The Sphere Imperium: Book Two of the Intentional Contact Trilogy
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The alien seemed very interested in what he had to say, however. Its head had tilted up the moment Sorenson began speaking as if to provide a better view of the mouth from which his words emerged. Also, both antennae perked up and began quivering.
“Tiz`scra voom seca,” the alien said in a harsh, metallic voice.
Sorenson thought that sounded more like a warning than friendly words of introduction, but he’d take whatever he could get. At least it was trying to communicate! If they could learn its language or it theirs, they might be able to sort things out and avoid any further bloodshed. He definitely wasn’t a diplomat, but he’d do what he could.
The alien had not responded to Sorenson’s outstretched hand, not comprehending the gesture no doubt, so he used it to point at his chest.
“Sorenson,” he said.
The alien’s antennae went still, and it gave him an intense stare for a quarter minute or so, then it turned abruptly and left the cafeteria. The massive creature that had accompanied it here followed it out.
Sorenson collapsed into a chair, his shirt soaked with sweat.
An instant buzz of conversation broke out around the tables as men and women discussed the encounter. Sorenson noticed opinions ran the gamut from optimistic to fatalistic, with some of the crew insisting they must escape before they were all executed. He needed to quash that idea before someone made a run for it. If even one person tried a jail break, the aliens might kill the rest of them in retaliation.
He stood up, motioning everyone to quiet down. “If the aliens wanted us dead, we’d be dead already.” Sorenson didn’t fully believe what he was telling them but had to give them hope, something to hang onto. “Help is on the way, people. We just need to hold on until it gets here. So stay calm and be patient. Got it?”
Everyone nodded.
About ten minutes later, more aliens arrived at the cafeteria, eleven total, Sorenson counted, all distinctively different from the two types he’d seen previously. So the aliens had multiple varieties, after all. These were smaller, only as tall as his waist and maybe two meters long―no, make that 1.75 meters. They possessed the same, now-familiar antlike body with six legs and two forward-reaching arms. A similar head structure, too, with a pair of antennae, the same three-eye arrangement, and insectal mandibles that were considerably smaller in scale than the enormous pincers on the warrior types.
But there the similarity ended. Eight of them were . . . pudgy, for lack of a better word, with pale green bodies that appeared soft, vastly different from the armor-like exoskeletons of the larger types. He had heard of soft-shell crabs, so maybe these eight were soft-shell aliens.
The other three were leaner with satin-brown exoskeletal bodies that were remarkably Earth-ant similar in appearance. They moved with quick, nimble motions, far more agile than the others. All three looked at Sorenson with intense three-eyed stares, seeming to study him, then they began to clack excitedly as if conferring on how to proceed.
During their intrusive stares, he detected the same glints and glimmers of higher intelligence that he’d seen in the larger, dark-blue alien. As for the soft, pudgy ones, their eyes were placid, giving him the impression of simple-minded creatures. What could their function possibly be?
It seemed he was about to find out, as one of them began walking straight toward him.
After Jokin`Dor left the cafeteria, he consulted with the Organizer tasked with oversight of the exploration and examination of the orbital structure. Both agreed priority should be given to learning the speech patterns of the peculiarly vertical, two-legged creatures. Thus, a trio of Organizers with eight Engrams in support had been sent in to begin the process.
Jokin`Dor had stood a mere claw swipe away from the Dominant biped of those in the cafeteria. It alone had risen to meet him, using a hand command to order the other bipeds to hold fast in their current positions. Clearly the one in charge.
Then the biped made sounds with the fleshly facial orifice that Jokin`Dor presumed was a mouth. The sounds were meaningless to him, of course, but the tone and cadence with which the biped made them implied a spoken language.
It also extended one of its spindly arms toward him. Whether that gesture had been a challenge to duel for dominance, or an acknowledgement of compliance, Jokin`Dor could not tell. When he gave his name and hierarchical rank as dictated by the protocols of communication, tiny droplets of moisture formed on the biped’s face. What that signified, if anything, was equally baffling.
