“Thirty seconds until enemy engages minefield,” Ensign Paruzzi announced. Those thirty seconds seemed like three hundred as Pettigrew fervently hoped his opponent wouldn’t detect the stealth explosives. Thirty seconds became fifteen, then ten, then five.
“Four, three, two, one.”
Nothing happened for twenty more seconds. Pettigrew’s mind raced. Perhaps they had somehow disarmed the mines, or perhaps his opponent just got lucky. Of course, there was the light delay, but that wouldn’t explain—
The viewscreen flared as explosions happened all around the enemy craft. It seemed as if the enemy had hit all two hundred mines at once, even though that wasn’t possible. Cheers erupted on the bridge, quickly extinguished by Commander Knox’s reprimand that things were far from over. Indeed, Adams spotted it first.
“Captain, notice the flickering effect around the enemy vessel. Let me check… Sensors confirm it, sir. They’re employing some sort of force field or energy shielding,” she reported. Human science had still not perfected the kind of ‘shields’ that science fiction writers had been using for centuries. Whoever the strangers were, they seemed to have figured it out.
The enemy ship was slowing down, but continuing right through the minefield as each mine explosion produced a greenish glow near the foe’s hull. The crew was so engrossed that they were startled by Swoboda’s announcement of “missile contact in ten seconds.”
Chaz Pettigrew’s voice asserted command. “Ms. Nyondo, increase speed to fifty percent I-drive and bring us to course one-eight-zero mark six.”
Tempest’s ion engines responded and the ship lumbered back around in the direction of its antagonist. As the Union ship maneuvered, missiles were slamming into the enemy’s shields. After a few minutes, the two vessels were headed toward each other and Tempest’s sensors were reporting damage to the enemy warship.
“By all rights, that ship should have been blown into a million pieces,” Commander Adams observed as she sent the data to Pettigrew and Knox’s stations. “However, it’s still coming at us. It seems that their shields, or whatever that is, absorbed most of the energy. We did manage to hurt them, however. They’re moving slower and they’re venting a variety of gases, including oxygen. You can make out some structural damage as well.”
“Enemy firing!” called Swoboda. Two groups of warheads were sprinting in the direction of Tempest, but were going to miss wide of the mark, with one group going off to starboard, the other wide to port.
“These guys have really lousy aim,” Knox remarked. “Enemy missiles are too distant for point-defense to get a lock, sir.”
Adams cursed under her breath as Pettigrew yelled at the helm.
“Nyondo! Fire emergency thrusters and dive thirty degrees! Now!”
Afterward, Captain Pettigrew remembered thinking that he would be forever grateful that Sephora Nyondo was at the helm that day. Her quick response jerked the heavy cruiser forward and down as the two groups of enemy weapons simultaneously exploded, causing waves of force to be sent toward the space between them—the space that Tempest had just vacated. It was as if two giant hands had clapped together in an effort to kill a pesky insect. Even with the quick maneuver, the Sarissan warship was rocked and battered. Reports came flooding into the bridge’s damage control station.
Both vessels were damaged now and the escape maneuver had placed Tempest in a position below its oncoming enemy. Shortly, the alien ship would pass above them.
“Mr. Swoboda,” Pettigrew called out. “Next round of missiles—fire!”
As the spaceships passed each other, many of Tempest’s missiles slammed into the enemy’s energy shields, exploding on contact. Some missiles made it through the shielding however, hammering at the enemy vessel. Apparently, if the alien shields could be overwhelmed with missiles, some would break through to hit their target.
The enemy ship passed above the Sarissan cruiser and struck out with a furious might. Six focused plasma beam cannons burned into the dorsal armor of Tempest, and in some places, cut through into the ship itself. A few compartments were gutted and the vessel convulsed under the assault.
“Helm, plane out and come to heading zero-eight-five mark three. Decrease speed to forty percent.”
