Shroud of Eden (Panhelion Chronicles Book 1)
Page 1
Copyright
www.EvolvedPub.com
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SHROUD OF EDEN
The Panhelion Chronicles – Book 1
Copyright © 2015 Marlin Desault
Cover Art & Interior Design Copyright © 2015 D. Robert Pease
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ISBN (EPUB Version): 1622535154
ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-1-62253-515-6
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Editor: Michelle Barry
Senior Editor: Lane Diamond
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eBook License Notes:
You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.
Dedication:
For Regina,
who made a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Acknowledgements
About the Author
What’s Next from Marlin Desault?
More from Evolved Publishing
June 2550 – the 175th Year of the Panhelion
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In Jovian Orbit
~~~
The anticipation of battle provoked Captain Scott Drumond’s heart to a furious beat as he ordered his strike cruiser, Targelion, into the point position of the phalanx. Astern, eight ships of the fleet maneuvered into a tactical cone of concentric circles, ready to defend the Panhelion, the central government of Earth, and its settlements from alien invasion.
In the distance, Ganymede, largest of the Jovian moons, glimmered in reflected sunlight. A captive of the giant planet’s intense gravity well, it supported the sprawling military complex that lynchpinned the Panhelion military’s outermost operating base.
An uncommon hush descended over the ship as the crew manned their stations and waited for the command to engage the invaders. Tendrils of silent LiDAR pulses fanned out from the fleet in all directions, while hull receptors stood ready to receive faint laser-beam reflections from the enemy fleet. The ensuing battle would determine the future of the Panhelion. A loss would mean domination by the invaders and the end of human civilization on Earth and her settlements.
Drumond at one point eight meters tall, stood on Targelion’s combat deck before the display space, and mentally played out the role each of the flashing blue icons in the three dimensional display would play in the coming engagement. Each icon represented a ship in his formation.
At thirty-three, he appeared younger than his age. His instinct for military tactics and decisiveness had earned him the epaulets of a captain, and despite his headstrong attitude, he now commanded a first-line fighting ship of the Panhelion. His unapologetic manner rankled more than a few in the flag ranks—some approved of the decisive way he commanded, but from others his demeanor earned him deep-seated enmity, prompted by their envy of his natural authority.
The three-dimensional visual display filled one entire bulkhead of the combat deck with the image of dominant Jove, surrounded by a myriad of stars scattered throughout the deep black background. To one side of the giant planet, red dart-like icons representing the enemy fleet flashed into view. They approached from inside the Oort cloud like a swarm of angry wasps.
Blyds Gatura, Targelion’s executive officer, drew back from his display as he made his count of the attackers. “The reds have launched their attack. Eleven, no, fifteen enemy missiles now tracking us.” In the display space, small orange pips sped toward the blue fleet.
Scott nodded and barked out his order. “As soon as the tubes have deliverable mass, bring the hadron cannons to bear.”
Gatura repeated the command to the ship’s Combat Information Center (CIC), and in nanoseconds, energy beams of charged nuclear particles, synchronized with the LiDAR, flicked out at the orange pips. First one and then several more pencil-thin streaks of atoms, stripped of their electrons and propelled by intense magnetic fields, leaped out of the weapon tubes to intercept the incoming missiles.
Scott allowed himself a brief smile as second-by-second the orange icons winked out. With the missile threat neutralized, his blue fleet steeled itself to take on the invading ships themselves. “You may engage when ready, Commander Gatura.”
The reds pressed on. Enemy particle beams now slashed out at the blue fleet. The Panhelion phalanx reformed to converge on individual enemy ships.
“Captain, the enemy is beyond beam weapon range.” Blyds cursed under his breath as the Targelion’s damage siren sounded.
“Blyds, put us on a direct heading toward the enemy fleet and increase our velocity. Get in close. Let’s see if aliens can dance.”
Targelion accelerated toward the red fleet. At one thousand kilometers from the enemy, Targelion’s displays lit up from enemy particle beams that bathed her in deadly plasma. Magnetic shields screeched under the onslaught and went quiet.
The senior directing staff officer moved in front of Scott and cleared the icons from the screen. “Sorry, Captain,” the distaff officer said. “You’ve been destroyed. You may now retire from the battle.”
With his ship out of action, he released the restraints on the hemi-pod and loped across the deck and through the side portal into a dimly lit booth, eager to watch the rest of the battle from the Combat Operations deck.
“A win for the blue?” he asked the full commander who carried distaff insignias on his epaulets.
