The Ghost Fleet

by Trevor Wyatt

  “The cancer of the human race would have spread across the galaxy,” I mutter back to her. “How poetic.”

  I glance at the science officer. “What is the ship doing now?”

  The science officer begins to scan the ship.

  “It is still within the orbit of the star,” the science officer says, “and the radiation is masking its activities. I don’t have enough power to penetrate the star’s influence.”

  “Divert power from all non-essential systems to the scanners,” I command.

  “Diverting,” the science office replies.

  After a minute, he says, “Shit! Sir, the warship is charging its main cannon again. They’ve locked on us.”

  Warning signals erupt again in the CNC.

  “Evasive maneuvers!” I yell.

  The drive kicks in with a loud whine. The Seeker goes into what feels like free fall, banking hard and avoiding the flash of particle beam that crosses our brow. The inertial dampeners roar as they work to keep the gravity on the ship.

  “Set a course for that ship,” I order the navigations.

  Ashley grabs my hand. “We can’t risk it. Three are already dead. Many more will die and for what?”

  “We cannot run away,” I say. Then I speak up for the benefit of the CNC crew. “We swore an oath to protect every Terran Union colony. The Omarias II colony has just come under attack. We are under obligation to protect it. We can’t run. This is Terran space.”

  I glance at the navigations officer and flash him a stern look. “I said plot a course for that ship.”

  The navigations officer nods and plots the course.

  “Course plotted.”

  “Engage the FTL drive, factor 1,” I command.

  The navigator pauses and looks at me. “Sir?” he asks.

  “Do it, Lieutenant,” I say back to him.

  “Jeryl,” Ashley says. “You can’t go to FTL bursts inside a system.”

  “Do it, Navigator,” I say, ignoring her. Blood pounds in my ears.

  “Diverting power to the FTL drive,” says the navigations officer.

  “How long till we are in firing range?” I ask.

  “One point three seconds at factor 1,” replies the tactical officer.

  “Okay. Weapons hot,” I say.

  “Weapons hot,” replies tactical.

  “We can’t outgun them, but we can outsmart them,” I announce to the CNC crew. “Tactical, coordinate with navigations. The moment we drop out of FTL drive, I want all weapons lighting that ship up.”

  “Roger that, sir,” says the tactical officer.

  “Sending coordinates of drop off point to tactical,” the navigations officer says.

  “Received,” the tactical officer replied. “Acquiring firing solutions.”

  I say to the communications officer, “Hail that ship.”

  “Go ahead sir,” says the communications officer.

  “Unidentified Tyreesian Warship. This is Vice Admiral Jeryl Montgomery of the Terran Union Starship The Seeker. You have violated our laws and fired upon us. We hereby order you to stand down and surrender yourselves.”

  “Sir, I am noticing an increased energy to the weapons,” says the science officer.

  “Tactical, how long?” I ask.

  “Soon, sir,” he replies.

  “They think we’re sitting ducks,” Ashley says, “that’s why they’re so relaxed. That’s why they haven’t taken a step towards us. They think they have destroyed our FTL and our drives.”

  “Can they see our weapons are charged?”

  “Yes,” replies the science officer.

  “Then they are overconfident in their shields,” says Ashley.

  “Three proton torpedoes will melt their hull, no matter what shield technology they have developed,” I say to her, convinced beyond reasonable doubt. I know this makes me unreasonable because I have no proof for my assertion.

  “Firing solution ready, sir,” the tactical officer says. “Ready to execute.”

  I stand to my feet. “Communications, hail them again.”

  The communications officer gives me the go ahead.

  “Unidentified Tyreesian Warship. This is Vice Admiral Jeryl Montgomery of the Terran Union Starship The Seeker. You have violated our laws and fired upon us. We hereby order you to stand down and surrender yourselves. This is your last warning.”

  No response.

  “Sir, they have engaged their weapons.”

  “Execute,” I say to navigations and tactical.

  The FTL kicks, sending The Seeker forward at a speed faster than that of light. We miss the particle beam shot by only a few yards. We appear less than a hundred kilometers from the ship and then three proton torpedoes launch from the ship along with an opening salvo of particle beam shots. The ship is engulfed in a cloud of explosions.

  “Take us out of its line of sight,” I say. “What’s the status of that ship?”

  “Minimal damage, sir,” comes the science officer’s reply.

  I feel cold terror slip down my throat.

  “We are being targeted by—”

  The ship is hit square in the port, sending it tumbling through space. The CNC crew were thrown about. I landed hard at the foot of the captain’s chair. Blood poured from my mouth as my ears are beseeched with the screams of warning. Sparks fly all around the CNC crew.

  “Sir, all systems are down. I repeat, all systems are down!”

  I don’t know whose voice is that. I drag myself off the floor and onto the captain’s sit. I look around to see that Ashley is also making her way off the ground.

  “Damage report,” I say.

  “All systems are down,” replies the tactical officer. “Decks one through sixteen suffered catastrophic damages. The engine is down, both sub-light drive and FTL. Weapons are flickering.”

  “Sir, sensors report reveals that the ship is locking on us again.”

