by Justin Bell
And when the years had passed and their master plan was executed, he would make sure he had a front row seat.
II
Daughter of Athelon
First novella in the War of the Three Planets series
Chapter One
All I could think of as my escape pod tumbled end-over-end through the dark, timeless void of space was ‘shoot, now I’m going to be late for school’.
I’m an Athelonian, through and through.
To be honest, though, I’m not as worried about missing school as about what my dad will say when he finds out about it. Although the fact that my transport shuttle is now a raging fireball behind me could give me an okay excuse.
The truth is, even as I struggle to peel my eyes open, trying to center myself inside this spiraling tin can, I can’t even quite recall how I got here. I can’t remember what happened.
This was supposed to be my first year of generational school. The Athelonian Academy located on our third moon is one of the most prestigious generational schools on the entire planet. Or even off the entire planet as the case may be. The transport shuttle had taken off without incident with me and my six classmates on board, all of our luggage stuffed in the rear storage compartment.
My luggage. Ugh. That gorgeous powder blue tank top. Those purple shorts that fit me just right. The plasma cam that I was going to use to talk to my best friend back on planet. All of it... gone.
Outside of the pod, a dull clang shocks me out of my daze and my concern about those stupid physical objects obliterated by a swift burning explosion. Hey, at least I’m alive. At least all of my classmates are alive. Well, I think they are, anyway. I saw the other six pods jettison right before I jumped in mine, so I have to think everyone else made it to safety. Although, as the shuttle exited the atmosphere, I could swear I remember seeing those pinprick disturbances that are a clear sign of small ships breaking hyperspace. Where had they come from? Why did they attack the shuttle?
Was it because of me?
Did little ole Brie Northstar bring this down upon us? It wouldn’t be the first time my life someone threatened my family’s life, mostly because of my dad’s job. He’s a senior laborer on Athelon, one of the most respected and hardest working assembly operators on the planet. In a world where manual labor is a sign of status, he is on a different level. Almost all Athelonians take their manual labor very seriously, taking obscene pride in how hard they work and how efficient they can be, and as the head of the North Annex union, papa Northstar has made some enemies.
Most of his enemies are planetside though... they wouldn't be breaking hyperspace.
Hyperspace. Right. Space. I’m still in freaking space.
The escape pod lurches left and takes one more desperate tumble, spinning me upside down so I smack my spine on the curved metal roof. I hadn’t even had time to buckle in. As the tumbling continues, I peek out the side porthole, a small round window built into the pod’s wall, and witness the shuttle breaking apart in the atmosphere. The cold of space has extinguished the flames, but the debris is floating away in small clusters of metal as if a storm has broken and the clouds are drifting apart, leaving behind blue skies and sunlight.
But behind this drifting cloud of scrap all that exists is more black space and more stars. Is this jettison pod even powered on?
Bracing my arm against the wall, I push myself upright and make my way to the front nose of the pod, groping for controls. These small one-person pods are designed for escape and evasion, but they do have some flight controls and even basic weapons systems. Not that the weapons systems on a jettison pod would be able to hold off whatever had destroyed the shuttle.
I whisk my hair back from the side of my head and press my ear down to the console at the front of the pod, listening for any sign of mechanical motion. I can’t hear a thing. I brace my legs under the console and wrap my hands tightly around the control sticks as the rear kicks up, threatening to flip.
What am I hoping to accomplish? I’m the spoiled daughter of a senior laborer, not some flight pilot. When I jiggle the sticks, there is too much play. They are not actually controlling anything, and I don’t know how to fix that. The pod continues its forward roll, and I let it take me over, keeping myself wedged into the console so I can stay seated and not start bouncing around this stupid thing. When the tumbling stops, I push the hair out of my eyes and check the front screen. More pinpricks. Lots more pinpricks.
At least a dozen more ships are coming out of hyperspace. I look over my shoulder, trying to glance through the side porthole again, just to see how far Athelon is. If it’s too far, maybe the rescue ships are jumping in? Am I being saved?
Yeah, and maybe I can toss on a spacesuit and walk my butt home.
The good news is, the pod has stopped tumbling and is now just half floating here, drifting further and further away from the scattered, broken remains of the transport shuttle. The bad news is those pinpricks, whatever is causing them, are getting larger and surrounding the pod.
For a moment I try to grasp one more shred of hope that as these ships get larger, I’ll recognize the Athelonian rescue frigate. I’ve seen those long ships with thrusters on each side skimming over the roofs of our tall factories hundreds of times. They had saved countless stranded ships over my eighteen cycles of life. I used to love sitting on dad’s shoulders and watching them fly by.
Did I? Did I love doing that?
My mind is cloudy; my thoughts are struggling through thick cotton. Even the ships approaching the front canopy seem blurry as if I am looking through a dirty visor.
I press my palm against my head, close my eyes, and try to focus. Did I hit my head during the explosion?
Ahead of me the pinpricks are now flood lights and three large ships are emerging from hyperspace ahead of me. Please be an Athelonian frigate. I’m sure that’s what these are. A shuttle full of kids explodes in the upper atmosphere and someone is going to notice, real quick.