The biped then jabbed itself with a long, thin finger while emitting a short sound pattern that Jokin`Dor had inferred was its name and rank. That had been enough to convince him communication was possible, and he left to give highest priority to learning their speech patterns.
His brief encounter revealed much about the bipeds. First, they communicated with spoken words much like his own Form did, augmented, possibly, by appendage gestures and moisture extrusion. All subForms utilized antenna positioning and twitches to convey meaning, so it was possible the bipeds also used body signals to communicate. Given enough time, Jokin`Dor felt confident their speech patterns could be decoded, but he understood the complexity of the task and knew it would be a slow endeavor.
Second, the bipeds here were worker forms. Given effective weapons they could be dangerous, but their physical bodies were obviously not specialized for battle. Unfortunately, there were none of their warrior forms, dead or alive, for him to examine. Were they bipedal also, or something more suited for combat?
Finally, they did not originate in this solar system. The planets and moons here all lacked an atmosphere―none could support the bipeds, much less spawn them. This meant they came from somewhere else, capable of interstellar travel. Probably with faster-than-light starships. If not, the bipeds were no threat to the Form. Any race without FTL capabilities could be outmaneuvered easily and defeated piecemeal in battle.
This system was just an outpost, then. The bipeds had claimed it for their own, obviously, defending the system with their battle spheroids. Yet was it the first they had taken as they crawled out from the confines of their birthworld as fledgling space travelers, or just one of many in a vast interstellar empire? This was the most important question of all, and Jokin`Dor knew it must be answered quickly.
Once again he consulted the Organizer tasked with oversight of the structure, stressing that data records revealing the extent of the bipeds’ domain take precedence over all else.
Until that knowledge was discovered, Jokin`Dor would assume the worst-case scenario: the bipeds were fierce interstellar conquerors with dominion over vast territories. Such an assumption naturally implied they would come here in force to take back what was taken from them. He would proceed as if an attack was imminent.
If this worst-case assumption was proven wrong and the bipeds were not a threat, no harm would result from sensible preparations. Never had a Seer been unprepared for battle, and Jokin`Dor did not intend to be the first.
Swiftly his plans were made. He hurried back to the legion flagship, Scaveer, where he issued new commands. Soon thereafter the warships of the Amber Spar withdrew from the Cirtus Beta system.
All but one: Ventox stayed behind, bait for the trap.
Omicron Sequence:
Into the Fray
Nighthawk
It wasn’t easy being a destroyer captain. The decisions, responsibilities, the long hours with sporadic sleep―they all took their toll. Despite the drawbacks, Gwinet Mitterrand knew it was moments like this that made it all worthwhile.
“Battle stations,” she ordered. “Enable all weapons.”
Sirens wailed through the Lynx-class destroyer, sending off-duty men and women racing for their posts. Damage-control robots activated and went into standby mode. Marauder warbots rushed to their rally points. Meanwhile the internal bulkheads slammed shut as Nighthawk’s weapons and heavy force shields energized, sucking terawatts of power from the twin matter/antimatter annihilation reactors.
On the bridge, the senior officers were strapped in their combat recliners, holodisplays flickering in front of them as they monitored the suddenly heavy traffic on the Command and Tactical Nets. Mitterrand studied the displays, her brow furrowed as blue eyes darted back and forth, the retinal implants allowing her to scan and memorize every iota of data.
“Ship is at battle stations, captain,” Engineering reported. “Weapons enabled at full power. Heavy shields are up.”
“Acknowledged,” Mitterrand replied.
The sirens cut off with a deafening silence.
Mitterrand activated her executive override on the Command Net. “Engineering, stealth cloak on dropout with EM benders at max deflection. Ops, complete passive mode, no hard scans. I want us quiet as a graveyard.”
“Acknowledged, captain,” two voices replied as one.
They had received the first Priority One alert from the Cirtus Beta system ninety-two hours before. Since then Nighthawk had been streaking at maximum hyperspeed toward the orange star. They were twenty-one hours away when the second alert came in, reporting an attack by numerous vessels of unknown origin. Orders from Arc Command arrived a few hours after that: Nighthawk was to reconnoiter the area and “handle the situation as you think best.”
