Confrontation: Aliens and Humans. Allies and Enemies. (Space Fleet Sagas)

by Don Foxe

  Tista attempted to explain life as a captive to Genna. “The Zenge never talked to us. They did not insult us, or goad us, or comfort us. They treated everyone exactly the same as the animals held in other cages. We were fed enough to keep us alive. Given water, hosed down occasionally, and left alone until someone was taken for the butcher.

  “The most awful thing,” Tista dropped her eyes to her mug. She gripped it with both hands, elbows firmly placed on the tabletop. She made a conscious effort to not tremble. “The most awful thing was hoping they would take someone else each time they came.” She sighed before completing her confession. “Then hating myself for thinking such a thing.”

  Tista, at five-six, an average height, weighed only one-oh-five. That after gaining twenty-pounds following the rescue from the cargo ship. She needed another fifteen to twenty-pounds. Her gaunt face accentuated high cheekbones, and narrow chin. A long, straight Greek nose, and full, but not pouty lips. She could pass as a human from the Mediterranean region of Earth.

  The borrowed Fleet-issued civilian grays hung on her too-thin frame, giving the elegant beauty a child-like appearance.

  “They took the children first.” Tears ran down the Ventierran’s face. She wiped them with a napkin. “We fought, or tried to fight. Every species, every race, every adult tried to stop them. There were too many, and they used shock rods to herd us. Anyone who fought too hard received shocks until knocked unconscious. Dozens of us littered the floors. The cries of the children taken away haunt my dreams.

  “They even took the young animals. The carvide [wolf-like animals from the planet Testerray] had two pups with them. The adults fought virtually to the death trying to protect their young. When the Zenge passed my cell, one snapped the neck of a pup. The whines of the other one still wake me at night. The howls of the carvide filled the storage bay for a week. After all of the young had been taken, everyone simply gave up.”

  Genna picked up a napkin to wipe away her own tears. The despair in Tista’s voice was palpable.

  The engineered-human, proffered a vivid contrast to the alien. Her profile strong, eyes bright, and posture straight. Her light-colored hair accented with a royal blue streak on the right side. Storm convinced her the blue dye would demonstrate she had an impulsive side. She did not possess a whimsical nature, and rarely experienced any impulse she felt compelled to act upon. She did consider Storm her friend, and acquiesced to the vagary.

  Dark blue eyes above a turned-up nose, and a light sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks, gave her a waif-like aspect. The bio-engineering increased her strength and speed well beyond normal human standards.

  At five-eight, one-thirty, Genna filled out her uniform properly, down to the kevlar-leather soft-sole boots, expressly crafted for her as a gift from Captain Cooper.

  She may not embrace whimsy, but she certainly felt empathy.

  Genna slipped her hands around the alien’s, holding her’s, as she held the cup. Tista had been attempting to cope with the psychological pain of her capture for months. She spent time with therapists on Earth, as well as with Dr. Burton, the psychiatrist aboard the 109. She opened up to Genna more in the past few minutes, than with any counselor in the past few months.

  The avatar released her new friend, pushed away from the table, and stood. Reaching for Tista’s hand once more, she said, “Come with me.”

  Tista did not resist. Standing, she asked, “Where?”

  “We are going to the uniform supply room. I happen to know the Chief Supply Officer for MSD, and he has connections here on EMS2. We are going to get you properly fitted clothes.”

  Tista actually smiled. “That would be nice.”

  The two debarked the 109 on what became a space station equivalent of girls’ day out. That evening, when Tista fell asleep, she slept through the night.

  CHAPTER 8

  Nathan Trent and Manny Hernandez placed three crystals atop the conference table.

  Yauni Taper Catacta, a towering seven-foot member of the Lisza Kaugh race, dominated C-TAC. Thick, light-brown hair covered the giant, except for a humanoid face framed by brushed tresses. Yauni held up the largest crystal to examine the physical appearance from multiple angles.

  “It is from Rys, my planet. I am positive. I have never seen this cut before. It was not accomplished by hand, even with a fine chisel. The number of facets, and the clarity of the crystal is remarkable. At first look, it appears smooth. When you run your hands over it, you can sense a thousand facets.”

