Declination

by David Derrico

  But that money had already been spent, and, no matter how many more worthy uses it could have gone to, it was now Anastasia’s obligation to use it as best she could to diffuse the explosive situation into which she had been thrust. After all, this incident in the Pacifica System—Anastasia winced as she thought how history might remember it as “The Pacifica Incident”—would surely serve as a catalyst, one that would begin the process of bringing the peoples of the Confederation together to rebuild, or one that would herald the beginning of its demise.

  Why had they sent her, she wondered? Though they had explained that the just-in-time Inferno was by far the fastest ship in the Fleet and that Anastasia was one of their best, most respected negotiators, it still seemed to Anastasia that a traditional diplomatic envoy and negotiation team would have been the preferred approach, even if they would have arrived a few hours later. After all, Anastasia had to wonder, why send the most deadly ship in the Fleet on a mission of peace?

  And the Inferno was deadly. Though it—thankfully, Anastasia thought—lacked an Omega Cannon, the very doomsday weapon that was inherently responsible for the current crisis, the Inferno’s complement of conventional weapons formed as devastating an arsenal as any ship in the Fleet. The ship would be potent enough were that all it had, she thought. The Captain unconsciously flipped the technical readout she had been reading ahead a few pages, and her eyes came to rest on the heading at the top of the page.

  Experimental Weapon System XSA-1712: Subspace Destabilization Unit.

  It was commonly known among its designers as the Wind of Death.

  A wave of cold ran through the Captain’s body, chilling that part of her that possessed an inherent love of life and everything living. She shut her eyes against the cold, but she could not suppress it, and she could not dispel the notion that the military life was not one for which she was suited.

  Not in a military that could envision weapons such as these.

  Not in a military that could use the Omega Cannon to wipe out an entire race of Korgians.

  Not in a military on the verge of civil war.

  Anastasia buried her head in her hands, and her nanocomputer beeped helpfully. They were about to arrive in the Pacifica System.

  . . . . .

  Dex looked out the window as a small civilian sport craft flew by, executing a sloppy loop-de-loop as if to impress the inhabitants of the space-faring cantina. Dex, however, had been sufficiently jaded by years of experience—five of them with the unparalleled Zach Wallace as his pilot—to be singularly unimpressed by the unskilled exhibitions that often accompanied his visits to the orbital restaurant. He looked around the room in idle curiosity, wondering if the teenage showboating had actually impressed any of the establishment’s patrons.

  As he glanced about the room, his attention focused on a well-built, bald, black man at the far end of the bar. Dex began to stand, but Ryan had already noticed him and was walking in his direction.

  Dex rose as Ryan approached, and the two muscular men embraced in a brief but vigorous hug. “It’s good to see you, old friend,” Dex said as he retook his seat. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, too long,” Ryan agreed, sitting across from him. “I see you took the liberty of ordering me a glass of Vamalian Ale.”

  Dex smiled. “You wouldn’t drink anything else, would you?” he asked rhetorically, lifting his glass and clinking it against Ryan’s before both men took a hearty swig. “You still think this stuff ‘cleanses your system,’ right?”

  “It’s a scientific fact,” Ryan replied. He patted his chest loudly. “And I haven’t been sick in years.”

  Dex’s lighthearted laughter soon gave way to grim sobriety. “It is good to see you, Ryan, but I’m afraid we have more important things to do than catch up and get drunk together.”

  Ryan’s demeanor quickly turned serious as well. “Zach,” he said simply.

  Dex nodded. “I think something big is happening here,” he said. “I have a bad feeling about this whole incident.”

  “Alexis and I were trying to figure out why they would do this, too,” he replied. “Everything we came up with pointed to the SPACERs being up to no good. I mean, more no good than usual.”

  “I agree,” Dex replied. “I’ve tried to contact Anastasia, but she’s already left for the Pacifica System.”

