The Coming Storm_A Pax Aeterna Novel

by Trevor Wyatt

  “Look, Commander Gaines,” he said. “You’re not the first person who’s come up to tell me that my repairs take too long. You’re not even the highest ranking person who’s come up to me telling me my repairs take too long. Let me ask you this. You want me to put together a half ass job so that when you go out there and fight the blue skins you end up falling apart faster and having to limp back and I got do this job all over again?”

  Ashley was silent.

  “Or do you want me to do a good job, get your good deflector screen upgrades, so that when you fight those fuckers and kick their ass, you don’t have to come crawling back to the station—if it’s even around—to get an upgrade?” he finished.

  A part of Ashley had to be absolutely honest: the engineer made a very good point. But the key statement in that entire diatribe that stuck out to her was whether the station was still going to be around the next time they come back.

  It had been a long war. The destruction over the last five years had been unprecedented—even to The Seeker. They were doing with an upgraded battle cruiser using the name nowadays. An encounter at New Sydney six months after the fall of Davos II had led to the destruction of the old frigate. She couldn’t say that she didn’t like the new ship, but a part of her sometimes missed the old one. It had become home after a lot of years.

  “16 hours is fine,” the commander finally said. “There’s a problem with the inertial dampers too. Think you could take a look at that while you’re under the hood?”

  “You got it,” he said to Ashley and started inputting orders into his tablet.

  “How many ships are in the queue?” Ashley asked. He looked at her and gave her a rueful smile.

  “You don’t even want to know,” he said with a chuckle. “Fix up one, another three get in line. But I guess it’s better for them to come back damaged than not come back at all.”

  The engineer had a point. At the very beginning of the war, the number of Terran Union ships that it took to bring down one Sonali vessel was staggering. It seemed like every ship that they had was ill-equipped to fight the graceful and superior design of the Sonali. There were encounters where it took five ships to bring down one Sonali vessel.

  But that wasn’t to say that the scientists and the corporations didn’t do their damnedest to try to even those odds. Three years ago, during one of their largest offensives, humankind finally began to hold their lines. And not just hold their lines, but turn the tide.

  But the cost of resources? The cost of manpower? All those people for 2 ½ years who died just to halt an invasion?

  That could never be recovered.

  It had been a long war, and not just for their crew. For the first time ever, the rebuilding of the planet Earth was put on hold to ensure the survival of humanity.

  Not that there hadn’t been some good that had come out of it. For the first time, the Outer Colonies, seeing Earth at the losing end of a war and facing extinction, finally began moving towards a path and towards meaningful diplomatic contact.

  For Ashley, it was surprising to hear; she was someone who had only known the Outer Colonies as belligerent isolationist, and uninterested in anything to do with the Terran Union. But for the first time, emissaries were arriving on Earth to begin the process of opening a dialogue.

  Where the dialogue was going, Ashley didn’t know. That was beyond her pay grade. But what she did know was that if there was some meaningful progress on that front, then maybe there was hope for them as a species in surviving this.

  “I’ll start working with the dock master to get the ship detailed and ready to go in the next two days with all the things we talked about,” the engineer said to her.

  Ashley nodded. Her mission while the crew was docked at the station was to make sure that the battle damage The Seeker suffered got repaired to the best of this station’s abilities.

  She knew that not everything was going to get fixed. The inertial dampers, like she said, were shot. The molecular resequensor only worked at limited capacity. The captain had diverted all nonessential energy toward weapons and critical ships functions. The last firefight that they were in ravaged the sick bay but they had to make do. In order to repair it, they needed a full crew to detail out the sick bay and that would shelve them for at least two weeks.

  They didn’t have two weeks.

  They needed to be out there, in space, fighting the Sonali, defending the innocent—before they ravaged humankind more.

  Ashley was about to end her impromptu meeting with the stations engineer when she spied Jeryl walking toward her. His face was careworn, as if the weight of the galaxy was hanging on his shoulders. It sounded like an exaggeration but it really did seem like that, she thought.