That much is true, but these aren’t Athelonian frigates. These are Bragdon warships, and all of a sudden my eyes and my mind are all too crystal clear.
Chapter Two
The Yarda Quadrant is far from the largest in our solar system, but it houses three main planets. There’s my home, Athelon, the planet of the laborers. There’s Reblox, a larger planet, responsible for banking, and the home of the money makers.
Caught in between is Braxis. According to all of my lessons in school, Braxis is a swamp planet which is eighty percent covered in water, and where there isn’t water, there’s thick grassland. To hear my teachers or my parents talk, nights on Braxis are eternal and its inhabitants, the Bragdon, are grumpy and sinister lizard people who only exist to be miserable.
I’m sure their three warships now approaching my escape pod will be lovely company on my uncontrolled tumble through outer space. As I watch, the trio of monstrous looking spacecraft slow their approach, coming around and turning sideways as if to show me their sheer size.
Yeah, they’re big. Not only that, but other bright flashes bursting from their launch bays are visible, indicating that not only are the Bragdon warships trying to impress me, but they’re launching a bunch of smaller fighters as well. Is all of this for little old me? I’m starting to feel important.
I’d feel a heck of a lot more important if I wasn’t stuck here in some immobile tin can with no controls and no weapons.
Well, the controls and weapons are there; they’re just... not... working...
Something flashes in my mind.
In a brief, strobe light flash across my mind, I see a full schematic breakdown of the control panel under the yoke. What is even stranger, is that it all makes sense. I can follow along from one yellow circuit to another, the electrical current cascading from one board to the next, the way the fuel cells process energy and route it to different parts of the pod. It all makes so much sense.
My head rages and I stumble backwards, trying to clear the strange visio
n from my head. White hot pain stabs at my temples, bringing tears to my eyes and I fall over, landing on my back, wondering what in the world I saw.
“What in the name of the Mother?” I ask the air.
From my back I lift my head to see a swarm of fighters maneuvering in small thruster bursts towards the escape pod. I jump to my feet, run over towards the control console below the yoke, and pry open the seam with my nails. Wrenching it free, I look at the control boards mounted underneath, and everything still makes sense.
Underneath the console, I touch three cables with my fingers, yank them from their sockets, reach around to locate two others, and repeat the motion. Using teeth and nails, I strip the cables, twist together the fiber innards of two, and braid three others. As I wrap the braid around the twist, small blue sparks burst from the contact point. I stand, move left, and open another access panel to find a stack of switches. I slam the four switches into the opposite position which initiates first a faint snapping sound in the wall, then a rolling hum from the escape pod.
All around me lights flicker to life. The burst of thrusters is audible behind me as the engines ignite and the pod engine roars.
How did I even do this? I mean, the level of my knowledge of a control console is where I used to stash my makeup that dad never let me wear.
“Weapons systems online,” the cool computer voice reports, and I whip my head around towards the front canopy. The jettison pod is egg-shaped and metallic, combined with dozens of metallic panels bolted together, with a thermal entry cone at the front, flanked by a pair of powered laser cannons. I have no idea how I know this, but I do.
Twisting away from the panel, I leap across the cockpit to land in the pilot’s seat. I wrap my fingers around the dual-handled control stick, flick open the hinged cover at the top of each handle, and palm the red trigger mechanisms. Even though I’ve never flown one of these outside of mandatory school simulators, I’m at home. I run my fingers up and down the red palm switches as Bragdon fighters begin to converge ahead of me, backing and falling into formation. Behind the two warships a large Bragdon freighter breaks hyperspace, emerging from a pocket of nothingness and slowing, coming around to show its broad side.
My hand moves to the console and activates the thrusters while my feet roam around near the floor boards until I locate the acceleration controls. I take a deep breath, trying to muffle my raging heartbeat which is drilling into the inside of my chest as the fighter numbers ahead of me increase to four, six, and finally eight. With all of these in front, I can only imagine how many have pulled up alongside and how many are flanking me. I’m sure that I’m totally surrounded.
The Bragdon are brazen, flying their ships this close to Athelon, I have to admit. Since we are so close, I might have a chance to blast my way through and make it back into the atmosphere. Once I do that, the Bragdon can’t risk pursuit unless they want it to be an act of war, and no matter how brash they’re acting now, they can't want to go that far.
One of the warships comes around in front of me and draws closer, and underneath its rounded nose I see a pale light flash, then stay on. The jettison pod thrashes, tips, and starts surging forward, out of my control.
“Tractor beam,” I say, to confirm that crazy thought to myself. Like I even know what a tractor beam is like.
Now or never.
I slam my foot down on the left pedal and hear the thrusters fire up behind me. Without hesitation, the pod shoots forward in a rapid straight line, scattering spent tractor energy all around me as the beam releases its hold on my small metal egg.
Two fighters move in together, trying to bracket me in. When I draw too close to one of them, the pod glances off. It thrashes, skips away, and threatens to wrench free of my tight grasp on the controls. I panic for a moment as I visualize the fighters coalescing around me and preparing to finish me off as I float through space, not able to control this pea-sized aircraft. Around me, small pieces of metal float around, chunks of hull that I knocked free. Great job, Northstar.
