Hunt for the Saiph (The Saiph Series Book 3)

by PP Corcoran

  In fact, his eyes were still closed as he replied, "So you think young Wilson may be on to something?"

  "Yes, I do."

  Now Elizabeth was completely confused. Since when did the admiral refer to her as young Wilson?

  "You may be a jarhead, Earl, and much as I hate to admit it, I'm inclined to agree with you." This elicited a chuckle from the brigadier as he took another sip of his drink, mumbling something about squids, a rather derogatory term used by marines for navy personnel. Vadis opened his eyes and pointed a finger at Elizabeth, "What about you, Elizabeth? What’s your take on this Creator legend?"

  Ignoring the friendly, she hoped, exchange of insults between her boss and Statham, she concentrated on giving her best analysis of the Ak-an video, "If, and it’s a big if, we are to believe even a part of what the prisoner told the good doctor, then it gives credence to the theory of the existence of another race. A race who saved a select few from the bio-weapon used on Balach, then transported them to Durav, where they used advanced AIs to educate them beyond their natural evolutionary level, to a point where they could travel amongst the stars and wipe out any other intelligent species they came across to clear the way for the return of what they believed to be their god.”

  Elizabeth moved to take another drink from her glass but her hand paused mid-ascent, and she instead replaced the glass on the polished table. “Although this is the first I’ve heard of their transportation to the Creator's world of Aseena and their meeting with him. On the other hand, there are numerous examples in human history where various religious groups claim to have met their deities. This could all be just religious dogma." This time, Elizabeth managed a slug of smooth whiskey and as she put her glass back down she noted that Statham had a “cat who got the cream” look on his face.

  With a resigned sigh, Admiral Vadis tilted his head back and closed his eyes again. "Go on, Earl. Make your pitch."

  Elizabeth looked confusedly between Vadis and the still-grinning Statham.

  "What would you say if I could supply you with a time machine which would allow you to go back in time and see whether this so-called Creator actually did make a star disappear like the legend says?"

  Elizabeth stifled a laugh. "Then I would say you have invented a machine which science fiction writers have been waxing lyrical about for thousands of years and I would strongly suggest you get down to the patent office as soon as it opens tomorrow. You could make millions."

  Vadis nearly choked on his whiskey as he tried unsuccessfully to swallow and laugh at the same time.

  "Now I see where young Wilson gets his sense of sarcasm from," Statham said between chuckles of his own.

  Ah, so it’s my nephew Terrance the marine was referring to, thought Elizabeth. This raised another question. What does he have to do with this?

  "I'll ensure I do that first thing... Now, back to the point. If I could identify a star that somehow unexpectedly stopped shining on or about the same time we know the population of Balach was decimated by the bio-weapon, would you agree that there was a good chance that star could be the one from the Creator legend?"

  Elizabeth stared at the marine brigadier in disbelief. He was serious about this. Elizabeth took a few seconds to gather her wits. "I would have to concede that a star suddenly disappearing would certainly lend credence to the legend, but this is all theoretical. We cannot travel back in time. It’s impossible."

  Statham displayed that grin again as he looked intently toward Vadis like a dog would its master while awaiting permission to do something. The admiral gave him a simple nod and the marine reached into his briefcase and extracted a secure PAD, which he passed to Elizabeth. "Welcome to Project Bright Star."

  #

  GATEWAY STATION - EDGE OF THE ASTEROID BELT - SOL SYSTEM

  Gateway Station was a hive of activity as the multi-million ton freighters, warships, science vessels, colony transports, and every other kind of flotsam and jetsam required to service the interstellar nation Earth had become buzzed to and fro like angry bees as their captains maneuvered them in the congested traffic lanes under the wary eyes of the controllers aboard the station. There had been several near misses in the two years Gateway Station had been operational and no one wanted to see what would happen if one of those massive freighters collided with a colony transport carrying hundreds of colonists. So although it may appear to the untrained eye that the various ships’ movements were chaotic, they were actually performing an intricate ballet with the station traffic controllers keeping a tight rein on events.