  “What’s the status of our shields?” I ask.

  “Shields down, sir,” replies the tactical officer. “We don’t stand a chance against their weapons.

  There is another solar flare from the sun and an idea catches in my mind.

  “Tactical, can we fire the remaining torpedoes?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replies. “But without a firing solution, we will be blindly firing into the sun. Plus we’re off course and can’t correct course of the STL drives as they are down.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I want to fire into the sun. Get ready to fire on my command once I give you coordinates.”

  I tap the button on my arm console.

  “Engineering here,” says the chief engineer.

  “How long till we get at least thrusters?”

  “I can do thrusters in five minutes,” comes the reply.

  “You only have forty five seconds,” I say. “Get it done.” then I cut the line.

  “What’s the status of the ship?” I ask the science officer.

  “It’s hard to tell with the sensors down,” says the science officer. “But from sensor report, our torpedoes didn’t even graze their hall. Their shield is too strong.”

  After a long pause, the man says, “They will have their firing solution in less than a minute.” He looks at me. “One more shot from their canons and we are gone.”

  “Engineering to CNC.”

  “Go ahead, Engineering,” I say.

  “Thrusters are online,” he says. “But it’ll only be online for a few minutes. That’s the best I can do sir.”

  “That’s all I need,” I reply.

  “Tactical, input the firing coordinates from my console and fire when ready.”

  “Navigations, after firing, put as much distance between us and the sun.”

  “Sir, I must advice against this action…” the science officer starts, but the torpedoes have already been fired and the thrusters have already kicked in.

  Now let’s hope the advanced astrophysics classes at the Academy paid off.

&nb
sp; The Tyreesian warship doesn’t realize what is happening until it’s too late. The torpedoes strike the surface of the sun and there is a combined thermonuclear explosion greater than anything any race has ever developed. It causes the dimmers on the viewscreen to kick in.

  The Tyreesian begins a full reverse away from the sun.

  But it’s a little too late. The nuclear explosion leads to a mighty solar flare that engulfs the Tyreesian ship and destroys it in an instant, incinerating everything to the last molecule.

  We are far enough from the explosion not to be affected. However, the heat washes over us as wave after wave of it and radiation slam into the ship.

  Warnings lights flash and power conduits explode – further adding to the smoke.

  I am incensed. I have just been attacked by a Tyreesian warship in Terran Union space. Yes, it is on the border, but the warship had no right to trespass into Terran space.

  Maybe we’re not destined for peace.

  Maybe we’re only fated for war.

  Ashley

  The thruster works long enough to get us back into orbit before it fails like the rest of the systems.

  The atmosphere on the ship is thick with smoke. Sparks from loose wires are flying all around. The red lights are still flashings in the CNC, but the sound is gone. A lot of the workstations have been damaged, and only the tactical, navigations and communications workstations have power. The view screen is offline. All we see is the vastness of space.

  We have been hit hard today. I know everyone is looking up to me. First to have kept them in one piece, and now, to salvage the situation. At times like this, people look for someone to blame—and who better than the aliens on our ship? This is a problem I have to anticipate.

  However, I realize I have to consider an even greater problem, which is what this attack means for the galactic negotiations. Are we going to be plunged into another state of war? Is this the beginning of another long and bitter crisis?

  It had taken pure ingenuity and a miracle to destroy that one Tyreesian war vessel. I may not be lucky the next time. Their weapons are more advanced. Their shield capability are light years ahead ours. We fired everything we had at it and didn’t even graze its hull.

  Should there be a war between the Terran Union and the Tyreesians, I have no doubt we would suffer greatly. The same dynamic would play out again as it did at the beginning of the Earth-Sonali war, where it had to take five ships to bring down one Sonali vessel.

  Maybe in this case, it would take ten. We weren’t prepared for that conflict, yet I know we can’t stand idly while the Tyreesians violate our border, invade our space, and fire on a Terran Union starship.

  I am furious. Mind numbingly furious.

  I look around CNC, especially at the crew. A lot of them are bloodied and bruised. Those who have working consoles have their eyes on their screens, while those who have damaged workstations are trying not to look my way.

  I understand that I could have ordered a retreat. But retreat was not an option. We will not be bullied within our territory, not when we can do something about it.

  Tell that to the people who lost their lives in the last engagement, a voice says in the back of my mind. Tell that to their families. Tell their mothers and fathers how they were sucked out into space and how they suffered the most excruciating death possible.

  “This is war,” I mutter in response to the demon in my mind.

  Is it? Or is it just you?

  I remember the question Ashley asked me back at New Washington. Do I miss being captain? I have my answer. No, I don’t miss being captain. I don’t miss the bloodcurdling experiences.

  I don’t miss the close calls.

  I don’t miss the hull breaches and dying crewmates. No one in their right minds would miss being trapped in a space battle.

  But I do miss charting the unknown.

  Seeing the galaxy.

  Hurtling through space, seeing things never before seen.

  I stand up from my seat and walk over to Ashley. She’s still recovering from the attack. I head over to her and prop her up. She clings on to me with shaky hands.

