OF CRIMSON INDIGO: TALES OF THE MASTER-BUILDERS

by Grant Fausey

  Rena pulled away with hate in her eyes, covered only by her contempt for those dealing with his fear of life. "My memories haunt me." He snapped, rising from the chair. "This will be my last journey home, Rena––, he continued. “My last confrontation with those that have stolen my right to be free."

  Rena slid her hand along the arm of his chair, finding only rejection. She began to speak, but the image of Relnar materialized in a projection before him. The sparkle of light trickled onto Titann's armor, alighting it in shifting patterns of color. "Admiral," said the Captain noting the presence of Rena with a nod. "All ships in the fleet have reached deployment. We should arrive just ahead of Lightship One and are preparing for reversion now."

  "Good, Captain. Keep me informed of our progress. Once Light Ship One is brought aboard, set course for Rampia. Best possible speed."

  "Aye, Sir."

  The image of the Captain faded and Titann turned to face Rena. "I want to hear your thoughts on the masters but later in the privacy of my quarters."

  "As you wish, Admiral," she purred.

  Titann stepped past her. The door swished open in the darkness. Rena lingered, keeping perfectly still in the shadows. The door swished shut and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  ––– 9 –––

  PASSAGE'S END

  The galactic shift ended abruptly, delivering the vessel to its destination in a conversion of rearranging molecules, shifting stars, and exchanging planetary bodies. It seemed to be the only point of light in the sky that didn't exchange identities with a faint counterpart, thousands of light-years away. Captain Relnar ran his hands along his uniform, patting through the cloth pockets to the skin beneath. It was an effort to make sure no part of him was mistakenly left behind, somewhere else in the cosmos.

  "Reversion complete, Captain," announced the navigator. "We're clear for maneuvering. Lightship One on schedule, Sir." Relnar finished patting and pressed a hand to the sides of his face, rubbing his whiskers. The process of molecular reversion left him not quite feeling whole: An unpleasant experience that was left over from the good old days of space travel. His father and grandfather before him was captain of the Omar, the original star-faring space travelers, as far as Relnar was concerned. They were each a captain, most commands were passed down from generation to generation. The same was true with his command. He too was long on star travel and short on ports of call. The job wasn't a rewarding as command actually. There was more to life than the day-to-day routine the Industries offered. He had never married; there wasn't time for a home life. Objectives changed, exploitations. The Industries weren't fair and most of the worlds within their circle of influence were better off reduced to rubble. Still, there was his pride in his crew. They could accomplish anything, given the chance. He smiled a wide smile. But the grin disappeared as the navigation officer spoke: "Lightship One arriving off the port bow, Sir. She's ready for docking maneuvers, Captain."

  "Bring the little dagger aboard, Mr. Kyle," nodded Relnar.

  The navigator acknowledged turning straight to his duties. The starship Omar slowed, gliding through the heavens on a circular course that took it along the edge of a wall of the energy barrier. Relnar watched from the bridge windows, awaiting the Lightship's arrival. The sphere of the Netherlands Nexus filled the view from horizon to horizon.

  The space plane rocketed across its path, emerging from the hyper-speed jump. Its pilot, Jason Brant, adjusted his throttles, maneuvering the nose of the jumpship until the huge battle cruiser was visible in the cockpit windows of his ship. "Behold, the Omar!" he yelled out, squawking like some old duck. "I'm taking credit for that comfortably smooth trip across the galaxy you guys just had!" The crew laughed. "Twelve hours, forty seven minutes. That's not bad time, even if I have to say so myself."

  Brant cracked a smile; he had accomplished the first leg of his mission––the impossible first leg of his mission. There was a sense of pride stolen from the Industries. Brant and his companions had taken the ship right out from under the noses of a dozen Senators. All that remained now was the crew briefing on the Omar, the modification of the space plane, and if he could get his way, the loading of disruption weapons.