  The scene outside the station’s thick battle armor was of little concern to Lieutenant Terrance Wilson as he walked down yet another identical corridor in search of the correct docking bay. He had taken the time to study the route from his arrival dock to his destination dock when he stepped off of the intersystem transport which brought him to Gateway Station, but after forty minutes of walking and two different inter-ship cars which whisked him from the upper decks to the lower decks and out to the restricted military docking area, he was beginning to doubt his eidetic memory. Had he possibly read the schematic wrong? Rounding a corner of the never-ending sterile white corridor, he was relieved to find a personnel tube with a marine standing guard in front of it. Inscribed in blue, meter-high letters above the bulkhead door was the letter G and the number 18. At last! At the lieutenant’s approach, the marine came to attention but his hand hovered close to his holstered PEP pistol all the same. His job was simple. No unauthorized personnel were allowed access to the ship at the far end of the personnel tube and it looked as if this particular marine took his job seriously.

  "Lieutenant Wilson reporting for duty aboard the science vessel TDF Tycho Brahe." Terrance passed over his ID card which the marine accepted with his left hand, right still free to draw his PEP if required. Inserting the ID card into the reader on his belt without ever moving his wary eyes from the naval officer, the marine waited for the double beep of recognition before removing the card and returning it to Wilson.

  Identity confirmed, the marine saluted Terrance. "Welcome aboard, sir. The XO has left orders that you are to report to Briefing Room Two on your arrival. Your escort will meet you at the other end of the personnel tube."

  Terrance returned the salute as the marine stood aside and the bulkhead door slid open, allowing Terrance to set off down the personnel tube. Making his way along the tube, Terrance battled to suppress the butterflies he felt in his stomach. Unlike many of his compatriots, Terrance had never even served on board a ship before, never mind a ship that was in the main crewed by civilian scientists. Instead, he was plucked directly from the Naval Academy and deposited in the skyscraper building housing the headquarters of the Naval Intelligence Service and it appeared that was where he was destined to remain. Until he had reviewed the now-infamous Ak-an recording. While putting the story of the Creator legend together with his research into the origins of the Others, he wrote a report for his boss in which he came up with a solution to finding the location of the fabled world of Aseena. To Terrance, the answer was simple. If Ak-an was to be believed, then Aseena's star showed a distinct shift in the red light spectrum. Using the data that Terrance had put together, they knew the Others must have visited Aseena and stood before the Creator in roughly 1000 AD. If the legend was to be believed, all you needed to do to locate the Creator was to find a red shift star that had suddenly disappeared on or around 1000 AD. Simple. Oh, how I should have kept my mouth shut, thought Terrance as the bulkhead leading into the Tycho Brahe let out a slight hiss of hydraulics as it slid aside. Stepping into the airlock, Terrance waited patiently as the outer door closed and locked before the inner door opened. The smiling face of a young twenty-something lanky ensign greeted Terrance.

  "If you will follow me sir, the XO is waiting."

  Terrance set off after the ensign, who made some banal chatter about this being his first ship after graduating the Academy and how excited he was about heading out into unexplored space.
Terrance tuned him out as his thoughts fleetingly turned to Maggie and the four-month-old son he was leaving behind on Earth for the duration of this mission. Mentally berating himself for his sudden somber mood, Terrance fixed a smile on his lips as he pretended to listen to the ensign. The one-sided conversation lasted through a short elevator ride up to Deck Four and the walk to the entrance to Briefing Room Two. Knocking politely, the ensign opened the door and stepped to one side saying:

  "I'll wait here for you. When you are finished I will escort you to your quarters, sir."

  Terence mumbled a thank you as he stepped past him and entered the spacious briefing room where a balding, slightly chubby, harassed-looking lieutenant commander was surrounded by a sea of PADs.

  "Lieutenant Terrance Wilson reporting for duty, sir." Terrance came to attention and saluted the executive officer.

  The XO's head didn't rise from the PAD he was studying as he waved a hand at tray of coffee and pastries at the far end of the table.

