by Trevor Wyatt
I take my seat, my agents spreading out through the gathering. I look around the coliseum at the faces all staring at me. I look among their ranks up to the last topmost level. They are all looking at me, wondering about the decision I will make.
I am sitting directly facing the lectern. This is how the coliseum is designed. Since I’m the one making the decision at the end of the day, the most important person here is me. Half of the Admirals are present, while the others are present via slipstream. Their holographic projections occupy physical sots in the coliseum.
Roughly three fourths of the members of the Terran Council are present. Many Corporate Council members are also present, especially members of the different committees that have to do with war, the Armada and galactic security. A lot of senior captains in the Armada are also present, some of whom are present via slipstream.
I look around for the Captain Montgomery and find his holo-projection all the way at the back. He’s observing me with keen interest.
He will forever be remembered as the man who made first contact. If I screw this up, I will be remembered as the man who destroyed the Terran Union because I’ve already concluded in my mind that we can’t fight them.
The Speaker of the Terran Council is also around. He’s a short Asian man with a fierce look and does not particularly have love for me and my policies. He and I are always at odds and never see eye to eye on any issue. He’s making a move for the Presidency next year and so has been putting all his effort into undermining my presidency and trying to prevent me from going for a second term.
I nod at him and he nods back, looking at me briefly over the thickly rimmed glasses that sits on the bridge of his nose. He’s several yards to my right on the front row as well—only his chair is not as magnificent and prominent as mine, even though he’s chair is more prominent that the others in the room.
“Let us begin,” I say. The computer in the room automatically amplifies my voice so everyone can hear me.
Josef Ivanovich is completely dressed in his full military regalia, so is every commissioned officer in the room. He mounts the lectern with a tablet.
“Less than three hours ago,” he starts, “Captain Jeryl Montgomery and the crew of The Seeker were on a fact finding mission to discover what had gone wrong with a science vessel The Mariner, which the Armada had dispatched to the Beta Hydra III quadrant of space a few light years away from the Edoris Space Station.
“Instead, they found this,” he ends, then presses a button on his tablet.
The clip lasts a full thirty minutes and spans the entire duration of the contact, right from when the ship sees the alien vessel through when they decode their language through a series of mathematical hullabaloo till when they are able to hail them and speak.
I can see the reaction of the people around when they first saw the massive ship and how The Seeker, which I’m told is one of the exploratory frigates in the Armada, is tiny compared to the alien vessel. I can also see the fear that sweeps through the room when the blue-skinned, slit-eyed monster appears on the screen.
Monster may be too harsh of a word, but I can’t help making comparisons to the creatures that appeared in my dreams. Maybe God is trying to warn me of these aliens by showing me that dream.
The exchange is very incendiary and ends with a brash threat to us. Captain Jeryl makes a wise decision to leave the system, but then the question still remains. Did these guys destroy our ship, The Mariner? The evidence is overwhelming that they did. If they did, then they have to pay for it. They have to be punished.
However, from the defiance in the eyes of Ghosal, that alien ship captain or legate or whatever rank he held suggested that they didn’t think it anything to brazenly open fire on a Terran Union Ship and reduce it to a pile of debris.
“Captain Montgomery?” Admiral Josef calls.
Captain Jeryl’s holographic projection flickers, vanishes, and then appears on the lectern. He’s talking the moment he is on the stage, the computer amplifying his voice in the room.
“They call themselves the Sonali,” he says. “They are brash, proud and heavily armed. They are also well advanced…more advanced than we are. However, from the evidence and their threats, I believe they are responsible for the destruction of The Mariner. I think they need to admit this and make reparations. Or at least, explain to us why they did it. Whatever the case, we need to respond to this strongly and not show weakness.”
Before I speak, the room erupts into arguments. I allow the argument go on to at least know the different sides of the issue. Many of the Council members are suing for a diplomatic solution, while virtually all the Admirals and Ministers—the executive staff—are suing for a military approach.
I notice that the Speaker is quiet as well. In my periphery vision, I can see he’s watching me.
“What are our options?” I ask, immediately causing the entire room to fall into silence. “Captain?”
I know I should ask the Admirals. However, at times like this I want to talk with the man on the scene, the one who faced off the alien so brilliantly.
“Sir, these Sonali probably gunned down a vessel with more than twenty Terran Armada officers,” Jeryl says, his voice thick with anger. “We cannot allow that to go unpunished. If we do, we are telling this race that we’re weak. What if they don’t stop there?”
I’m quiet as he continues. “The Mariner had no offensive capabilities. By destroying a harmless exploratory ship, they have demonstrated a capacity for unprovoked cruelty. If we don’t put our foot down on this and do so with force, then we will be inviting by inaction a subjugation that will spread through our space.”
“I disagree!” shouts a Councilwoman. “These are just mere assumptions. Perhaps if you had been less brash, the alien would have invited you to their home world for a diplomatic parlay.”
And the argument starts again.
Jeryl Montgomery remains silent, watching me. I am looking right back at him.