  Dr. Nathan Trent, his chief engineer, Dr. Manny Hernandez, astrophysicist Dr. Karen Ordon, planetologist Dr. Hiroshi Kimura, and Tasha Korr sat at the table, waiting for Yauni to complete his examination.

  He handed the crystal, the size of a football, to Dr. Kimura. He selected another, slightly smaller than the first, but similar in design.

  “The flat top of the crystal is the table,” he said.

  Dr. Trent interjected, “When we set up a space-fold array, the main laser is focused at the table’s center. Once precisely aimed, the light appears to spread through the crystal, following from the crown along facets and into the pavilion [the body of the crystal]. The crystal transforms the light into an energy source, which emerges at the bottom.”

  “The bottom is the cutlet,” Yauni said, and continued, “and these crystals have rounded cutlets. Normally they would come to a point, or sometimes a flat surface, similar to the table. To round a cutlet would take a lot of time by hand. Or require an extraordinary piece of equipment the Lisza Kaugh do not possess.”

  Lisza Kaugh translated into Light Cutters. Yauni’s race produced crystals designed to provide power sources for a variety of devices throughout the Trading Alliance worlds.

  “We place the crystal in a copper-alloy cage,” Dr. Hernandez tells them. “The cage contains fibrils similar to organic neurofilaments. The filaments connect to a larger cage encapsulating the smaller cage and the crystal. When refracted light is emitted at the cutlet, it escapes into the fibers, and charges the surrounding cage. The cage emits a power field, creating a bubble, which surrounds the ship. The bubble absorbs space and time from in front of the ship. The ship, and crew slip into a space-fold event. The bubble releases the compressed space and time behind the ship. The result is faster-than-light travel.”

  “Like a jet-engine taking in air, mixing it with accelerant, turning the turbines to create the force necessary for flight, and speed, and then emitting the hot air,” Dr. Ordon surmised aloud.

  “Besides the main laser, we use a number of others that strike the crystal at specific angles. We also mix, and match an assortment of colored lasers. Each color represents a prescribed level of strength. We use red, green, and blue to charge intersecting facets. Either a blue-violet, or white laser is utilized as the main beam. Each crystal is unique. It requires time to discover the combinations necessary to produce a space-fold bubble and produced the desired rate of travel.”

  “And this square cut design?” Yauni asked, picking up the third crystal. “We have similar cuts, but usually smaller. We use them to emit light. We can place them in a manner that, if one is activated, it will activate succeeding crystals. Dwards, the miners on Rys, use such a system to light tunnels.”

  “It’s called a radiant,” Trent explained. “Placed within a special ceramic-carbon-polly alloy tube, and activated with a narrow beam white laser, it provides the power for a tachyon burst. These are the energy source for the tachyon cannons we created. The one you hold will power the cannon installed on the 109.”

  “These radiants are the crystals for the people on Rys?” Tasha asked. “You’re sending crystals, to a planet of crystals, to purchase crystals?”

  “Like sending coal to Newcastle,” Trent agreed. “It sounds silly on the surface, but as Yauni pointed out, these cuts are unique. The two space-fold crystals are back-ups for the 109. They remain on the ship. As far as we know, Earth has the only space-fold technology active in the universe, and we are not lettin
g it go. If the Zenge gained space-fold travel, there would be no stopping them.

  “Rys will receive a half-dozen radiants, and the equipment to build six tachyon cannons. In return, we’re asking for raw crystals we can use to build more space-fold arrays, and tachyon cannons. We have the equipment for cutting, shaping, and polishing the raw crystals to create what we need.”

  “But you will not share your knowledge?” Yauni asked.

  “As I said, and as I have been instructed by the Board of Governors for the United Earth Council, space-fold technology will not be shared. What your people do with the radiants provided to you, is up to you. Your cutters are welcome to replicate the radiant cuts, and reverse engineer the remaining elements of the array.”

