Right Ascension

by David Derrico

  “Generally,” replied the Admiral calmly. “Generally it is.”

  Dex and Anastasia watched as the Admiral pored over the figures and calculations on his display console. The ensuing minute seemed to stretch into hours.

  “The calculations are complete, Admiral,” reported Nathan suddenly. “I am relaying the coordinates to your consoles.”

  “Changing course now,” Zach announced.

  “Dex, engage the Quantum Refractor precisely when we reach those coordinates,” ordered the Admiral. “Zach, the instant we are cloaked, jump to hyperspace, heading: 117, mark four. Maximum speed.”

  “ETA, five seconds,” warned Nathan. “Brace yourselves.”

  It all happened at once: the sudden deceleration and appearance of the luminous interior of the nebula on the viewscreen, the signature resonance of the Quantum Refractor engaging, and yet another inertial rush as the Apocalypse surged back into hyperspace, almost exactly 90 degrees from its original course. It all took only an instant, and once it was over, the viewscreen again showed the familiar starlines of hyperspace.

  “Dex, tactical scans?” asked the Admiral. If the gambit had not worked, the Lucani Ibron ship would overtake them momentarily.

  “I have nothing on screen, Admiral,” he replied jubilantly. “It worked! Son of a bitch! You did it again.” The entire crew looked at him in triumphant astonishment.

  “They are continuing on their old course,” reported Nathan. “They have not changed course to intercept.”

  The Admiral finally released the breath that he did not realize he had been holding. For an instant, a flash of hope surged through him, a feeling that this, too, would be overcome. But his euphoria was short-lived.

  “Admiral,” ventured Nathan cautiously, “when we exited hyperspace, I picked up a report, coming over the news grid.”

  “What does it say?” asked the Admiral apprehensively, rising from his chair.

  “It seems—I am sorry, sir. It seems they have arrested your wife, just a few minutes ago.”

  A wall of flame seemed to slam into the Admiral as his blood coursed like wildfire through his veins. His temples throbbed and he slumped back into his chair, resting his head in his hands. It took several seconds of deep breaths for him to regain his composure.

  “Well, Zach,” he sighed finally, “I guess we had better plot a course for Earth. Your Admiral needs to be court-martialed.”

  • • •

  He only had to ring the entrance chime once before the doors slid open to reveal Anastasia reclining on a plush purple couch, a large hardcover book open in her hands. It was one of the many things Daniel had always liked about her: although multimedia presentation plates and holo-vid projectors were—Daniel thought—depressingly overabundant, Anastasia, like himself, firmly believed there was no substitute for a good book. Fluorescent pixels on a screen or a disembodied voice lifelessly reading text did little justice to the masterful words of the great authors.

  “Come sit over here with me, Dan,” offered Anastasia as he entered the dimly-lit room and walked over to the couch. Sitting up, Anastasia held the book open in front of him as he sat beside her.

  “It’s magnificent,” he said after he had studied the book in front of him for a moment. The pages it was open to contained a picture of an indescribable sculpture, the likes of which he had never seen. It was composed of some sort of translucent glass that refracted and magnified the light cast upon it into a prismatic projection that floated in the center of the creation. The effect, even in the two-dimensional representation, was absolutely breathtaking. “What is it?”

  “It is a piece of Creelarian Prism Art,” she replied, her own eyes deep in the picture. Slowly, she began turning the pages, which showed text and diagrams explaining the creation process. “From what we know, it takes their most skilled artisans years to painstakingly create these masterpieces. They use no tools of any kind in its construction, but simply gather the glass-like material by hand and blow the complex shapes with nothing but their powerful suction tubes. Each piece of the material is unique, with its own distinct reflective properties. As such, the selection of the glass is critical, and the artists must create these works without prior plan or calculation, instead molding the glass spontaneously as its particular prismatic properties become gradually apparent. If a mistake is made, the entire sculpture must be discarded and the artist must begin anew.” She paused for a long moment. “With all of our wonderful technology, we have never been able to properly duplicate it.”