Pulling the yoke and hammering the pedal I bring the jettison pod sharply around port and haul down on the triggers, lacing space with nose-mounted laser fire. Sparks race up the front of the small Bragdon fighter, when one of my shots strikes something important and the left side of it blooms outward in a sudden orange explosion, sending it tipping to the right and toppling through space. Even as the first explodes, I twist the pod left, avoiding a pair of return shots, drilling the next barrage into the cockpit of the second fighter.
My heart races and mother help me, I think I might be loving this!
The nose tips down and the aircraft floats, as I accelerate and go searing above it, watching as the remaining six fighters drift apart to get into a flanking formation. I might be smiling...
... BUT DID I KILL BOTH of those pilots? My smile falters and my excitement wanes.
I mean, sure they were Bragdon, but they were still living things.
Alarm claxons blare inside my pod and I barrel roll left as I twist along with the momentum. Laser fire must have glanced off the underside of the pod, as the small aircraft shudders and jolts, but I manage to keep my grasp on the control yokes. I charge forward, accelerate into the roll, and yank back on the control stick to bring the nose sharply up and around to target another pair of fighters. Clenching my fists together, I unleash another burst of quiet yellow gunfire and stitch it across the belly of a third fighter, then punch three shots through the fuel tank of a fourth, blasting it into smithereens. The splash back of the explosion catches the third ship in its shrapnel wake, and one of its rear thrusters bursts and catches blue fire, killing its power.
Four ships down in a manner of moments, and I’m still going. The yokes dip towards the nose as I press forward again, shooting the ship through the darkness of space, avoiding another cacophony of enemy fire behind me. Twin blue streaks sear the air above my pod as the warship fires stun torpedoes that miss me.
It certainly seems as if they weren't expecting me to put up such a fight. To my right I see a triangular beast of a warship coming around. As it turns, I catalog its features: a launch bay in back for a dozen smaller fighters, a wing-mounted assortment of torpedo launchers and small cannons, and two much larger cannons flash mounted to the each side of the fuselage. How do I know this?
They're using stun torpedoes, which means they want me alive . . . but why? Why would the Bragdon make such a brazen attempt to capture me? Is it because I'm Brie Northstar, daughter of a the head of the North Annex Union? Dad is well respected and we are comfortably well off, but is that enough to warrant a battle fleet to kidnap me? Is it even me they're after?
Three more blue streaks explode from the warship’s left wing and I ignite the thrusters, leaping forward towards them and dip sharply down, sending the jettison pod into what would have been a nose dive if there were any ground to dive towards. I skim underneath the stream of torpedoes and bring my nose back up again, the metal hide of the pod straining and creaking against my aggressive piloting. Up in front of me, the belly of the warship exposes itself, a wide and rounded array of sealed ceramic panels, interlaced with next generation metal composite.
Again, I repeat... how do I know this?
Somehow, I do.
Just like I know towards the rear of the warship, underneath its belly, is a thermal reactor core, the energy source that powers almost the entire ship. Between the two banks of rear thrusters, the belly swells as if pregnant, only there’s no baby in there; there’s a woven mesh of pure energy contained by layers of non-reactive polymer.
What the heck even is a ‘polymer’?
I am so confused.
But not confused enough not to fire. I slam my thumbs down on the twin buttons at the top of the yoke handles, and my only two torpedoes both slam from embedded launchers on each side of my fuselage, streaking towards the warship in intertwining plasma trails. I haul right and veer the jettison pod away as I see the two small cylinders puncture the ce
ramic hide in twin spouts of white fire. As I come away in the pod, I can see the flash of detonation out of the corner of my eye and the rear of the warship caves in for a moment, before bursting and blasting outward, shooting metal shrapnel and liquified plasma in an uncontrolled spiral spray.
Did I destroy a Bragdon warship? With a jettison pod?
As I turn back towards the wreckage of the warship to get a better angle on the remaining fighters there are two dull thuds on my right side, sending the pod tilting left. I suddenly realize that focusing so intently on the warship caused me to miss the mass of fighters that are now converging on me out of my blind spot. I try to bring the pod back around, but it’s handling like a dead steed and only crawls to the right as if making its way through thick mud. Even as I come towards the source of the fire, I see at least another dozen fighters blanketing space in front of me, with the massive freighter coming into view as well. One of the remaining warships to my left fires a full bracket of stun torpedoes. I realize as soon as I feel the resistance in controls that I’m not going to be able to avoid this volley.
And I’m right.
Four rockets pound into my jettison pod’s port side, sending light green energy dampening plasma rolling over the surface of the entire aircraft. The lights inside flicker and the thrusters sputter behind me. Even as I pull, the yoke won’t respond and as the pod tilts right, spilling me from my seat, the freighter draws nearer and ignites its own unique purple light from a terminal on its gigantic starboard side.
The pod jerks as the tractor beam takes hold, and I move towards the freighter, with a score of Bragdon fighters moving in alongside.
My impressive rebellion is over. Now if only I could figure out how I knew how to start it.
