by Trevor Wyatt
The command center is on the other side of the CNC. It has two access. One access from the CNC is for the Vice Admiral and the CNC crew, while the other access is for the rest of the ship’s crew.
There is a circular central table with a computerized interface. There are workstations along the walls with ensigns calling out information and taking orders. There are several officers in the room, each of them in charge of a section of ensigns.
Looking over the map on the central computerized table are the two officers who had met us in the shuttle bay.
“What’s our status?” Vice Admiral Pierce asks the moment we’re by the table.
“We’re thirty minutes outside the system, sir,” one of the officers at the table replies. “We just intercepted an outbound transmission from the Sonali occupation force. They’re expecting a Sonali supply ship and fresh soldiers.”
“When is this happening?” the Vice Admiral asks.
“Within an hour,” the officer replies. “We have to change our plans. We can’t spend another three hours bombarding their generators to take out their surface to space precision guided missiles.”
I look at the map and quickly study the mission parameters. It appears that this planet in question was once a Terran-run planet, but fell into the hands of the Sonali who are keeping the Terrans hostage. It doesn’t say why this planet is so important as to warrant Division 51’s involvement.
Whatever the it is, two things are for sure. One, this case is impossible for the conventional Armada or Intelligence. Two, this mission goes all the way to the top, given the caliber of people who know about Division 51.
“How about I take the advanced team planet to the control room and neutralize the operators,” I say. “If we have control over it, we can stop the generators and divert power away from all offensive and defensive.”
Everyone in the room stops to look at me.
Vice Admiral Pierce beams at me with pride. “That can work.”
The lead officer says, “An orbital drop then?”
“Orbital drop?” I say with incredulity. “I thought that was just a conjecture. We can’t actually dive from a space ship into a planet.”
No one is smiling.
“Orbital drop it is,” Vice Admiral Pierce replies. “Commander, take point on this.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, still shocked to my bones.
Vice Admiral Pierce walks out of the control center, leaving me in charge of the mission.
Within the next thirty minutes, and with the help of Lieutenants Derrick “Bullet” Silver and Prince “Hammer” Shultz, I familiarize myself with the layout of the main prison facility and the terrain of the planet. The planet is a vegetative one with a harsh environment that humans can barely survive on, even after Terraforming.
The facility sits on a stretch of barren land smacked in the midst of a forest. The north eastern section of the area is where the generators are housed. Near there is also where the land-to-space missile system is set up. It won’t be a problem for this ship, but it will be for the landing assault force.
We calculate our drop speed and drop vector. We will be dropping in the light side of the planet, meaning they will see us coming only when it’s too late. If it were nighttime, our reentry speed will give our position away because they’ll be seeing ten fiery objects heading for the camp in perfect formation.
The control center is a squat building under guard by a small army of about a hundred Sonali, both within and around. Apparently, this is the base of operation of the commander of the occupation force. This is where their space vehicles are also located.
There are about ten thousand Terrans imprisoned by a small force of a little above a thousand.
Our entry trajectory will put us right before their front door.
“Have you ever fired a weapon dropping from space before?” Lieutenant Shultz asks me by the time we’re done and heading to the shuttle bay.
I shake my head, expecting the condemnation.
“It’s fun,” he says. “You’ll like it.”
I join the ten-man advanced team of super enhanced Marines in specialized EVA suits that are specifically designed to withstand the high temperature of reentry. We take off from the spaceship that hides behind one of the moons of the planet—the planet does not have long range scanners. The shuttle carries a tech onboard that obscures its signals such that, if it’s scanned by a short range scanner, it will register as space debris. To aid that effect, the shuttle is put in a course for a low orbit swing by before the engines are switched off. No floating asteroid will make a course correction.
“We go down at the tough of our swing by,” I say to the Marines.
They all reply and agree.
The gravity pull increases as we swing by. At the right time, the hatch opens and, one by one, the Marines jump out of the shuttle. I’m the last to jump out. We’re sucked into reentry by the powerful gravitational speed. I crane my neck to see the hatch of the shuttle close and the shuttle begin to exit the gravitational pull of the planet.
Fire engulfs my suit soon enough as we gain speed, a terrible roar in my ears in spite of my covering. Minutes later, we break into the atmosphere, on course for the control center.
As we get closer and closer to the ground, the stretch of land and the squat control center becomes more visible.
“Computer shows about 77 tangos on site, ma’am,” Lieutenant Shultz says in the mission-wide channel.
“Roger that, Hammer,” I say. “We proceed as planned. Once we neutralize the exterior tangos, I want you to remain behind to secure the facility while Bullet and I take the rest of the team inside.”
“Copy that, ma’am,” Lieutenant Shultz replies.
Guns come up by the time we’re in range, and we let hell loose. Tangos fall all around the one story complex. There are small explosions as drums carrying explosive ores are hit. At the very last minute, we pull our parachutes, landing with a heavy thud, a jerk, and then rising up to full height, still shooting.
Then the alarms go off.