  The Admiral shifted his gaze from the book to Anastasia’s face and saw a single tear roll down her delicate cheek.

  “And it, and all the others like it, and its creator, and all the others like him, would have been instantly destroyed if you had done what Stadler wanted you to do back there.” She finally tore her eyes from the picture to look fervently at Daniel. “So if you came here because you were agonizing over your decision, if you came here for reassurance that you made the right choice, if you came here to find out if I agree with your decision, your answer is right here on these two pages. Because isn’t this reason enough right here?”

  Daniel took the book from her hands and placed it on the glass table in front of them. As he turned to her, they embraced, and into his ear she whispered, “Thank you.”

  And in that instant the Admiral knew he had done what was right. The court-martial be damned.

  CHAPTER 9

  The return voyage to Earth was uneventful, although that was hardly surprising considering that the Admiral had instructed Nathan to take his time in repairing the “communications difficulties” they had coincidentally incurred in the aftermath of Daniel’s recent insubordination. In fact, for at least a few hours of the trip, Daniel had actually slept in his quarters, somehow relatively at ease even in the face of the upcoming repercussions of his failure to heed President Stadler’s order to fire the Omega Cannon in the Creelar System, an order, it must be noted, which would have resulted in the obliteration of the entire system and all its inhabitants before they had even advanced to the point of interstellar travel, the point at which they would have been officially contacted by the Confederation. In other words, every single member of a species with no knowledge of either humanity or the Lucani Ibron would have been instantly wiped out by an unfortunate confrontation of which they had no part, no knowledge, and no responsibility.

  Though ConFedCom had explicitly instructed the Admiral to remain onboard the Apocalypse until a transport vessel had docked with them in orbit, Daniel figured he had little left to lose by continuing to feign the communication malfunction and again descending to Earth in his ZF-255 fighter. Doing so, he reasoned, would perhaps ensure that ConFedCom did not go after any other members of his crew as well.

  When he landed, he was only moderately surprised to find two armed “escorts” awaiting him. He was also only moderately surprised that they did not insist upon placing him in restraints.

  The trip from the landing field to the ConFed Capitol building and down the transport tube to the sub-basement was quick and wordless. Daniel was escorted by two guards, each of whom wore a dark facial shield that obscured his feelings behind an inexpressive reflection of the drab, battleship-gray walls of the transport tube. When the cramped cubicle arrived at the bottom floor, the doors opened swiftly and the Admiral stepped out and headed down the corridor to the President’s conference room. Daniel noted that the escorts did not accompany him out of the transport tube, instead waiting behind but holding the doors open until he was through the security checkpoint and out of sight.

  The door at the end of the hallway was again flanked by two guards, one of whom wordlessly opened the door at the Admiral’s approach. As far as he could tell, they were the same guards who had been on duty during his last trip to the basement, wearing the same facial shields and uniforms and standing in the same stiff military posture.

  Once he had stepped through the heavy doors, the Admiral was met with
the familiar array of Confederation officials. At the head of the far end of the table, again, was President Stadler. Conspicuously absent, Daniel noted, was Fleet Admiral Le Jaunte. Which was just as well, he thought sardonically.

  Though he did not speak right away, the President’s ire was both considerable and immediately apparent. The muscles of his jaw were pulled taut, and Daniel wondered how long he had been grinding his teeth before his arrival. With an indiscernible sigh, the Admiral seated himself in the empty chair before him.

  “Admiral Daniel Caesar Atgard,” began the President ceremoniously, “I trust you know what this little meeting is about?” Daniel had always hated it when he was addressed by his full name. It usually meant something unpleasant was about to happen.

  For a moment, a litany of wisecracks ran through Daniel’s mind. Though tempting, he did not feel any of them would help ameliorate his current situation. “I do,” he replied.

