Starhold

by J. Alan Field

  “Lieutenant Commander Sanchez. Etta Sanchez.”

  “Really, no offense. Wait. Sanchez? You wouldn’t happen to be related to Admiral Sanchez would you?”

  “There are a lot of people named Sanchez in the Union, Mr. Carr.”

  “That’s very true, Commander, but they’re not all related to the Admiral—are you?”

  “It has nothing to do with my qualifications as a pilot or operative, but yes, the Admiral is my uncle.”

  Tolbert wanted to stop where this was going. “Frank, I can personally vouch for the Commander’s qualifications for this mission. And the vehicle you’ll be using will demand her particular skill set.”

  Carr bit his tongue for a moment. He disliked this whole arrangement before he even knew what it was about. However, he did respect Jason Tolbert.

  “All right, Director,” Carr conceded grudgingly. “So where are we going in this craft that only Ms. Sanchez can fly?”

  “Earth.”

  Carr and Sanchez gaped at the Director for a few seconds. “Good Gods, why?” asked Carr finally. “There’s nothing at Earth.”

  Tolbert smiled and brought the briefing display to life.

  “Ah, so there IS something at Earth?” said Carr. “You have my attention, Director.”

  “About five months ago, a Threnn miner strayed into the Sol system with an apparent mechanical problem. They collected this data and tight-beamed it to Rusalka Station.” The projector was flashing images above the briefing table and both operatives were now viewing the displays and flipping through their datatabs.

  “Ten weeks after that, two Quest class robot probes we had dispatched finally arrived in Sol, jumping in system close to Earth. They sent back this data. You can see for yourself that there are ships and sats of unknown configuration. And there’s also this big thing they’re constructing out there,” the Director said pointing at a large shape floating beyond the Earth’s moon.

  Etta Sanchez looked like a child that didn’t know which birthday present to open first. She was drinking in the data—Carr was drowning in it.

  She motioned toward the holo display. “I’d wager more than one of those vessels are warships, Director.”

  “You think these,” Carr gestured, “are weapon arrays?”

  “Yes, I’m sure of it. And look at those drive signatures. What kind of propulsion are they using? Could that be some kind of Kojima Drive?”

  After a few minutes of discussion about what they were or weren’t seeing in the probe data, Carr tried to bring the briefing back on track. “Director, any speculation on all of this from the science people over at the Centroplex?”

  “For security purposes, only a handful of people have seen this information and they’re pretty much stumped. We certainly don’t think these are pirates or any kind of independents, and we’re equally certain it’s not the Gerrhans, or the Jangsu, or the Pontians, or any other Renaissance Sector government. We know a lot about what it isn’t, but not enough about what it is. That’s why you two are going there.”

  Sanchez closed her eyes, then spoke as if she were about to personally ruin her own dream of a lifetime. “But surely sir, a military expedition, a task force would be more suited for this.”

  “You’re right, and a task force is being sent. They’ll arrive after you two have had a chance to scout things out. What that military force does when they arrive in the Sol system will largely depend on the information you provide to them. We may be looking at a first contact situation here.”

  The enormity of that statement took a few seconds for Carr and Sanchez to process. As they did, Director Tolbert pulled up a new image on the display. It was a representation of Earth, zeroed in on a continent once called Europe.

  “You haven’t even seen the best part yet,” Tolbert said.

  “There’s more?” Sanchez muttered.

  Carr stood up and walked closer to the floating image of Earth. “That spot—there,” he pointed. “Is that a… settlement?”

  “It is, indeed,” Tolbert nodded.

  “How can that be?” asked Carr. “Earth is poisoned, ruined. It’s only been, what, three hundred years since the last humans left. The planet couldn’t have restored itself in that amount of time.”

  “You’re correct and that’s another mystery. However, the probes indicate much of Earth’s biosphere has been revitalized. There’s clean air, fresh water, fertile soil, and that.” The Director pointed at the map display. “The data indicates a settlement along the Dordogne River in what used to be France, about seventy klicks upriver. We see one town with somewhere between fifteen to twenty thousand life signs.”

  “Human life signs?” asked Sanchez.