  The war had been particularly hard on him. He was the captain that carried out the first contact with an alien race, the one who’s actions led directly to five years of brutal war. It couldn’t be easy.

  Ashley tried to talk to him about it several times but he never opened up.

  Jeryl walked up to her, and the engineer saluted. She realized that she had gotten so used to being his wife that she often forgot all the considerations when they were out amongst others.

  But then again, this was an impromptu meeting. She saw the engineer walking, and she side-lined him, dragging him toward the bay windows overlooking deep space. That was where she had started hounding him and harassing him about when they would get the repairs done.

  It was a good thing she did, or else they’d be here for three or four days getting critical repairs done…Or, like some ships she knew, it would be sent back out without being able to get anything fixed.

  “How’d it go?” she asked as Jeryl looked at her.

  “We have new orders,” he said to her.

  “Anything fun?” Ashley asked, trying to put a mischievous smile on her face.

  She needed to try to lighten his mood; there was too much gloom and doom going around.

  No surprise there with several billion dead staring down at you, she thought.

  Although, Ashley had to admit that a part of her was a little bit happy. Why? Because for the first time in a long time, the Armada was looking outwards. It was upgrading.

  Only the strong amongst them survived.

  For the longest time, no one in the Armada knew what real conflict was like. Sure, little border skirmishes with the Outers, helping some corporations chase down some pirates.

  But a real war?

  This is going to stay with us for life, Ashley thought. And yes, that’s a bad thing. But somehow, it’s also a good thing as it teaches us to treasure the time that we have.

  But what does that do internally? she couldn’t help but wonder. What damage did that do to the democratic institutions and the things that the Terran Union has enshrined in its society?

  Their president was elected every six years. Three years ago, they had a new one who was elected at the height of defeat. Three years from now and it would be time for him to step down as well if he lost re-election. But if by then, this war was still going on, would he? Will there be a peaceful transition of power at the highest halls of the Terran Union?

  Sighing, Ashley let her gaze fall down to her hands, and then to the golden band on her finger. It caught the bright lights of the hangar, and Ashley saw her distorted reflection in there, as if her soul were trapped inside.

  It had been a long war. But at least we’re together.

  There was no more of the awkwardness about what happened back in New Sydney, she realized.

  But how will this war test our marriage? And what will I do if Jeryl dies?

  “Depends on what you think is fun, Ashley,” Jeryl said, bringing her back from her reverie.

  “The Seeker’s gonna be leading a group of starships as part of a new offensive,” Jeryl said. “We’re going to be making a major one. This is the Wolf Offensive the people have been waiting for—and our ship’s gonna play a critical role.”

  She could see t
he engineer and his ears perked up. The last couple of weeks all anyone could talk about had been the Wolf Offensive. Designed by Mortimer Wolf of Armada Intelligence, this offensive was supposed to be something big. No one knew what it was, but they did know that it was supposed to be a game changer.

  “I need you to be battle ready in 24 hours, and I’ll debrief you then,” Jeryl told her, maintaining formality in front of the engineer. “At the temporary quarters on the station.”

  “I’ll actually have the deflector screens repaired, a new complement of torpedoes ready for you, and the inertial dampers stabilized so that they don’t give you any trouble anymore in 12 hours,” the engineer said both to Jeryl and Ashley. “When your ship goes out in the battle, she’ll be ready.”

  Ashley nodded, smiling at the sudden importance The Seeker had taken on in the engineer’s queue for repairs.

  “Great,” Jeryl said with a sigh. But before Ashley could say anything back, he turned around and walked to the elevator.

  “He’s a legend,” the engineer breathed, almost to himself.

  She nodded. After discovering the Sonali, dealing with them, and leading many of the campaigns of this war, Jeryl Montgomery very well might be a living legend.

  But she knew him better to know what he really was: the first casualty of the Earth-Sonali War.

  Admiral Flynn

  Flynn had always known that war was never pretty.

