by Tripp Ellis
The first jump was estimated to take 10 hours. Ravvat pulled out his PDU and caught up on a novel he’d been devouring in his spare time over the last few days. It was a Jack Steele thriller—his favorite series. Jack was a former Army X-Force operator. Now he drifted around the galaxy, getting himself into one scrape after another. You’d think he was never going to get himself out of it, but he always did. And Jack always got the girl.
In this particular book, The Orion Conspiracy, Jack had gone to Optima Station near Beta Hydra 5 looking for his missing brother. But shortly after he arrived, he got arrested by the station police for murder. He was minding his own business, having a drink at the bar when the goon squad marched in and put plasma rifles to his head. He thought about fighting his way out, and Jack probably could have taken out a few of them. But he thought better of it. Now, he was sitting in a holding cell, trying to explain to the authorities that he wasn’t even in the area at the time of the murders. But the cops didn’t want to listen. They had their suspect locked up, and that’s all there was to it.
5
The Marines
“I take it back, Milford,” Dorado said. "Your face isn’t the ugliest thing in the galaxy.”
Milford sneered at him.
On the surface, Dorado didn’t seem to be phased by the gore at all. But the entire squad shared an underlying feeling of dread. These were battle hardened Marines. They were used to war and the wounded. But seeing civilians like this was unsettling.
“Let's keep moving," Kyle said.
The squad spilled out of the building and pushed north to the next structure. It was more of the same—and so was the building after that.
The squad rendezvoused with the rest of the platoon at the outpost’s medical facility. It seemed to be the structure with the least damage. But it was still missing chunks of walls, and there were holes in the ceiling in various locations.
“Venom, this is 2-1,” Kyle said into his comm link.
“2-1, go ahead.” Griggs’s voice crackled back.
“The area is secure. We found no survivors. No sign of any hostels either. Over.”
“Copy that. Await my arrival. Venom out.”
“Ooh, I can’t wait,” Koontz said with a healthy dose of sarcasm. He was a big blond haired guy with massive biceps and broad shoulders. 6’4” and top heavy. Easily the biggest guy in the platoon. Unflappable. Nothing ever seemed to phase him.
The LT had established a pattern of waiting in the rear with the gear until the area was secured. It had, understandably, drawn the ire of the platoon.
“Has he even fired his weapon this entire deployment?" Milford asked.
Carson shrugged. "I don't think so. I hear 3rd squad has a pool going on, betting on whether or not he actually fires a round in anger before the end of the deployment.”
Their banter was interrupted by a strange howling.
Carson's ears perked up. It was hard to tell what it was, or where it was coming from. The sound bounced off the rocky hills in the distance. Carson rushed to the door and stepped out into the street. It was a sound he hadn’t ever heard before. But it was reminiscent of some type of animal—a screeching version of a coyote, mixed with nails on a chalkboard. But more unsettling. It was the kind of sound that pierced your ears and sent a chill down your spine. It made the hairs on the back of Kyle's neck stand tall. The sound vanished before he could pinpoint its origin.
"I don't like the sound of that, Sarge," Fenton said.
"Nothing to worry about. Probably a small animal or varmint,” Carson assured him.
“You ever been to this planet before, Sarge?”
“Nope.”
“Then don't tell me it's just a varmint.”
Carson grinned. ”I’m just trying to keep you from having nightmares, Fenton.”
The rumble of the Vantage drowned out their conversation. It emerged from the haze and touched down in the center of the rocky, muddy street. The rush of ion exhaust filled the compound. The gusts of warm air were a welcome relief from the nipping wind. Despite the cold, Kyle was still sweating from his fever. His armor felt damp on the inside. A light drizzle was still falling.
The back ramp of the Vantage lowered, and Lieutenant Griggs marched triumphantly into the street. He made a beeline for Kyle. “I want a drone network in the air, surveilling the perimeter.”
“Already done, sir,” Carson said. “But we’re not getting any usable data back from them. Something is messing with our electronics.”
“This whole damn compound is surrounded by high ground. I want eyes on those hills. Take a squad out on patrol, then push north to the village.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And where's your damn headgear?”
“As I mentioned, sir, my optics don't work. The visor is stuck.”
“Get a Kevlar out of the Vantage. You don't have much upstairs, but that might help you hang on to what you've got."
“Aye, Sir." Carson sprinted to the Vantage. He was sucking wind by the time he got there—and it wasn't very far. He was in good shape. You had to be if you were going to survive in this outfit. But whatever infection he had was deep in his lungs. It didn't matter how much air he sucked into his chest, it didn't seem to be enough. He was already feeling a little woozy.
Carson climbed the ramp and rummaged through a storage locker, grabbing a standard helmet. The UPDF had long since improved the composite material helmets were made out of, but they were still referred to as Kevlars. He plopped the pot on his head and adjusted the chinstrap so it fit snug. Then he trotted back down the ramp and gathered his squad.
