by Trevor Wyatt
“A little over 500 kilometers, Sir.”
He's satisfied. “Good job, Commander.”
He turns to Commander Prescott. “Prescott, bring us to within 150 kilometers of the object. And notify the Maverick and the Aurora to follow suit. Tell the other ships to stay close and standby. Initiate full stop at the designated distance, and instruct the two cruisers to take up positions on our flanks.”
“Aye, Sir.”
We're underway toward the object. I can sense the CNC personnel's excitement at the upcoming weapons test. They're all anxious to see a demonstration of the triad's armament.
I should feel the same way, but I don't.
I don't say anything. But I have a bad feeling growing in my gut. I don't know why, but I can't ignore it. Perhaps it will pass. Maybe it's nothing but free-floating anxiety. Or pent up tension about the nature of our mission.
But I doubt it. I really, really doubt it. Damn.
Drake
We've reached the Oort target, and I inform the captain.
“Full stop,” I instruct the helm. “We're there, Sir.”
Captain Gibraltar nods. “Status of the other ships?”
“Yes, sir. The Maverick and Aurora are flanking us. The fleet is also on standby, Sir. We're all at full stop.”
“Very well. Bring up the object on screen, Commander.”
I do so, and the asteroid, or planetesimal, fills the forward screen. It's an irregular-shaped body, mountainous, craggy, roughly pear-shaped, and it tumbles slowly along is long axis. Even from a distance, it looks huge.
“Magnify, Mr. Prescott,” instructs the captain.
And it's even larger, nearly filling the screen, a primordial piece of the solar system's beginning, awesome and majestic in its immensity.
“Wow,” I mutter. It's unintentional, but the Captain hears.
“Yes, it's big, isn't it, Commander? A bit over 500 miles in diameter, I believe. A fitting target. Bring up Captains Lamans and Ries on split screen, please.”
Both appear on the screen. Captain Susan Lamans of the TUS Maverick is in her mid-forties, with short dark hair and startling green eyes. She's attractive, but there's no concealing her predatory aspect. You can tell she's all-Armada, all the way. A no-nonsense warrior.
Captain Jamison Ries of the TUS Aurora gives the same impression, but in a different way. He's also in his forties, dark hair frosted with incipient gray. And his eyes are like dark crystals, glinting with intelligence, experience, and, yes, danger. Not a man to cross in battle. Or in any other instance.
“Good morning to you both,” says Captain Gibraltar. “It seems a good day for some target practice.”
Both captains smile and nod.
“I want to deploy all our Directed Energy Weapons, Captains. Susan, please employ your Particle Accelerator Guns and ion cannons. Jamison, you'll be using your proton beams and lasers.”
They both signal acknowledgment.
“Where should I direct mine, Sir? Any particular area?” asks Captain Lamans.
“Target the southern end of the object, Susan. Jamison, you take the northern quadrant. Susan, you fire first, then we'll inspect the result. You'll follow after that, Jamison. Mr. Prescott, bring the object up on the screen.”
When I do that, there's a short silence. Everyone seems to be holding their breath, including me.
The captain looks around the CNC. We're all caught up in the moment.
Finally, Gibraltar says, quietly but forcefully, “Captain Lamans, fire when ready.”
Multiple beams of energy flow into the object, incandescent streams of incalculable destruction. Intense light floods the screen, blinding and malevolent. I filter it down immediately. We watch as the overpowering glare on the planetesimal slowly fades into nothingness.
“Cancel the filter, Mr. Prescott,” says the captain. “Let's take a look.”
The object has undergone an amazing transformation. It looks like about half of it is simply gone. In its place are millions of fragments of all sizes, blowing away in all directions.
“Results, Mr. Prescott?” asks the captain.
“The object has lost forty-four percent of its mass, sir. That mass is now debris.”
The captain smiles. “Okay. Good job, Susan. Jamison, you're up. Let's see what you can do. Fire when ready.”
Instantly, the object is bathed in green and blue light, and it seems to turn into a blinding, multicolored explosion. Again, I have to turn up the filter. When the luminous bedlam fades, there is nothing left but more rocks, billions of them flying blindly into the night.