  “If we can replicate the radiants, but cannot produce the materials for the cannons themselves?” Yauni let the question sit.

  “Then we may have a basis for future trade between our aligned worlds,” Trent replied with a smile.

  “An alliance of mutual assistance,” Tasha mused aloud. “For a species who have not traded with others in the galaxy, you have a shrewd mind for it.”

  “Humans are unfamiliar with interstellar commerce, but we have engaged in trading for centuries,” Hiro added to the conversation.

  “Upon reaching Rys, we would like Yauni to introduce us as friends, and have Tasha barter for an alliance,” Trent said. “If the Zenge are there, then Captain Cooper will do all he can to kick them out. If they are not there, we provide Rys with the weapons to keep them out.”

  “Shouldn’t Captain Cooper be present for this meeting?” Hiro asked. “It seems the captain of the ship should be aware of the mission.”

  “Kennedy?” Trent spoke aloud.

  “Yes, Dr. Trent,” came the AI’s immediate reply.

  “Are you keeping Captain Cooper apprised of everything we discuss?”

  “He is receiving the meeting notes in his office. He is completely aware of the mission.”

  “Unless someone has something to add,” Trent said, standing, “I would suggest everyone get as much station time as you need. The 99 will transfer to the Mars Shipyards for her official launch in twenty-four hours. The 109 will join her there for the ceremonies. Your trade mission begins two weeks following the 99’s launch.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Lt. McCormack, those people are really the Space Rangers?”

  A young corporal, assigned to the Officer’s Club on MSD, held a swinging door to the kitchen partially open. His eyes on a group seated along the far wall of the lounge. His commanding officer, Lt. Heidi McCormack, worked behind him, overseeing preparations for evening meals.

  “They call themselves Space Ranger Grads,” she said. “Not enough people survived the project to actually form a Space Ranger company. It is rude to stare, corporal.”

  The enlisted man allowed the door to swing shut. “I’ve read stories, and I’ve seen a couple on news-streamers. Guess I never really thought of them as real. I mean, super humans?”

  “Exo-meta-humans.” A large, black-granite block of a man leaned against the wall beside the walk-in freezer. He snacked on cheesecake. Lieutenant Commander Henry Smith, Command Supply Officer for MSD, wiped his hands, and then his mouth with a linen napkin.

  “Excuse me, Suppo. What?”

  “Corporal, an exo-metahuman is someone with powers, and, or abilities considered beyond human norms. Said person receiving such abilities through a combination of external mechanics, bio-engineering, and the presence of a metagene. A metagene is a genetic trait which lies dormant until activated.” The black officer smiled. White teeth, and the mirth in his eyes, equally bright.

  “Henry made that up,” McCormack said.

  “True,” he agreed, “but it fits. Do you know the whole story about the Space Rangers Project?” he asked the serviceman.

  The kitchen staff gathered.

  “Henry, you can tell your story, but keep it quick, and simple. I need these people back to work.” Henry noted Lt. McCormack did not depart. The Space Rangers bridged important milestones in human history. They represented living story-book characters.

  “Three decades ago, the United Earth Council began considering the creation of Space Fleet. They knew, one day Earth would possess the ability to reach out to the galaxy. To insure success, those ships needed special crews. People able to operate in the hostile environments of outer space.”

  Henry commandeered a stool. He sat in front of the prep table, within easy reach of assorted munchables. “Nathan Trent decoded the files left by whatever alien race built, and then abandoned a flying saucer there, on Mars.” He pointed to his right. He was pointing into deep space, nowhere near Mars’ current location, but no one corrected him.

  “How to manipulate genetic sequences, and bio-enhancement formulas were found among the data deciphered. Formulas to generate beings with incredible resilience, strength, and speed. How to re-engineer people capable of self-healing, and molecular-level regeneration.” He leaned forward, bringing his audience near, and whispered. “A way to make someone more likely to survive prolonged periods in space. Away from civilization, and far from help.”

  “Like us, sitting in a fully stocked kitchen, attached to an orbiting saloon for officers?” McCormack asked, the snark obvious.