  The Director frowned. “Don’t know. Life signs for sure, but we’re not clear on specifics. Looks human, but the probes stopped transmitting before they could gather definitive data. It wasn’t a malfunction—both probes were destroyed.”

  The room was silent. It was almost too much to take in. Tolbert had been working with the information for weeks and he was still astonished.

  Carr broke the quiet. “You know, according to history, over ninety-nine percent of humanity died during the thirty years of the Diaspora. Only about eighteen million people made it off the planet to the eleven original settlement worlds. We assume as fact that the remaining pockets of people on Earth died off. What if some of them survived?”

  “Even if some people on Earth survived,” voiced a skeptical Sanchez, “could they have advanced to this scientific level in only three hundred years?”

  “I admit, it doesn’t sound plausible. I’m just thinking out loud.”

  Tolbert cleared his throat. “This has all been hashed over by the experts and they’re in agreement. These aren’t post-Diaspora survivors—they’re outsiders.”

  “Director, what about this gas miner, the Theodora?” Sanchez asked.

  “No sign of it. Missing and presumed destroyed,” said Tolbert in a solemn voice. “The cover story is a hyperspace accident.

  “You two are to proceed to Rusalka, where you will pick up a prototype stealth scout vessel called Kestrel. It’s small, but has long-range capabilities. Kestrel’s a two-person ship and Sanchez will pilot. It’s equipped with the most advanced stealth systems ever created. From Rusalka, hyperdrive to Sol, reconnoiter, and land on Earth. Learn as much as you can about who these people are and what they’re doing, and then rendezvous with Task Force Nineteen, which will follow you by about a week.”

  Tolbert dimmed the holograph. “I never thought I’d be dispatching operatives to Earth. Obviously, I don’t have to tell you how much is riding on this. Find out as much as you can, as fast as you can, then get back up into space and report to TF Nineteen. That’s it, and good luck.”

  Carr and Sanchez got up to depart and Tolbert seemed to remember something. “Frank,” the Director called out. “Frank, how’s Shannon doing?”

  Carr shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of resignation and Tolbert nodded back. Sanchez got the feeling she had witnessed a terribly private moment pass between the two men and knew to say nothing.

  As they dealt with James in the outer office, Sanchez suggested that they go over the briefing information contained on the datatabs.

  “Good idea, Ms. Sanchez,” Carr said in a distinctively patronizing tone. “Let’s go next door to the lounge where we can work comfortably.”

  As they left Tolbert’s office, Carr took Sanchez by the arm and steered her to the right and down the hall. “Where are we going?” she protested. “The lounge is back there, isn’t it?”

  “Forget the lounge. Let’s go across the street to Bismarck’s. I need a drink.”

  Sanchez made an uncomfortable face. “I don’t drink in the afternoon.”

  “Well, this would be an excellent time to start.”

  * * * *

  “Another, sir?” asked the server.

  “Sure, and another of whatever the lady’s having.”

  Acros
s from Yancey House and down the block, Bismarck’s was an appealing watering hole set on the corner of Uhlen and Feldmark. The establishment had been ‘the’ spot several years ago, but its star had fallen in recent times. Following their meeting with Director Tolbert, Carr and Sanchez migrated there to examine the mission files in greater detail.

  It was an inviting bar, the interior accentuated by real wood trim, something becoming rarer by the year on Sarissa. Along the walls were tastefully placed paintings and some small side tables with porcelain pieces. The bar itself stretched across the length of the wall to the entering patron’s right, booths to the left with tables in between. Sanchez felt it was all tastefully done, with one exception. An extremely large and badly executed oil portrait hung over the center of the bar depicting a cream colored Great Dane. Frank Carr explained that the dog was indeed the one and only “Bismarck,” the owner’s beloved and dearly departed hound.

  “It’s either the worst painting ever, or the ugliest dog ever,” observed Sanchez.

  During the first half-hour of their meeting, Sanchez dug right into the briefing materials, prattling on about technical details and other particulars that Carr seemed only marginally interested in. He fidgeted and repeatedly looked at his mobile to check the time.