“Order,” the Speaker says. The room slowly comes to a silence.
“Mr. President,” the Speaker says. “It will be a brash decision to send our military forces to the Sonali people demanding for reparations for a crime we are not sure they committed.
“We have to be smart about this. The Sonali aliens have advanced weaponry…”
“We don’t know that for a fact,” the Minister of Defense interjects.
The Speaker waves his comment away, saying, “They have larger ships. We are forgetting that this is a historic moment for the human history. Let us not forget that we have just learned that we are not alone in the universe. Don’t let the destruction of one ship taint our image of a species we are yet to understand…”
I zone out of the Speaker’s pacifist speech. Anger burns on the faces of the some, including on that of the Commander of the Edoris Space Station, Admiral Flynn.
After the Speaker’s speech and suggestion to send a diplomatic envoy to the Sonali to negotiate with them, the arguments begin again. This time it’s heated as tension, anger and fear spread across the room.
“Silence!” I yell finally.
The room goes quiet.
“Admiral Flynn,” I say, calling the man’s attention to me. He’s on the second row of chairs on the opposite side of the room where most of the Admirals are seated.
“Yes, sir,” he says, rising to his feet.
“You are the one in command of that region of space,” I say. “It was you who sanctioned The Mariner’s exploration. It was you who sent The Seeker. What do you recommend?”
Admiral Flynn thinks about my question for a full minute. Then he says, “I agree with Captain Montgomery that we cannot sit idly by and let our ships be destroyed without provocation by this alien force, neither can we sit down and do nothing about The Mariner’s destruction. We owe it to the officers of The Mariner to avenge their deaths.
“I also agree with the Council Chairman that we cannot rush into Sonali space guns blazing. We
have still yet to understand them. Perhaps, until they admit to killing The Mariner, we really don’t know.”
“So, what are you saying?” I ask.
“I suggest we meet halfway,” he says. “I suggest we send more ships to the nebula to gather more intel. I suggest we go well prepared to fight, but also with the mission of opening a dialog with the Sonali. I suggest we go with a retinue of diplomats, so if we are asked to come to their home world for talks, we will be ready.”
There is a silence.
I think about it, poking holes at it from all angles. It stands my mental appraisal.
“How long can your fastest ships get there?”
“The Maverick, The Aurora and The Celestia are all ready to go sir,” he replies. “I can move eleven more ships to accompany then. All we need is a detachment of diplomats from New Washington. We can have a full flotilla of 14 starships ready in three days, sir.”
“Let the record show that I strongly advice against this cause of action,” the Speaker of the Terran Council vocalizes.
I only roll my eyes and say, “Do it, Admiral. And keep me posted.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies.
I rise to my feet. “This is it, people. We may very well be on the cusp of something really great or something really terrible. I hope it’s the former, but it’s not in our hands. It’s in that of the Sonali. May God help us.”
With that, I end the meeting.
I am ferried back to the State House, where I am informed that someone has leaked the news of the attack on The Mariner by aliens to the public. I spend the rest of the day putting out fires and talking with several governors across Terran Union space that there’s nothing to be worried about. Later that evening, I go on galactic slipstream to publicly condemn the news that was leaked earlier in the day and to dispel rumors that the Terran Union is facing an impending alien invasion.
I go on to reassure the Terran people that the Terran Union government as well as the Terran Armada is well able to protect every colony world and that we are going to keep on striving to ensure their peace, safety and prosperity.
I retire to my bed, feeling sick to my stomach, because I know I have just fed the people a litany of lies. There is cause to worry…to panic. However, people don’t want to hear that. They want to be made to feel safe and secure, and as a politician it is my job to make them feel that way.
This is the part about my job I hate. The lying and deception.
For the next three days, I go to some of the nearest colony worlds to further reassure the populace that they can go about their business. I am following the counsel of my advisors, including the Terran Armada, who provides additional security for my presidential ship.
I am encouraged to keep up appearances, even though my innards are turning to mush out of anxiety. The latest information I have gotten is that the three ships have entered the last known location of the Sonali vessel. They are yet to make contact.
I arrive back on Earth, my heart on edge. I find difficulty in concentrating, as I await information from Edoris Space Station.
Sara who is partially aware of what’s going on, suggest we go to the Presidential Retreat so I can get some rest. Knowing it’s probably for my own good, I agree. We take our three kids, who are all young teenagers and retire to Camp Monticello in Virginia for the weekend.
We arrive in Camp Monticello in the early afternoon. Early Friday morning, at just after one in the morning, Curtis comes to wake me. This time, he doesn’t knock. He enters and taps me awake. I see him motion for me to follow silently so as not to wake my wife.
I follow Curtis out of my room to the sitting room, where there are seven life size images of Admirals, including Flynn.
The moment I see them, my heart jerks up to my chest, almost causing me to go into cardiac arrest. I resist the urge to grab my chest.
Rather, I say, “What happened?”
Admiral Flynn replies. I can tell the nature of his reply by the grim and sad look on his face.