“We’re only in the fourth phase of battle,” came the directing staffer�
��s curt reply. “Blue successfully defended against the red’s nuclear missile attack, and held firm against the enemy beam weapons with ten percent casualties. Blue may now commit their reserves to even the odds.”
Scott rubbed his temple and moved closer, the better to see the display space. “As I said, blue wins.”
The distaff officer shot him a quick glance. “You think? In this phase of the simulation the plan gives the invaders directed energy weapons with five percent greater range than ours.” After several minutes, the commander tapped his control panel and spoke to his staff officers refereeing the exercise. “Tell the remaining blue forces they’ve been destroyed. The simulation is over.”
Both men watched the blue and red icons blink and disappear.
“The Panhelion fleet’s defeated.” Scott exhaled a deep breath. “We won’t like living under the thumb of the invaders.”
The directing staff commander chuckled and shut off his display. “Care to have a drink with me at the club when we get back to base? If you buy the first round I’ll give you a complete debrief of the exercise.”
Scott had a reputation as a hard drinking commander who often partied with the distaff officers after simulated battle. “Hell, I’ll buy more than that.” He slapped the distaff officer on the back. “With all the tricks you guys put in your simulations, I sometimes think you are the aliens.”
The distaffer’s expression turned to a broad grin. “No one has ever seen an alien, nor heard one, for that matter.”
A soft ring in the intercom implanted behind his ear interrupted his chat with distaff. A familiar voice vibrated in his cochlea. “Captain, please come to the combat deck.”
On the combat deck, he found Blyds hunched over the communications display. A soft but insistent chirp begged for attention, and Scott’s gaze immediately settled on the screen. Over the shoulder of his exec he caught the flashing words of a message from Solar Weather Center scrolling across the display. Five days ago a solar prominence had arced high into the sun’s photosphere, spewing out a massive burst of lethal, charged particles into interplanetary space—a Coronal Mass Ejection.
“How large was the CME, Blyds?”
“Center says a magnitude fifty class X. And it came out fast.” Blyds Gatura was a veteran and a barrel of a man with a nut-brown complexion and short black hair.
“A new record.” Reflected in the screen, Scott saw a mist of sweat beading on his exec’s forehead. The meaning of the message captured the attention of both of them. “But where the hell is the plasma mass now?”
Targelion’s executive officer announced the bad news in a somber tone. “Mars Weather Center reported CME passage ninety hours ago. Peak intensity followed the bow shock wave by seven hours. We’ve had no further reports on the location of either the CME or bow shock.”
The annunciator began chirping anew.
Blyds cleared his throat and continued. “Another message from Mars Center. They calculate a sixty percent chance the CME will transit within a thousand kilometers of our position.”
“Forty percent we live, sixty percent we die.” Scott mulled over the numbers. “Bad odds any way you look at it. If the plasma mass comes that close to us we’ll end up a tiny moon of smoldering metal in permanent Jovian orbit.”
Why hadn’t Fleet HQ called off the exercise? Christ, they had five days’ warning.
With the mass of lethal particles following the CME bow shock by seven hours, those seven hours were all the warning they would have before the full plasma incinerated their ship.
Their course had taken them a substantial distance from the battle arena. His ship was now separated from the main body of the fleet by several hundred thousand kilometers, and he doubted fleet HQ knew how long his ship needed to reach safety.
“Skipper, the only safe place in a plasma storm this large is in port.” Blyds wiped droplets of sweat from his forehead.
Scott tapped his implant to transmit mode. “Comm, give fleet command our position, and tell them if the coronal mass trajectory is anywhere near us we won’t have time to make Ganymede.”
Blyd’s glance shuttled back and forth between the display and Scott.
Warning icons flashed bright red on the display as the shock wave glow activated the hull sensors.
“CME bow shock in five seconds,” Blyds shouted.
He’d barely finished his announcement when Targelion bucked and illumination on the combat deck turned a macabre greenish hue; displays flashed tiny, spinning blocks of red and magenta as the flux levels around the ship reached full intensity.
Scott fell silent at the surreal scene as the ship’s electronics struggled to make sense of the intense flux coursing through their circuits. Equipment sparked and burned, and the acrid smell of ozone filled the ship.
Targelion had had a taste of the oncoming CME.
The comm officer’s voice overrode Scott’s personal intercom. “Captain, flux levels knocked out our communications, but the screens still show the last message received from Command. The fleet’s on their way to Ganymede. Our orders are to join them immediately.”