“Status, Mr. Prescott?” asks the captain.
“The planetesimal is gone, Sir,” I respond. “Nothing left but rubble.”
He nods in satisfaction. He turns to the other two captains now on the screen. “Good job, both of you, and well done. Thank you. You can power down now.”
The captain turns to me. “Let's give the Harpies some exercise, Commander. Inform the squadron head that he's to release half of them for some agility maneuvers and let them take a few potshots at some rocks.”
Smiling, I say, “Very good, Sir. Will do.”
Harpies are only part of a carrier's arsenal, which is what the Celestia is, of course. The other starships on this mission, including TUS Aurora and TUS Maverick are heavy cruisers. Those ships are 2500 feet in length and designed for heavy offense, supporting the weapons just used, and high-caliber force fields for defense. Formidable ships, those.
Carriers, however, are of a different breed. Some 4400 feet long, the Celestia and its brethren are modeled after planetary, seagoing aircraft carriers of bygone eras. We carry a squadron of 80 Harpies, one-man fighters endowed with speed, agility, and weapons which include lasers and particle accelerators. They also carry high-energy missiles, but these are normally used for in-atmosphere conflicts with aircraft, as it's considered that they're ineffective against a major ship's force field protection.
On the CNC, we watch as Harpies from the Celestia fly out and amidst the scattered debris of the planetesimal's debris field. Swooping and engaging in impressively agile maneuvering, they dart in and out and around the millions of rocks, shooting at will and turning many into dust. It feels good to have them aboard.
After 30 minutes, Captain Gibraltar calls and halt to the maneuver, and the Harpies return to the ship. Everyone feels that the exercise was good for morale and the mood on board is considerably lightened.
The next communication is from the captain. “Attention, all hands aboard the Celestia, the Maverick, the Aurora, the Iris, the Magus, the Lysander, the Griffin, the Mercury, the H.R. Wells, the Santa Maria, the Hornet, the York, the Wesley and the Lexington. This is Captain Gibraltar. A big thanks to everyone for their participation in the exercise. It went very well, and you should all feel more than ready for the upcoming assignment. We will be departing in ten standard minutes for our destination, where we hope to recover the debris and re-open the investigation of TUS Mariner. Captain Montgomery’s report is with you all. I suggest you read it and familiarize yourself with what happened and why the investigation was aborted. We need to determine if these Sonali were the cause for the destruction of our ship. It's a long trip, but we have more than enough to keep us busy on the way. Everyone, prepare for interstellar. Captain out.”
He then addresses the helm with, “Lieutenant Cooper, ahead, FTL 3. Apply.”
“Applying, Sir,” says the helmsman. And we feel that slight, otherworldly shifting of reality as the ship wraps itself in an N-space warp field and begins interstellar transit via FTL.
Developed by the legendary Dr. Denos Mitchel in 2103, the drive allows us to travel up to one light year per day, ship's calendar, and is calibrated up to FTL 5. The captain had selected FTL 3, which is already very, very fast. Evidently, we weren't going to dawdle.
He motions me over to his command chair. “So, first, what's your impression of the exercises? I thought they went rather well.”
I agree. “And I think they were good for the crews, too, Sir.”
“Absolutely.” He seems to muse for a moment, then says, softly, “I pray there are no Sonalis at the rendezvous point looking for trouble. And I pray for them if they are. You have the CNC, First.” And he gets up and heads for his office.
Stretching, I walk over to Sheila's station, where she's glued to her instruments.
“Hey, Sheila,” I say.
She turns and smiles. “Hey, Drake. What's up? Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I just need some limbering up. When we go off duty, do you feel like joining me in the gym? I heard you were a martial artist, and I thought about doing some light sparring.”
“Sure,” she says, “I'd like that. I could use some activity, too.”
“Great. See you then.”
Interlude: Sheila
Drake is incredible. I've never sparred with anyone remotely on his level. We went at it for fifteen straight minutes, a long time for full-contact, no-break sparring, and I barely escaped with all of my limbs and organs intact.