  After almost destroying themselves, it was almost ironic to think that the demise of the human race might happen at the hands of an alien race. Flynn wanted nothing more than to serve his final years as an Armada Admiral and perhaps enjoy a comfortable retirement back on Earth. Or maybe New Sydney. OR Elysium. There had to be at least a dozen worlds with good climates he could go to and relax his last years on.

  The money he had saved (and never had the time to spend) would be enough for him to spend the rest of his days drinking imported liquor from the Atuar colony while nodding off at one of these pink-colored beaches.

  The Sonali respected nothing, though—and that included his retirement plans.

  Standing in his office, directly adjacent to the center of operations of the Edoris Station, he placed his hands behind his back and looked out the curved window. Outside, the vastness of space seemed to call to him—it whispered the name of four billion dead, a legion of souls lost in a conflict no one saw coming.

  The entire office was rugged in a deep blue, stern and uninviting. Hanging behind the desk was the giant emblem of the Terran Armada, a red eagle with fierce beaded eyes encircled by stars. The massive window looking out into deeper space was behind Flynn’s sprawling desk that served more of a work station. On the other end of his office, opposite from his desk was the entrance; past that door was a small anteroom where his secretary was stationed.

  To the right was a couch arrangement and a small central table. A few years ago, seated on those couches were diplomats and politicians—nowadays it was always high-brass military men. When the politicians wanted in on those meetings, Flynn would use the conference room one deck below.

  To the left was another door that led directly into the Station Control Center (SCC). That was where everything about the ship was run. And in the case of an emergency, the SCC was where the commands to fire or evade would be given.

  A shelf by the right wall displayed all his laurels and awards. Trinkets, the way Flynn saw it. A man’s worth wasn’t measured in badges, but at least they proved that he was no a desk jockey who rose through the ranks in the Armada by pushing papers.

  Flynn was battle tested. Battle hardened.

  When Captains and Commanders came in, they knew they weren’t dealing with a bureaucrat. Flynn was every bit the man the Armada pandered about, even if he never cared about all that bolstering. He was not a wash out, not a flunkie, unlike some other admirals, whose positions were political rather than strategic or tactical.

  Sinking down onto his chair, he let his gaze fall on the stack of reports sitting there, most of them belonging to Captain Montgomery.

  Jeryl was almost like a son to Flynn. An interesting fact, considering that he never had a son to call his own. But Jeryl was someone he saw himself in. His impulses, his reasoning, his ability to function under pressure. He had never seen such cunning and talent in any other fleet captain since he became captain. It wasn’t that they never had great captains; they did.

  But Flynn was yet to see anyone who combined a host of excellent qualities in the pursuit of their duties as officers in the Terran Armada. He had never told him all this, of course, but the trust Flynn had in Jeryl had always been a factor in his decision process.

  They had seen shared horror together. Flynn still remembered the months after the fall of Davos II. Jeryl had proven competent and strong.

  “Admiral, you have a slipstream call from Admiral Walker,” the communications officer said over Flynn’s comm link.

  “Right. Patch him in,” he said, stowing away the papers.

  Admiral Walker materialized right in the middle of his office. It was a live size three-dimensional rendering of the Admiral. Walker was dressed smartly in the overall of a five-star Armada admiral, his hands folded behind him. He had a white moustache and despite the deep carved lines in his face, he possessed the vitality of a man in his prime. With more than ten years on Flynn, Walker still looked fierce enough to chew off a Sonali battalion all by himself.

  “Admiral Walker, sir,” Flynn said with a firm nod by way of greeting.

  “Flynn,” he nodded curtly.

  “The Wolf Initiative has begun,” Flynn told Walker, doing his best to read the expression on his face. Like always, it was a completely blank page. Flynn doubted the man knew the meaning behind the word emotion.

  “Captain Jeryl has been briefed about it, and given command of the other Captains in his section of the fleet.”

  “Captain Jeryl,” Walker whispered, his unblinking eyes never leaving Flynn’s. “You think he’s the man for the job?”