  “Good,” said the President evenly. “Now, though I would love to make small talk, why don’t we just get straight to the point?”

  Daniel nodded his tacit assent. It was, after all, merely a rhetorical question.

  “Do you recall your actions yesterday in the Creelar System, Admiral?”

  “I do.”

  “Allow me to refresh your memory anyway,” the President continued. “You, as commander of the Apocalypse, disobeyed a direct order from your Commander in Chief. Instead of facing the enemy, you turned tail and ran like a coward.”

  Under the table, Daniel felt his fists clench involuntarily.

  “An act, I might add, that endangered every one of our lives, and, as such, extends beyond the realm of mere insubordination and borders on treason.”

  Treason. Strong words.

  “So I ask you, Admiral—do you deny that you disobeyed a direct order?”

  “I do not,” he replied stoically.

  The President’s voice grew louder. “Do you deny that you fled from the enemy, possibly endangering the lives of every man, woman, and child on this planet?”

  “I do not.”

  There was just a hint of a smile at the edge of the President’s lips as his voice rose to a crescendo. “Then I ask you, Admiral—do you have any defense of your treasonous actions?”

  The question seemed to echo throughout the room as the President’s eyes burned into Daniel’s. Daniel abruptly realized that the President was taking this not only very seriously, but also very personally.

  Casually reaching to take a sip from a glass of water in front of him, the Admiral did not speak for some time. Sensing an unexpected easy victory, the President’s mouth opened to speak, only to be cut off by the Admiral’s belated reply.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” he said softly. “I do.”

  After a moment, the President flashed a condescending smirk. “I’d love to hear it.”

  Nonchalantly, the Admiral reached into a pocket of his flight suit. Pulling out a sheet of paper, he slammed it on the table and forcefully slid it across. The President instinctively jerked away as it fluttered to rest before him. A few of the assembled officers around the table let out gasps of surprise.

  “That is my defense,” declared the Admiral.

  The President reached in front of him and picked up the paper, slowly letting his gaze fall from the Admiral to the document before him. “What in the hell is this?” he asked.

  “That is a picture of Creelarian Prism Art,” replied the Admiral, “and it is my defense.”

  The President laughed uproariously. “This?” he asked, stunned. “This is your defense? A damned sculpture??” He dropped the paper down on the table between peals of laughter. There were snickers from the assembled officers as well.

  The Admiral was silent.

  The President’s laughter slowly abated. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Am I serious?” mocked the Admiral. “Are you?”

  Any hint of humor that was present disappeared instantly from the President’s face. “Perhaps you don’t realize—”

  “Perhaps you don’t realize, Mr. President,” yelled the Admiral as he rose from his seat, suddenly animated. “Perhaps you don’t realize precisely what it was you asked me to do.”

  “I asked you to defend your planet!” yelled the President.

  “You asked me to butcher an entire race!”

  The President fumed, but said nothing.

  “Before we learned the term Lucani Ibron,” said the Admiral gravely, “we called them the Gens Laniorum.”

  “I’m sorry, Admiral, but I don’t speak—”

  “The term means ‘The Butchering Race,’ William,” explained the Admiral. “We called them that because they killed millions of sentient beings in one callous act.”

  “So what?” demanded the President, livid. “What do I care why …” His voice trailed off.

  “You care, Mr. President, because if I had fired that awful Cannon, we would have been the Gens Laniorum too. And we would have no more right to live than they do. The Creelarians would be the only innocents. But they would all be dead.”

  The room was silent for a long while; the assembled Confederation officers seemed hesitant to enter into the heated conversation. After a minute or so had passed, the Admiral finally calmed down enough to retake his seat. Another few seconds passed before the President spoke again.

  “Daniel,” he began, the edge gone from his voice, “surely you do understand that, whatever your reasons, you may not simply disregard the chain of command?”

  “No, sir,” he replied squarely. “I do not.”

