by Trevor Wyatt
We are speaking in hushed tones. We are also at FTL headed deeper into Terran Space…into safety. We haven’t heard from Edoris Space Station, but we did get information about the planet. Captain Montgomery arrived in time and dispatched the dreadnought, with the help of five other heavy cruisers. In the end, no one needed to die. I have told the crew this, so they know that Joana’s actions were inexcusable.
However, I know that mine would be inexcusable.
“We can’t very well go back to the Armada,” I say. “We’ll be found guilty and jailed, and that’s not if we are not executed.”
“What do you suggest?” asks Tadius.
“We leave the Armada,” I say. “We head over to the Outers. We drop the crew on some planet near a highly trafficked space. We head over to the Outer Colony and offer up this Armada vessel in exchange for asylum.”
“We’ll never be officers again,” says Hadley.
I pause and think. “But we’ll be free.”
11
Strike Back
The planet is a small one sitting right on the border between the Terran Union and Sonali space. It was a farming colony—that is officially until we invaded and realized that the farming colony really housed a Terran Armada base. The base superstructure was housed underground, with part of its non-subterranean portions embedded in the side of a massive mountain. This mountain is so large you could see it from space with natural eyes.
Someone watching the communications feed in the Ops center retracts himself from the screen and comes to my king-like chair in the direct center of the Ops center.
“Legate Moughul,” he mutters in his guttural voice. “I have an update for you.”
I observe the small Sonali that brings me out of my reverie. He is…well, he is small but sturdy. Smaller than most, and sturdier than most. As I look at him, I can almost peep into his past. He was too small as a child so he was excluded from the military caste and put under the scholar caste. They probably thought he would do more good as a scholar than a fighter.
Then he studied hard through school and became so good he was given the chance to remain as he was or to Ascend after which he would be transplanted into a caste of his choice as a lone expert.
Wanting to work in the military and have the power that supposedly went with it, he decided to Ascend, becoming a male, and when given the opportunity chose to be in the military. Then he worked his ruk off to be transferred from the Ops center in the Home Defense HQ to a ship of his choice.
Thus he landed in Legate Moughul’s Destroyer, Dreadnought class star cruiser, one of the very few Dreadnoughts ever created by us.
“Sir,” says the communications expert.
“Speak, comm man,” I reply. I don’t remember the little man’s name and I don’t really feel embarrassed that I don’t remember. There are so many Sonali and Terran slaves under my command. I don’t have the time nor patience to store every one of their names in my mind.
“I have found an abnormality in our communications frequency,” he says with pride.
I look at the man again from top to bottom. I don’t have control of who comes under my command and who doesn’t. That is a luxury Legates aren’t afforded. However, the flagship commander or fleet commanders have a say as to who goes to where. I really don’t know what I’ve done to my commander to have him repose such a lowly, weak character in my command.
He’s almost as weak as the very humans whose bloods we used to wipe the grounds of this facility.
One of the things I hate the most, aside from Terrans and weak Sonali fighters is being grounded. It was one of the reasons I joined the Sonali Navy and not the Army. I love guns and knives as much as the next Sonali, but I hate being on the ground for too long.
Some say it’s because I have gravity sickness. I don’t know what that means or if that’s even a correct health term. Others say I’m restless and that I have to take sleeping tablets. I disregard this particular excuse because I know that there are many people who are restless, yet you don’t hear them complaining about not wanting to be on the ground.
Some say I am addicted to the stars—and this I agree with. I am never truly alive if I’m not on my ship and cruising through the stars. I love the air of power, being in command of one of the largest, most powerful starships in the Sonali Navy. I relish the thrill, when we come to fight a Terran starship or when we are bombarding an innocent planet filled with weakling humans.
I relish the ability to yell ‘fire’ and feel the tremble as our forward cannons are engaged. I relish the pride that pours into my heart every time I bring glory and honor and praise to the Sonali Combine.
The pay of a Legate is really good. But being the Legate of a Dreadnought, your pay is twice as much. In fact, you are paid on par with those working in the Leadership Estate on Sonali Prime. Fighting in the Sonali Navy is big business, for those who come on for the money. You are bound to make as much money as merchants who cross the vastness of space, conveying products and services.
Nevertheless, I know that if I were given the opportunity to lead a Dreadnought just for the thrill of it and not for any remunerations at the end, I would wholeheartedly take the opportunity. However, I am being allowed to pilot and lead a Dreadnought, while being paid so well for it. Life couldn’t be better.
Furthermore, this war with the Terrans came at a fortuitous time. Now, more is being demanded of me, and I am always more than willing to go after the Terran ships and squash them in space. Oh, the joy that is replete in my heart when I watch their ships go up in flames one after the other, while their lasers and missiles are like scratches to our densely thick hull and immensely powerful shields.
Times of war are times where people climb rank quickly. I hope to become a fleet commander or be posted to command a flagship during this war. My pay would double or triple if I’m lucky, but then not only will I be giving battle commands to one Dreadnought, but to at least two. Just thinking about this causes me to tingle with excitement.
