Declination

by David Derrico

  The bizarre technology of the Lucani Ibron, however, made it all totally useless. So far, no known weapon—not even the categorical Omega Cannon—had made so much as a dent in the alien vessels. The sheer helpless fury Zach had felt when pummeling the ship to no visible effect had been pungently consuming, and that same impotent feeling threatened to consume him now.

  Zach pushed the doubts from his mind, refocusing his energies and steeling himself for battle. Having almost overshot the realspace emergence zone, he pulled back on the hyperdrive lever and was rewarded by the familiar retraction of the starlines back into luminous points. Visible first through the cockpit plasticite was the yellow-brown globe of Zebulon Beta, but it only took a moment for Zach’s glare to focus on the tiny silver ship quietly orbiting the august amber sphere.

  . . . . .

  His ship had emerged from realspace and already begun the descent to Charnus Prime by the time Dex wandered to the bridge. He had told his crew that he was not to be bothered, and they had known better than to disobey the order.

  The planet of Charnus Prime was a hazy blue-green, lush forests covering most of the globe’s temperate surface. The rest of that surface was covered with wide oceans, and most areas on the planet were deluged with a perpetual rainfall.

  The Cerberus descended slowly through the clouded atmosphere, dropping below the billowing vapors and into the midst of a heavy gale. Streaks of lightning arced through the clouds near the bulky transport, and the thick sheets of rain made visibility all but impossible.

  “I guess I’ll be using the instruments to land,” Retro muttered to nobody in particular, and his remark was met with only silence. Dex thought bitterly that the ubiquitous rainstorms would do little to lighten the gloomy mood on the ship.

  Though the lights on the landing pad were totally concealed by the storm, the ship began to slow and Dex felt it touch down lightly on the weather-beaten platform, on the roof of the Confederation embassy building. The Commander fingered the intercom to the transport’s exit hangar, where half of his squad would be waiting.

  “Landing team, exit the ship and secure the perimeter.”

  “Aye,” replied Zip over the intercom, and Dex switched the main viewscreen to an external camera covering the exit hatchway in the transport’s aft.

  The half-dozen Commandos filed out of the ship and took up positions around the rooftop, imposing figures in their full-body hostile environment gear. A group of embassy guards was already waiting outside, and several others were stationed around the roof, but Dex wanted his own men on the alert as soon as possible. The embassy guards were professionals, of course, but they were not Commandos.

  Dex watched as his team scanned the streets below with built-in thermographic imaging sensors.

  “Incoming!” came a call over the radio.

  Dex hit the auto-scan setting on the viewscreen and it instantly changed to show a fiery grenade arc over the lip of the rooftop.

  “Cover! Do not return fire!” Dex ordered.

  The Molotov Cocktail exploded on the tarmac and left a ring of flame that was quickly washed away by the heavy rains.

  “The attacker is escaping, sir,” one of the Commandos reported. “Should we rappel down and pursue?”

  “That’s a negative,” the Commander replied. “Hold your positions and stay alert.”

  Retro turned back to Dex, shaking his head. “Warm welcome, eh, sir?” He laughed a humorless laugh. “This should be fun.”

  Dex exhaled heavily, looking to the viewscreen and the remnants of the crude grenade. Crude, but effective nonetheless. It was mostly luck that it had not impacted nearer any of his men. And while Dex did not intend to let terrorists take pot-shots at his squad, he also had no intentions of mowing down poorly-armed civilians.

  How he would accomplish one goal without ignoring the other, however, he had no idea.

  . . . . .

  A dispersed but pervasive rumbling shook the bridge, a building symphony of sound that would soon crescendo into its unmistakable cacophonous roar. Anastasia kept her face purposefully rigid as she stared at the viewscreen, her mind awash with thoughts of friends and foes and unknown strangers—strangers put to death by these same Lucani Ibron, strangers put to death by her own terrible weapon, strangers about to die today.

