“No, sir.”
Reichert headed for the door.
“Colonel Reichert, sir?”
He paused. “Yes?”
“What is happening to Nah—to the alien, sir?”
For a long moment she thought she had overstepped Reichert’s clemency.
Reichert spoke without turning around. “It is being removed from this ship. It will be interrogated and executed, as per protocol.”
Jade gulped. “Yes, sir.” She stared at the deck.
Reichert exited.
Her eyes burned. In her mind’s eye she could see the ungainly form of the alien.
I promise you, Nahanni. There will be peace.
Her nails gouged into her palms. She stared through the port. A few minutes later Reichert’s atmospheric shuttle flashed into view, falling towards the blue globe of Weston’s World.
Jade watched it until clouds and distance swallowed it up.
Goodbye, Nahanni. My…friend.
ONE
AUGUST, 2553
Eleven years after the disastrous battle of Felton 114, a fragile truce has been established between the Terran Hegemony and the alien Gara’nesh Suzerainty, putting a temporary halt to decades of interstellar war. A conference to create a permanent peace agreement has convened on the neutral-site world codenamed Covenant.
The clearing of a throat followed by a man’s voice made her start. “I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am-”
Commander Jade Lafrey glanced to her left, away from the logistical report occupying her workstation in the passenger cabin of the scoutship SV Hawking, and towards the smaller commscreen.
Confined to the narrow rectangle, Lt. Milford Fromberg’s pinched face radiated concern. More than that—the scoutship’s captain looked worried. But then, Jade thought, he always did. Having the commander of Sector-7 Naval Intelligence on board seemed to have disrupted Lieutenant Fromberg’s already edgy disposition.
Jade said, “What is it?”
“Scan’s picking up a distress signal, ma’am. I thought you ought to know.”
Her heart skipped a beat. She took a deep breath and kept her expression impassive. “Where?”
“It’s faint. Scan can’t pinpoint the exact location while we’re underway." He hesitated. “Do you want to chase it down, Commander? It could be old, or a long ways off-”
She nodded. “Take us into realspace. Call me when you’ve got a fix.”
“Yes’m,” Fromberg’s image disappeared. Moments later, his voice issued over the ship’s comm system. “All hands prepare for transition. Transition into realspace in one minute. All hands prepare…”
Jade smiled to herself. Lt. Milton Fromberg was obviously not used to being ordered around on his own ship. She couldn’t blame him. She wouldn’t like it if some admiral hitched a ride on her own ship, Starwind, and began issuing orders. The middle-aged Fromberg had been repeatedly passed over for promotion, she’d learned from his file, and that undoubtedly rankled.
For herself, she’d infinitely rather be on board her own craft. But Starwind was undergoing a much-needed refit and upgrade. Hopefully her ship would be waiting when she reached the conference. The dockyard superintendent at Windward Naval Yard had promised…
She grimaced. Taking a dockyard admiral at his word ranked right up there with trying to predict the course of the war.
With Starwind unavailable, she’d been forced to appropriate a Naval scoutship to transport her first to Greatmount for her mother’s funeral—something her rank allowed her to do—and then to the peace negotiations on Covenant. Hawking was available, unassigned, and if Fromberg didn’t like transporting a senior officer—well, he’d have to get used to the idea.
Jade touched a sensor pad on the desk in front of her and swiveled her chair.
The far wall of Hawking's sole passenger cabin became transparent. Solid grey mutated into the eerie, eye-watering distortion of Roessler-space. Blobs of unnamed colors enlarged, shrank, and disappeared. Occasionally, something that could have been a star or a planet—but might have been an entirely different entity—swam into view only to dissolve seconds later. Her eyes revolted at the lack of a frame of reference; human perceptions weren’t equipped to make sense out of what she saw.
The face of insanity, some called it.
Jade agreed. If madness could be made visible, this is what it would look like. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again.