I pause. I’m not going to be promoted if I don’t find a way to get off the goddamn planet.
“Sir?”
“What is it?” I spit out, my voice shrilly filling up the large Ops center.
“You haven’t replied to me?” the comms man replies, no trace of fear in his eyes or face.
I think hard on what he said, but I don’t seem to recall. All I remember is that he is the comm man and there may be trouble.
“Well?” I say. “What did you say earlier?”
The comms man flashes me an appraising look. He is not sneaky about it, but is rather open and unabashed. I begin to tremble with anger. Who the heck does he think he is? How can he look at me that way? Does he not know that I can have him killed for that?
I pause first. Maybe I have read him all wrong. Being posted to serve on a Dreadnought is like winning the lottery in the Navy. It’s one of the most prestigious postings one can ever want or get. More so, while a few percentage of people get to a Dreadnought by merit, most are posted to a Dreadnought by referral or political influence.
This is why a Dreadnought legate must be extremely careful when dealing with his crew members. Who knows, you may just be speaking to the brother of a senate member or the some friend of the leader of the Sonali people or heck even the wife of the brother of the High Cleric. Yes, order and the chain of command is still enforced and required. However, rendering a punishment aside from brig time, you do so at the detriment of your military career.
“I said I have found an abnormality in our communications frequency,” he says to me. His eyes seem to glint with pride as though he’s telling me he singlehandedly fought off twenty Terran soldiers…what do they call them...Marines, is it? If I hadn’t heard him, I would have thought he was telling he had fought off twenty Marines.
But I don’t think he can do so in his form and shape. Yes, he is sturdy—yet, it isn’t enough. You need to be strong. You need to be agile. You need to be mean and ruthless. These
are qualities I know he does not possess.
“You say that like I should be impressed with you,” I say. I don’t phrase it as a question. However, I ask it in a questioning tone.
“Well, yes, sir,” he says. “I think there’s something suspicious going on, and I intend to find out soon enough before it’s too late.”
As a Legate, I have a personal classification of the importance of certain offices and duties in the ship or my ops center. Even though communications is important, I don’t consider communications or communications officer as critical parts of the structure. I mean, when you’re faced with Armada to destroy, who are you going to call? Your comm man?
What can a communications officer do in the midst of five Terran vessels? Is he going to communicate them to death?
The officers I consider to be worth more are science officers, tactical officers, navigations officer, even security officers. These offices and their respective officers are so vital to the success of a ship’s mission. Hence, as a rule of thumb, when any of them comes to me with suspicions or with investigations, I give them total and complete heed, because it could very well mean the difference between death and life.
However, when a communications officer comes with something similar, I am compelled to laugh them to scorn. What? Are the Terrans trying to communicate us to death?
I look at the man again. “Officer, what is your name, rank and designation,” I say. The contempt and hatred in my voice is so thick, the man’s face changes. While earlier he was looking upbeat and excited to be showing his Legate a new finding, now he is looking surprised and do I see a little bit of frustration and anger?
“Commander Nashiru Marcha,” the man says.
“What?” I reply with a loud exclamation. “You are a commander? How?”
A string of laughter erupts in the Ops center and sweeps from one end to another. I join them to laugh at the Sonali male before me.
The Sonali male looks up at me with shock, then anger, then disgust. Disgust remains on his face for some time before it descends into a smirk.
“Yes, Legate,” the commander replies, “I am a Commander, and after this post, I am going to become a Legate like you. Then we’ll see who is laughing.” He begins to frown, and his frown is so deep and sinister and full of disgust that I wipe the scornful smile off my face.
A strong silence descends onto the Ops center. All that can be heard are the beeps of the systems and the breathing rate of some people.
“You dare insult me?” I say, my voice deadly low and accurately acute.
“No, sir,” he replies. “I am merely telling you that by the time I become a Legate, I will be laughing.”
Anger simmers in my chest. I stand to my feet, my full form, casting a shadow upon the entire man. I tower about eight inches above him, the dais helping to bring me to this height. I expect him to cower, but he doesn’t. He simply looks me in the eye and holds my gaze.
“How dare you!” I roar, expecting him to quiver in his boots like the worm he is and beg for forgiveness and mercy.
Rather, he looks at me with a tired look. “Can you be a little specific, Legate Moughul?”
I am perplexed by this response. My current action has a perfect track record of making even the crew members that have the highest political influence bow in fear. But not this commander. Who is he? Could he be working with the Secret Service? Those bunch are suicidal maniacs who can do and undo.
I sit back down in my chair. I turn around to see that everyone is looking in my direction.
“Don’t you have work to do?” I boom.
Everyone returns to their work.
“Speak again, Commander,” I say, with new found respect for the man.
The Sonali sighs. “Look, Legate, if you’re busy I can always come back,” he says, “Only something terrible may have happened before I can get back to this, and I do have a lot of work to do.”
I should be angry. I should explode, because I just gave a subordinate a direct order and he refuses, but I don’t do such thing. Instead, I stare at him, amazed.