“Let’s go!” I yell. I tap a red button on my chest that causes the EVA to crack and fall away from my body. I bring my rifle back up and aim at the open door. Five other Marines form around me and we enter the facility. Clinically, we spread out and kill every Sonali soldier in the building.
The last is the main control center. There are four Sonali techs. Three have weapons trained on the door. The blasts misses me by whiskers as I dive for the nearest workstation. They don’t get any other shot as I cut them down with a wide spray of my gun.
The fourth reaches for the gun of his fallen comrade. Instead of shooting him, I bound for him and kick the weapon out of his hand.
“Don’t even think about that!” I roar, my gun pointed at his head.
He flinches and retracts his hand.
I approach him, stopping at about six yards to him. I look around. Aside from the three dead operators, the control room is abandoned. The several workstations are still running, but unstaffed.
“Power has been shut down, ma’am,” one of the Marine says. “And we’ve apprehended the base commander in his private chambers.”
“Roger that,” I say. “Hammer, come in.”
“Go ahead, ma’am,” he replies.
“Send word to the ship,” I say. “We have control of the command center. Let them send in the Cavalry so we can take back the planet.”
I sense his smile when he speaks, “Copy that, ma’am.”
“Why do you spare me?” the Sonali asks. His voice is like a grating sound. I can feel hatred, anger, and bitterness from it. It almost makes me want to back down.
I don’t reply to him.
“Commander Grayson, come in,” the Vice Admiral says.
“Here, sir,” I reply.
“Good work,” he says. “The assault force is already en route. They’ll be landing in less than three minutes. We’ll need to come up with a call sign for you, though.”
“Roger that, sir,” I say with a smile.
I hear the sound before it hits. It’s a space-to-Earth missile that strikes the control center. There’s a great explosion and I’m thrown aside by the concussion. I struggle to hold on to my gun and aim, but I’m having difficulty hearing and staying awake. The Sonali recovers fast and runs away into the mist of dust particles.
I try to get up to pursue but I’m hit hard by the concussion. One of the marines helps me out of the building before it collapses in rubbles.
I see that the assault team has already landed. They’ve broken into teams as per my instructions and are now spreading throughout the area. The afternoon air is filled with the sound of explosions and firefights.
“What the heck happened?” I ask, now outside and in the air.
Up ahead, I can see a small Sonali frigate fleeing the planet. It’s the Sonali I didn’t shoot. Why I spared his life is still a mystery to me.
“The Sonali supply ship dropped out of FTL without warning,” Lieutenant Shultz says. “I guess they wanted to destroy whatever secret information they had in the control center’s computers. Our ship and the Terran vessel that came into the system chased the ship away.”
I nod. Gripping my weapon, I say, “Come on, let’s wrap up here.”
By nightfall, the planet colony is back under Terran control. All Sonali were killed in action—except one.
Back in the shuttle, on our way to the ship that’s now in orbit along with another vessel named The Phantom, Lieutenant Silver says, “Commander, have you thought of a call sign?”
I shake my head.
“Commander Grayson,” says Lieutenant Shultz as though tasting the words in his mouth. “Co Mander…Coma.”
There’s a rigid silence as everyone looks at me.
Coma. Sounds very badass.
Coma. That’s what Terran enemies will be in when they come face to face with the Operations Commander of Division 51.
I smile. “Coma,” I say. “I like it.”
The Marines cheer.
Part IV
The Celestia
A Terran-Sonali War Story: The Beginning
First Engagement
Corson
The CNC is quiet as the ship traverses the Oort Cloud. There are the usual ambient sounds associated with people working: hums and pings of digital equipment, low conversations between personnel, the occasional soft whoosh of the CNC access doorway opening and closing. All personnel are doing their jobs quietly and efficiently. But the overall feeling is one of suppressed tension. Excitement is a part of that, as is low-level fear and uneasiness. And of course, the looming unknown.
It's all to be expected, though, when one is heading into a possible confrontation. Especially a confrontation with an enemy who has already shown itself to be potentially hostile. An enemy that is also and most definitely alien.
First Contact. That's what this is all about. That's where the unknown has finally come crashing headlong into our reality.
In almost a century of star flight, the Terran Union has spread across dozens of light years, exploring, colonizing, and developing. We're living on 198 worlds at present, and we've encountered untold puzzles, startling revelations, and a healthy respect for the cosmos we inhabit. It's best summed up, I think, in an old pronouncement: “The universe is not only stranger than we imagine—it is stranger than we can imagine.” That quote is attributed to several 20th century scientists, including Eddington, Haldane and others, in various versions. I've always found it fascinating that people in a pre-interstellar society were so prescient.
Given all that we had discovered and learned, there was one area that remained tantalizingly and mysteriously vacant. The eternal question “Are We Alone?” was unanswered. Given the Drake equation positing thousands, if not millions, of galactic populations, the Fermi Paradox still loomed; namely, where the hell is everybody?
It was a damned good question. We've been on hundreds of worlds, surveyed even more, and the only life we've discovered has been land-based and sea-based analogs of Terran animal and vegetable forms. And nothing remotely resembling sentience, nothing self-aware. So, even though old Fermi raised a good point, nobody had any answers.
