by E. R. Torre
“No sir.”
“Then what is going on?”
“Whatever it is, it’s serious enough for Saint Vulcan to issue containment orders for the entire planet. She is not allowing anyone in or out.”
“Sounds like a biological or chemical event.”
“It is possible.”
Desjardins’ thoughts returned to his wife. Was she planet-side when this happened?
“Where is Saint Vulcan?”
“Indications are she’s on Pomos.”
“What exactly were her orders to the fleet?”
“All Class III and above ships were to report to the planet.”
Class III, Desjardins thought. The Andora was Class I.
Every one of those ships was fully armed and designed for conflict.
6
From her seat she watched the monitors before her.
Her full name was Catherine Vulcan. She first emerged to the public at large on Pomos, a fertile world run by a liberal intellectual commune. The Corporations of the Epsillon Empire ignored this world and her products for years, until she created and released astonishingly sophisticated computers that took the Empire by storm.
It didn’t take long for her community to grow into an economic powerhouse. In the intervening years Vulcan’s company amassed a staggering forty percent of the computer market and she became the human face of modern technology.
It was during this time that she received countless awards and, eventually, bestowed the prestigious title of Saint. She maintained her operations on Pomos and from there greatly expanded her empire. All was going incredibly well.
Until today.
On one of the monitors was a satellite display of Pomos. That monitor, in the center of the others, held her favorite view of her adopted world. The planet was achingly beautiful. It was where she intended to work for many, many productive years.
That dream was over.
On another monitor were the familiar lines that made up the eastern coast of the planet’s central land mass. There, built to the very edge of the impossibly blue Azure Oceans was Petersberg, the mega-city capital. It was a city so large that it was visible from orbit. It lay on the equatorial line, extending from the central hemisphere to the coast. The glint of metal, a reflection from the sun, made her shine like a precious gem. Still, Petersberg suffered like all big cities with her slums, traffic, and congestion. There was too much trash and far too much misery, yet Saint Vulcan knew those problems could be solved in time.
Over six billion people lived on Pomos and as recently as a few hours ago they were free to move about from city to city or off-world. No longer. A virulent virus had infected the planet and her population. The first symptoms were relatively benevolent: Coughs, mild fever, headaches. But the headaches and fever turned into crippling pain and dementia. For the elderly, mental faculties dropped precipitously. For the young and healthy, the infection made them violent.
Saint Vulcan sent her best minds in search of a cure but the infection spread far too rapidly to combat.
In a matter of hours Saint Vulcan knew all was lost. There was only one thing left for her to do: Contain the virus. Her solution was one she dared not think about using even three hours before.
Saint Vulcan used emergency precautions she set up in case of a disaster of this magnitude. The planet’s Displacer and planetary star ports were sealed and security forces acted swiftly and without hesitation or mercy. She controlled every transport throughout the planet yet knew that control was tenuous. As long as her security forces obeyed her commands, she could contain the virus. The moment they rebelled…
Saint Vulcan issued a statement through the local media that a burst of solar flares crippled outside communications and caused a strain to the global computer network. She used this as justification for the cancellation of all transport flights. A few Captains of crafts resisted orders to remain in port. These ships were blasted out of the sky.
From there, things only got worse.
Saint Vulcan called in her warships, every single one of them, and twenty eight were now parked in orbit. There was only one ship left to arrive.
Then we’ll be complete.
She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair.
The computer panel at her side blared a message. The Pomos Displacer came to life. She waited for confirmation of the incoming ship’s identity, though she already knew who it was.
When they broke through the Displacer’s energy wall and entered the space around Pomos, the computers on board the bridge of the Andora lit up.
“Getting multiple signals,” the Communications Officer said. “It’s hard to get through the clutter. It’s like being in a room filled with screaming people.”
“What about other vessels?” Captain Desjardins asked.
“I’m detecting twenty eight Class III and above ships in orbit around the planet, sir,” First Officer Santos said. “With us, that’s the entire fleet of large crafts.”
“Evacuations?” Captain Desjardins asked.
“None detected,” Santos replied. She pressed a series of buttons on the computer before her. She sat back. “Sir, you need to see this.”
Captain Desjardins walked to his officer’s side. On Santos’ monitor was a visual display of the planet. The camera zoomed in on the city of Miter, then zoomed in further to display the city’s star port. It was in flames.
“What about the city itself?”
The view shifted away from the star port. The roads to the city were littered with debris and broken down vehicles. Small shapes –pedestrians– ran in all directions. Several of the tiny shapes clashed, their attacks against others brutal and inhuman. Bloody bodies lay everywhere. On another screen were images of little children herded off the streets. A man grabbed one of them. He smashed her into a wall before another shot him down. Another monitor showed an apartment building on fire. People jumped from the upper floors to avoid being burned. Many laughed as they fell. Still another feed displayed a group of soldiers armed to the teeth and firing into crowds indiscriminately. They too laughed as scores of people died before them.