  The commander breathed a sigh of relief. Thirteen hours of his trip were behind him. The mission was meaningless unless everything happened exactly as it was supposed too, and he figured the chances of everything going wrong were a hundred percent. After all, he was a rebel and these were the actions of a rebellion.

  "All right," he said to the crew. "We're lined up––take us aboard." A big shit-eating grin covered his mouth. The urge to just turn tail and run crossed his mind, but instead he said: "I don't know how you space jockeys got us out here, but here we are and here we're going to have to stay. Let's get this bird aboard that floating nightmare, before they leave without us or worse you two end up rolling on the floor."

  Jessica Time, the navigator, smiled at the big man. Brant shook his head taking tight a hold of the controls. His fingers worked magic over the computer pads and instrument panels. An expert, he thought, even if he was a clone. After all he was about to show just how good of a replicant he could be. "Omar control, this is Lightship One––“ he said with confidence, “we're coming aboard."

  The docking port entrance yawned open like the mouth of a gigantic whale about to swallow every bit of dirt and debris that space had to offer. The space plane spiraled into position, aligning nose to nose with the end of the rotating space dock landing apparatus. A burst of directional thrust marked the power down of the space plane's main drive.

  The alignment was complete. Lightship One embraced the arms of the docking port mechanism and a moment later was cradled aboard.

  ––– 10 –––

  THE BRIEFING

  The audience chamber was no longer dim, but rather well illuminated, bathed in the light of a holographic projection that occupied its center. Captain Relnar stood waiting for the officers to take their seats, watching as the crew entered the room through several doors in the curved walls at the rear of the starboard side of the compartment. The complement took whatever seating was available. The atmosphere was tense and the room filled to capacity. Everything felt uncomfortable.

  Relnar looked around, slowly. About him, ready to take his ships into a hopeless battle was a dedicated crew of a thousand men and women: A tantalizing situation by any standards. Behind him, the crew of Lightship One entered the room, Brant leading the way. The Commander was nervous about his mission, as well as his acceptance among the aliens, humans and machines alike that occupied the audience chamber. He felt out of place: A clone with a facade of strength wearing thin, something left over by the cloning process he reckoned. His intellect and personality were part of the original donor; his characteristics manufactured while he was replicated from the human host.

  Jessica followed him, staying a step or two in front of Kyle Helmer. She was comfy with him, fantasizing of course, she wanted him to take her in his arms, throw her to the floor and be her lover, but the timing was wrong. She knew that, of course, her feelings were way off base; she had a job to do. Brant looked back at her as he took his seat. Noticed her beauty. Most of all, he admired her height. She stood about five foot seven inches tall, coming to his shoulders: Slightly shorter than him, but interesting. He adored her long black hair, which she pulled back into a crystal clear lacing tied at the ends. He thought she carried herself well. An apple in the public's eye so to speak, but she was a dreamer, an otherworldly representative; not just the astronaut responsible for death of politics and the affairs of state on Trithen. Fate turned her to a new path. One she would never see to its conclusion. She felt sorrow over her hosts demise and wondered how much she was a part of the cloning process that created her.

  Jessica felt the stare; unusually attractive, pleased with the feeling she even felt a false sense of pride; after all, she was a clone, a replicant of a former human being. Doppelganger. She could only hope to live up to t
he thought of being a real woman: At least, in her mind. That's what she told herself. Her forced memory integration with her entire data bank of manufactured lies, memories she wanted to identify with, but couldn't. The computer council had given her a share of memories––good looks––a beautiful refined body, but the cloning process left a whole in her traits. She had none of her donor's disposition. Her personality was manufactured, nothing more than a copy.

  Helmer tracked behind her, an arms length between them. He wasn't concerned with the mumbo-jumbo, and the safety of his cozy little station aboard Lightship One. Satisfaction didn't come easily, for the specialist; however, he was willing to give whatever came his way a chance. He wasn't afraid to show what he felt, or were his feelings were going. Jessica sat next down to Brant, between him and Helmer. The seat was well cushioned against the curve of her bottom. The seat was far more comfortable than she anticipated.