  The President sighed heavily. “You never have been good at following orders, Daniel.”

  “The depths of hell are filled with men who were only following orders, sir.”

  “Don’t quote Glaucynon to me,” shot the President. “I see your side, but damn it, Admiral, I can’t have you running around out there out of control.”

  Daniel was silent. He knew the President had to enforce his authority, but part of what had sometimes gotten Admiral Atgard into trouble with superior officers was that he did not feel his duty was to them, but to himself; not to the President of the Confederation, but to its people—he felt that he had a moral obligation to do what was just, whether he followed orders in the process or not.

  “So you leave me little choice,” the President concluded. “Daniel Atgard, I hereby find you guilty of insubordination, and, through the power given me by the declaration of martial law, demote you to the rank of Captain. You are also hereby relieved of all duties indefinitely.”

  Daniel did not flinch. “And my wife?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” replied the President. “I do apologize for that. But I had to be sure you would come back. She will of course be released immediately.”

  Daniel rose and walked to the door. Opening it, he turned back to the assembled officers. “One other thing, Mr. President,” he said solemnly. “If you ever touch my wife again, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

  He then turned and walked out, leaving the room in stunned silence.

  • • •

  At least some good had come out of it, Daniel reasoned. At least he was home with his wife.

  At least that’s what he thought for most of the first day, a day spent relaxing at home with Tara. But that night, he was visited by other, far more troubling thoughts.

  Sure he loved the time at home with his wife. And the demotion didn’t particularly bother him. Daniel Atgard was never the sort of man to put undue weight on titles.

  What bothered him, far more than he expected, was sitting idly by while the fate of humanity was decided by others. As he lay in bed, struggling to sleep, he tried to come to terms with his sentence, convincing himself that he would be better off spending time with his wife instead of off getting himself killed.

  For most men, such rationale would be more that adequate. Most men would revel in their newfound freedom.

  But not Daniel Atgard.

/>   • • •

  Getting up quietly, Daniel sneaked out of bed and out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. He walked down the short hallway to his den, stopping to don a robe from the hallway closet. Once inside, he closed the door and sat at the desk, powering up his military-issue communicator and keying the secret emergency frequency of the Apocalypse. Always planning for unforeseen circumstances, Daniel had installed this private communications system some time ago, a system that would allow him to contact Anastasia and Anastasia alone.

  It took less than a minute for her to reply, her image coalescing over the table in front of him. The background showed she was, predictably, in her personal chambers onboard the Apocalypse. Daniel peripherally noted the Creelarian Prism Art book lying open on the glass table in the background.

  “Daniel,” she began, “I figured you would contact me this way eventually. I’m glad you did; there’s quite a bit you should know.” Daniel could sense the uneasiness in her voice.

  “So what have I missed while I’ve been vacationing down here?” he asked.

  Flashing him a half-hearted smile, she responded, “Well, for one thing, the Fleet Admiral is missing. He seems to have just vanished sometime yesterday.”

  “Missing?” Daniel asked, startled. “Does ConFedCom have any idea where he is?”

  “No clue. In fact, from what they can determine, he’s not even on-planet.”

  “Either that,” Daniel muttered, half to himself, “or someone is intentionally concealing his location.” High-ranking military officials were implanted with homing beacons that could pinpoint their locations in case they were needed in an emergency, in case they were abducted, or even in case they went AWOL.

  “That’s not all, Daniel,” she continued. “The Vr’amil’een assault is apparently almost under way. ConFed Intelligence reports several more Battlecruisers revealed from hiding.”

  “As if we didn’t have enough to worry about,” Daniel sighed.

  “Oh, it’s much worse than you think,” she added gravely. “ConFedCom wants us to go to the Tu’oth System—apparently without you—and destroy the Armada before it launches its attack. And the whole troublesome Tu’oth System with it, of course,” she added, trying to sound sarcastically flippant, with little success.