The Tabit Genesis

by Tony Gonzales

  ‘Personnel transfers,’ Augustus remarked. ‘The beast is getting her crew. Couldn’t ask for better timing. It’s going to be crowded down there.’

  Gravity tugged on his muscles as the gunship flew past the mysterious barrier into the Archangel’s hangar. For the first time that he could recall, Wyllym wished he was in a Gryphon right now. The world just made more sense from the inside of a cockpit.

  ‘Ready up, OMSPEC,’ Augustus announced, and the soldiers awoke to immediate alertness, stood up and grunted enthusiastic ‘hoo-ahhs’ in unison. The gunship had landed. ‘Move out!’

  ‘You’ll remain here with Mike for ten minutes while the rest of us secure the medbay,’ Augustus said. ‘Then he’ll take you to us, and then escort you to the flight deck. We’ll be able to communicate through your helmet. If you’re addressed by anyone else, keep your answers short, and relax before you speak – the modulator can’t keep up with fast talk. You can disable it anytime by saying the code word “viceroy”.’

  ‘Why that word?’ Wyllym blurted.

  Augustus lightly slapped him in the head.

  ‘Because there’s zero chance it will come up conversationally,’ he said. ‘The flight deck is expecting Vronn Tarkon to leave the medbay any moment. We’re sending you out instead.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to Vronn?’

  A hint of graveness crept into Augustus’s bravado.

  ‘I need to get him off this ship,’ he said. ‘You alright?’

  Wyllym exhaled forcibly, shaking his head.

  ‘We came all this way to kill Vladric Mors,’ he muttered. ‘Why do I feel like we’re going after the wrong man?’

  Augustus regarded him for a moment.

  ‘No wonder they put you in jail,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Good luck, man.’

  Wyllym shook it.

  ‘You too.’

  The airlock opened, and Augustus was through.

  With a thin carbon dioxide atmosphere and a toxic layer of fine dust coating the entire planet, the planet Eris was uninhabitable, despite its prime location in the circumstellar habitable zone of the Orionis sun. Yet Vulcan Industries had invested heavily here, manufacturing biodomes for food production and deep core drilling sites to harvest precious metals and common ores.

  The vast industrial infrastructure made for ample business opportunities with privateers, especially among heavy dropships and freighters. Eris was served by a single space elevator, and its orbital terminus was busy at all times. Cargo transfers and maintenance craft serviced the heavy haulers queuing to transport their spoils to eager buyers throughout Orionis. Once loaded, the encumbered freighters unlatched from the yard to await the proper rotational window to fire their main engines and begin their long, slow journey.

  Navigating a freighter required more precision than flying smaller, nimbler craft because there was no room for error, especially when travelling great distances. Captain Jon Sanderson, a privateer and veteran hauler who owned the freighter Audrey Pat, knew this better than most, squeezing every last CRO from the margins by running heavy loads with minimal fuel reserves to maximise space for cargo. The Audrey, whose holds were packed with iron and nickel ore, had just reached maximum cruise velocity en route to Tabit Prime when her radar sounded a collision warning with an exceptionally large, unidentified object that was still more than six hundred kilometres away.

  In the estimation of the Audrey’s navigation systems, it was impossible to avoid an intercept given the Audrey’s present mass, fuel, and available thrust. Captain Sanderson’s demand for answers from Vulcan Harbour Control was pointless; they had no radar coverage this far from Eris, and nothing in their flight log should have been in his path, let alone something so large.

  There was enough time to board a life pod and eject. There was also time to jettison cargo, thus shedding mass and giving his beloved Audrey Pat manoeuvring options. But Captain Sanderson was a principled man, and refused to relinquish his precious load without at least understanding what exactly was about to claim it.

  His stubbornness, while ultimately fatal, benefitted the Inner Rim. As the distance between them closed, the Audrey’s radar was able to resolve the large object into hundreds of smaller returns, each of which happened to be a Ceti warship. To his credit, Captain Sanderson had the presence of mind to broadcast the radar image along with his distress call.

  As the Audrey Pat was torn apart by Ceti missiles, word quickly spread around Tabit Prime: Vladric Mors was coming, and he was less than a million kilometres from Corinth.