For that Mitterrand was grateful: command had given her as much latitude as possible. Her superiors understood that when it came to confronting an alien warfleet that had just knocked out a defense net of CA-10 guardian sats, she’d need as much latitude as she could get.
Mitterrand knew large-scale Fleet reinforcements would be mobilizing and vectoring toward Cirtus Beta, but it was in a remote sector and the nearest help might be days, probably weeks away. They were on their own for now.
“Dropout in one minute.” Navigation’s voice had an atypical shrill to it.
Nerves, no doubt. Mitterrand realized this would be the first live combat experience for most of the crew, herself included. Despite hundreds of hours of rigorous training in battle simulators that were as realistic as the real thing, no one knew for certain how they’d react under actual enemy fire. Mitterrand was just as nervous as any of them, but as captain she could never let her crew know that. Stay calm, keep focused, command with confidence, she thought, reciting a mantra taught to junior officers back at naval academy.
The faint droning hum heard throughout the destroyer for the past ninety-two hours cut off abruptly as the hyperinducers disengaged. Nighthawk slowed rapidly, its speed plunging from 2,520 c to just 1.1 times the speed of light in a span of twenty seconds.
Alarm klaxons rang three times in quick succession, warning the crew that hyperspace dropout was imminent. Everyone braced themselves.
Then Nighthawk shuddered as it fell through the trans-dimensional barrier colloquially known as “the speed of light,” once considered nature’s impassable speed limit.
Queasiness gripped the crew. Mitterrand fought back the urge to vomit. Her nausea seemed worse this time, lasting longer than usual. Stress of the situation, she assumed.
Nighthawk emerged from hyperspace a precise 6.35 billion kilometers from Cirtus Beta, placing the star at the outer range of their passive sensors. Visible light and radiation across the entire electromagnetic spectrum was absorbed by the destroyer’s sensor arrays, downloaded to the combat AI, filtered, processed, and then analyzed.
Mitterrand studied the tactical holosphere in the center of the bridge as a three-dimensional map of the stellar “terrain” around Nighthawk took shape. As yet, only Cirtus Beta and its planets were visible.
Operations gave relevant highlights as he sifted through the data. “Ionization tracks detected system-wide, energy signatures confirm they’re from fusion lances. Also picking up multiple debris fields containing high concentrations of polyceramic shards, duralloy frags, some titanium silicates; looks like wreckage from the CA-10s.” There was a pause, then, “Umm, also detecting some strange glucite fragments with complex hydrogen-carbon resins mixed in, unknown molecular structure, looks organic. AI cannot identify. Tagging them as alien.” Another pause. “Detecting a large object near the third planet. It’s pinging an IFF code squawk. Object is friendly, civilian. It’s registered as Zeres Able, an ore-extraction platform owned and operated by the Idex Mineral Consortium.”
“Where are those alien ships?” Mitterrand queried. “The CA-10s reported multiple hostiles.”
“Don’t see any . . . wait. There’s something in a high geosynchronous orbit about nineteen hundred klicks above the platform. AI is analyzing sensor data. Analyzing . . . confirmed, it’s an alien ship, captain. AI confidence level exceeds ninety-six percent.”
“Just one?” Mitterrand knew others were out there somewhere. Hiding? Or have they gone on to another target?
“Passives are detecting one ship only, captain,” Operations confirmed. “I recommend hard scans. Find out for certain if anything else is out there.”
“Negative, passives only.” Mitterrand did not want to activate the tachyon scanners until absolutely necessary. The emission of hyper-energy, faster-than-light pulses would almost certainly reveal their presence to that alien ship. The element of surprise was theirs at the moment. Mitterrand wanted to keep it that way as long as possible.
Sensor data kept trickling in. Nighthawk’s arrays had been absorbing EM radiation for about fifteen minutes now, painting the bridge holosphere with a fairly accurate picture of the Cirtus Beta system. Of course, any ship with even minimal stealth capabilities would still be invisible.