  “You think something might be up with that blockade?” Ryan said, quickly growing concerned. “You think Anastasia might be walking into a trap?”

  Dex spread his arms. “I don’t know. It’s mostly just a feeling. I mean, Anastasia can take care of herself, but something is going on.”

  “And it will probably go down in the Pacifica System,” Ryan finished for him. “What can we do?”

  “Well, I can’t do much down here on my end of the investigation, and this new assignment as a security force is a waste of time. My squad can’t watch everywhere.” He took another long draught from his glass. “Besides, we have more important things we could be doing. Put someone else on appease-the-public garbage duty.”

  “I hear you,” Ryan said. “It may make for a nice headline, but why waste an elite Commando team patrolling shopping malls? What do you want to do instead?”

  “I’ve put in for my unit to be transferred to Pacifica. As Anastasia’s personal security force.” Dex’s lip curled upward. “If they’re up to anything, my team can handle it.”

  “I like that idea. What do you want me to do?”

  “I think the best thing you can do right now is help in this investigation. Clear Zach’s name and get him back on active duty. We don’t have time for these distractions, and we don’t have the luxury of being without the Fleet’s best pilot.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Ryan promised. “So far I’ve met some resistance with becoming an active part of the investigation, but my Captain did grant my transfer orders to the Divine Hammer.”

  “Good,” Dex replied, finishing his drink. “If they give you any more problems, luckily we know someone who may be able to pull a few strings for us.”

  The words brought a wide smile to Ryan’s face. “How is Daniel?” Ryan asked. “I haven’t talked with him in a while. I assume he’s still chairing the Ethics Committee, right?”

  “Of course,” Dex replied. “That was his dream even when he was leading us on the Apocalypse. And all this crap has been keeping him pretty busy lately.”

  “Do you think this investigation will get that high?” Ryan asked. “You don’t think they’ll discharge him, do you?”

  “I doubt it. But if Zach is discharged or if charges are filed, the Committee has the right to review the case. Daniel will make sure everything is on the up-and-up, at least.”

  Ryan nodded as an almost inaudible alarm rang from his nanocomputer. “I had better get back to the transport. I’m scheduled to be transferred to the Divine Hammer in a few minutes.”

  The two men rose and Dex shook his friend’s hand. “You take care of Zach, and I’ll take care of Anastasia,” he said. “Just be ready for whatever is about to go down.”

  “I will, my friend,” he said. “Good luck in the Pacifica System.”

  Dex nodded his head and Ryan turned to leave. As he passed, he put his hand on Dex’s shoulder. “You just might need it.”

  . . . . .

  The starlines on the viewscreen receded back into the points of light they actually were as the Inferno came out of hyperspace several million kilometers from the large planet of New Berkeley. Behind the planet hung the nearby Horsehead Nebula, its diffuse glow illuminating the skies behind the planet and creating quite a spectacle from the ground. Of course, from this distance, the apparent pattern that gave the nebula its name was not visible, as the dark gasses that obscured the light emitted by the nebula—from the vantage point of Earth, anyway—were several light-years away.

  The system’s yellow sun lit half of the lush globe, which from this angle was almost equal parts green, blue, and pitch black. The
planet had intentionally been left underdeveloped, and it was one of the few habitable planets that retained most of its natural beauty. It was a shame, Anastasia thought, that the violently rebellious SPACERs had decided to claim this planet as their base of operations.

  As the planet grew larger in the display, Anastasia could make out the blockade that had formed like a ring system about the sphere. Small and widely spaced, the ships of the blockade patrolled the area in proud formation, probably blissfully unaware that the meager assemblage of ships would have little deterrent effect if the Confederation ever chose to break it up by force. Of course, the last thing the Confederation needed was a violent conflict with a rebellious faction to crystallize the anti-government sentimentality that had flowed through the Alpha Sector like the blood of a martyred hero. That martyr, in this case, was the entire Korgian System, a system completely obliterated by the then-invincible Indomitable and her horrific Omega Cannon, a system destroyed, as it turned out, not out of defense or necessity, but out of sheer dishonesty. It was, in Anastasia’s opinion, undoubtedly the single lowest point in the history of mankind.