They began to set out into the mist, but Carson didn't make it very far. Everything seemed to sway. The ground became increasingly uneasy. Carson puffed for breath. His vision began to fade at the corners and then went black completely. He crashed to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
He woke up sometime later in the compound’s med facility with Corpsman Bates hovering over him. It took a second for Carson’s vision to come into focus.
“Have a nice nap, Sergeant Kyle?"
“Get this damn thing out of my arm,” Carson said, eyeing the IV stuck into his forearm. “I’ve got to get out on patrol."
“Sorry. You're not going anywhere."
“It's just a head cold. I'll be fine.”
Bates was wearing a face mask and surgical gloves, and he had a concerned look in his eyes. "It's not just a head cold."
“So, it’s allergies. I'm fine."
“You’ve got the flu."
“Then give me some antivirals.”
Bates hesitated. “It's not just any flu. It’s Proxima Xyra flu.”
Carson's face twisted up, confused. "How the hell did I get that? I haven't been anywhere near Proxima Xyra.”
“How long have you been feeling this way?
“I don't know. A few days.”
"I need to get an idea of how many other people may have been exposed.”
“The entire platoon. We've been cooped up in the Vantage together for the flight over here. Before that, who knows." Carson shrugged. “What’s the big deal? Give me a shot. Problem solved.”
The look on the corpsman's face was grim. "I don't have one.”
His words hung in the air for a moment.
Carson was beginning to realize the gravity of the situation.
"If left untreated, Proxima flu is fatal.”
“Why don’t you have an antidote?
“Because it’s been virtually eradicated throughout the colonies. You're probably the first case of it in over 20 years."
Kyle sighed. "Figures."
6
Chloe
“I refuse to fly with her,” Lieutenant Morgan said.
“What’s the problem?” Captain Zoey Bryant replied.
“She’s overly aggressive.”
“Sounds like what we need in a pilot.”
Morgan huffed. “She’s risky. She’s a danger to herself and any squadron
she flies with.”
“She’s got one of the highest kill ratios of any pilot trainee.”
“She disobeyed a direct order to back off during a training pursuit. Then she disobeyed another direct order and proceeded to nearly get us killed.”
“She saved that freighter.”
Morgan glowered at the captain.
Zoey arched an eyebrow at her. “What do you want me to do, bring her up on disciplinary action? She’s doing what we trained her to do—kill bad guys.”
“She is dangerous.”
Zoey tried to appease her. “I’ll talk to her.”
“I don’t think it’s going to do any good. And I’m not recommending her for Fighter Weapons School.”
“We need good pilots, Lieutenant.”
“The key word is good.”
Zoey took a deep breath and tighten her posture. “You will continue to train her. Is that understood?
“Yes, sir.” Morgan frowned.
“Dismissed.”
The lieutenant snapped a salute, spun around, and exited the captain’s quarters.
Chloe eyed the incoming message on her PDU with trepidation. It was from [email protected].
The contents of this message were going to hold the keys to her future. Either her application to the Advanced Fighter Weapons school had been accepted, or she was going to be stuck flying transports for the rest of her career.
Ensign Chloe Johnson. We regretfully inform you that your application to Advanced Fighter Weapons School has been declined. Please keep in mind we receive many applicants, and have a limited number of slots available. Competition is extremely high for these coveted positions. We wish you the best in your future endeavors. You are free to submit another application again after 18 months time has passed. Sincerely, Lieutenant Junior Grade, Matt Slaten.
Chloe clenched her jaw, and her face flushed red. She wanted to hurl her PDU across the compartment, but she thought better of it. Destruction of government property was against regulations, and with the shortage of supplies in the fleet, it might be 18 months before she got another one.
She was so mad, and her sad eyes filled. This was all she had wanted since she joined the fleet. She wasn’t going to take this news lying down. She marched out of her compartment and navigated the maze of passageways down to the JPOC offices. If there was anyone who could help her, it was Captain Walker. Chloe’s father had served under Walker’s command when he was still alive. He had looked after Chloe and her brother ever since.
Walker was sitting at his desk with his trusty dog Bailey by his side. Whenever the two were aboard the Revenant, they were inseparable.
“Captain Walker, do you have a moment?” Chloe asked.
Walker smiled. “Come in, Ensign Johnson. What can I help you with?”
“They turned me down.”
Walker frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. I think they’re making a mistake.”
“Do you know anyone over there? Would you be willing to put in a good word for me?”
“Commander Tom Scott runs the NSSWC. I’ll give him a call. I can’t make any promises.”
Chloe smiled. “I know. Thank you.”
“If I do this, I expect you to give it 110%.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“I hear you’ve been giving your instructors here a little bit of grief.”
Chloe shrugged, sheepishly. “It’s not my fault if they’re afraid to fly up to the capabilities of the spacecraft.”
“Within capabilities is fine. Exceeding capabilities is, I think, where they draw the line,” Walker said, dryly.
Chloe shrugged again. “I’ll try to tone it down a little.”