  Helmer followed her example and took the next seat. He could see the projection well enough. Safely secluded from the view of the majority of the Omar's officers and crew. He felt comfortable even when Commander Trigon, a rather tall, slender fellow with bright red eyes took center stage, adjusting the hologram's imagery. Relnar stepped up behind him to join the group, standing beside the ominous shape of the Admiral. Titann, of course, began the briefing:

  The air turned cold: A sense of being in the spotlight. Relnar put a foot on the projector and touched the side of the image, changing its illumination. The illustration became three-dimensional. "Gentlemen," he began, "this is a crucial time for all of us. We've plotted the course of Trithen Kellnar's shuttle, the Cyclone." The image shifted perspective, highlighting the projection marking the flight path of the emperor's shuttle with colored light. Relnar's fingers traced the edge of the illustration as he continued. "You can see here..." He pointed specifically to a small line that coursed the projection, "… the flight path taken by the Cyclone through the Trillian star system. This opportunity for interception cannot be ignored. Only a small contingent of Trigennian fighters will be escorting the Emperor's shuttle to this point."

  "We believe the fighters will be forced to break off due to fuel consumption," continued Relnar, again pointing to another spot on the star charts. "This lack of support inhibits the endurance and gives us a very narrow margin for attack." Admiral Titann entered the limelight, standing center arena. Relnar gestured to the other side of the projection, detailing a course along the edge of the image. "Admiral Titann."

  "Gentlemen," nodded the Admiral, "we have a clear shot at Emperor Kellnar's star yacht until it reaches this point along the edge of the Nexusphere, where it will once again be escorted by imperial fighters. Lightship One must intercept the Cyclone here at the rim's edge, just before it leaves Trillian space." The image enlarged, showing the Emperor's space plane and its fighter escort. The Admiral stepped aside, taking a new position along the side of the projection. "We feel this narrow corridor of time and space warrants a chance for success. It's an opportunity that can not be ignored, if at all possible."

  Relnar looked at the crowd, stepping to the edge of the arena; his heart pounding. Adrenalin was flowing through his veins at an ever-increasing pace. "At the cost of all our lives,” Titann continued, “neither Kellnar nor any of his cronies must reach home space. Not a single one of his clones must be left alive, anywhere in the infinite universe. The time has come for triumphs; our fate lies in all our actions. May our wisdom of the Master0-builders bring us all freedom, my brothers! Good luck, Gentlemen."

  Brant remained seated as the others stood up and cheered! The noise level rose quickly, replacing the calm silence in a whirlwind of excitement. Relnar's words ran across his mind again and again. A feeling of fear kept him glued to his seat, his thoughts on the impact of his responsibilities. He was facing a greater challenge than any he had ever imagined. He knew it was a long shot, one with literally no odds for success. But from somewhere deep down inside of him, he felt the steady flow of confidence as it rushed to the surface. He looked at his wrist, at the communications device attached to it. He started calculating the time needed for interception: The shortest trip in history and the most pressured time of his life.

  The observation lounge emptied quickly. Brant stood up. Jessica waited by the entrance at the top of the down ramp, her heart pounding; her breath quickened as she reached out to take him by the arm. "Come on soldier," she said smiling at him. "We've no time to wasting. Let's get to it."

  Brant returned the smile. There was a gin of pleasure on her face. She couldn't wait to get closer.

  • • •

  Four crewmen moved equipment around the bottom of the Lightship One, preparing to load two large missiles into the underbelly of the space plane. The weapons lifted through the floor grates on the extended arms of a loader's truck, being guided by the loading crew into the ship's underbelly. The foreman watched the missiles pass the bomb bay doors, clicking onto the pylon supports inside. The first weapon was in position. The second weapon followed the same path, secured into position beside the first. The loader's arms withdrew and the door motors began to whine, sealing the underside panels tight below the missiles. The bomb bay was secured.