  The Navy, meanwhile, was trying to understand how Vladric could have hurled so much space junk at their vaunted Big Eye network, which was now completely obliterated. They correctly determined that his fleet alone – as depicted in Captain Sanderson’s radar image – was incapable of such a feat, unless their numbers had been greatly underestimated.

  Mike spoke with startling intensity.

  ‘Remember your cover,’ he said. ‘You are an OMSPEC operator under my command. Don’t act nervous, don’t speak unless you have to, and stay one pace from my heels at all times. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wyllym acknowledged.

  ‘Let’s move.’

  Mike opened the airlock hatch, peering in both directions before stepping down onto the tarmac. Stiff from the journey, Wyllym nearly stumbled when he landed. Gathering his armoured legs beneath him, he stood tall like a soldier, only to find Mike glaring coldly at him.

  Augustus had not been exaggerating when he said it would be crowded. From behind his mask, Wyllym watched crewmen disembark from a nearby transport by the dozens. Cargo mechs marched about carrying crates unloaded from a freight shuttle beside the transport. Small platoons gathered around staff sergeants for a few brief instructions before filing out. Organised chaos was a mainstay of Navy life, but there was a frantic current in the atmosphere. Everyone was focused, like him, following the instructions of leaders acting as if they knew what to do.

  Wyllym wondered how many of them were seeing the Archangel for the first time. Like the outer hull, the deck was an ebony sheen, but with thin venting and lighting panels lining the pathways where it was safe to stand without getting run over by a mech or dismembered by a freight crane. There was no view of space from here; ships landed on a retractable platform two decks above them and were lowered to the pressurised bay for refuelling and cargo management.

  Red battlestation lights a hundred metres overhead cast eerie god rays through the thick air. A file of crewmen jogged by Mike as he walked towards a large, hexagon-shaped hallway. When they passed beneath the entrance, they were stopped by a young Navy major.

  ‘Why aren’t you with the rest of your group?’ the officer demanded.

  ‘Which group would that be?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Don’t play dumb with me, Captain,’ she snapped, obviously checking some manifest on her own AR.

  ‘Commander Tyrell instructed us to continue mission planning while the rest of my squad stows their gear,’ Mike said.

  The officer – Wyllym saw the name ‘Dominguez’ on her uniform lapel – narrowed her eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ she demanded. ‘Why is he wearing a helmet?’

  ‘Major, if we capture a Ceti ship, this man will be the first one through the breach,’ Mike said calmly. ‘Do you know what his survival odds are?’

  ‘No, Captain, I don’t,’ she hissed.

  Wyllym had been holding his breath for so long that he had become dizzy.

  ‘One in ten,’ Mike said. ‘But he’s survived nineteen straight raids. Nineteen. He follows the same pre-mission ritual every time. The helmet’s working for him. Don’t fuck with his odds.’

  ‘You OMSPECs think you’re so special,’ she growled.

  ‘Only because we always win,’ Mike said. ‘Excuse us, Major.’

  She glared at him, then stepped aside.

  ‘As you were,’ Mike said.

  Wyllym exhaled quietly.

>   They approached the entrance to the Archangel’s rapid transit system. The elevator car was small – perhaps four people could fit inside.

  ‘We’re in,’ Mike said, presumably into his comms receiver. ‘Two coming up.’

  Wyllym felt a hint of movement as the elevator began climbing.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ he asked.

  ‘The medbay is secure,’ Mike answered, ‘but you’ll only have a few seconds up there.’

  Wyllym breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘How long have you been doing this sort of thing?’ he asked.

  ‘Eight years with OMSPEC,’ Mike said, glancing at Wyllym a moment. ‘This is my first op against the Navy.’

  When the elevator door opened, Wyllym could scarcely believe his eyes.

  Six men, all wearing Navy uniforms, were on their knees, bound, gagged, and blindfolded. OMSPEC soldiers with drawn weapons were patrolling the hall leading to the medbay entrance while Augustus and another soldier dragged a very pale and haggard-looking Vronn Tarkon forward to meet him.

  ‘Captain,’ he breathed. ‘Lieutenant Ruslov is your wing command. He was briefed directly by Hedricks … he’s been on at me all week about “being with us or against us”. I don’t know what they’re going to ask of you, but watch yourself out there.’