Pettigrew knew his ship had been damaged, possibly severely, but they could still fly and still fight, and they would probably have to do both if they wanted to survive. He needed to bring the ship around to hit the enemy on his terms, not theirs. Hopefully, our missiles have a longer engagement envelope than their weapons. If not…
The voice of Adams rose above the noise of the bridge. “Captain, sensors have picked up a friendly translating into the system. Positive ID, sir—it’s the Reinhold.”
“A destroyer. Wish it were a battleship, but right now, I’ll take any friend we can get. Comm, relay our sitrep and all battle data to Reinhold.”
Parker Knox addressed the captain. “Sir, I recommend we fall back to rendezvous with the Reinhold. We can formulate a plan—”
“Negative,” Pettigrew cut him off. “By the time we did that, the enemy could be long gone. That ship has very likely killed some of my crew and I’m not letting the son of a bitch get away. Helm, increase speed to seventy percent I-drive on course one-two-two mark zero. Fire control, prep a fresh missile salvo and make ready the pulse cannons.”
Knox saw Taylin Adams out of the corner of his eye. She was glaring at him and then she became distracted by something on her console. “Captain, a hyperspace bubble is building around the enemy vessel. He’s preparing to jump.”
“Damn it!” was all that Pettigrew managed to say before he saw the flash of bright light that always accompanied the transition of a ship into hyperspace.
The Battle of Uritski was over and a war had just begun. Now, if only they knew who the enemy was.
3: Centroplex
Esterkeep
Planet Sarissa
An overcast day had turned into a rainy day in the capital. The government car, along with its security consorts, hissed along the wet streets toward the Centroplex, home of the Sarissan military’s Central Command. A VIP gazed out the car window, letting her mind wander as she watched the gentle shower.
Passersby barely glanced at the very official, very impressive motorcade. There was a marked constabulary van, followed by two security cars, her limousine, another security car, and another police van. There were bright flashing lights and sirens. Weren’t the citizens supposed to be impressed by such a spectacle? Maybe so, but this was the capital and these people were used to seeing motorcades every day. In fact, seventy percent of the people living in Esterkeep were the government.
The caravan pulled into the Centroplex underground garage and security people swarmed around it. The woman exited her vehicle, moved to the nearest door and down a corridor to the elevator. She was taller than many of her aides and as always, her short-cropped, platinum hair stood out in the crowd. “Good morning, Prime Minister,” greeted the guard in the lift as he waited for her and her entourage to enter, then pushed the button for the third sub-level. The doors of the elevator parted at the end of a quick descent and she proceeded down the hallway and into a large conference room. The Prime Minister’s staff peeled off as she crossed the threshold into what was probably the most secure room on the planet. She moved to her customary seat and sat down as a few space force officers rushed around, attending to last minute details.
Renata Darracott, Prime Minister of the Sarissan Union, was ready for the hastily called conference. These were always the worst meetings, the hurriedly arranged ones. Something big was up and the government was most likely reacting instead of leading, which was never a good position to be in. As the thirty-nine year old looked around the room, it became obvious that her guess was right. This was not a meeting of the full Directorate, the combination of military and civilian leaders who controlled the Union government. Instead, it would be a smaller group, known informally as the Steering Committee. Everyone was
here except for one man, and the meeting could not start without him.
As she waited, the PM attended to some back correspondence on her datatab. The native Odessan wore a forest green suit which was businesslike, but also showed off her attractive figure. Darracott’s attire complemented her green eyes and fair complexion. Odessans lived on an arctic planet with a distant, faint sun and were by nature a mostly pale-skinned people. Many from her world had blond hair, but she’d bleached and trimmed hers short when first running for political office. She needed something to make her stand out from the other candidates and the gimmick worked. The voters liked it so much that she decided to keep the look as her trademark. Of course, voters didn’t count as much today as they used to. Nonetheless, her popularity was still high among the citizenry.