I may be very brash and cruel and quick to the sword, but I am someone who finds it easy to admit a fault and change. I know a lot of Legates who will never take corrections or correct their mindset simply because they don’t like to admit being wrong.
I think that’s just being foolish. Why would you not want to admit that you made a mistake? Everyone make mistakes. All races make mistake. I mean, we wouldn’t be here if the Terrans hadn’t made the mistake of crossing paths with Legate Ghosal. Even the President of the Terran Council make mistakes. If he couldn’t, then he wouldn’t have declared war on a race that is far superior and advanced than theirs.
I make mistakes. I made the mistake of wrongly deducing the history of the commander before me. It appears he’s not just a communications officer who started out as a scholar. No one can talk to me like that that didn’t start out as a military person. Even beyond that, the Sonali must have some really powerful people behind him.
People who could even help me secure my flagship commander dream or even battle fleet commander post.
“No, Commander,” I say in a respectful tone. “I want to hear what you have to say. Kindly repeat yourself.”
“I think someone may be using our communications systems to communicate to someone outside this base,” he says.
“That’s not possible,” I reply, my interest piqued by the information. “Our communications network is un-hackable. The Terrans aren’t even smart enough to understand how it works.”
“True, sir,” the commander replies, his excitement returning to his eyes. I am pleased when I see this.
“Sir, they aren’t hacking into our communications,” he says. “They are using the stream to send encoded message.”
“Okay, can you track it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, I can’t,” he replies. “The signal is embedded so deep in the communications stream. I can’t tell how exactly the hack is being conducted. I know it is being done physically or with some form of physical sub conductor. We’ll have to look for that divide and maybe we can decipher the message and know what is happening.”
“The communications hardwiring in this base runs for several kilometers,” I complain. “Even if I set everyone in this base to go looking for this device you say, it will take weeks if not months. Perhaps, there’s still the tunnel systems that run the entire underground of this planet to the other side. Who knows what they’ve hidden there?”
One of the first things I did when I took control of this planet was to seal off the entrance into the tunnel, planting bombs on the other side that are tamper-proof. I had a small number of personnel, barely five hundred. I had to keep my ship running, so I left at least fifty aboard the Dreadnought, while the rest were sent here to man the base.
Over the weeks that followed, reinforcements were sent, until we become a thousand man strong, most of whom were soldiers to keep the base. We have a prison of Terrans numbering close to six hundred. The rest had died during the invasion. When we took the base and set out to mapping it, I realized that I couldn’t hold the base very well if I couldn’t control the space.
The Terrans used the tunnel systems to get between one point and another. So, I sent a raiding party to destroy the other point on the planet. They found a small base—really a communications outstation, which they bombed and reduced to ash.
So even though I was pretty sure the other side of the tunnel was empty, I couldn’t tell what the Terrans hid en route between the two points. Hence, my decision to shut down the tunnel and only manage the main base.
Now that the commander is telling me about this device that’s piggy backing on our communications stream and communicating with an outside force other than Sonali, I begin to suspect maybe the hardwiring extends the length of the tunnel. In that case, it will be virtually impossible to stop them.
“If the wiring extends the length of the tunn
el, then it will be impossible to find them,” I say.
“We’ll need to send in raiding parties, sir,” the Commander says. “Do you know what damage can be done, if this isn’t curtailed? Someone may be sending information about troop movement, troop strength rotations and logistical details that can be harmful to us. What if they are preparing for a counter attack?”
This makes me laugh out loud. There are many things I consider the Terrans to be. Bold as to launch a counter attack on this installation isn’t one of them. I mean, these aliens are weak and spineless. They are so frail and small and ineffective. They build small ships. They build small basses, they think small. How could they pluck up the courage to take back their base?
Assuming they send in a battle fleet. One Dreadnought can take on a battle fleet of at most ten ships. We are in the first year of full out war. They are stretched thin. They can’t be sending in battle fleets to take on one Dreadnought at the edge of the border. There’s no sense in that.
I tell the commander this.
The commander replies, “Sir, I don’t mean an attack from outside this planet. I mean an attack from within the planet.”
This makes me laugh even more. I laugh so hard I begin to retch. When I am relaxed, I say, “Commander, you give the Terrans too much credit. Do not forget that they are worms.”
“Are they really?” he replies, his eyes full of wisdom and tact.
“Yes, they are,” I say. “They have proven themselves to be. We’ve been destroying their ships from one end of the galaxy to another. We’ve been making short works of their precious Armada. Very soon it shall be no more.”
“Yet, here we are, still embroidered in this damn war that’s lasted for one year,” the Commander replies. “Tell me, sir, when we first went to war, what was the estimation of the length of it?”
I think back to the meeting that was held the moment the President of the Terran Union declared war on us last year. It was a meeting involving all Dreadnought Legates and fleet commanders and top leaders. We had already sent deep space probes after the First Contact with the Terrans. These deep space probes were tasked with getting a detailed overview of their military capability. The tacticians calculated that we would be able to subdue the entire Terran Armada in three months.