  "Help yourself to some coffee, Lieutenant. I just have to finish this cargo-loading schedule update before another irate scientist demands that his precious science experiment gets priority loading over some other experiment. I swear, you would think that they thought we poor navy men had never prepared for a long cruise before."

  Pouring himself a cup of the steaming brew, Terrance took a seat opposite the XO, taking the opportunity to study the oak-clad walls of the room, which were adorned with framed pictures of elegant sailing ships through early steam and turbine vessels to ultramodern, state-of-the-art gravity drive starships. Above the head of the table was a reproduction of Tycho Brahe, the Danish nobleman and astronomer the ship was named after. Tycho Brahe was most famous for his discovery of what became known as Tycho's Supernova in the constellation Cassiopeia, which burst into the Earth’s sky in 1572. The sight of the austere Danish nobleman with his full beard and mustache staring down at Terrance with his fixed eyes completely engrossed Terrance and it took him a moment to become aware that the XO was now regarding him with an amused look on his face.

  "Don't worry, Lieutenant, he has the same effect on all of us. I'm Lieutenant Commander Darel Apter, XO of our little flying observatory. The captain sends his apologies for not meeting you in person but he's been delayed in a meeting with Doctor Sarkisian and the department heads. Apparently there’s a last-minute hitch with the Deployable Stellar Detection Grid and since the primary purpose of our mission is the detection and analysis of the evolution of stars, then the key piece of equipment we are going to use to detect those selfsame stars being kaput before we even start could mean we have a very short mission." Apter chuckled at his own joke and Terrance couldn't resist the urge to join in.

  "But seriously. As far as your own work goes, only the captain, myself, Doctor Sarkisian, and Ensign Burkett, he's the one who escorted you here, know your true mission. Locating the star this so-called Creator extinguished. Your cover will be as liaison officer between the navy and the scientific staff on board. This should give you free access to any of the scientific departments and a plausible reason to speak directly with the captain and Doctor Sarkisian. Burkett may look like he belongs back in school but he already has degrees in astrophysics and cosmology and his IQ is probably the highest on the ship, with the exception of Doctor Sarkisian."

  Never judge a book by its cover, Terrance reminded himself.

  "The current mission parameters call for us to fold out to a point 500 light years from Durav where the DSDG will be deployed. Subsequent folds will be in the range of fifty light years until we reach a maximum of 2000 light years. If, as you speculated, a star with a red shift is detected, then we will decrease the distance of each fold and target destination until we ascertain the star’s location. I must say, Doctor Sarkisian was not overly happy when the Department of Special Projects hijacked her expedition, but she cooled down some when it was explained to her the seriousness of the mission and, to be honest, I think she sees it as a bit of a challenge. Our best reckoning is each deployment of the DSDG and interpretation of the data it gathers should take about two weeks. Doctor Sarkisian reckons that we should know whether your theory holds water by the 1200 light year point so that would put us at week fourteen of the mission."

  "My own best guess was between the 800 light year and 1200 light year window, sir, so it seems the good doctor and myself are singing off the same song sheet," agreed Terrance.

  Apter stood and Terrance took this as his cue the meeting was over. "Once again, welcome aboard the Tycho Brahe, Lieutenant. Burkett will get you settled in and introduce you to the key department heads. If everything is on schedule, we can expect to fold out day after tomorrow."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Direct Action

  RUE MUZY - GENEVA – EARTH – SOL SYSTEM

  "And you promise next time you will supply me the recipe for crispy eggplant and mozzarella, Roberto?"

  "Ah, Signore Madkin, you know the recipe has remained a closely guarded family secret for generations, although, if the beautiful Signora Madkin was to grace my poor restaurant with her presence, I would be unable to resist her charms."

  "I fail to see how your restaurant can be so poor with the prices you charge." Clement Bradshaw said in a deadpan voice.

  Roberto looked aghast, his arms wide in fake affront. "Signore Bradshaw, I have many children to feed and my wife likes to enjoy the finer things in life. What is a man to do?"