“Sir, we made contact with the Sonali,” he says, unbridled rage pouring into the sitting room. “The moment we did, they fired on our vessels without provocation…again! Out of the fleet of fourteen ships, only The Celestia survived and returned to Terran Union space. Half of the crew is dead, including the Captain.”
“Sir,” this comes from Josef, “the time for pacification is over. We cannot stand by and…”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say through my teeth. History be damned. “Prepare for retaliatory strikes.”
“Sir, what exactly are you saying?” Josef says.
I take in a deep breath and expel it. “Prepare to go to war.”
“You need Council approval for that, sir,” Josef replies.
“Don’t worry about that, Josef,” I say. “Get ready.”
“Computer, cut feed,” I say. Immediately, the Admirals vanish from my sitting room.
“Curtis, contact my staff and the Speaker of the Council, I want an emergency session called immediately.”
“Copy that, sir.”
Before the session with the Terran Council, the video of the single Sonali ship destroying the Terran fleet has already been leaked to the public. As I am being flown to the Council Hall, I receive information of riots exploding in several worlds across the Terran Union. Everyone believes the end of times is near.
Surrounded by a horde of agents I march through the media outside the giant Council Hall building. I am led by protocol officers though the many twisting and turning hallways and sections to the main hall, where all the council members are seated physically or via slipstream.
I march up to the stage just below the Speaker’s bench.
“Mr. President,” the Speaker begins. “We have read the news. Some of us who are on the War Council have received the official reports. Right before you came, we discussed our options.”
I begin to feel my anger well up again. The bastard is making another political play for the presidency. By denying me the power to declare war, he’s pushing me to take actions that may be deemed as unconstitutional…
“We have already voted on granting you the power to declare war on the Sonali people,” he says, pausing for a few seconds and continues, “And the Terran Council unanimously agrees to go to war.”
Then all eyes fall on me. For a brief moment, I am confused whether I have actually heard the Speaker. But it’s only a few moment before I turn to address the Terran Council and the media bots that are hovering about. The signal is being boosted through the Edoris Space Station and being broadcasted past what used to be called the Anderson Nebula but we are renaming the Mariner Nebula. It’s going into what we believe to be Sonali space. I hope it reaches their home world.
I make it short and precise.
“For the brazen, unprovoked, and unapologetic destruction of Terran Union Starship The Mariner, as well as an entire Terran fleet when they came in peace, I, President Joshua Harmon of the Terran Union hereby, with approval from the Terran Council, invoke Article X1 of the Constitution and declare war on the race that we have been able to name the Sonali Combine.
“I hereby order the Terran Armada to galvanize all its arms and divisions towards a war to bring the Sonali to their knees. I order the Armada to also fast track all its weapons manufacturing and testing process. I hereby order all corporations to begin immediate research and development into improving Terran Union Ships to withstand the Sonali war machine. Finally, I appeal to all citizens of Terran Union to remain calm during these times.
“God help us all.”
One more year. That’s all it would have taken.
The entire Council stands and applauds. They’re yelling and screaming for blood.
The Speaker comes and clasps my hands. For the first time this man looks genuinely pleased with me.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
The universe has a strange sense of humor I think.
The kind that will most likely lead
to the death of us.
Division 51
I fall through the overhead pit into a musty tunnel with a low headroom, my guns up and aimed. The Sonali soldier turns around too late. One second is all I need to get that perfect aim so I can get a bullet through the middle of his eyes.
I’m perfectly still and in control of my breathing when I squeeze the trigger. The Sonali drops dead before the recoil of the 9mm Berretta.
Behind him is a dead end. There is a cache of weapons—meaning I’m in the right place. The tunnel is dimly lit by light bots attached to the walls.
Ahead, the tunnel stretches for about twenty yards before winding right and out of view. My mission is simple; somewhere in this tunnel system, a terrorist has planted a bomb and is planning to detonate it, destroying the foundation above. The size of the tunnel system makes it impracticable to send in an army.
I’m their best option at stopping this terrorist attack.
I bring my right wrist to my face, palm fisted so I can speak into the tiny mic concealed underneath my pin suit.
“I’m in,” I whisper.
“Roger that,” comes the reply in my ear. “Proceed with extreme caution. Tangos are heavily armed and dangerous.”
I smile as I proceed forward. It smells like gunpowder in here. I should be using a laser blaster, and I should’ve dressed appropriately, but I hadn’t had the time to report to the Armada Command to gear up. This pin suit was what I had ready the moment I got the emergency call, along with the antique 9mm Berretta, which I keep in my house as a souvenir from the days before our space exploration program.
I’m glad it still fires well. All those nights spent oiling and cleaning it is finally paying off.
My footsteps are all but inexistent. By the time I get to the end of the tunnel before it turns left, I begin to hear muted conversations. I silently slip to the side of the wall, pressing my back against it, my gun pointed downward and away. I can hear the echoes of drips of water.
I try to listen in to determine just how many men are around the bend. I can only pick three distinct voices, and that doesn’t suggest anything. There could be as much as six, with the other three silent or watching.