Perhaps genius-level mathematicians and physicists could comprehend something of the nature of this realm that lay above/below/alongside reality. Some called it dimensional travel, but Roessler-space was unlike the normal extra dimensions that comprised the universe, curled up tight below the Planck length. Textbooks described Roessler-space with an analogy—just as a two-dimensional sheet could become the surface of a three dimensional sphere, so the 3D universe could become the wrinkled surface of a higher order universe, and so on.
FTL remained an elusive, unobtainable, goal. So what Roessler-space amounted to in practical terms was a series of short-cuts through the universe, penetrating the fabric of normal space, a way for sub-luminal ships to escape the impassable barrier of lightspeed.
But not without risk. Only the containment field that enclosed the ship in a protective shield made it possible to enter Roessler-space safely.
The swirling plumes of unnamed colors threatened to pull her out…out into the void…out into madness—
“Countdown,” Fromberg chanted. “Transition in 5 seconds…4…3…2… 1…transition—NOW.”
With a flare of spectral light, Hawking burst into reality. The rainbow colors of transition—real colors—shimmered and faded, replaced by the pinpoint sparks of distant stars blazing against the velvet black of space.
Jade leaned back in relief. Although she always felt a tremor of apprehension during transition—what if the unthinkable happened and the stardrive failed, stranding them forever in the unreality of Roessler?—the actual moment of transition was an instant of glory that she tried not to miss.
Fromberg came back on line in surprisingly little time. “I have that position, ma’am. Within a few light-days. Preliminary calculations show that a quick jump will put us into approximate range. Do you want to investigate?”
Jade nodded. “Yes. We have plenty of time and the course deviation will be negligible.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
She blanked the screen.
“All hands prepare for transition…”
The stars disappeared. Madness returned.
Fromberg probably thought she was crazy for taking the detour instead of ordering a Search and Rescue vessel to be dispatched. He didn’t know, of course, that before leaving Windward Naval Command she’d received a coded message from a freelance agent named Nate Watford claiming to have information for her. A distress call would be the signal to rendezvous. No clues as to what it was about.
She’d filed the item away in the back of her mind. Watford had provided accurate information in the past, but she never fully trusted freelancers, no matter how reliable they’d been in the past. So while she anticipated that Watford would deliver, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he didn’t.
Covenant was more important.
Jade swung back around and resumed her study of the report prepared by her aide, Lt. Rick Emmers, who’d preceded her to Covenant. She puffed out her cheeks, then blew the air out. The upcoming peace conference would be fraught with difficulties.
The role of Naval Intelligence would be behind the scenes, not up front at the negotiating table. But behind the scenes was where she preferred to be, where she was comfortable.
Would there finally be a lasting peace?
Probably the most difficult item on the agenda would be the border negotiations. Easily a dozen or more systems existed whose possession would be as fiercely contested over the negotiating table as they had been by fleets of star frigates. The systems were not important because of their resources or plan
ets—most were useless detritus left over from Creation—but would be coveted because of their location.
Borders. She shook her head. An anachronistic concept that possessed little current meaning and had to be redefined to be useful.
She’d seen maps of old Earth, where countries nestled beside each other in red, green, yellow and pink blocks. Nice and neat and two-dimensional.
A three-dimensional map—if a feasible visual one existed—of Roessler-space would bear little resemblance to a standard stellar map. Short distances in realspace were easy to traverse; going from Sol to Barnard, for instance, was child’s play. But as distance increased, so did complexity. Stars that lay many lightyears distant in realspace could be close in Roessler, and vice versa.
The problem with Roessler-space was that you had to know where you were going in order to get there. So until an automated probe charted a course through the labyrinth of probabilities and returned safely, a system couldn’t be visited by human beings.
The result: maps of the colonized galaxy didn’t show nice clusters of worlds in proximity to mother Earth. The Hegemony was like a spattering across the galaxy, riddled with empty spaces where no ship had gone. So Wolf 359, a mere 7.6 lightyears from Sol, had never been visited, whereas systems half-way across the galaxy, like Windward, had been intensely colonized.