  All three men shared a knowing laugh as the stony-faced bodyguard held the restaurant door open and the chill of an early December night’s wind pierced their heavy coats as though they were made of the thinnest paper.

  Stepping out onto the sidewalk, both men were glad of the awning that hung off the building and protected patrons from the falling snow. The outside temperature was well below freezing and both men’s attention was on the ground car and the warmth the vehicle’s interior promised. Its rear door was being held open by a second bodyguard as the wind tried to push it closed again.

  From an alley to the left came the loud, piercing cry of a cat. Madkin, Bradshaw, and the two bodyguards turned their heads in the sound’s direction. It was an entirely natural reaction, one that anyone would have had, but it was also fatal.

  Out of the shadows to the right, a nondescript figure stepped into the light flooding from the restaurant’s large windows. He slipped the remote control for the noisemaker back into his left pocket and his right hand came up smoothly, the light glinting off the metal in his hand. The canopy over the restaurant’s entrance prevented the assassin’s preferred long-range shot, so he was forced to resort to the messier close-quarter assassination. More risk was involved, but his pay master had the funds to cover the added expenses and he had never failed to pay in full before. Besides, watching your target die close up was somehow more... fulfilling.

  The trailing bodyguard never knew what hit him as a burst of supersonic, needle-sharp metal flechettes entered the back of his skull and exploded out the front, ripping his face to shreds as they exited, bone and brain barely slowing their progress.

  Kris Madkin had once been a marine and the sound of a flechette pistol was one he had heard before and never expected to hear again. His survival instincts took control, adrenalin poured into his system as he grabbed Clement roughly by the coat collar and propelled his startled friend with all his might through the open rear door of the waiting car, crouching as he spun to face his attacker. He was just in time to see the second bodyguard cut down by a hail of flechettes, which turned his upper chest and throat into a mess of splintered bone and ripped flesh, the man’s blood cascading from his body in a fountain of red, covering Kris' face and obscuring his view of the advancing angel of death.

  The bodyguard’s falling body landed heavily on Kris, knocking him to his knees and banging his head off the car door’s edge. The pain of the impact was nothing compared to the sudden searing pain ripping through his left shoulder as another salvo of flechettes from the att
acker sought to end him. Kris tried to stand but the dead weight of the bodyguard across his legs was preventing him. Kris went to push him off but only his right arm would respond and he felt his energy leaching from his body as his blood spilled out onto the sidewalk. Kris raised his chin and looked defiantly into the face of the assassin standing only a few feet from him. The business end of a flechette pistol was pointed squarely at his head.

  "You should have stayed out of the way, Madkin. I might have let you live..." Whatever he was going to say next was forestalled by the driver’s door opening as the final bodyguard made his move, PEP in hand. The driver’s shot went wild and the assassin adjusted his aim to engage the new threat. A single thought screamed through Kris’ brain. I will not die here today! Not like this! Summoning up the last of his failing strength, he pushed at the dead man’s shoulder straddling his legs but it was no good, his rapidly weakening muscles failed him. Stars were beginning to dance in front of his eyes. The sweet embrace of unconsciousness was beckoning him. The limp bodyguard rolled back and his jacket fell open, revealing the PEP pistol partially drawn from its holster. The whining of the flechette pistol and a sudden cry signaled the end of the driver. With the last dregs of his being, Kris reached for the PEP, feeling its cold metal grip as his fingers wrapped around it. The restaurant lights were blocked out as the assassin leaned over his slumped body and a gravelly voice came faintly through the blood rushing in Kris’ ears.

  "Mr. Anderson sends his regards, Bradshaw..."

  Kris pulled the trigger of the PEP. Once. Twice. Three times before blackness finally claimed him.

  #

  THE PRESIDENT’S PRIVATE RESIDENCE - OUTSKIRTS OF GENEVA

  EARTH – SOL SYSTEM

  The loud knocking on her bedroom door startled Rebecca Coston from her slumber. Sitting up, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she checked the illuminated clock on the bed stand. 0217.