As her eyes rose from the tablet, Darracott scanned the meeting room. To her left, on the wall opposite the door, hung the large symbol of the Sarissan Union. Its homeworld orbited a yellow star, originally called 61 Virginis, but renamed Artemis by the first settlers. The national emblem was a yellow sun surrounded by wavy rays on a blue background. The symbol, called the Sarissan Sun, was found everywhere in the starhold’s culture, from the Union flag to patches on military uniforms.
The conference table itself was round, but divided down the middle by protocol. On one side, to the right of where their leader would sit, were members of the military. To the left would be civilians. The current government of the Union was an uneasy coalition of the two factions.
Darracott had been a Delegate in the Union Assembly before the so-called People’s Rebellion twenty months ago. She had been elevated to the position of Prime Minister by her patron, a man she had never met until the day he invited her to lead the executive branch of the government. He said it was because he admired her work ethic and abilities. For a year and a half, she wondered if that was true. Perhaps he just needed somebody he could control.
Of course, he more or less controls everyone in this room…
The door to Darracott’s right opened and the de facto leader of the government made his way into the conference room. Admiral-in-Chief Victor Polanco, First Consul of the Sarissan Union, entered the chamber flashing his customary smile. Around five foot ten, a medium build and six years into his fifties, he had a chiseled face and furrowed brow. A dapper, thin moustache and thick eyebrows accentuated his masculinity. His black hair was thick and somewhat unruly, making him seem more youthful than he really was. Dressed not in his space force uniform, but wearing a trim blue business suit, he immediately began to work the room, going from person to person to exchange handshakes and small talk, making his way counterclockwise around the meeting table.
While the First Consul glad-handed, Darracott reflected on the assembled group. As she looked over the room, she saw some of the most powerful people of the starhold.
To Polanco’s immediate right would sit Admiral Channa Maxon. A lithe, auburn haired woman, she wore her hair in short military fashion. The Tezrinan commanded First Fleet, stationed in high orbit above the Sarissan homeworld. She was reputed by many to be the First Consul’s lover, though Darracott knew that was only rumor. Admiral Maxon was very devoted to Polanco, hence her position as commander of the most powerful fleet in the Sarissan Space Force, a fleet that never left the Artemis system—ever. It was an old military adage that you always wanted to control the high ground. Renata Darracott understood that there was no higher ground than thirty thousand kilometers above the planet. People always thought twice about crossing someone when that someone had friends who could drop a rock on you from outer space.
To Maxon’s right was General Nico Stavrianos, the Union Army Chief of Staff. Stavrianos was an old warhorse with a comb over, a potbelly, and good political savvy. He had thrown in with Polanco during the People’s Rebellion and secured the planet for him. Unlike Maxon, Stavrianos was loyal to Polanco for practical, rather than personal reasons. Not lost on anyone was the fact that at most meetings, Stavrianos was the only person wearing a gray uniform as the others wore the dark blue of the space force. The space force and the army were equal partners, but clearly, the space force was more equal. The general also understood about the high ground.
Next to Stavrianos was a holographic image of Admiral Jon Schooler, commander of Fourth Fleet, in the Sequoya system. Schooler was attending the conference via a subspace transmission beamed through one of the Artemis system’s hypergates.
Next to Schooler sat another hologram in the figure of Admiral Brin Choi, commander of Second Fleet. Choi was another of Polanco’s favorites. Her slender frame and beautiful Asian features belied a hardened veteran officer. Channa Maxon wore her emotions on her sleeve, but Choi’s dispassionate demeanor masked her feelings. If Polanco owned both of their hearts, they were two very different hearts: Maxon’s was fire and Choi’s was ice. Behind their backs, some derisively called the two women ‘Victor’s Valkyries’ for their unflagging support of the First Consul. If anyone ever tried to remove Polanco from power, they would have to answer to these two.