  A short tone from the sensors intruded on the Captain’s tortured reverie. A glimpse at her tactical console informed her that another ship was about to arrive.

  “Captain, we have an unidentified ship, incoming at 117 mark three,” Lieutenant Romano reported. “And it’s coming in pretty quick.”

  Not another one, thought Anastasia apprehensively. After all, she had seen what a single Lucani Ibron ship could do. “On screen.”

  The viewscreen resolved to show an empty area of space, and for a moment nothing was visible but stars.

  An instant later, however, a bright white glow appeared on the screen, quickly receding back into a single ship. The ship was small, not quite the size of a Corvette, but larger than a fighter. It was aerodynamically shaped, and its swept-back wings merged into a large bank of engines. The ship rushed toward them at incredible speed, spinning to a stop between the Inferno and the Lucani Ibron ship. Anastasia’s view was now of the rear of the magnificent vessel, and—belatedly—she realized what—and who—it was.

  The viewscreen changed to show the bridge of the new ship. Its captain, alone on the bridge, possessed an almost tangible presence, and as soon as they saw him, the aspect of the entire crew was radically changed.

  “Greetings,” began the man, speaking to the Lucani Ibron ship. “This is Admiral Daniel Caesar Atgard, captain of the Apocalypse.” He leveled his formidable gaze at the aliens. “Remember me?”

  Anastasia released a long breath. She seriously doubted that she had ever been so happy in her entire life.

  . . . . .

  On the bridge of the Apocalypse, multihued status lights blinked their variegated chorus, tactical display consoles streamed data garnered from the enemy vessel, and the ship’s computer silently tended to a myriad of pre-programmed functions. The ship was seven short of its normal complement, leaving only one man—Daniel Atgard—but his attention was not concentrated on blinking lights or scrolling readouts. Daniel Atgard’s attention was, instead, focused rather intently on the viewscreen, which displayed an image that was, though from a decade ago, hauntingly familiar.

  Seconds passed and seemed like eons. There was no sign of activity from the alien ship. No movement, no attempt at communication. The categorical indifference was, indeed, the very hallmark of the alien species, which had only once been known to communicate or show any recognition whatsoever of the ships it encountered.

  Actually, Daniel remembered morosely, that was not entirely accurate. Though he himself had been part of the only known communication with the Lucani Ibron, claiming that incident as the only time the egg-shaped silver ship had ever showed sign of recognition went too far.

  After all, the Draconian bastards had recognized the Indomitable before they destroyed her.

  Suddenly, the viewscreen changed, resolving to show the bridge of the alien ship, a sight with which Daniel was also all too familiar. Though he had last seen it ten years ago, his recollection was as vivid as any memory he had. Every detail of the alien bridge was exactly as he remembered it: hovering light-beings clustered around indecipherable patterns of light, flickering and changing shape seemingly at will. In the center was a being more brilliant than the rest, and the Admiral was forced to squint in order to prevent the entire scene from merging into a single luminous blur.

  “Yes, Admiral Daniel Caesar Atgard,” came the being’s delayed response. “We do indeed remember you.”

  The words—or, more accurately, the thoughts—of the creature were not spoken aloud, but instead reverberated only in Daniel’s mind.

  “Good,” replied the Admiral, leaning forward in his command chair, uncomfortably aware that he was alone on the ship. “The
n you remember what happened the last time you killed innocent people without provocation.”

  “Yes,” replied the being, in the same manner as before. “We do indeed remember what happened.”

  “Yet you destroy entire planets,” spat the Admiral, only peripherally aware that his emotions were threatening to overcome him. “And you come again to destroy another. Must we trade death for death? How many will be enough? How many humans do you have to kill before the ‘justice’ you claim you seek has been meted out?”

  The aliens appeared to ponder this for several moments, flickering in unison as they presumably discussed their response. Abruptly the flickering abated, and Daniel thought he sensed an increase in the beings’ luster.

  The light-being in the center seemed to float slightly closer as it spoke.

  “All of them,” it said.

  The viewscreen suddenly went black.