  “Why didn’t we just stay at Yancey House and do this?” Sanchez asked as the server set down her second cup of La Paz. “Isn’t taking briefing pads outside of headquarters a bit, well—unorthodox?”

  “Not for me,” replied Carr as he threw back the last gulp of Old Oakfield, then received another from the server. “James knew where we were going as soon as we left the office, he’s just given up trying to stop me.”

  Carr looked across the table and grinned at her. It was the first time she’d seen him look genuinely pleased. “That smile suits you, Mr. Carr. You ought to use it more often.”

  “I used to, but you know, things happen.” An uncomfortable pause fell across the table. “How’s your coffee?”

  Sanchez relaxed a notch. “It’s good. Actually, it's very good. I’d say this La Paz blend comes from the southern continent of Quijano. It’s a little more bitter than what we grow in the north.” She suddenly felt self-conscious. “Sorry. I know two things really well—flying and coffee. I grew up on my father’s coffee plantation.”

  “With a childhood surrounded by coffee, I’m surprised you’re not sick of the stuff,” Carr mused. “So that explains your vast knowledge of coffee. How did you become a pilot?”

  “When I was growing up on Quijano, there was a space force base near our plantation. I used to go out into the fields and just watch the shuttles coming and going. It was mesmerizing. I decided I wanted to do more than farm coffee for the rest of my life. I wanted to see what those shuttle pilots were seeing, up there,” she made a gesture pointing upward. “My Uncle Leo suggested that I apply to Space Force Flight School when I was old enough and so I did. Graduated second in my class.” She took another sip. “Uncle Leo was a pilot in his day too. My family must have the flying gene.”

  Sanchez seemed to become self-conscious and stopped talking, which left an uncomfortable silence at the table.

  “Look, Ms. Sanchez. Sorry if I’ve come off as a little rude. I’m sure you’re an excellent pilot and also a very good operative, but I really do have to emphasize that I’ve worked alone on almost every mission I’ve ever conducted for the OMI, so this teamwork thing is going to take me some getting used to.”

  “How long have you worked for the Office?”

  “Six years. And you?”

  She cleared her throat and looked uncomfortable. “Well, I’ve been a space force pilot for four years, but I only transferred to OMI a short time ago.”

  “How short?” he asked, sounding out the words for emphasis.

  “Six, um, months,” Sanchez replied awkwardly. “Actually, this is my first official mission.”

  Carr stared at her a moment, then looked blankly into the air as if deciding how to react. As he started to speak, a plump man approached the booth.

  “Frank! How are you, my friend?” the gentleman asked, while offering a handshake. Erich Hessler was the owner of Bismarck’s. Overweight and walking with a cane, he had a gregarious manner. Sanchez was relieved that he intruded on what could have been a nasty moment. Carr introduced her and the two men chatted.

  “Erich, my offer if still good for that Gellhaus vase,” Carr said, motioning toward a beautiful ceramic container located near the bar.

  “Frank, Frank, my good friend. You know that piece has been in my family for three-hundred fifty years. It was made on Earth, before the Diaspora of Humankind! I just couldn’t part with it, at least not for the price you’ve offered in the past. Now, if you want to increase your offer, I might possibly be willing to put family history aside.”

  Carr leaned back in his seat. “Oh well, I tried.”

  Hessler said his goodbyes and moved on to another set of patrons.

  “So, you’re interested in stuff like that? Antiques. Do you collect?” asked Sanchez, anxious to change the subject away from her OMI experience, or lack thereof.

  “I dabble.”

  “So you must enjoy art and history,” she said.

  “No, my clients enjoy art and history, and I enjoy making money. Recently, however, I’ve had to sell off some of my collection,” Carr sipped his bourbon and motioned toward the Gellhaus vase. “That old thief wants way too much for that piece. Every time I’m in here, that vase has been in his family twenty more years than the last time. Also, I’m sure it was probably produced on Tezrina, maybe about eighty years ago. It sure as hell wasn’t produced on Earth.”

  Sanchez got an excited look on her face at the mention of the original Blue Planet.

