nav-Tac said, as the warning horn sounded and the dusky murk gave way to an oscillating crimson light, “we are being drawn directly toward the phenomenon, and our velocity is increasing. I am attempting to offset the acceleration, but to little avail.”
“Prepare to initiate a wormhole jump,” the captain said, intently searching the screen for any trace of the unseen object.
“Sir,” protested the agent, “both our position and heading have changed and my previous calculations are no longer valid. The dangers of employing a jump without precise calculations are great. I will need several minutes to plot—”