  . . . . .

  Zach reflexively jerked on the control stick, veering his fighter away from the Lucani Ibron vessel, instinctively expecting it to begin pursuit, fire upon him, or at least show some sign that it even perceived his existence.

  But Zach knew it would do no such thing. It had come to destroy the planet, and the single-minded Lucani Ibron would not be distracted from that goal by a puny fightercraft.

  Nor even an entire battle fleet.

  In fact, as Zach spun his ship back around to face the dreadful enemy, he could already see a thin point of light appearing on the surface of the ship, a point that gradually increased in intensity before spawning a small but intensely luminous beam that shot through the forlorn planet of Zebulon Beta far below.

  This is why you came, you idiot! Zach thought. Do something!

  Zach slammed his palm down on the firing stud, releasing an unheard battle cry along with a devastating array of firepower that sped toward the silver ship. Lasers and supercharged plasma streams pulsed toward the aliens, converging on the spot where the light beam originated. Following them to their targets were several conventional missiles and one that carried the Hellfire warhead.

  The light beam intensified just as the missiles impacted their targets. Zach had to avert his eyes, and could not tell if the glare was a product of the aliens’ weapon firing or his missiles’ explosions, or both.

  The self-tinting cockpit plasticite became nearly opaque for the next several moments, and Zach strained to see if his weapons had had any effect.

  Abruptly, the cockpit turned transparent, and Zach could once again see the Lucani Ibron ship. No sign of damage on the alien ship, but also no sign of their omnipotent weapon. A quick glance assured Zach that the planet of Zebulon Beta remained intact.

  Before he could even begin to surmise what had happened, a prismatic beam shot forth from an invariant spot on the alien vessel’s hull and struck his ZF-575. The impact jarred Zach violently against his restraint harnesses, and he could feel his fighter being pulled toward the enemy ship. He struggled with the controls, but the engines could not so much as slow his progress. He thumbed the firing studs, only to find that all weapons were off-line. His shields were down, and, though every warning light on his console was blaring crimson, the computer seemed to have nothing to say.

  He was trapped.

  The mesmerizing hull of the alien ship loomed closer and closer in Zach’s field of vision, until it was the only thing he could see. There was no discernible hangar bay, no doors opening to accept his captured ship, only the gyrating silver soup that coursed like a living liquid around the exterior of the vessel. Zach found he was unable to avert his eyes from the spectacle, and hardly even noticed that he had suddenly begun to feel very fatigued.

  By the time the ZF-575 was captured, Zach was already unconscious.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 15

  Dex marched down one of the Consulate’s wide hallways, lavishly adorned with portraits and rich wood furniture that served no conceivable purpose. What is the point of those little two-legged tables? Dex wondered idly. Are they supposed to help hold up the wall?

  The hallway ended in a thick wooden door, held open by a fat, balding man in his late fifties. He wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief and beckoned for the Commander to enter.

  “Commander Rutcliffe, I assume. Yes, yes,” he continued, not waiting for a response. “It is so good to have you here. You have no idea how harrying this situation has become down here.”

  Dex walked past him and into the room, an office of some sort, large enough to hold three more heavy wood desks like the one that dominated the center of the room.

  “Yes, yes,” repeated the Consul. “Please do sit down. I do hope you can get started right away.”

  To his surprise, Dex found that the man paused long enough for a response. “Yes, sir. My men are already covering the perimeter. There will be no more attacks on this building.”

  “Of course, of course,” the Consul intoned, dismissing the Commander’s words with a wave of his hand. “But when will you begin the real task at hand?”

  “Excuse me, sir?” Dex replied. “What would that be?”

  “Oh, well, you know, you know.” He dabbed fitfully at his brow once again. “Eliminating the terrorist element that has been plaguing this city.”

  A peal of thunder reverberated through the windowless room, and the Consul flinched nervously, scanning the walls with his largish eyes. Dex sighed impatiently.

