Keeper of the Sun
By J. Alan Field
Keeper of the Sun
Book Three of the Starhold Series
Book One: Starhold
Book Two: The Rampant Storm
www.jalanfield.net
Copyright © 2016 J. Alan Field
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.
ISBN: 978-0-9908493-3-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, entities, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Yvonne Less
art4artists.com.au
Contents
1: Advent
2: Mannerheim
3: Departure
4: Mission
5: Dialog
6: Connection
7: Torn
8: Reaction
9: Summit
10: Duo
11: Blood
12: Encounter
13: Scandal
14: Dorham
15: Skirmish
16: Complications
17: Allies
18: Scuffle
19: Tezrina
20: Epiphany
21: Showdown
22: Specialists
23: Counterplot
24: Sanctuary
25: Exposed
26: Them
27: Reckoning
28: Partners
29: Homeward
30: Another Sun
31: Cataclysm
For Your Consideration
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to
Adam Horne and Lenae O’Dell
for their assistance.
For Nikki Michelle Cumley
Starhold noun
An area of space, including planets and star systems, which is controlled by its own government; a star-nation.
1: Advent
Presidio Space Fortress
Orbiting the planet Sarissa
2571 CE
“Admiral on the deck!”
As the striking middle-aged woman strode to the heart of the Operations Center, her short platinum hair stood out among the crew as it contrasted against her dark brown skin and navy blue uniform. Nathari Tovar’s hairstyle was a tribute to the Empress, although not everyone in the Imperial Space Force shared the admiral’s support for Her Majesty. Maybe that’s why she was stuck here in the home system while the Sarissan Empire waged war across the stars.
Tovar sat down in the command chair, her eyes locked on the large hologram floating in mid-air at the front of the room. Icons of various shapes and colors flitted about as information flowed from the display like water from a fountain. Everywhere around her staffers busied themselves with their duties. Those not tied to a console scurried back and forth performing various tasks, each dedicated to the safekeeping of the Artemis star system.
“All right, Commander Duncan, I’m here. I hope this was worth cutting short my video conference with the CSO. Give me the sitrep.”
The burly officer standing next to her grimaced. Watch commanders disliked having to call in their superiors, and the mention of the Chief of Space Operations made Duncan look even more uneasy.
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but we have an unidentified vessel which translated from hyperspace just over twenty minutes ago. It’s holding steady at ninety-seven thousand klicks from Tuonetar,” explained the commander, referring to the ice giant that was the eighth planet in the Artemis star system. “Admiral Sykes has ordered ALERTCON Three and is moving Galatea and her escorts to intercept. He has also signaled Khopesh to sortie. Huntress remains on station here at Sarissa.”
“Of course it does,” muttered Tovar as she leaned back in her chair. Supreme Commander Channa Maxon’s flagship, Huntress, hadn’t seen combat in over a year. The mightiest warship in the Sarissan fleet would apparently sit out yet another opportunity for action. What a waste of resources, thought Tovar.
The Artemis System Commander steepled her fingers as she considered the situation. An unidentified ship—this type of thing happened at least once a month. It could be another superfreighter with a malfunctioning transponder. But why would they jump in-system way out there? As she studied the ever-fluid symbols of the tactical display, she was gripped by an uneasy feeling.
“Commander, move the fleet to Alert Condition Two.”
Duncan’s face registered surprise.
“Commander—Condition Two,” she repeated.
“Ahh, yes, ma’am. Moving to ALERTCON Two.”
One short burst of a klaxon signaled the change in security status. Alarm lights at the edges of the room that had been slowly blinking green now switched to yellow. The Op-Center crew was unfazed, going about their jobs as usual. They had become desensitized to apprehension and anxiety. Perpetual war did that to people.
The Empire was now eight months into its latest conflict. Not the war against the Gerrhan Commonwealth—that had ended over a year ago in swift and ignominious defeat for the Gerrhans. Four of their worlds had been annexed by the Sarissan Union to form the Sarissan Empire, and the once mighty Commonwealth was now dust on the winds of history. No, this was a different war against another Renaissance Sector starhold—a foe which had turned out to be unexpectedly stubborn.
Tovar pointed in the direction of the watch commander. “Duncan, have Khopesh return to its regular patrol. Order Galatea to continue advancing on Tuonetar. Sykes and his people can handle this.”
Again, the commander wavered. “But, ma’am, this could be the beginning of a Jangsuvian incursion into the system.”
“And it could also be a diversion,” she replied briskly. “I don’t want all of our heavy assets out of position if the enemy translates a large force in somewhere near the homeworld. See that—”
A staffer interrupted. “Excuse me, ma’am. We have eyes on that bogey.”
The admiral quickly refocused. “Show me.”
The forward holoscreen displayed an image of a spaceship some four billion kilometers away.
“Is this coming from a security drone?” asked Commander Duncan.
“No, sir. We’ve accessed the external cameras of a refinery orbiting one of Tuonetar’s moons.”
Duncan moved closer to Tovar, speaking softly out of the corner of his mouth. “That doesn’t look like any Jangsuvian ship I’ve ever seen.”