  ‘Hedricks is partitioning the crew,’ Augustus warned, motioning towards the prisoners. ‘These men came in to relieve the doctor and his staff – they’re all ghosts from Able. We hacked their corelinks and checked the ship manifest. They aren’t even in the Navy. You have to get off this ship right now.’

  Wyllym’s head was spinning as Admiral Hedrick’s voice cut through his comms.

  ‘What is the status of Lieutenant Tarkon?’ he demanded.

  Wyllym heard the medbay physician’s response.

  ‘He contracted a stomach virus,’ he answered. ‘Very contagious. So many new faces aboard I’m not surprised. We’ll be watching them for symptoms.’

  ‘Can he fly or not?’

  ‘Yes, if his helmet and mask stay on,’ the physician said. ‘I’ve provided antiviral inhalants and an IV through his flight suit to deal with dehydration. He should be symptom-free in an hour, maybe less.’

  ‘Lieutenant Tarkon?’

  Augustus motioned for Wyllym to talk. Vronn just nodded.

  The AR inside his helmet sprung to life. He was now broadcasting himself as Vronn Tarkon to the Archangel. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m ready to go, sir,’ Wyllym said.

  ‘Then report to Gryphon Bay at once,’ Admiral Hedricks ordered. ‘Lieutenant Ruslov is your wing command.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Wyllym said.

  The connection dropped. Augustus looked at Mike.

  ‘Whatever it takes,’ he warned.

  ‘Understood,’ Mike acknowledged.

  Thanks to the Audrey Pat, the Orionis Navy had a general idea where the Ceti fleet was. But they had yet to make contact with it. Navy assets from Tabit Prime all the way to the Belt were scrambling in anticipation of the order to intercept the invaders before they could reach Corinth.

  Except no such order was given, which sowed even more confusion.

  Grand Admiral Hedricks was not responding to calls from the Chancellor’s office or the OPCOM admirals in the field. This was especially alarming given that the Archangel was about to depart from the Corinth Shipyard.

  The next casualties of the war belonged to the ONW London, a frigate returning from a Zeus deployment that was approaching Corinth for shore leave. By sheer bad luck, its deceleration manoeuvres placed it squarely in the path of nine Ceti corvettes.

  They engaged from a distance of three hundred kilometres. The London’s belly was opened by a penetrator round, and all hands on board were killed when a Ceti missile got past her point defences and exploded inside her hull.

  Before it perished, the London accurately returned fire, with the onboard ‘Starburst’ Navy weapons management system confirming that their rounds scored direct hits on three separate Ceti corvettes. But no damage effect was detected, and the captain died wondering how that could possibly be.

  When the steel blast doors peeled apart, they were met by a Navy ensign.

  Wyllym stared past him at the hulking Gryphon parked fifty metres beyond. The bay was well lit, but the fighter’s dull, greyish-black surface drank in the brightness like a shadow. The numbers ‘1-3’ were stencilled in red on its four sloping wings, and the Orionis Navy emblem was emblazoned in yellow on the craft’s main engine nacelles. Beneath every weapon hardpoint was a cluster of oval-shaped ‘Harpoon’ anti-ship missiles, and all eight of the fighter’s vectored exhaust ports were already flexing in their sheaths as part of the automated pre-flight routine.

  Several flight deck crewmembers were waiting to secure him inside the retractable cockpit. The three other Gryphons of his wing were positioned in their departure spots on the platform that would transfer them to the launch hangar. Their pilots were already inside, impatiently waiting for Vronn Tarkon.

  ‘Who are you?’ the ensign asked.

  ‘Captain Mike Vogel, Navy Police, escorting Lieutenant Tarkon to the flight deck,’ Mike said. ‘I was hoping to speak with the loadmaster while I’m here.’

  The ‘ensign’ was a large man, taller even than Wyllym in his flight suit. He also carried himself with more authority than any ensign he’d ever met before.

  ‘You don’t have any business with the loadmasters on this deck,’ the ensign said.

  ‘OMSPEC is here for SAR and raid missions,’ Mike said. ‘We brought a lot of gear. I need to speak with a loadmaster. Now.’

