Right Ascension

by David Derrico

“No,” replied the Admiral. “I don’t see any reason why the rest of you need to be there.”

  “But, Admiral,” Nathan reminded him, “they were very clear—they distinctly said that they wanted everyone aboard to come down to give a complete deposition.”

  The Admiral thought for a moment as he studied the faces of his crew, each of whom looked at him hopefully, expectantly. He looked carefully at Anastasia, her expressive face voicelessly revealing the wishes of them all.

  “I’ll handle the depositions,” decided the Admiral resolutely. “The rest of you are free to attend to personal business on Earth. Just be absolutely certain that you are back aboard an hour before the repairs to the Apocalypse are complete. That should give you just under ten hours from the time you arrive in spacedock.”

  Smiling, Anastasia watched as the Admiral began to walk off the bridge. “Admiral Le Jaunte is going to be pissed, Dan,” she warned him, half-seriously. “He’ll want your head on a platter.”

  “Don’t worry about Pierre,” replied the Admiral sardonically as the bridge doors swished open. Le Jaunte and the Admiral had never been friends, and Daniel was sure that some of Pierre’s animosity stemmed from Daniel’s victory over him in the finals of the Galactic Tactical Competition, ten years before. “I can take care of him,” he assured her. “Just tell your kids I said hi.”

  Nodding her tacit approval, Anastasia watched as the Admiral walked through the sliding metal doors and they closed softly behind him.

  • • •

  Finding his way to the minuscule hangar bay, the Admiral entered the small but potent ZF-255 fighter stationed there. The hangar was cramped, allowing for only this one tiny, 200-series fighter, but fitting the hangar bay at all on a ship the size of the Apocalypse was a design and engineering marvel in itself, Daniel thought. He quickly studied the familiar instruments in front of him, reacclimating himself with the fighter’s layout. His helmeted flight suit felt strangely tight and restrictive within the cramped cockpit, a subtle reminder of the Spartan efficiency of Confederation fightercraft. Though the Apocalypse itself was miniaturized and necessarily austere, it was far more comfortable and habitable than any fighter. There were times, however, when the weeks rolled into months, that the cramped quarters of the Apocalypse did take their toll.

  As he powered up the fighter, Daniel keyed the control to open the hangar bay doors and was met with an expansive view of the planet below. Thick white clouds shrouded most of the Earth’s surface, concealing much of the rich blue ocean that gave way to the black terminator line. Launching from the bay, Daniel accelerated rapidly as he descended through the atmosphere. A bright wall of fire formed around the ship, jostling it violently as it lost altitude. The small craft finally emerged from the turbulent upper atmosphere, and Daniel slowed the ship as he approached the landing field. Quickly regaining the supreme confidence he had earned in his days behind the controls of a fighter, Daniel executed a flawless landing and quickly disembarked the ship. Walking up briskly to meet him was a well-dressed aide.

  “Greetings, Admiral,” he said. “If you would come with me right away, please.”

  The Admiral nodded curtly and followed him toward the ConFedCom Capitol building. A towering, modern building composed of reflective, high-density metals, the building glistened in the afternoon sun. Walking quickly, Daniel followed the aide through the massive double doors and through the security checkpoint in the lobby. The doors to the transport tube at the far end of the room were already open, and they quietly entered and began the descent to the building’s sub-basement.

  Once the transport tube had stopped, the doors swished open and the aide stepped out, leading the Admiral through another security checkpoint and down a long hallway. The hallway’s cramped, windowless metallic walls and the drab gray coloring of the tiled floor were in stark contrast to the vast, open expanses of deep space he was accustomed to. Daniel had never enjoyed the enclosed, fortified feel of the Command Sub-Basement, but it had never seemed quite so oppressive as it did today.

  The hallway ended in a pair of thick double doors, flanked by a pair of armed guards standing stiffly at attention. Once they had reached the end of the hallway, the aide opened one of the doors and held it ajar as the Admiral entered a small conference room, dominated by a long table in its center. Already seated at the table were a number of high-ranking military officials and the surviving members of Confederation Command. Seated at the head of the long wooden table was the President of the Confederation, William Stadler.