“No, it certainly doesn’t,” she answered quietly, her eyes fixed on the picture of the unusual looking craft.
The unidentified vessel had a hue of reddish-brown. Triangular in design, the ship widened from its bow to the large engine ports on its backside. Regularly spaced parallel ridges protruded from the spaceship’s body, as did a spire-like structure beneath the vessel—a ventral fin sprouting out at a twenty-degree angle downward and back toward the stern.
A staffer cleared his throat to gain attention. “Admiral, there is no match to this vessel in any of our databases. It displays no roundels or other markings. Both silhouette and configuration are unknown.”
Tovar leaned forward in her seat. “Ensign, give me an estimate of that ship’s size.”
The young officer’s fingers flicked over his console. “An approximate length of three-hundred meters with a beam just over seventy meters wide, ma’am.”
“Not quite a battleship, but larger than a cruiser,” remarked Duncan.
Another ensign spoke up. “We have a drone in position now, ma
’am. Incoming transmission.”
As a slew of fresh pictures paraded across the screen, Nathari Tovar slowly stood, her eyes transfixed on the images. “Comm Officer, make sure we are feeding all of this material to Admiral Sykes. Tactical, what is Galatea’s ETA on site?”
“One hour fifty-three minutes, ma’am.”
Tovar gave a quick nod. “Comm, get me a secure channel to Admiral Schooler.”
Abruptly, Duncan pointed at the screen. “Something is happening.”
The unknown vessel was releasing smaller objects into space. Before the admiral could ask, her people had already sent faster-than-light signals to their drone, whose camera zoomed in on the spectacle. Commander Duncan started to speak, but Tovar beat him to it.
“Those are shuttlecraft,” she said, taking a few steps closer to the screen. “Sarissan shuttlecraft.”
“Admiral!” called the excited communications officer. “We are receiving an incoming signal. It’s from that ship, ma’am!”
Tovar and Duncan shot each other a quick glance before Tovar spoke. “Put it on-screen, Lieutenant Jabur.”
A face appeared on the viewscreen. The man looked to be of European descent and in his late-thirties, possibly early forties. His appearance was odd however, as his skin seemed to have a yellowish tone. There was something else—the whites of his eyes were also tinted yellow. For an awkward moment, the stranger just glared into the camera, saying and doing nothing. Then, as if prompted by someone off-screen, he began to speak.
“Err, hello, ah—hello. My name is Thomas Hoyt. Does anyone hear me?”
Tovar faced the screen, raised her chin, and placed her hands behind her back. “We hear you Mr. Hoyt. I am Admiral Tovar of the Imperial Space Force. Your vessel is trespassing in Sarissan space. Explain yourself.”
Hoyt looked around in a befuddled manner. He started to say something, but it came out as gibberish. While he was verbally flailing on-screen, Tovar signaled to mute her side of the conversation and addressed an officer seated nearby.
“Medical Officer, something seems to be wrong with this man. Any guesses?”
The Space Force physician cocked his head as he watched the transmission. “He’s clearly disoriented—I’d say he may be in shock.”
Duncan spoke up. “Doc, what’s up with that yellow skin?”
The physician gave a tight, close-lipped smile. “That’s easy—he’s jaundiced.”
Tovar shook her head. “I’m sorry—he’s what?”
“It’s not a condition we see on Sarissa much these days. My guess is that this man’s liver is infected or diseased. He may have hepatitis or leptospirosis. I would have to examine him to make a proper diagnosis. One thing is for sure—this fellow needs medical attention, and he needs it quickly.”
“Admiral, we have a positive ID on him,” put in one of the ensigns. “Thomas Lawrence Hoyt. Voiceprint and initial biometrics confirmed. Sending everything to your pad, ma’am.”
Tovar picked up her datapad and gave the file a hurried glance. When the admiral turned back to the screen, she found Hoyt looking calmer. “Mr. Hoyt, according to this file, you left Sarissa eighteen months ago with the Zevkov Expedition. You’re supposed to be a hundred and sixty light-years away. How is it that you are here?”
Hoyt looked down, as if composing an answer, then raised his head to respond. “I was with the Zevkov Expedition—you know, to settle Beta Corvi Three. But it didn’t, um, it didn’t go as planned. It all fell apart. We lost almost everyone. The planet was hostile—poison. Our crops wouldn’t grow, the climate was deadly—it was a bloody disaster.”
“Where is Roman Zevkov?’ asked Tovar.
“Dead,” said Hoyt, his gaze drifting downward again. “He never made it out of cryostasis. Just one of a thousand things that went wrong. And then we were attacked.”
“Attacked?”
“Yes. Someone destroyed everything we had in space—our ships, our satellites— everything. But, these people, they saved us! They rescued us! There aren’t many of us left—several hundred, but we would all be dead now if it weren’t for them. They brought us home.” Hoyt smiled but was becoming emotional, tears forming in his eyes.
