by Trevor Wyatt
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 s
ilently 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.
This situation is not ideal. Usually, I would have the support of some tech to sniff around the edges. Or the spaceships orbiting the Earth to scan for life forms. I don’t have all these, because the Armada Command is trying to keep this a secret. What would people think when they hear that the almighty Terran Armada can’t even keep itself safe?
Perhaps, if news of this impending terrorist attack gets out, nefarious forces may begin to get bad ideas. They may not come to Earth. They may go to New Washington. They may go to Edoris Station.
If I fail here, then they’ll know it’s possible.
I take in a deep breath, deciding to go ahead with my plan. I have two options; I can decide to sneak a peek and hope no one is looking my way, or I can jump out and attack them immediately with my guns.
If I take a peek and someone is looking, then they’d know I’m here—game over.
I decide it’s better to jump out, guns blazing, partly because it’s less risky and partly because…well, where’s the fun in assessing the risks and making decisions after assessment?
With my pulse pounding, I slide out of my hiding place. It’s a small cave-like room, and there’s another tunnel in the wall on the other side of the room that leads deeper.
There are six of them, all armed with the latest laser-based weaponry the Armada just sent out to aid the war effort. Three are sitting arou
nd a small fire on weapons caches. One is close and has his back to me. The other is just coming into the room from the tunnel. He’s the one who spots me—and he’s the one who falls first. I aim and fire.
Two of the men starts aiming at me, but I’m way faster than them. I leap into motion, and I aim again and fire.
I race to the other three, firing twice. The one who already has his guns in his hands take the two bullets in his chest. Reflex action has him spitting a few bullets and killing one of the remaining two terrorists where he sits, stunned.
Halfway to the fire, I dive forward, breaking into a roll once I hit the ground. I come up to my knees and aim.
The terrorist kicks the gun out of my hand. He tries to hit me with his gun, but I jerk to the right. The butt of his weapon falls through, missing me. I slam my hand into his gun hand, knocking out the assault rifle.
The terrorist makes the mistake of going after the weapon. I shoot to my feet, sliding out the switch blade concealed in my right ankle holster. I grab his neck and jack the knife right into his throat. He struggles, but I hold him tight then jam the blade in deeper.
The man opens his mouth for a scream. Instead, he gurgles blood. I let him go as he collapses to the sandy ground, writhing for a few moments before going totally still.
Around me is death. Six men dead in—I glance at my watch—eight seconds. I’m getting slow, again. I walk to where my gun is, by the side of the man who shot his comrade in calculated mistake.
“Alpha One, this is Overwatch. Come in,” says a voice in my right ear, where the comm device is inserted.
“Go ahead, Overwatch,” I say, entering the other tunnel. Ahead, I can see that it ends in a large cavernous room. I can hear a conversation there, too. I brace, then bend into the tunnel.
“We just received a communication from the Armada Intelligence,” Overwatch says.
My heart quips. I’m almost distracted from my mission.
“What do they want?” I ask.
“You.”
My heart’s suddenly flooded with happiness.
“Your application into the Terran Operations Officers Program was accepted,” Overwatch says. “Now, would you stop what you’re doing? There are some of us here who would rather watch another ensign get slaughtered by those terrorists.”