  “Do come in, Daniel,” he said as the Admiral walked to his seat. The President was middle-aged, in his sixties, and his dark brown hair showed no hint of gray. The right side of his face bore a long jagged scar from his days as a fighter pilot. In fact, Daniel remembered, Stadler had graduated from the Yeager Fighter School just one year after himself.

  “So good of you to join us today,” he quipped as Daniel sat down.

  “Yes, well, I’ve been busy,” responded the Admiral vitriolically.

  “You know, Admiral,” interjected Admiral Le Jaunte, “there is a chain of command around here. And even you have to respect that chain just like everybody else.”

  Looking at Le Jaunte for the first time, Daniel’s perceptive eyes flicked to the new Fleet Admiral insignia on the older man’s shoulder. Evidently, the powers that be had decided to replace the distinguished Fleet Admiral Cole with Le Jaunte, whom Admiral Atgard had never particularly liked nor, more importantly, respected. Le Jaunte was indeed brilliant, and in fact was second only to Daniel as the youngest person ever to be promoted to Admiral. Daniel’s dislike for him, however, was more than personal: he found his attitude merely nauseating but his arrogance truly dangerous.

  “With all due respect,” Daniel replied tersely, “I don’t think we have time to discuss my supposed insubordination. You can court-martial me when this is all over, for all I care.” Daniel looked at the President pointedly. “If any of us survive.”

  “We can take care of it, Admiral,” retorted the Fleet Admiral. “They caught us off guard, but we didn’t need you gallivanting around the galaxy doing whatever it is you were doing. Now that the Confederation Navy is on alert and under my command, we shall have no trouble—”

  “Those whom the Gods would destroy, they first make proud,” quoted the Admiral caustically.

  “Just because a military situation arises does not mean that you can go fly off on a whim like some maverick fighter pilot,” berated the Fleet Admiral, his French accent flaring up as he became more agitated. “We had orders for the Apocalypse—it’s not yours, by the way, Daniel. That ship belongs to the Confederation Navy.”

  “What orders?” mocked Daniel derisively. “To sit here and wait for the Lucani Ibron to come back?” Mellowing somewhat, his voice dropped a few decibels and he added, “I had no way to contact ConFedCom without compromising my position. And General Order 417.42s clearly states that a cloaked ship is never to uncloak for communications purposes until the situation is under control.”

  “You dare quote General Orders to me, Admiral?” bellowed Le Jaunte, his violent upper-body gesticulations whipping his dark ponytail over his shoulder. “When have you been known to play it by the book, Daniel?”

  “Besides, I knew that ConFedCom would be in crisis,” Daniel continued deliberately, ignoring the Fleet Admiral’s rhetorical question. “I did not think that we had the luxury of wasting time while you regrouped and got things together down here.”

  “Excuse me,” the President interjected. “What did you say before … ? The Lucani what?”

  “Lucani Ibron, sir,” Daniel replied. “You see, I haven’t been off chasing shadows as Mr. Le Jaunte seems to believe.” Daniel shot a poignant look at the Fleet Admiral. “I had a rather productive week,” he continued, “… a week that included the destruction of a Vr’amil’een Battlecruiser.”

  “Have you gone mad?” roared the Fleet Admiral. “There are no Vr’amil’een Battlecruisers!�
�

  “Not anymore, no sir,” replied the Admiral coolly.

  Before the Fleet Admiral could respond, President Stadler spoke up. “Could we forget about the pissing contest for a while, gentlemen? I want to know everything you’ve found out. I sincerely hope you have made productive use of your free time, Admiral.”

  “Yes, sir,” Daniel replied, slowly withdrawing his icy glare from the Fleet Admiral and turning to the President. “Lucani Ibron is an Arcadian term. It means ‘Ancient Arbiters.’”

  “Why did you make up a nonsense name for them in Arcadian?” interjected the Fleet Admiral condescendingly.

  “I didn’t make it up, Pierre,” Daniel replied acrimoniously, leveling his gaze at the Fleet Admiral once again. “The Arcadians did. A hundred thousand years ago.” Daniel paused to allow the full implications of his words to sink in. The ensuing silence was palpable in its severity.