  Wyllym heard Augustus in his earpiece.

  ‘Act impatient,’ he warned.

  ‘Do you guys mind?’ Wyllym said, taking care to keep his words slow and distinct for the modulator. ‘We got a war to fight.’

  The ensign stared at him, and Wyllym wondered if he had just said the wrong thing.

  ‘Feeling better, Tarkon?’ he asked. ‘Well, hurry up!’

  Wyllym began walking, then trotting, towards the waiting deck personnel, trying to control his breathing.

  There was another burst of static in his earpiece.

  ‘Move it, Wyll,’ Augustus warned, as another ensign – shorter and stockier than the brute confronting Mike – joined Wyllym at the hip.

  ‘Where did that MP meet you?’ the ensign asked, referring to Mike.

  ‘Outside the medbay,’ Augustus said. There was shouting in the background.

  ‘Right after I was discharged,’ Wyllym said, lowering himself into the cockpit module. The other crew went to work securing him inside.

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ the ensign demanded. ‘He’s not on the list.’

  Other members of the flight deck were converging on Mike.

  ‘He’s … an MP,’ Wyllym said. ‘I didn’t think anything of it.’

  Wyllym flinched as shots rang out inside his helmet. The OMSPECs were in a firefight.

  ‘Leave him,’ Augustus shouted over the gunfire. ‘Get into the fucking ship!’

  While his heart pounded, the crew closed and sealed the compartment. As the cockpit rose into position, Admiral Hedricks spoke on the flight ops channel.

  ‘Remember, Lieutenant Ruslov speaks for me,’ he said. ‘Follow his orders.’

  The Gryphon platform rotated as it ascended towards the launch deck, giving Wyllym his final glimpse of Mike, who had his rifle trained on the crowd swarming towards him.

  At this point, mass confusion was spreading throughout the Navy as mid-level officers – those with the most direct control of warfare assets – struggled to get clarity from the superior chain of command. News of the London’s destruction was fuelling a dangerous sense of initiative that was too easily corrupted by impulsiveness.

  Making matters worse was the open and flagrant dissension at the OPCOM level of leadership. Grand Admiral Hedricks controlled the task group stationed at Tabit Prime. That group, led by t
he cruiser flagship Sacramento, was ordered to stay put – which made sense. But Vice Admiral Kristjan Larksson, the Belt OPCOM, received no assignment despite his relative proximity to Corinth and ability to bring decisive firepower to the fight.

  Rear Admiral Jung Lao insisted that all was well and ordered everyone to remain where they were.

  Wyllym didn’t realise the Archangel had left her birthplace until after his Gryphon cleared the hangar. The mothership was completely clear of the shipyard scaffolding, its aft hull glowing an azure blue from her impulse drives. Wyllym had always assumed there would be a grand celebration to herald the Archangel’s maiden voyage. Instead, she was stealing away under the cover of night.

  ‘Gunfighter one-three, cleared for flight vector navpoint alpha,’ the Archangel tower commanded. ‘Engines go for intercept. Ruslov, he’s your bird.’

  ‘Thank you, Archangel,’ Ruslov said. His Gryphon was just one hundred metres ahead. Jans Orpyk and Cassius Adams were the other wingmen, positioned sixty metres to Wyllym’s two and ten o’clock in a diamond formation.

  ‘Wing, set to alpha,’ Ruslov instructed. Wyllym pointed his craft towards the designation on his HUD. ‘Nine-zero burn in three, two, one, mark.’

  Wyllym opened the Gryphon’s throttle to ninety per cent of maximum thrust, and the craft smoothly accelerated to 12,000 metres per second relative to Corinth.

  All he could think about was Augustus.

  ‘Tarkon,’ Lieutenant Ruslov said. ‘Maintain speed and heading. Do not deviate.’

  The three Gryphons slowed and took position close behind him.

  ‘Now,’ Ruslov said. ‘What were you doing in Corinth last month?’

  Wyllym paused, hoping that either Vronn or Augustus would answer. They didn’t.

  ‘Testifying against Wyllym Lyons,’ he decided. ‘Typical ghost shit.’

  ‘That’s not what you said the last time I asked,’ Ruslov growled.