  “Speaking of Earth, just think of it, Carr. In a little over a standard month from now, you and I will actually be standing on planet Earth.”

  Carr started to respond, but decided to change the subject. “Well… You’ll take the datatabs back to James, won’t you? I’m heading back to Boutwell. Meet you aboard the Arisugawa Starport day after tomorrow at zero nine-hundred hours.”

  Sanchez looked stunned. “Wait, we haven’t even begun to go over possible landing sites. What about the sensor protocols? You can’t leave yet, there’s too much work to do,” she protested.

  “I’m sure you and James will plot out an excellent program. The first rule of good intelligence work is division of labor,” he said, rising to put on his jacket. “But given our rather tight timetable, there are certain people back home I must visit and arrangements I have to make if I’m to be offworld for months. See you in two days on Arisugawa.” He turned his back on her and fled out the front door.

  Sanchez sat alone in the booth fuming at her new so-called teammate’s unprofessional behavior. She had anticipated some resistance to working with a newly minted operative, but his general behavior was so… irresponsible. This man was supposed to be some hotshot agent and it was like dealing with an adolescent boy. The nerve of him!

  Her indignation was interrupted by a voice. “Lieutenant Commander Sanchez?” asked the stranger standing beside the table. “May I have a moment of your time? My name is Mumphrey.”

  2: Clash

  Union heavy cruiser Tempest

  Hyperspace

  “Mr. Knox, this could be a turning point in the battle and we’re only going to get one shot at this,” said Captain Charles “Chaz” Pettigrew as he examined the tactical situation.

  His executive office, Commander Parker Knox, felt the weight of his captain’s eyes upon him. Pettigrew was right—a false step here could be disastrous. “What do you think, Captain?” he asked viewing the field of combat.

  “Your call, Commander,” Pettigrew answered in a measured tone, attempting to hide his own tension.

  Knox reached out to grasp his silver elephant, moving it to an adjacent empty square and pulling the gold horse forward. Making his remaining three steps, the young executive off
icer sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. His look of satisfaction was fleeting however, as he noticed the smug expressions on the faces of Commander Uschi Mullenhoff and Lieutenant Peng Huang. Pettigrew had remained composed, but Knox knew he had somehow messed up. Reexamining the game board, he quickly spotted his error: gold had a rabbit on the sixth rank. He needed to block that and failed to do so. Unless a miracle happened, Mullenhoff and Huang were very shortly going to win this match. In addition, Knox arrived at one other conclusion: a game of fourhanded Arimaa was complicated enough, without the added pressure of having your commanding officer as your partner.

  “Thanks, Commander,” Mullenhoff gloated. “I’ve waited a long time to beat the captain at Arimaa and I couldn’t have done it without you.” The blonde-haired woman reached for a piece to make her next step when a chime came over the shipwide address system.

  “Captain to the bridge,” summoned a voice.

  Mullenhoff froze, with her arm extended over the playing board, winching as the captain spoke. “Terribly bad timing, but duty calls. So sorry we didn’t get to finish the game. Commander, Lieutenant,” the captain nodded to his opponents as he quickly made for the wardroom hatchway. “XO, you’re with me.”

  Tempest’s Chief Engineer Mullenhoff remained frozen for a moment after the departure of Pettigrew and Knox, and then looked over at Huang. “I both love and despise that man,” she said.

  As per SUSF etiquette, the captain didn’t usually spend much time in the officer’s wardroom, but he had been invited by Knox and Mullenhoff for this game. Chaz Pettigrew did a lot of things other captains didn’t do, and was known to be something of an eccentric in space force circles. At the same time, his reputation as an effective tactician had been well established in the People’s Rebellion and his officers loved to test their commanding officer’s tactical skills on the Arimaa board.

  Parker Knox shifted uncomfortably in the turbolift as he and Pettigrew made their way to the bridge. “Sorry about that move, Captain. I should have noticed that rabbit,” he said.

  “It was just a game, Park, but learn from your mistakes. You tend to get bogged down in the details of the battle and forget about the big picture,” Pettigrew replied, trying to set his exec’s mind at ease. “Besides, we pulled off the best move of the match.”