  “It seems you have much to tell us, Daniel,” said the President somberly, the edge suddenly gone from his voice. “Why don’t you tell us just what you have learned of these ‘Ancient Arbiters?’”

  • • •

  After relating the events of the past week to the group—in exacting, time-consuming detail—and checking with the status of the repairs on the Apocalypse, Daniel decided that he could afford a brief trip to see his wife. After all, he reasoned morosely, this very well may be his last opportunity to do so.

  Tara was all that was left of Daniel’s family now. His father had been killed in 3006 while commanding an outpost near the Korgian border, and his grandfather had died just two years ago, active and energetic until his sudden death at age 127. He did not remember his mother, but from what his father had told him, she was a highly-skilled fighter pilot who had been killed only a few years after Daniel’s birth, leaving him to be raised on various military bases by his father. Daniel never regretted the military life he was born into; on the contrary, he embraced it, having once “borrowed” a fighter for a joyride on his fourteenth birthday, zealously eluding the ships sent to retrieve him for several hours. A year later, he had been accepted to the prestigious Yeager Fighter School on Earth.

  The small ZF-255 fighter sped toward his home, passing over the Florida peninsula, high above the commercial and civilian transports that flew far below. Though a glance at his nanocomputer showed the trip took only about 15 minutes, they ticked by inexorably as the Admiral neared the end of the string of islands off the south coast of Florida. Once he had landed in the grassy clearing behind his house and remembered that he had not yet spoken to his wife since Chad had died, it suddenly seemed as if he had just left the Capital moments ago.

  Climbing down the ladder, Daniel removed his helmet and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and allowing the ocean breeze to whip his black hair from his forehead and fill his lungs with the welcome scent of fresh air. Looking toward the house revealed Tara, who stood facing him, her dark brown hair swaying in unison with the stalks of knee-high green grass that covered her lower legs. Her smile was evident even from the distance at which she stood, and her face, always radiant, reminded Daniel of nothing so much as a newborn star.

  The grass in front of him rustled as something came bounding toward him beneath the cover of the swaying green carpet. A hint of gold was visible through the grass, and Daniel knelt down to welcome the dog that barreled into his torso. After knocking him to his back, the cocker spaniel licked his master’s face vigorously, his stubby tail wagging at an absurd pace. “Okay, Plato, okay,” he said, trying in vain to avoid the dog’s eager tongue. Rising to his feet, Daniel began to jog toward his wife as she came out to meet him.

  Wordlessly, they embraced, and Daniel closed his eyes to let the touch of his wife flow through him. Although it had actually only been slightly more than a week since last he saw her, the events of the past seven days had made her absence more unbearable than ever before. Only a week, he thought somberly. Only a week since those bastards killed my son. He could feel his wife’s tears falling softly on his shoulder.

  Raising her head, she looked at him, the tears still welling in her eyes. “God, I missed you,” she said, her voice cracking. “God, I miss you both.”

  He could feel the tears welling in his own eyes now, and although he could count on one hand the number of times he had cried before, there was no stopping the tears that came falling down his cheek now, tears that left their salty taste on his lips as they rushed down his face and fell to the soft grass below.

  “How long are you here for, Daniel?” she asked expectantly. She squeezed his hands and he could see a hint of a smile forming on her lips. “I could make dinner … you must be hungry?”

  “No,” he said softly. “I’m not too hungry, really.” Averting his gaze from her chestnut eyes, he could not bear to tell her that he would not be staying very long at all.

  The hint of happiness disappeared abruptly from her face as she looked to the fighter that sat in the field, its landing lights still shining through the tall grass. “You’re not staying, are you?”

  Looking down, Daniel let out a heavy breath. “I’m afraid not, honey. I have to be back—”

  “No, no, no,” she muttered, her body quivering like some angelic, ephemeral flower growing amongst the tall weeds. “You can’t go back out there … you can’t …”

  “I have to,” he told her cheerlessly. “Someone has to do it.”