“By the Gods,” Desjardins said.
Chatter from the other ships around Pomos filled the radio’s speaker.
“Sir, we’re being hailed by… by just about everyone,” the Communication Officer said.
The Andora was the largest vessel in Saint Vulcan’s fleet and Captain Desjardins the senior most officer present among them.
“They want to know what to do.”
Captain Desjardins drew a deep breath.
“Tell them I am assessing the situation and will contact them in sixty seconds,” the Captain said. He faced his first officer. “What about the other cities? The other star ports?”
“I’m seeing much the same.”
“Is this some kind of civil war?”
“If it is, it’s localized. The military bases are locked down. I’m not seeing any movement of troops or vehicles from any of them. There are no missiles in the air, no fleets attacking other cities.”
“No invasion forces?”
“I have detected no outside spacecraft at all. It looks like… it looks like mass hysteria.”
Captain Desjardins walked to his communicator officer’s side. Despite his calm exterior, his mind raced. Images of his wife, somewhere down there in the hell that was once Pomos, filled him with worry.
Keep it together. For your sake as well as for the crew’s.
“Any word from Saint Vulcan?” he asked.
“None sir.”
David Desjardins pressed a button on the computer panel in his jacket sleeve.
“This is Captain David Desjardins,” he said. His voice echoed through the Andora. “An unknown catastrophic event has occurred on Pomos. Like many of you, I have family and friends below and I am just as eager to get information of what’s going on down there as I’m sure you are. For now, we must figure out what is happening. We will not act unt
il—”
“Captain Desjardins?”
Desjardins faced his first officer.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” Santos said. “I’ve just received a high priority message from Saint Vulcan. She’s calling a meeting among all Captains.”
Captain Desjardins nodded. He again spoke into his communicator.
“You will be updated very soon. We’ll get through this as long as we stay focused.”
Captain Desjardins hurried back to his quarters.
The door closed behind him and his bed slid into the wall. He stepped into the room’s center and the lights dimmed. A seat and a small table slid up from the floor and he sat down. Holographic images appeared around him of the other twenty eight star ship Captains. They were, as he was, in their quarters on their ships looking at the same holographic images. Each and every one of the Captains’ faces was filled with great tension. In some this bordered on panic. No one spoke, though every one of them was ready to. All waited for one person, the only one missing from the meeting.
Her hologram materialized at the head of the virtual table.
“Saint Vulcan,” the Captains’ greeted her in unity.
Saint Vulcan was in her mid to upper fifties. She was skinny to the point of appearing undernourished. Her hair was brown with streaks of gray and pulled back into a tight bun. She offered the Captains a tense smile, revealing brilliant white teeth.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she said.
Her greeting proved too much for Captain Menos of the Vulcan VII.
“Please excuse my impertinence, but what the fuck is happening down there?”
“The planet is infected,” Saint Vulcan said.
“By what?” one of the Captains said.
“We’re not sure. Near as we can tell, the infection originated in Petersberg and spread in a matter of hours throughout the planet. The infected…”
Saint Vulcan paused to gather her thoughts.
“As you’ve no doubt seen, the infected display irrational, paranoid thought processes which result is self-destructive tendencies. They attack without provocation yet retain their base knowledge. Those who pilot shuttles or operate complicated machinery are still capable of doing so even as they view all others –including family and friends– as a threat. They will attack anyone before them and not stop until their perceived threats are incapacitated and… and dead.”
The room grew very quiet.
“What do you intend to do?” one of the Captains asked.
“I’ve drawn samples of the infected blood and have a basic understanding of this infection.”
“What about a cure?”
“That may take days, weeks… perhaps even months to come up with.”
“Should we start evacuation protocol?” another Captain asked.
Saint Vulcan shook her head.
“Going down to the planet at this point is suicide. Should any member of your crew be exposed to the infection and return to your ship, it will spread throughout your vessel. If you were to travel to other worlds, the entire Empire would be in danger.”
There was muttering among the Captains. The muttering stopped when one of the Captains asked:
“Saint Vulcan, they’re killing themselves down there. How long can we wait before intervening?”
“The contagion has already spread throughout the world. Even with all quarantines in effect, population survival can be measured in days, if not hours.”
A great hush settled over the room. Saint Vulcan lowered her head.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have to be realistic about our options.”
“What do you mean?” another Captain said.
“Pomos is doomed.”
The Captains digested this information. None spoke.
“There is only one action that will stop any further outbreak of this contagion,” Saint Vulcan continued. “That action lies within the weapon systems of your vessels.”
“You’re not suggesting—” another Captain began and stopped.
“She is,” yet another Captain said. Her face was red with rage. “You want us to put everyone down there out of their misery, as if billions of people were nothing more than a rabid dog. That’s why you ordered the ships into stationary orbits around the major cities. You want us to torch Pomos.”