  Anastasia remembered when she had first seen the tape of the Korgian Annihilation. Everyone—even high-ranking officers like Admiral Atgard and then-Commander Mason—had been told that the Korgians, who had been massing for an assault, had fired upon the Indomitable when she arrived at their home system. But the tape—The Tape, as it came to be known—showed the truth to be otherwise. The Tape showed the Korgians’ attempts to surrender and it showed Fleet Admiral Cole’s dismissal of that surrender and his decision to fire the Cannon, a decision that destroyed not only the entire Korgian Armada, but also the entire star system and its nine billion inhabitants.

  And, Anastasia thought bitterly, humanity’s claim to moral righteousness and virtue.

  “Captain,” interrupted Byron, jarring her from her thoughts, “there appear to be 14 vessels that comprise the blockade. Only one is Cruiser-class; the rest are Corvettes and a few larger fighters.” He studied his tactical display. “They all appear to be in fairly poor condition.”

  Anastasia wrinkled her face. Surely whoever had organized this blockade knew the motley assemblage of ships was no match for any force the Confederation might send. Did they really believe they could accomplish anything if push came to shove? Were they merely making a symbolic stand? Or, Anastasia wondered skeptically, were they trying to bait the Confederation into demolishing the ragtag fleet?

  “Captain,” reported Ariyana, “I have an incoming transmission from the planet.”

  “On screen.”

  The image of the planet on the viewscreen was quickly replaced by the scowling face of an imposing woman. She was young, perhaps in her late thirties, but her face was hard and battle-worn, taking on the appearance of wrinkled leather. Her dark black hair was dusty and was tied behind her head in a simple ponytail. The woman wore no make-up of any kind and her clothes were plain and nondescript. Old bruises lined her arms and neck and her expression was one of distrust fostered by years of betrayal.

  “Who are you?” she asked impatiently. “Where’s the Confederation negotiating party we demanded?”

  “We are it,” the Captain replied, not showing any umbrage at the woman’s dismissal of her and her ship. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Anastasia Mason, and I am here to negotiate on the Confederation’s behalf.”

  The woman laughed a humorless laugh. “Stop wasting my time,” she scoffed. “You think we’re supposed to be impressed because they sent the renowned Anastasia Mason? You underestimate us, dear. We are here to negotiate, not play your little public relations game.”

  Anastasia’s voice remained deliberately steady and unruffled. “We are not here for public relations, and I am not here to impress anyone.” She leveled her gaze at the woman. “I am here to negotiate with you, but if you think whomever they send in my place will be more understanding than I, you are welcome to try your luck with them. If I were you, however, I would see this as a good opportunity to have my grievances heard, one that may or may not present itself again if you turn me away.”

  The woman measured Anastasia wordlessly for several moments. “Very well,” she said at last. “I guess you will do. We can begin negotiations tomorrow. I’ll transmit the landing coordinates to you then.”

  “Thank you,” Anastasia replied. “I look forward to meeting you.”

  The woman said nothing, but simply reached over and flicked off the transmission, returning the viewscreen to its previous external view of the planet.

  “She was lovely,” Victor said, still looking to the viewscreen. “This should be fun.”

  Anastasia rubbed her forehead wearily. She had just won her first small victory already, in persuading the woman to even speak with them. Or had she? After all, Anastasia sensed that it had not taken much persuasion to convince the woman to accept her as the negotiator. Maybe she really believed Anastasia would be as understanding and empathetic a negotiator she would get. But she had not really seemed as surprised as she should have been that the Inferno was sent instead of a full diplomatic envoy. She had not really questioned why Anastasia was there, and the Captain could not help but wonder why.

  A long sigh escaped the Captain’s lips. She wondered how much “fun” she’d be able to handle.