  “I assure you, sir, that my men have the situation under control. You have nothing else to fear from terrorist attacks while—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure. But that’s only a temporary solution, now, isn’t it? What will happen once you leave? Oh, no, no, that just won’t do at all. I’m sure the weasels are out there now, regrouping, just waiting for you to leave.”

  The Commander closed his eyes and took a measured breath. If he had to put up with much more of the Consul’s condescending manner, the terrorists would be the last of the portly man’s concerns.

  “What would you have me do, sir?”

  “Well, of course. Well.” The consul cleared his throat. “The threat needs to be eliminated.” Sensing the Commander’s tone for the first time, he appended, “Right?”

  Dex straightened his collar. ConFedCom had made it very clear that he was to obey the Consul’s orders, to deal with the threat as the Consul saw fit.

  “What would you have me do, sir?” Dex repeated.

  The Consul shifted nervously in his seat, dabbing his forehead again with his infernal handkerchief. He licked his turgid lips nervously before he spoke, his voice hushed.

  “You … you need to kill them.” The words came out with glacial stupidity. “Right?”

  Dex ground his teeth together hard. The Consul was a diplomat. A politician. Dex would wager that he had never touched a weapon in his life, never faced down the barrel of one, either. He had no concept of battle, had never seen the charred corpses of civilians gunned down in a crossfire. All he knew was that he wanted the attacks stopped. As for how a squad of elite Commandos would stop them—well, what else did Commandos do, after all, but kill people? Why else would they have sent him?

  There was a long pause as Dex narrowed his eyes, staring forcefully at the bulbous Consul. “No, sir, I don’t need to kill them. I’m sure there are other ways to end the threat. Do we have any idea why—”

  The Consul interrupted him again. “Oh, of course, we’ve tried talking to them. But you know how they are. Ridiculous demands. They’re all just animals, really. All they really want to do is murder and kill.”

  Dex let the repetition pass. “Perhaps we could talk to someone in charge … find a way to stop the bloodshed.”

  “No,” bellowed the Consul, speaking with surprising vehemence. “The terrorists must be hunted down and killed. That is all there is to it. My men have located some possible headquarters of terrorist operations. You will clear them out.”

  The Commander rose from his chair. “You don’t really want my squad t
o fan out through the city and mow down civilians, do you?”

  “They are not civilians,” the Consul replied, suddenly animated. “They are terrorists. You’ve seen them throw bombs at the compound. I can’t even go outside unless I’m in an armoured aircar. They’ve even injured two of our guards.”

  The Consul paused for a moment, and Dex took a heavy breath. He couldn’t let the attacks continue, and he did not believe in negotiating with terrorists either. But sending Dex’s squad to eliminate the threat seemed a somehow disproportionate response.

  “Now, Commander,” concluded the Consul, his words sickeningly patronizing, “unless you have any further questions, I suggest you get started.”

  Dex had a momentary vision of himself lunging across the table and squeezing the Consul’s neck like a sausage. Instead, he turned on his heels and stalked out of the room before he could no longer refrain from making that vision a reality.

  . . . . .

  During Atgard’s conversation with the aliens, which Captain Mason witnessed on her own viewscreen, she had noticed a slight but deliberate movement of the Apocalypse on her tactical display. She knew from countless years of working with the man that Daniel was maneuvering his ship so as to spread the aliens’ field of fire when they counterattacked, while still allowing both ships to concentrate their fire at the same point on the enemy vessel. To this end, he had moved his ship approximately 90 degrees from the Inferno, theoretically forcing the Lucani Ibron to face one ship or the other, thus leaving themselves open to attacks from the sides or rear.

  Anastasia had seen Daniel perform the maneuver several times in similar situations, and it had usually served to leave the enemy vulnerable. Unfortunately, thought the Captain, this particular ship seemed to have no front, no rear, and no weak areas to exploit.

  The transmission between Atgard and the aliens quickly cut out, but was just as quickly replaced on the viewscreen by a shot of the Apocalypse’s bridge.