The realization was too much to bear for several of the Captains.
“That… that’s criminal,” yet another Captain said. “We can’t—”
“We won’t!” several shouted.
The meeting threatened to turn into pandemonium. And then a voice louder than the others spoke for the first time. The voice was calm yet forceful, full of rage yet in control.
“There is no choice.”
The room went silent. The words did not come from Saint Vulcan.
They came from Captain David Desjardins.
“You’ve seen the vids,” Desjardins said, his voice threatening to break. “By the Gods, you’ve seen the violence and carnage. The citizens of Pomos are tearing themselves apart. My wife…” he faltered for a second. “My wife is down there. She’s my… Holly’s my life. I don’t know if she’s still alive, but I do know one thing: If she is, she won’t be for long. If this infection spreads beyond Pomos, the entire human race will be at risk.”
“You actually agree with that bitch?!” one of the Captains hissed.
“You have biotech labs all over Pomos,” another Captain said. “Is this your doing, Saint Vulcan? Are you responsible for this outbreak?”
There were screams and accusations. Finally, the Captains yelled over each other until, in unison, they faced Saint Vulcan and screamed:
“We will not fire on Pomos!”
As the arguments escalated, David Desjardins pressed a button on his sleeve. He wasn’t surprised to receive no response. He looked up, at the arguing Captains, before looking directly at Saint Vulcan. She sat as before, passive, emotionless.
Darkness filled Captain Desjardins features. He raised his hand and spoke, but his voice was lost in the shouts. He balled his hand into a fist and rose to his feet. He slammed his fist against the table, startling everyone into silence.
“We have no choice in the matter,” he yelled. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “We weren’t called together to this meeting to argue about what’s happening down there. We were called together as a distraction. Weren’t we, Saint Vulcan?”
Saint Vulcan’s expression remained as before.
“From the moment the meeting began, we were frozen out of communication with our ships,” Captain Desjardins said. He again pressed the button on his sleeve. “I certainly have.”
The other Captains examined their remote Comm buttons. None could communicate with their crew. David Desjardins shook his head and motioned to Saint Vulcan.
“You have control over our ships, don’t you?”
Saint Vulcan nodded.
“The actions I undertake are solely my own,” Saint Vulcan said. “Every one of you will be absolved.”
“Fuck you!” a Captain yelled. He disappeared from the Holographic meeting.
Several others faded away as well. They returned to the bridges of their starships, to see if they had indeed lost control of their crafts and, more importantly, if they could regain it.
“The judgment against you will be harsh, Saint Vulcan,” Desjardins said.
“I know,” she said. “The bombings began at the start of this meeting.”
The few remaining Captains looked at each other and eyed instruments not present in the holographic setting.
“You didn’t…” one of them muttered.
The truth on his monitor, however, was clear.
“You’ll fry for this,” a Captain said between clenched teeth.
“My fate is sealed,” Saint Vulcan said.
The holographic images disappeared and Captain David Desjardins was again alone in his small room. The computer monitor at the side of his desk flashed with urgent calls fr
om the ship’s bridge. David Desjardins pressed a button on the desk communicator.
“I’m back, Officer Santos.”
“Captain!” Santos began, her voice filled with panic. “The ship’s controls have been overridden. We’re firing on Pomos! What should we do?!”
“Nothing,” Captain Desjardins said. Despite the incredible sadness, he knew Saint Vulcan made sure none of the Captains could counter her orders. Not until the weapon bays were empty and the planet a wasteland.
“Did you…did you get in touch with your family?” Desjardins asked.
“What?” Santos said. “N… no sir. Communications remain a mess.”
“I’m sorry.”
Captain Desjardins sat silently for several seconds. Until it was over, there was nothing he could do.
“Sir, there’s a message coming in.”
“If it’s one of the other Captains, I’m not—”
“It’s Saint Vulcan.”
Captain Desjardins eyed the framed photograph of his wife on his desk.
“Put her through.”
The image that appeared on his desk monitor was grainy. Saint Vulcan sat in her office.
“You’re the only one who agreed with my course of action,” Saint Vulcan said. “You understood this had to be done. If I hadn’t taken over your ship, you would have initiated the bombings yourself.”
Captain Desjardins closed his eyes tight.
“I would have,” he whispered. A tear ran down his cheek. “Don’t you dare confuse agreement with acceptance, Saint Vulcan. If you weren’t down there, I’d be the first to see you hang.”
“Have you spoken with your wife?”
“No,” Desjardins said. He took a deep breath and for the very first time felt he was about to lose control.
“I’m sorry,” Saint Vulcan said.
“What exactly happened?” Desjardins said.
“What I told you. A virus was released.”
“An accident?”
“It was done on purpose.”
“On purpose?” Desjardins repeated, incredulous.
“Someone planted it here.”
“But… but you have quarantine protocols that reach a microscopic level. How did—”