  “But why does it always have to be you, Daniel?” she demanded. “Haven’t you already done your part? Haven’t you gone above and beyond your call of duty? Why you??”

  “Because I’m the only one that can do it. Because there’s too much at stake for me to entrust it to anyone else.” He paused a moment, and his voice dropped to barely a whisper, almost inaudible above the gusting winds. “Because someone has to make them pay for killing our son.”

  Tara embraced her husband once again. She understood. Though she didn’t like it, she understood. She had always understood, from the dangerous combat missions to the prolonged, undercover operations, she had steadfastly supported him and his commitment to the Confederation. Just as she had supported their son, who had given his life in defense of the same Confederation that was supposed to protect them now, protect them from this genocidal race and their omnipotent weapon.

  • • •

  The dim light radiated by the candles flickered imperceptibly, casting dancing shadows along the earth-toned walls of the room. Tapestries of both human and alien origin adorned the walls, and a collection of artwork assembled from throughout the known galaxy decorated the small chamber. The glowing sculpture given to Daniel by the Arcadian Chancellor rested in the center of a long, low table in front of the couch. Exotic statuettes, hanging ornaments, and musical instruments all contributed to the room’s decor. Though it usually gave him much pleasure, the room gave the Admiral little solace now.

  Even the seat his wife sat in was a work of art—created by an Arcadian sculptor thousands of years ago. His wife, too, seemed to be a part of that sculpture, her graceful lines blending with the subtle contours of the chair. His eyes followed her elegant form, tracing the flowing patterns of her robe up to the supple lines of her neck and into the recesses of her dark eyes as they burned back into his.

  “I think you should go,” he finally blurted out. “It’s too dangerous for you to stay here, Tara.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked him, stiffening up at the unexpected request. “Where do you think I should go? To stay with my parents on the mainland? Would I be safer—”

  “No, not on the mainland,” he replied, looking down into the dark fibers of the carpet. “I mean somewhere else … maybe just to Mars or the moons of Saturn for a little while … or maybe to the Cygnus System …”

  “The Cygnus System?” she repeated incredulously. “My God, Dan, why would you want me to go there? Earth has to be better protected than Cygnus Prime—this has to be the safest place in the sector.”

  “That’s what they
said about the Indomitable,” he snapped uncharacteristically.

  The soft lines of Tara’s face deepened noticeably. “What is it? What is it you know? The Confederation reports claim everything is under—”

  “Under control? No reason to panic? Of course that’s what they’re saying.” He paused and took a deep breath. “But the truth is there is damned good reason to panic, Tara.”

  “Daniel,” she said seriously, leaning toward him. “I’ve never heard you talk like this before. Not when there were daily attacks on Earth in the old days … not even when the Korgians were massing for their assault. What in the hell is going on out there?”

  “I wish I knew,” he lamented helplessly. “I wish I knew.”

  • • •

  Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn. His wife had always been resolute, to say the least. And without anywhere near as much time as he would have liked to try to persuade her, the Admiral had failed miserably. Tara had never left Earth in her life, disliking space travel vehemently for some old-fashioned reason that Daniel understood only moderately. His plea to convince her to pack up her belongings and leave her only home indefinitely was destined to meet with failure no matter how long he tried, Daniel had reasoned, reminding himself of that fact only half because it was actually true and half because he felt so guilty that he was leaving her on Earth helplessly awaiting the awful alien Armageddon.

  His back pressed into the seat as the engines of the ZF-255 strained against the Earth’s gravity. Not willing to take the time to achieve orbit and complete a time-consuming standard orbital dock with the Apocalypse, the Admiral nudged the throttle even farther forward and was rewarded with yet more power from the eager engines. Killing the engines just before he achieved escape velocity, the Admiral let the Earth’s gravity and atmosphere bleed speed from the racing fighter. The friction-glow of the atmosphere died down, revealing the belly of the orbiting Apocalypse, its hangar bay doors open and awaiting his arrival. Easing just a touch more power from the thrusters, he maneuvered the ship into the tight confines of the bay, lining up the docking clamps precisely as the doors closed against the vacuum behind him.