And I'm no slouch. Not a professional, no, but I've been studying baguazhang since I was a kid, and I've learned from the best teachers I've ever known. But against Drake? I felt like a baby. He moves faster than anything human I've ever seen. And he's as agile as quicksilver. He moves like intelligent water. I was able to survive thanks to my Rhine-backed prescience. He only grazed me, couldn't seem to connect the way he knew he should. Thank god. But now that we're resting, I can see he's puzzled. Very puzzled.
“What are you, Sheila?” he finally asks. “Are you Boosted? Nanites? What? I've trained nanite-imbued spec ops guys, sparred with them. None of them have what you have. None.”
I laugh. “Rhine-based training,” I answer. “For years. I'm a graduate.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, wow, parapsychology and all the rest of it, huh?”
I rub my shoulder, where a kick grazed my deltoid. It hurts. “Yeah.” I grin. “And all the rest of it. But what about you? I've never seen anyone do what you do. What's your story?”
“Studying with old Chinese adepts,” he says. “Daoist priests. They're still around, if you can find them. Centuries of chi theory and practice, those guys. They study many of the same things you probably do. They taught me well.”
“Yeah, I've heard stories from the captain about you and those nanite guys going at it. Did you beat them?”
His turn to smile. “They're pretty tough to beat,” he says evasively. “You're tougher. I could barely touch you.” He pats me on the shoulder. “It's good to have you on our side.”
I nod in appreciation. I start to respond, falter a bit. He notices.
“You okay, Sheila?”
I shake my head dismissively. “I—I don't know.” I answer truthfully.
He's instantly concerned. “What's wrong?” he asks softly.
I look at him, hesitate, and then finally say, “It's my prescience, I think.”
He just looks at me, waiting.
“There's a problem,” I croak. “It's coming.”
He looks at me funny. “It's coming? What's coming?”
“I don't know. That's the problem.”
He just watches me as I walk out of the gym.
Sheila
It's been a long flight.
And now we're here, or nearly so. Captain Gibraltar has stopped the fleet half a light out from where the Mariner was last known to be, just outside the Anderson Nebula, which the government is officially renaming the Mariner Nebula. He's called me and Drake into his office, along with Tactical Officer Reinhardt Shultz and Engineering Officer Rob Schneider.
It will be our last meeting before proceeding to our final destination.
The mood is grim. Everyone knows this could be a very bad situation. No one truly knows it will be, but the possibility is real, based upon Captain Jeryl Montgomery's report. The Sonali are an unknown, but a possibly hostile unknown.
“I just want to make sure that everyone knows the gravity of the situation,” he says. “We don't know if the Sonali have a presence near the nebula. There could be stations, fleets, we don’t know. But what we do know is that if the Sonali are there, we'll deal with them. And that's it, in a nutshell.”
He looked at us all, one by one. “Any questions?”
There weren't any. “All right, then, let's get back to our stations.”
Back on the CNC, Corson gives directions to the helmsman. “Lieutenant Cooper, drop us into FTL 2 and bring us out two hundred and fifty miles from the Mariner's position.”
The field takes hold of the ship and we are wrenched forward into the night. Only briefly, though, and we exit the faster than light and hang in space. Off the starboard flank, the nebula shines in polychromatic splendor. The rest of space is ablaze with suns.
“Commander Fornis, based on the information from The Seeker, are you picking up the debris of the Mariner?” asks the captain.
“Yes, Sir,” I reply. “It's there, two hundred and fifty miles ahead.”
“Very good. Helmsman, give us forward thrust. Ease us in slowly.”
“Captain,” I say. “There's something else, too, Sir.”
He looks at me. “What is it, Science?”
I look back at him. “There's another ship in the area of the debris field of Mariner, Sir. It's of unknown configuration. And it's big, Sir. Very Big.”
He considers for a moment. The tension on the CNC is as thick and heavy as lead.
“Proceed, Helm,” he orders. “Steady as she goes. And give me a visual.”