  CNC is sufficiently dark to hide our moment.

  “We came close to being destroyed today,” she says, her voice trembling.

  “I know,” I mutter back to her, holding her lithe form in my hands.

  “I’m sorry if I didn’t take your advice,” I say. “I know this is your ship.”

  She hugs me tight, snuggling deeper into my arms.

  “I’m glad you were here when this happened,” she says. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “Go to the sickbay and get checked up,” I say. “Then go to our quarters and get some rest. By the time you’re back in CNC, I should have it all patched up.”

  She breaks our embrace and gives me a smile.

  “I should be the one telling you that,” she says.

  “Yet, you’re the one who needs it more,” I say.

  She nods and heads out of CNC.

  I tap my comm link. “Vice Admiral Jeryl to the Chief of Security.”

  “This is the Chief of Security,” says a male voice. “Go ahead, sir.”

  “I want you to check on all aliens aboard this ship. Make sure they are well protected and advise me on their situation.”

  “Yes, sir,” replies the head of security.

  “Also, if you think it’s necessary after what we just suffered, double the guards around them.”

  “Roger that, sir,” replies the security office.

  “Good. Out.”

  “Communications officer,” I say after cutting my link to the security chief, “open a ship-wide communications channel.”

  The communications officer gives me the go ahead when the channel is open.

  “This is Vice Admiral Jeryl Montgomery,” I say. Then I pause to collect my thoughts.

  “About thirty minutes ago, we entered the Omarian system in pursuit of a Tyreesian vessel we think may hold answers to the explosion that occurred last week in New Washington. As we interrogated this vessel, unknown to us, there was a warship in the system, who used the solar flares from the sun to hide its presence.

  “We were fired upon by this Tyreesian warship after which we engaged with it in battle. Though outclassed and outgunned, we were able to destroy this ship.”

  I paused again to take in breath.

  “I know many of you here have never been in a battle,” I continue. “I know many of you have lost a friend today. We are still yet to get a thorough damage assessment because most of our systems are down. But I know of three ensigns who were killed in the first strike. At times like this, it is easy to point to the object of our hate and strike back. It is easy to look at the delegates we have on board and take out our frustration on them.

  “But in these times, it is also easy to find strength in our collective existence as a people of peace. It is easy to see the light of our love and express our humanity. Let us not give into hate at this crucial moment. Now is the time to stand on our morals and the ethos that have made the Terran Armada a potent force in this galaxy. Let us rely on our training and see to it that the deaths and damage we have suffered today are not in vain.

  “Let us divert all our energy and strength to getting this ship up and running, all the way to battle readiness. Let this be your silent mantra in these times: that you will not rest, until the perpetrators of this crime are brought to book. And I promise you, as your commander that they will be brought to book.”

  I stop and allow the silence to stretch on for thirty seconds.

  “Will you join me?”

  I pause again, happy to see all the CNC crew nod their heads at my question.

  “I am initiating emergency repair protocols,” I say. “I want us ready to fight in the next ten hours. Thank you and godspeed.”

  I motion for the communications officer to cut the feed, which he does.

  “Alright everyone,” I say aloud. “Le
t get going.”

  I return to the captain’s chair and contact Engineering.

  “How long till we get the power back online?” I ask.

  “Backup generators will provide the necessary power for the repairs to go on,” the engineering chief says. “That means all non-essential systems will remain down. Power won’t be back for another three hours.”

  “That’s not good enough,” I say, feeling my frustration eat away my heart.

  “Sir, that’s the best I can do,” he replies. “I have all my personnel on this. And thanks to your inspiring speech, all those who were on duty leave have returned.”

  “When will the engines be back online?” I say. “I mean all engines, both the FTL and the sublight drive.”

  “I estimate five hours,” he says. “The damages were substantial. They targeted our power and engines. It was not a random strike, sir. It was surgical and they managed to cripple us.”

  I sigh. “Get it done. No extensions.”

  “Aye, sir,” and the line went dead.

  “Operations, how long till we are battle ready?”

  “Six hours sir,” the operations officer says.

  “Okay,” I reply. “I want you to take point on this. And all those who have finished their repairs should report to the sick bay to get checked out and get some sleep.”

  “Aye, sir,” says the operations officer.

  “What’s the status on the Tyreesian freighter?”

  “Before our long range scanners were fried, I detected it firing its FTL drives, sir,” says the science officer. “It has left the system, along with all the orbiting ships at the time.”

  “Sir, we have entered into orbit with Omarias II,” says the navigator. “There are a few ships in orbit, the ones who arrived after the conflict.”

  “Keep us in orbit,” I say.

  My comm chirps.

  I tap it and say, “Go ahead.”

  “Admiral, all aliens are accounted for,” the security chief says. “I’ve also doubled their security detail. But they are pretty angry. They believe we are keeping them hostage. Please advise.”

  “I will visit them all,” I say and cut the comm signal.

  It takes me about three grueling hours to speak with each delegation and convince them that keeping them in their quarters at this time is in their own interest. After this, I go to my quarters to rest up and get refreshed. I change into a clean uniform before returning to CNC, refreshed.