  “I do,” Flynn replied, letting the mere tone of his voice do the job.

  Walker didn’t need an explanation. He was more than aware of everything Jeryl had done during the war. Captain Jeryl Montgomery made his name as the Captain that discovered alien life, but he didn’t stop there. Instead of resting on his laurels, he was instrumental to the war effort. Commanding a retrofitted version of The Seeker, he had been through the thick of it all.

  Children all across the galaxy had heard his name, thought Flynn. Who hasn’t? The months after Davos II were rough, but they were unprecedented in their manifestation of human rage. After the battle for the Chartly star system Jeryl became a household name. Commanding The Seeker, he outmaneuvered a Sonali Dreadnaught responsible for downing more than ten of their ships.

  The Spartan, as the young recruits liked to call it, was a Sonali ship responsible for the destruction of too many ships in their fleet. Up until it clashed with The Seeker, The Spartan had a track record of all kills.

  Every battle it fought in, it won.

  Every ship it met with, it destroyed.

  Then it met The Seeker and its Captain.

  Six months after that, and Jeryl made the headlines again with his capture of the Sonali Main Forward Base, just outside the Edoris Star System.

  Flynn didn’t know what the Sonali called it. But what he did know was that they planned most of their attacks through it. They re-supplied their ships operating in enemy space through it. Ground invasions that occurred were staged in the systems on this planet.

  Three months stalemate between the Sonali and their forces had gradually enveloped both powers. Many ships had been destroyed. Billions of lives on both sides…too many lives had been lost. The Sonali were winning, albeit in trickles.

  Then came the upgrades.

  Their counter-offensives.

  Armed with a combination of trickery, skill, and sheer brute force power, and spearheaded by Jeryl Montgomery, they were able to cra
ck up the Sonali tight defense, which gave the remaining fleet the opportunity to mount a potent offensive that obliterated the Sonali trying to make a run into the Edoris Sector after the devastation that haunted the Davos Sector.

  “Sir, Captain Montgomery has been doing a good job,” Flynn continued, filling the silence in the room. “I want to put in a recommendation for him to be promoted to a Vice Admiral in charge of Edoris Theatre of Operations.”

  Walker seemed to agree. He nodded his head, his eyes still on Flynn’s.

  “Noted. Do send in an official recommendation. I will take it up with the board and consider it.”

  “There’s something else I have been thinking about,” said Flynn. He let his gaze wander out into the coldness of space.

  “This war has opened up a lot of avenues for us to grow in military strength and power. Many people who have joined the Academy, and we now have soldiers with nothing but military experience. Don’t you think this will cause the other vital aspects of our community to atrophy? Aspects like science, exploration…?”

  Sighing, Flynn clasped his hands behind his back and returned his gaze back at Walker. “We’re more than just warriors.”

  “War doesn’t always go well for humans,” Walker replied. “Or for anyone. Do we like it? No. Can we help it? No. So what do we do?”

  “We focus on what we can do, which is winning the war,” replied Flynn. “Because the sooner we win this war, the earlier we can all go home or pursue the areas that we came out into space to do.”

  “This final offensive needs to be so effective that the Sonali will have to come to the negotiating table. We want them to negotiate a truce, or at least an armistice. We can’t keep this war going for much longer. We don’t have a conscription policy in the Terran Union, and frankly I know many planets will rebel and break away if there were,” Walker said.

  “How bad is it right now?” Flynn asked.

  “Bad,” was all Admiral Walker said.

  “If we don’t start making some material gain from this conflict, which you and I know is a rare possibility…and if we don’t gain some momentum, then we’ve just delayed the inevitable. We’re exhausted, Flynn, and we estimate that we will be defeated in under a year. That damned Armada Intelligence report – I know you’ve seen it – was spot fucking on. I don’t have to remind you, then, how important this planned final offensive is. The continued survival and freedom of the Terran Union depends entirely on this operation.”