“Damn, they sat on that decision way too long. A total screw up. If they’d ordered us to port when Mars Center reported the CME position, we’d have had a solid chance to reach base.” Scott fumed with disgust, and his stomach tightened in a brief spasm. “Even with our best accelerate-decelerate profile, Ganymede’s at least thirty hours away. Fleet HQ can go to hell. This ship is my responsibility.” His curses echoed across the deck as the flux dissipated.
Damage reports filtered in one by one. The loss of the displays only hinted at the havoc to come. In seven hours the full CME would engulf his ship and reduce it to a cinder. By the time he reached his console and zoomed the visual-display to include Jove and all its moons, the combat deck had returned to near normal.
“Blyds, isn’t there a small research station on Callisto?” Scott pinched his brows at his continuing stomach spasm.
Blyds narrowed his eyes. “Yes, but their dock is only big enough for a resupply freighter.”
“Give me the distance anyway.”
“One hundred thousand and change but, Captain, our orders—”
“Blyds, it’s thirty hours to Ganymede. Six and a half to Callisto. If we don’t find shelter in seven we’re orbital ash.”
“Captain, Storm Watch reports that sixty percent chance just turned into one hundred percent.” Blyds’ throat muscles tensed, and his voice pitched up as he gripped the side support on his seat. “We’re going to take a direct hit.”
Scott punched more data into the ship’s computer, searching for a crucial answer. How much protection would Jove’s magnetosphere provide? A femtosecond later the answer flashed on the screen. Not enough. Targelion’s position, the orbit of Ganymede, and the plasma direction all conspired to put his ship in jeopardy.
“If we attempt Ganymede, our course directly intersects the path of the plasma. Ignore HQ’s order. We go for Callisto. Warn the crew and set engines to an accel-decel profile of three plus one half g’s.”
The maneuver alarm blared a loud alternating tone. Satisfied with the ship readiness, Scott settled into the folds of his command pod. A g-force of three was maximum for Panhelion ships. Three and a half would be hard on the crew, but better shaken than cooked.
Blyds released his seat gimbals. His pod swung to oppose the coming acceleration, and he clenched his jaw in anticipation of the g-forces. One last time his fingers darted over the control icons in a frenzy of final corrections. Done, he pulled his arms tight onto his body.
The tempo of the throbbing hadron engines wound to a fever pitch. Packets of super massive protons pulsed out the exhaust, leaving a glowing wake as the ship gained ever more velocity.
Earth
-
Three Months Later
~~~
Intimidation permeated the courtroom of the Judge Advocate of Defense Command. Palpable, it emanated from every corner, hammering guilt
into the guilty. It provoked indignation and outrage in the innocent. To the amoral it meant little.
How many careers had been destroyed, lives reduced to misery? All hinged on what persuaded five officers, the five who judged each case. Behind the bench bordered on both sides by the lower ranking judges, the senior officer sat higher than the others in a position of prominence. The prosecution and the defense gave him special attention. He announced the verdict and the sentence based on the facts as laid out by the witnesses, and on how persuasively the prosecution and the defense argued those facts.
Yet Scott had to admit, he suspected another, unacknowledged factor weighed on the court’s decision. Behind the scenes, powerful and influential figures had a personal stake in the outcome. Cloaked in anonymity, they bartered his fate.
The prologue complete, the arguments, the witnesses, the presentation of evidence over, he waited while others decided his destiny.
The bit players, the human trappings of justice, and not least of all, the defendant, stood in respect as the judges, having heard the evidence, filed out to debate his guilt or innocence and, if guilty, the sentence.
The docket in which he gave his testimony, as well as the witness boxes, were wired with truth sensors. He scored high, and that gave him a measure of satisfaction. When the witnesses gave testimony favorable to his cause, their high scores bolstered his hopes as well. Still his instincts sensed trouble. Subtle comments by the senior judge registered in his mind, and the conclusions he drew from these comments unsettled him. His less than subtle command manner had made him more than one enemy in the senior ranks.
The hushed conversations around the courtroom ceased when a lieutenant came through the side door and walked to the defense council table. He murmured a message and turned his attention to the prosecutor’s desk. The judges had reached a verdict.
Moments later the five judges, in order of rank, stepped through the door and took their seats. The lieutenant stood aside and asked Scott and his defense counsel to rise. Silence fell over the room like a miasma.
The court’s design and décor demanded submission to authority. The court weighed one’s deeds, and if found wanting, careers and lives, like mere slabs of meat, were butchered on the altar of justice.