“That orbital platform is structurally intact,” Operations announced a few minutes later. “Life support and internal grav are operational. Twenty-eight human biosignatures detected, one AI, and . . . uh . . . over a hundred signatures of an unknown type. AI has confirmed them as alien.”
Strategy Officer Gareck broke in on a private channel. “Captain, I recommend we drop right on top of that alien ship, skrag it with an alpha strike, then rescue what’s left of the platform crew. Get in and out before those aliens know what hit ’em.”
Mitterrand took a deep breath as she carefully considered her next move. Despite more than twenty years in the Imperium Fleet, she’d never faced a decision this momentous―not even close! What she did next would go down in the history records for perpetuity. She might avert a war . . . or start one.
She took another deep breath before responding to Gareck. “Hitting them with a surprise attack would be . . . aggressive. I don’t want to force hostilities. How’d you like to go down in history as the captain who started an interstellar war with these aliens-whatever-they-call-themselves?”
“Better than the captain who let them slaughter innocent civilians without lifting a finger to help,” Gareck countered. “They started it, not us, when they took out the CA-10s. They could be torturing those platform workers for information as we speak.”
A valid point, Mitterrand conceded. The Jarda were infamous for gruesome tortures, especially early in the war to learn about human weaknesses. These aliens might be just as bad. Mitterrand didn’t particularly like Gareck, but it was, after all, the man’s job to give his captain options. The Imperium Fleet taught its captains to “trust your instincts but always listen to your strategy officer.” Right now both were in perfect agreement.
Mitterrand toggled onto the Command Net. “Nav, give me a vector to that alien ship at cee times three, slow and quiet. Loop around and drop us on their sunward side at a range of a million klicks.” Mitterrand wanted to get close but not too close . . . in case they needed to make a hasty retreat. “Weapons, ready an alpha strike. I want that ship skragged the moment it blinks at us funny. We’re going to go rescue those platform workers.”
Navigation responded fast with her typical efficiency. “Vector calculated, captain.”
“Implem
ent it.” Mitterrand gripped the armrests tight as she sank down in her combat recliner.
A few seconds later, they all felt queasy again as Nighthawk jumped back into hyperspace.
Argo
Ritch exited the control program, took off his SR helmet and placed it on the nearby end table. He then rose out of the recliner. He was getting quite good at controlling Argo’s robots. He’d never be able to assign them intricate tasks like Shepard, but he was able to do certain things with a maintenance ’bot that an AI never could.
“Shepard, you there?”
“Yes,” a familiar voice replied. “I have been observing your progress. Impressive.”
“Thanks,” said the boy, smiling. “Think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Stynx also states he is ready. He has prepared a grab-and-go bag, as you call it, full of food, water, and a few other items for our journey. I have been keeping Tarn apprised of our progress as much as I can, my efforts limited, of course, by his imprisonment on the bridge.”
Ritch walked over to his bedroom’s kitchenette and grabbed a grape fizz, pressing its insta-chill tab. “How are the shuttle mods coming along?”
“They should be completed sometime tomorrow. An exact completion time is difficult to estimate, as the two hijackers who are implementing the modifications have different rates of progress. One is quite skilled, the other has limited aptitude for mechanical work.”
Ritch took a sip of fizz before nodding. “Understood. Sometime tomorrow. I will be ready.”
“As will I,” Shepard affirmed with a confident tone. “Once the hijackers have mounted Stynx’s pod atop the shuttle, our Great Escape will begin.”
Nighthawk
The Lynx-class destroyer exited hyperspace a few centimeters short of an exact one million kilometers from the alien ship. The target scanners came on, emitting tachyon pulses that shot out at 85,340 times the speed of light. Return pings were picked up by sensitive phasic arrays embedded across Nighthawk’s hull and downloaded to the combat AI. The local sun, Cirtus Beta, was directly behind them. Captain Mitterrand hoped that might blind enemy scanners. She’d take any advantage she could get.