A ship appears on the forward screen. It's enormous. It bristles with visible weapons ports. And, according to Jeryl Montgomery's description, it is Sonali.
“Bring us to one thousand yards of the ship, Helm,” says the captain. “Then full stop.”
“Almost there, Captain,” says Lieutenant Cooper. “At one thousand yards, Sir. Full stop.”
We can see the gigantic Sonali ship on the screen, dwarfing us. It just hangs there. We can see port lights, running lights, miscellaneous others. Otherwise, there are no other signs of life or movement.
“Science, what can you tell me about that ship?” asks the captain quietly.
“Sir, it's larger than our carrier. Almost as large as two heavy cruisers, sir. Weapons capability unknown. But formidable, certainly.”
Corson seems to sigh, then says, “Okay, then. Science, we may as well hail them using the signaling protocol they used with The Seeker.”
“No need, Sir. They're hailing us.”
“Bring it up.”
And there it is on the screen. A Sonali. Skin tinged of blue, slits for ears, and humanoid.
For a moment, he just looks at us, saying nothing.
Then, “I am Legate Lonen of the Sonali Combine. You are intruding in restricted Sonali space. Identify yourself immediately and state your business here.”
Corson stares back without speaking. Then he replies, “I am Captain Corson Gibraltar of the Terran Union starship Celestia. We are here to recover the remains of a Terran Union exploratory ship and bring it back to our home world for analysis. We come in peace and have no hostile intentions.”
The Sonali appears to sneer, if I can anthropomorphize for an instant, then responds.
“In peace? And yet you come in a fleet of warships? That hardly seems non-hostile, Captain.”
“Based upon our last contact, we were unsure of what to expect. We are also far from home, and space is vast, as you well know. One is never sure of what may be encountered.”
“As Legate Ghosal told your Captain Jeryl Montgomery at that time, the Sonali had nothing to do with your exploratory vessel,” he says lightly. And then he turns grim, saying, “And, to repeat what your captain was told, I am telling you the same: Leave this sector immediately, or you and your ships will be destroyed.”
Corson responded immediately. “With all due respect, Legate, we cannot do that. We are under o
rders to retrieve Terran Union property, and any deceased on board, and return it to Terran space. I hope you can understand our position.”
The Sonali is equally immediate. “I understand your position quite well, Captain,” and his slits narrows. “You have invaded Sonali space without authorization. You refuse a direct order of compliance to vacate said space. And you are disguising your obvious military intentions beneath a thin facade of peace. You leave me no choice. Good-bye, Captain Gibraltar. May you and your soul rest in peace.”
Then he is gone, and chaos erupts.
“Captain,” I yelp, “the Sonali ship has erected its force fields and its weapons are charging!”
“Defense shields up!” barks Corson. “Red alert! All weapons activate!”
Klaxons blare. The CNC is a-scramble. And the comms go crazy.
On the main screen, several of the ships are hit all at once with a horrifying burst of energy. Plumes of smoke and liquid metal plunge outward.
“Maverick, Iris, Griffin, Mercury, Santa Maria, H.R Wells and Wesley sustained direct hit!” I yell. “Their comms are down!”
“Return fire!” yells Corson. “All ships and all weapons! Fire at will!”
On the screen, the Sonali ship is lit up with inward-tracing fire from the fleet. Coruscating destruction splashes against their fields. But little appears to get through. The Sonali continues to fire.
The Celestia lurches, a gigantic shudder. Our comms continue to scream.
“Impact on our starboard side! Hull breech on decks five and six!”
“Four ships are firing but their shields are down! Destruction imminent!”
Captain Gibraltar stares at the screen in silent fury. He is maintaining composure under fire with amazing solidity.
“Attention, squadron. Launch all Harpies! Attack Sonali ship from all quarters! Celestia will be taking evasive action!”
We feel a shudder as our squadron of Harpies emerges and engages the Sonali. They are encircling the ship like mosquitoes. Their weapons stab and sting at the alien's shields, with little or no effect.
“It's too big! It's like fighting a mountain!” exclaims one of the Harpy pilots.