  . . . . .

  The lights were off in Zach’s quarters, and he could do little but stare at the darkness of the ceiling. Both of the room’s large plasticite windows had been tinted to block out the reflected light from the Earth below, a necessary measure when the ship was orbiting above the bright daylight half of the planet. But still Zach could not sleep, and, though he had not technically been confined to his quarters—or thrown in the brig—he had been given the distinct impression that it was in his best interests to sit placidly in his room while his guilt or innocence was determined by “experts.” And he was trying to do just that—sit placidly—even while pirate activity continued to run rampant throughout the Sector and while his very future was being determined.

  He was having little success.

  In Zach’s 36 years, little had matured him like recent events had. He shook his head as he thought back to his days as the pilot of the Apocalypse, how everything had seemed like a game to him then. I was young and cocky then, he thought, and I’m old and cocky now.

  But something in him had changed over the past year. When the pirate activity—nearly unheard-of in the Confederation’s heyday—began six or seven years ago, Zach had seen it as a great opportunity to display his skills and rack up his kill count. But now, he realized that for every pirate ship he disabled, there were ten more wreaking havoc on cargo ships, cruise liners, and private yachts, ten more ships each doing their little part to tear the once-proud Confederation apart. Zach had, in the past couple of years, grown to think of it as his duty to single-handedly end the pirate activity of the entire Sector, a task that would be labeled “Herculean” if only it were possible at all. Now, every pirate ship Zach destroyed did not merely symbolize a kill on some ledger, but instead meant that Zach had applied one more bandage to staunch the wounds that heralded the imminent demise of the great United Confederation of Planets. And he was able to sleep at night because he felt that he had been doing his part.

  An unintentional laugh escaped from Zach’s throat as he suddenly realized how ironic it was that he, Zach Wallace, the prototypical swashbuckling fighter pilot, was lying in his bed, unable to sleep because he was worrying about his role in the great scheme of things. Five, ten years ago, this same inactivity would bother him only because other pilots were out racking up kills while he was quarantined in his cell. Now, it bothered him because those other pilots would not rack up enough kills without him out there to help.

  The door chime rang and Zach thought for several moments about simply pretending to be asleep. After all, he doubted that whoever would come through the door would bring good news. But when the chime sounded again, Zach s
aid, “Come in.”

  Commander Wallace heard the door slide open but kept his gaze locked on the blackness of the ceiling, now a dark shade of gray as artificial light streamed in through the open doorway. Since it appeared his visitor was not going to announce himself until Zach looked at him, he reluctantly sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked to the figure in the doorway.

  Instantly a smile found its way to Zach’s lips. “Ryan, is that you? Computer—lights. What are you doing here?”

  The room lights faded in to show Ryan’s robust form in the doorway. “What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing in here?” he asked. “Don’t you know your squadron leaves for Utopia in an hour?”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Zach lamented, slumping back in his bed. “I’ve been—”

  Ryan waved his hand to silence him. “Yes, yes, I know. That thing with the terrorist ship. I took care of that.”

  Zach squinted his eyes, cocking his head to one side in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about, Ryan?”

  “Well,” he said, unable to hide his smile any longer, “I wasn’t really doing anything, so I thought I would come over here and check out those doctored flight logs. And you know what?”

  “What?” asked Zach expectantly, trying in vain to prevent his optimism from overcoming him. “What did you find?”

  “The darnedest thing. It turned out those doctored flight logs really were doctored. Go figure.”

  “They were? I mean, I know they were. But you proved it?”

  “This is me you’re talking to. I could find a stray data bit in a planetary grid; I can find where your flight logs were altered.”

  “Who did it?” Zach asked. “And why?”

  “I don’t know who yet, but it was definitely someone on the inside. Someone with access.” Ryan sat in a chair opposite Zach. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to discredit you, Zach. Someone wanted you out of the way for a while.”