Tovar wanted to press him for answers, but she could tell he was on the edge of collapse. “What people, Mr. Hoyt?” she asked gently. “Whose ship is that? We don’t recognize the configuration. What starhold are they from?”
Hoyt made a twisted face—something between joy and anger. “They brought us home! Our shuttles are disembarking from this ship—they have our people on them, the survivors of Beta Corvi Three. I’ll be on the last one. I promised everyone else that I would stay until they were all safely away. That’s what a leader does, right? Take care of everyone else, be the last man off the ship, that type of thing. I tried my best. I really tried to do my best. I…I…”
Hoyt had broken down, sobbing now. A man from off camera—also with yellowish skin—escorted the leader of Beta Corvi Three away. It was a few moments before someone took Hoyt’s place on-screen, and when they did, the course of human history changed forever.
At the edge of her consciousness, Nathari Tovar was aware of things happening around her only to remember them after the fact. Commander Duncan crumpled into a nearby chair. Someone dropped what sounded like a datatab—she didn’t look to see what it was. Another person spat out a soft curse under her breath—not in exasperation or anger, but in astonishment.
The new face on the screen was humanoid, but not human. There were two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. The eyes were slightly larger than human and the mouth seemed just a bit smaller. Whereas Hoyt had developed a yellowish shade, the alien’s skin was reddish-orange, much like the hull of their ship. The stranger had raised parallel ridges of skin running vertically over his face—or was it a her? The folds extended from the chin all the way up and over the being’s head, each spaced uniformly about two centimeters apart. There was no hair on the stranger’s head or anywhere else for that matter: no eyebrows, no eyelashes. In terms of size, the alien’s skull looked proportionate to a human’s—except it wasn’t human.
The day that humanity had both longed for and dreaded had arrived—First Contact.
As initial encounters went, however, this one was brief. The extraterrestrial said nothing, gave a slight nod, and then the signal terminated. Aside from the ambient sounds of the Operations Center, there was silence until Nathari Tovar spoke.
“Lieutenant Jabur,” she got out before clearing her throat, “get me a secure channel to Fleet Admiral Maxon. Commander Duncan, raise the system security level to ALERTCON One.”
The flashing alarm lights switched from yellow to red.
2: Mannerheim
Heavy cruiser Tempest
Sarissan Imperial warship
Mannerheim star system
Commodore Pettigrew could hear it in the voice of his longtime friend and comrade—an uneasiness. It wasn’t quite fear, but it was close enough.
“Number Three power plant is down!” Uschi Mullenhoff yelled so she could be heard over the din of noise in the engineering section.
“For how long?” asked Tempest’s captain.
Mullenhoff glanced behind her toward an electrician’s mate who raised both hands high, his fingers spread wide. Turning back to the monitor, she took a deep breath. “Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. That last enemy attack redlined our shield generators. We need to replace a conductor coil on Number Three.”
“Our shields, are they stable?”
“Aye, sir—for now, but the longer we tangle with that battleship…”
The cruiser shuddered under a hit from another enemy missile.
“Ten minutes, CHENG. Swoboda out.” The captain of the Imperial Sarissan cruiser Tempest was clearly stressed. He only called Mullenhoff ‘CHENG’—space force jargon for ‘Chief Engineer’— when he was irritated with her. Turning to the man sitting next to him, David Swoboda started to speak, but was cut off.
“I heard, Capt
ain—I heard,” grumbled Chaz Pettigrew.
More than a year ago, Pettigrew had been promoted to the rank of commodore, what would have been called rear admiral in most space navies. By whatever title, he was a flag officer now and flag officers didn’t command a single vessel, they directed multiple warships. In the case of Strike Force Tempest, there were seven: Tempest, one light cruiser, three destroyers, and two frigates.
Pettigrew’s squadron had been in the Mannerheim star system for just over an hour. The Sarissan ships entered the area to check out reports of a secret Jangsuvian supply base on one of the moons orbiting the gas giant Arazmus. They had just launched drones and begun to survey the planet’s thirty-nine natural satellites when an enemy force emerged from hyperspace some eight-thousand klicks away—a Jangsuvian battleship and her five escorts.
“It sure didn’t take them long to close on us,” said Swoboda to his boss. Unlike a battleship, cruisers had no flag bridge, so Pettigrew gave his orders from a command chair that had been installed on Tempest’s bridge, just to the left of his flagship’s captain.
“Their ships are built for speed, not power,” replied Pettigrew as he flipped through a datapad, glancing over the intelligence reports on his new opponent. “That’s one reason I thought we might have some luck getting in a few quick hits.” The ship rocked as another enemy warhead slammed into her hull. Pettigrew looked to the forward viewscreen where a holographic image of his Jangsuvian adversary floated.
CIC had identified the battleship as the Delphic Sword, but that wasn’t really its name. The names of most Jangsuvian ships were unknown, so Central Command had come up with arbitrary designations for the sake of convenience. Some staffer sitting in a comfortable office in the capital had creatively christened the enemy vessel as the Delphic Sword until its real identity was discovered, if it ever was.
Keeper of the Sun (Starhold Series Book 3) Page 1