The last of the military in attendance was seated at the far end of the round table. The bald, mustachioed Admiral Leonardo Sanchez, Chief of Space Operations, poured over his notes as the First Consul continued making the rounds. Sanchez had given more than most to bring about the New Order when he lost his left leg during one of the few actual battles of the People’s Rebellion. Although a prosthetic replaced his loss, he had suffered greatly. A tireless worker and detail man, Polanco recognized Sanchez’s value despite his misfortune and appointed him to the most important job in the SUSF. It was one of the qualities that stirred such loyalty to Victor Polanco—he didn’t throw people away.
The civilian side of the table consisted of four people: Darracott, Home Minister Stone Siebert, and two people who rarely attended Steering Committee meetings—the Minister of Science, Dr. Clarinda Monet and Jason Tolbert, director of the Office of Military Intelligence. Odd that they’re here. I can understand OMI, but why would Doctor Monet be summoned…
Polanco had touched base with everyone and finally sat down, calling the meeting to order. Very smoothly done, Admiral. And I thought I was the best politician in the room.
Admiral-in-Chief Victor Polanco was the current master of the Sarissan Union and a national hero. His ancestors came to this planet on the Benevolence, the first arkship from Earth. He had served with distinction in the Settlement Wars. Moreover, Polanco had saved the people of the Union from the work and thought required to live in a democracy—and most seemed to love him for it.
Eleven years ago, he had been thrust onto center stage when a scheming politician had tried to proclaim himself emperor of Union space. The military was split on whether to support an absolute ruler and Victor Polanco commanded a space force squadron in a key strategic sector. He could have supported a monarchy, backed the preservation of democracy, or some feel he could have seized power for himself. In that particular moment, he supported democracy but later came to regret his decision. As the politicians whose power Polanco had preserved argued, vacillated, and wavered, the government descended into gridlock. Partisan politics produced only stalemate, and the political paralysis led to national stagnation and decay.
Meanwhile, Polanco had been promoted to admiral and named Assistant Chief of Space Operations. For years, he manipulated assignments so that officers he could rely on were appointed to key command positions. Then twenty months ago, he orchestrated a coup d’état, which was labeled “the People’s Rebellion” to make it more palatable. The elected Union Assembly was replaced by the unelected Union Directorate, a joint military-civilian council made up of selected officers and government ministers. The gamble paid off as industry and commerce boomed under new streamlined rules. Unemployment dropped and crime decreased. Things got done, which hadn’t happened under the political bickering of the preceding decade.
People were allowed local elections, but not on a planetary or Union-wide scale. Some were detained
for being Enemies of the People, but they were usually individuals ‘the People’ didn’t like anyway. Political dissent was allowed as long as it looked like it would go nowhere. The military stayed mostly in the background, but everyone understood that they were in charge. Darracott advised Polanco on policy, but he and the admirals made the final decisions, which she and her ministers then put into effect. She could resign and let someone else be the Prime Minister, but what would that accomplish? At least in her present situation, she could influence things for the better. Besides, months ago she had admitted to herself that being in a position of power was something she enjoyed very much.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Polanco began. “Prime Minister Darracott, I note that no one from the Foreign Ministry is in attendance.”
The PM nodded. “As you may remember First Consul, Minister Amesbury is currently on a goodwill trip to the Threnn Mandate. I will personally represent the Foreign Ministry today.”
“Very well,” Polanco said, satisfied with the response. “Well, to business. Director Tolbert, if you will.”
All eyes shifted to the other side of the room, where the OMI director Jason Tolbert stood.
“My thanks, First Consul. Nothing you hear, read, or see in the next hour may leave this conference room. I understand you’re warned about this all the time, but today I cannot emphasize it enough. No discussions with family, friends, spouses, lovers—not a soul.”
The Director proceeded to brief the meeting participants on the attack against a Gerrhan Commonwealth outpost. An orbital station above the planet Nazca had been attacked and over two-hundred had been killed. There was no proof, but many Gerrhans blamed the Union. The Settlement Wars, a series of short but bitter armed conflicts over three decades ago, had produced lingering suspicion and animosity between the two societies.
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