Take two immiscible liquids, shake them together so they intermingled, blobs of one scattered through blobs of the other, and that is what a Roessler map of Human and Gara’nesh claims would resemble.
Borders now meant intersections into each other’s Roessler-space transition routes. If star A was human-held, and star B was Gara’nesh and there were no known routes linking them, then no problem existed. But if star C was a nexus where routes to A and B intersected, then difficulties arose. Humans could reach Gara’nesh worlds and vice-versa.
The stars blazed forth. The sound of the ship changed subtly as Hawking entered realspace a second time and engaged her insystem drive.
“Scan report’s ready, ma’am.” Fromberg reappeared on her commscreen.
“Go ahead.”
“It’s a small vessel, probably a converted yacht or a short-range scoutship. Old design. It looks badly damaged and appears to be drifting.”
“Life signs?”
“Possibly, but it’s hard to be sure. Too much interference. The distress call is recorded.”
Jade moistened her lips. “How long until we’re alongside?”
“About an hour.”
“You cut it close, Lieutenant.”
Fromberg flushed. “I thought time would take precedence—”
“That wasn’t a criticism, Lieutenant,” Jade said with forced patience—was Fromberg always this touchy?——“merely a comment on good navigating.”
Fromberg relaxed. “Thank you, Commander.”
“Alert me when we’re alongside.”
“Will do.” The commscreen blanked.
Jade moved on to the latest update from her second in command, Lt. Commander Howells, back at headquarters on Windward. Personnel assignments, leave requests, a possible security leak at an R&D facility—just because the galaxy might be about to change on Covenant didn’t mean the routine stopped. But she had a hard time focusing on the lines of print.
A question circled repeatedly through her mind. What, if anything, could Nate Watford have discovered? It gnawed at her until she strode onto Hawking’s compact, five-person bridge a shade under an hour later.
Fromberg made as if to rise; Jade gestured him back down.
He said, “Coming up on the starboard side now, ma’am.”
Jade leaned on the arm of Fromberg’s command seat and studied the hologram that occupied the forward bulkhead of the bridge.
She pursed her lips as she studied the visuals of what she recognized as a Nelson-class scoutship. Most of the drive section had been melted into slag. Warped stardrive vanes protruded like tortured branches from a forest of deformed metal. Black scars seared the once-bright hull. A few small holes had self-sealed; the larger gaped into space. The bridge section alone seemed relatively intact.
Watford had told her to expect a distress call—so far, so good. Assuming, of course, that the scoutship belonged to Watford.
But this? The extent of damage belied its use for show. It had to be real. Her every instinct told her that more lay behind the scoutship’s condition than met the eye. But how? And why? And who had inflicted it?
She clicked her tongue. What had Nate Watford gotten himself into?
“Ma’am?”
Jade became aware that Fromberg was staring at her. “A mess,” she said.
“At least it’s not tumbling,” Fromberg replied.
“Battle traces?”
“There’s no residual radiation. Scan reports no debris along the track. No other ship drive signatures.”
“So wherever it happened, it wasn’t here.”
Fromberg sucked his breath in. The thought apparently hadn’t occurred to him. “With that amount of damage to the drive section, it’s a miracle they were able to get back into realspace.”
“Un-huh. Probably took a hit right at transition.” She stroked the side of her aquiline nose. Or, she thought as another possibility presented itself, the ship was dumped here. For me to find? “Put a docking link onto it.”
Fromberg goggled. “A link? But we don’t know what’s on board—”
“A link, Lieutenant.”
“Commander, wouldn’t it be better to have an R/A team suit over?”
Jade hesitated. Yes, it would. Fromberg’s suggestion was standard procedure. But she felt bound to personal involvement. Watford had called her.
“That’s an order, Lieutenant.”