Until six months ago. When a Terran research vessel operating in uncharted space was about to enter a nebula, named after someone named Anderson, to collect scientific data. Specifically, they wanted to investigate a neutron star at the nebula's center. It was an unrivaled opportunity to find out more about the second densest object known to human science.
Communications between the ship, the TUS Mariner, and our nearest base had been proceeding normally. Then communication ceased abruptly. Repeated attempts to establish contact failed. When personnel on the base became frantic enough, they contacted the Terran Union. Which, in turn, alerted the Terran Armada.
The Terran Armada High Command, after reviewing what little data there was, decided that sending a military vessel to investigate was a good idea. The TUS Mariner was a long way from home—and help, as they were only lightly armed, and no one had any idea what might have happened.
The TUS Mariner could have developed technical problems with its communication arrays. They could have interacted with debris in or near the nebula. Some heretofore unknown cosmic phenomenon could be in play. A handful of possibilities existed.
No one really believed alien contact was responsible, although the theory was put on the table. If aliens hadn't contacted us by now, chances are they hadn't done so out in the Anderson Nebula.
But there were still too many unknowns. And it was felt that an Armada starship was the best solution to try and solve the puzzle. Heavily armed, commanded by seasoned military personnel and augmented by an elite scientific staff, the TUS Seeker was sent to investigate, commanded by Captain Jeryl Montgomery. Better to go with weapons and not need them, than to need weapons and not have them.
When the TUS Seeker arrived at the scene, they discovered the TUS Mariner, dead in space. Lifeless. No answers as to why. Then Captain Montgomery's First Officer, Ashley Gavin, discovered that the TUS Mariner had been destroyed. By weaponry of an unknown type never before encountered by humans.
This changed everything, but more proof was needed. As the TUS Seeker was about to investigate further, that proof arrived.
In the form of a ship of unknown origin. In the form of a vessel far larger than the TUS Seeker. In the form of an alien intelligence.
I can only imagine what went on in Jeryl Montgomery's mind at that moment. A First Contact situation. A Terran ship destroyed, its crew dead. And an alien warship looming dead ahead and in first place for the Who Destroyed The Mariner Award.
I've read Captain Jeryl Montgomery's account of what happened next. I've read it a dozen times. From what I can ascertain, he acted in the highest accord and traditions of the Terran Armada.
The TUS Seeker was hailed by the alien ship. After communications were established, we learned that the aliens were called the Sonali, members of the Sonali Combine, a confederation similar to our own Terran Union. The Sonali are tall, bipedal humanoids with blue-tinged skin. That they are intelligent is obvious. So is the fact that they are on a technological level at least equivalent to our own.
The legate of the Sonali vessel inquired of Captain Montgomery what his purpose was, basically asking what the hell he was doing there. Jeryl responded by explaining the destruction of the TUS Mariner and his attempt to determine what had happened. I'm sure that he must have suspected that he was speaking to the entity responsible. Perhaps the Sonali sensed Jeryl's suspicions, but offered to help in the investigation.
Jeryl politely but firmly answered that the investigation was in the hands of the Terran Union, and no outside help was needed.
Things escalated from there.
The Sonali captain stated that Jeryl was intruding in Sonali space, and that the Terrans had two choices: accompany the Sonali ship to their home world for ambassadorial protocols, or l
eave Sonali space. His final caveat was that if the TUS Seeker did neither, it would be destroyed, with all hands aboard.
Captain Montgomery's situation was indescribable. The last thing he wanted was to turn First Contact into a pitched battle. Open hostilities with the first and only alien civilization we had encountered? There had to be a better answer. But professional etiquette had failed. The Sonali ship far outsized and outgunned the TUS Seeker. And the Sonali captain's ultimatum was final.
Without another word, the captain of the Terran Armada ship TUS Seeker turned about and headed home.
I can feel what Jeryl probably felt; the anger, the rage at having been treated like a child and told to go back to his room or he'd get spanked. The wish that the first contact with an interstellar alien species had gone any other way than the way it had. The fervent hope that he and that Sonali captain could meet once again in the future, and that he, Jeryl, could kick his blue alien ass.
All of which is why my crew and I, along with the triad of ships I command and 10 more Terran Union starships, are headed back to those same coordinates in Sonali space. Our directives are clear: determine what had happened to the TUS Mariner; open a dialogue with the Sonali, if possible and if given the opportunity; be prepared to defend ourselves in the event of hostilities; and do not initiate said hostilities unless deemed absolutely necessary for self-defense and self-preservation.
I intend to accomplish our directives to the best of my ability. I have every faith in my crews, my ships, and our resolve. So, Sonali or no Sonali, we're heading into the lion's den. And I privately hope that the lions are in the mood for a bit of a scrap, because I'm more than ready to give one to them. Is that arrogance? Perhaps. But I'm reminded of a quote by Grand Admiral Howard Flynn, Chief of Staff of the Terran Armada. He once said, in response to being called arrogant: “It's quite all right to be arrogant, if you have something worthy of honest arrogance.”