Walker arched a knowing eyebrow at her. He knew she wasn’t going to tone anything down.
After she left the compartment, Walker called the Naval Strike Space Warfare Center. It was located on Phobos 6, one of the moons around the Otari nebula. The center had recently moved from Creighton 3.
Tom Scott appeared on Walker’s mobile display. He was early 40s with dark hair that was starting to go gray on the sides. He had a heavy tan, like he’d been spending too much time at the beach. But there wasn’t a beach on Phobos 6. It was a desolate gray chunk of rock floating through space.
Scott grinned and looked a little surprised to see Captain Walker. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Captain? I didn’t think you thought about us little people.” He chuckled.
“You keep the fleet flying,” Walker said with a grin. “How have you been, Tom?”
“I could complain, but who would listen? I’m still above ground. That’s got to count for something?”
“Indeed.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to talk to you about an applicant. Ensign Chloe Johnson.”
“Hang on a minute. Let me pull up my files.” Commander Scott turned to his desk and typed on the keypad. Chloe’s image and information appeared on the screen. He took a moment to read over her file. “Looks like she was recently rejected under the advice of Lieutenant Morgan.”
“I’d like to vouch for her. She’s a good pilot.”
“Lieutenant Morgan paints her to be a hothead and dangerous.”
“You’ve just described about every good fighter pilot we have.”
Scott continued reading through Chloe’s dossier. “Everything else is in order. She’s got great scores, and seems to be a prime candidate otherwise.” He took a long contemplative pause. “If you’re vouching for her, she must be worth taking a look. But I’m not going to give her any special treatment.”
“I don’t expect it.”
“I’ll approve her application, and send an acceptance letter.” He sighed. “I hope I don’t end up regretting this.”
“You won’t,” Walker assured him.
7
The Revenant
The Specter emerged from slide-space into the inky blackness of sector SDS-SJ13 79582.66. It was so far away, it didn’t even have a name. Ravvat had finished the Jack Steele novel, and started another one.
The faces of the two pilots were grim as they gazed at the star field. A patch of debris cluttered the area as they approached the location of the Devastator’s transponder beacon. Chunks of twisted wreckage tumbled endlessly into space. Fragments of bulkheads, wiring, conduit, engine components—all charred and blackened.
A heavy feeling of doom fell over Dodson and Ravvat. They were speechless for a moment.
“This isn’t good,” Ravaat said.
I’ll send a subspace transmission to the fleet,” Dodson said. She was still in Somewhat of a daze. She recorded and sent a message back to the Revenant. They were too far out for real-time communication.
There was a flurry of chatter between the various officials in the Situation Room.
“Madam President, the Devastator’s flight data recorder documents an attack by an unknown alien force,” Emma said.
A replay of the attack displayed on the screen, captured by the Devastator’s embedded video recorders. There were audible gasps in the room, followed by intense chatter between the officials.
“This must be considered an act of war,” the Secretary of Defense, Lisa Pollock said.
“Has anyone stopped to consider the fact that our presence in that sector may have been seen as a hostile act?” Secretary of State Morris said. “What the hell was Captain Blake doing that far out in the first place?”
“We’ve never had a problem in that sector before, and it’s generally considered to be Federation territory,” Federation Security Advisor Art Westgate said.
“Generally considered by who?” Morris argued. “Have we posted a sign? Are there warning beacons? We don’t have an outpost within a thousand light years of that sector.” He paused, exasperated. “And when was the last time anybody was out there anyway?”
The conversation was about to devolve into an argument. Slade sensed this and chimed in. “Those are all valid points, Secretary Morris. Re
st assured, I’m not inclined to rush into an engagement with an enemy we know nothing about.”
“This is a direct attack on the Federation, and it requires decisive action.” Secretary of Defense Pollock said.
“I second that opinion,” Westgate said.
No one was ever going to accuse Slade of lack of action. But she was trying to take a measured response to the situation. “I will take all of your opinions under advisement. Right now, I want more intel—who attacked us, and why? I want the entire fleet on alert status. And if there are any enemy ships out there, I want them discovered.”
Slade marched through the passageways of the Revenant, heading back to her quarters. Her face was tense with worry. If she was in command of a star destroyer she would go on a search and destroy mission. But as President of the Federation she had to consider a multitude of options, along with their potential ramifications.
Glassman was at her side, giving her counsel. “I know you’ve been taking a lot of heat from the Senocrats, but now is not the time to go soft on defense.”
“I think you know me well enough to know that I’m not going soft. We’re thin on resources, the fleet is nowhere near full strength, and our most technologically advanced destroyer is now a cloud of interstellar junk. Now is not the time for impulsive action.”
“What do you plan to do?”
8
The Marines
“How long?” Kyle asked. He tried to hide his concern, but the slight shake in his voice gave him away.
“3, maybe 5 days,” Corpsman Bates said. “Depends how far along you are. You’ve got red eyes, fever, nausea. Do you have any joint pain?”