Fromberg exhaled. “Close to docking range, helm.”
“Closing to 10 meters, sir.” The helmsman studied his console. “Velocity match. Discrepancy negligible.”
Fromberg’s eyes pleaded. Jade ignored him.
“Docking link,” Fromberg ordered.
“Engaging.”
On the holoscreen the link extended from Hawking, creeping like a metal snake across the intervening space to attach to the scoutship’s airlock.
“Link secure,” the helmsman said.
“Interior?” Jade asked.
“Sensors show acceptable atmosphere and temperature, ma’am. Grav’s still on.”
“Good.” Jade turned away. “I won’t be long.”
Fromberg rose slowly to his feet. “Shouldn’t you at least take guards, ma’am?” he asked.
Jade paused. She didn’t want anyone with her, let alone guards who might not have discretion. But what if it was a trap? What if it wasn’t Watford’s ship at all? Vigilance was the price of survival. It was better to play it safe.
“All right.”
Seeming relieved, Fromberg relayed the order.
Two recon/assault troopers were waiting at the airlock when she arrived. Both wore helmeted combat suits and carried heavy energy rifles.
Jade gestured. “Open the door.”
The airlock door parted. Weapons at the ready, the R/A troopers preceded her down the docking link.
The temperature in the derelict may have been acceptable, but Jade shivered in the chill. Her breath formed moist streamers in the stale air. The life support systems were apparently on minimum—probably running on reserves.
The airlock opened into a small utility area, designed for suit and weapon storage.
The troopers edged inside and scanned the corridors.
“Clear, ma’am,” one said.
Jade motioned to him. “Head aft and check crew’s quarters and compartments as far back as you can safely go.” To the other, she said, “We’ll check the bridge.”
It was the least damaged part of the ship—if Watford was on board, she thought that’s where he’d be.
Preceded by the trooper, Jade made her way along the narrow corridor towards the forward compartments. The scoutship was o
ld and cramped. She guessed it had weathered twenty-odd years of service before being retired, stripped of offensive armament, and sold on the civilian market.
Her bootsteps echoed in the deserted corridor. She glanced into the compartments she passed. Empty. No sign of occupants.
The door to control whispered aside. The guard peered inside. “Appears clear, ma’am.”
She tapped her commlink. “Anything aft?” she asked the other trooper.
“Deserted, ma’am,” he replied.
“Wait here,” she instructed her accompanying trooper, and entered the bridge.
Smaller than that of Hawking, the bridge boasted only three seats, for commander, navigation/helm, and tactical/scan. Several monitor screens shone with status displays blinking an ominous red. Others were dark and lifeless. The main holoscreen showed an unchanging starfield.
It took a moment for the silence to register. The normal hum and chatter of a living ship was absent. Not even the whirring of ventilators disturbed the hush.
Jade pivoted to leave the bridge when something caught her attention.
A hand.
She stepped down and around the nav console. A body lay crumpled on its back on the deck, arms outstretched, neck twisted to one side. An ill-fitting, shapeless khaki robe was mottled by a large red stain that smeared across the breast and clumped in clots on the deck. A lot of clumps.
The pallor of the man’s face was dreadful. But despite that, she recognized Nate Watford instantly.
Her throat spasmed. She gulped and swallowed. A wave of grey spread across her vision and then cleared.
She dropped to her haunches, reached out, and touched his shoulder. “Nate.” She squeezed gently. “Nate. Can you hear me? It’s Jade Lafrey.”
The man drew a shuddering, rasping breath. His eyelids twitched and opened, but his gaze remained distant, and didn’t fix on her. He groaned. “Jade? Thank God…thank God you came. I hoped—”
“Who did this to you, Nate?”
“Don’t—don’t—” His voice faltered.
Jade put an arm behind his shoulders, half supporting him. “We’ll get you across to the ship, Nate. Get you into a doc.”
Wreaths of Empire Page 4