  Helmer entered the hanger first, leading the way across the deck. The docking bay was filled with assault fighters, technicians and loading crews, each preparing for battle on a grand scale. The fighter crews made last minute adjustments to the ships. The fashion of the day was battle uniforms and flight gear. The Omar was alive, vested with the chores of any large spacecraft carrier. The crew was some of the best star sailors in the business, and Brant was proud to be among them. They were good at their jobs and so was he.

  Three, two man teams climbed over the back of Lightship One atop bridgework that moved into position. The leader order the crew to start modifications, they needed to complete several jobs in a very short time. An additional set of outboard engines graced both the wingtips and middle-wing sections, and the ship's main hull.

  "They've completed loading," said Helmer over the edge of the hatchway, leaning upside down to Brant. "We've two shots at the Cyclone."

  "I was afraid of that," answered Brant sliding his fingers along the underside of the wing as he reached the belly hatch. "We will have to get mighty close to win this one."

  Helmer raised an eyebrow, overly confidence and aware of the prospects. Brant leaned over to him and placed a hand on the inner hatchway rails, taking a moment before climbing aboard. He reached back down the portal and gripped a hold of the door lever, pulling the hatch shut from the inside. The passageway went black.

  Admiral Titann headed across the flight deck skirting the edge of the control room like a dog establishing territory. Arrat, the ships controller floated into position beside the navigator. His sensor array lowed to the floor, sparking arcs along the deck plates. "Loading complete," said the machine. "All preparations are well underway."

  "Good––" answered the Admiral. "We'll be joining the fleet as soon as we complete our little rendezvous on Rampia. There is something vital I must attend too there."

  "As you wish, Admiral," answered the floating box of wires and circuits, maneuvering to the other end of the bridge.

  The monitor lit up in front of the admiral, showing Commander Brant securing himself for departure. He looked back through the cabin to make sure Helmer and Jessica was also ready.

  "All set," echoed her voice over from the monitor. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be." Helmer laughed, pulling tight his shoulder straps.

  "Ready Jessica?" asked Brant.

  "All set, Skipper! Let's do it!" Brant turned back around, staring out the cockpit windows into deep space. What was out there waiting for him wasn't pleasant; he knew that, but he had to go. They all did. "All set––" he said. "Stand bye."

  Brant depressed the release button and the lightship sailed away from the bulk of the cruiser, slipping back into space. Its gleaming red surface reflected the massive engines of the Omar, alig
hting the ship's side panels in a reflection of the tremendous energy burst, which powered the battleship hurtling its bulk into deep space. Brant adjusted his controls to a comfortable touch. His mind was clear of any self-doubt, but still he felt compelled to turn tail and run. But he couldn't; too much was at stake! So, in a moment of unwarranted bravery, he throttled up the main engine. The starship flared with engine ignition. A bright white ball in the night sky lurched forward, accelerating to the speed of light as it disappeared into the stars.

  ––– 11 –––

  THE GOVERNOR

  The moonlight shimmered on the waves, glistening reflections painted on the glass of the three moons that orbited Oceanna in the Governor Colonel's office. It was near midnight and as the majority of the population slept, cradled in the arms of their loved ones, the Governor’s thought were on an ongoing conflict with an old friend; his word calculated, spoken with utmost caution in a dialogue of wits. Nothing misinterpreted. The situation was too delicate; too many ears were open to listen to the riddles. Spies were everywhere! This night was no different. The story was the same.

  "We know of the Trods, Senator," repeated the Governor Colonel, walking the length of the office, staying close to the large windows that flanked his office. The brilliant rays glistened with the lights of four floating cities, gracing the waves on the ocean horizon. Patterns of the night sky danced across his face as he turned to Clarion.