  Henry’s voice returned to its normal deep bass. “No, not like that. Thirty years ago, people saw space as big, and scary. No one considered travel to alien planets occurring in days. They thought trips would take decades.”

  “Is this why Space Rangers don’t age?” the corporal asked. “So they can survive in space for decades?”

  “It was a major consideration,” Henry acknowledged. “Geneticists on Earth, while working on a cure for the pandemic virus, discovered the Methuselah gene. There was a time, before the great flood, when humans lived for hundreds of years. In the Bible, Methuselah was described as over eight-hundred years old. The codes for extended lifespans still exist within human genomes.” He leaned back, and reached for a black olive.

  McCormack looked at her watch, but did not hurry the story, or disband the impromptu meeting. Henry did notice her concern. He continued, deciding to cut to the chase a bit more quickly than normal.

  “Genetic engineers, biochemists, and physicians gathered by the UEC, were provided this data. Then told to create a re-engineered human capable of exploring the universe.” He popped the olive into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed while everyone waited.

  “Exo . . . meta . . . humans,” he finally said. “They designed external methods to enhance human capabilities, and found a way to reactivate the Methuselah gene.”

  Before anyone could comment on his amalgamation, he continued. “While they refined the process, every military unit, police force, and para-military group on Earth received a dispatch . . . the UEC needed volunteers. Any volunteer who passed the physical, and psychological tests, would join an experiment to create a Space Ranger Corps. A company of elite humans trained to operate in space, and on any planet, moon, or planetoid. People with the strength to lift a tractor, and the speed to outrun a hover-cycle. Explorers able to survive life in space, resistant to infections. Astronauts with unbreakable bones. Any non-fatal wound would self-heal in hours to days, depending on the severity.”

  Henry, who truly loved telling stories, looked up, as if looking back in time, taking his little group along.

  “Over 20,000 answered the call. Psych exams reduced the number to less than 12,000. Physicals and medical tests dropped it another 6,000. A board of experts reviewed those 6,000, and produced a list of 2,000 finalists.

  “Everyone agreed these 2,000 met every requirement, and possessed the characteristics for success.” He told them this, as if he had been there to agree.

  He pointed at the corporal who had initiated the conversation. “2,000 of the world’s finest special operators were brought to a secret location somewhere in Nevada. They began a six-month process to cull the best from the rest.”<
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  Again, he leaned forward, and they leaned in. McCormack, who knew the Space Rangers’ story better than most, could not stop from leaning forward herself.

  The LCMD then whispered, as if sharing state secrets, or scary stories around a campfire. “Daily tortures.” A pause, and he resumed at his normal volume. “From physical readiness, to armed combat; hand-to-hand matches to see who could beat who. Your sex didn’t matter. Your age didn’t matter. You fought to remain in the project. Mental games tested their wills. They were judged on their ability to act, or react to situations from the seemingly insignificant, to impossible scenarios. They were dropped in the desert without supplies. They had to climb a mountain, in a thunderstorm.

  “By the end of the sixth month, only two hundred-twenty remained.”

  Henry turned on his stool to inspect the prospects available from the prep table. After careful consideration, he opted for another olive.

  “You can eat later, Henry,” McCormack said. “Finish, so I can get some work done.”

  The Supply Officer nodded in understanding. He dropped his eyes, and lowered his voice, bringing his audience nearer. “Two hundred-twenty placed in genetic modification tanks. The tanks filled with a gel compound created from a formula found in the Martian files. Supplements, and exotic chemical compounds pumped into the last of the volunteers. Finally, lasers, and electrical pulses fired energy into the vats of soup. They were supposed to remain in those tanks for twenty-four hours.”

  Henry sat back, his sad face, and drooping shoulders foreshadowing the painful twist to the story.

  “For twenty-hours everything preceded according to plan. Then, one-by-one, people began to die. They simply stopped breathing.

  “Of the two hundred-twenty volunteers who entered tanks, twelve survived. Those twelve emerged with the special attributes everyone hoped for, but with no statistical commonalities to prove why they survived, while others did not.”