Darkness: Book One of the Oortian Wars

by Iain Richmond

  Director Lipinski sat frozen to his chair while the scenes played out before him.

  “My God, Silva, this confrontation took place only a few days’ travel from Station Pluto. I need Admiral Chen in my office at once.”

  20

  Anam Cara

  the Iron Mile

  For the first time in what felt like days, Captain Falco and his crew were out of danger or at least the scanners were clean as their wounded ship pushed for Station Pluto. He gave Commander Shar’ran the bridge, tapped the hatch release and followed the narrow passageway that ran bow-to-stern down the backbone of the Anam Cara.

  It was known as the ‘Iron Mile.’ The name came from a far-removed time when navies fought and died on oceans. Long before they left the deep blue for satellites, telescopes and starships. Falco was sure most of his young crew had little knowledge of the old Imperial System of measurements that gave way to the precision of metrics, but ‘Iron Klick’ never stuck.

  Falco stopped, returned the salute of a plucky crewman in a big hurry. She turned, pushed her back to the bulkhead and he slid by sideways and continued his walk. He knew her name, age, skillset and that she had been raised by her grandfather in northern California since her third birthday. Crew information he spent hours studying after the death of Conlin and Martinez. All she probably knew of Falco was her captain was walking the Iron Mile again, and that was enough.

  The Anam Cara was a sleek vessel with a small and efficient crew that was only now beginning to get to know one another. Hiber-sleep and rotating skeleton crews made long-turns survivable, but not social. Interaction was minimal between most crewmen and rarely consistent.

  Falco passed the mess cube where two off-duty crewmen exchanged a kiss over rations. They had obviously taken advantage of their limited time together en route to Station Pluto. Crews were trained to keep anything other than platonic relationships out of the Navy. Falco knew from the stories of other officers, the reality of hard rules governing relationships on multi-year deepspace missions was simple; to enforce them would mean to tax an entire crew… over and over again.

  A ‘fifteen-year turn’ was a long time. Falco ignored the regs from the beginning and allowed discrete relationships onboard. He followed the rule of reality when it came to mature adults. Who you sleep with in your down-time is your business as long as it is kept discrete, and doesn’t compromise your duties, or the safety of crew or boat, was his official and only speech to the crew prior to pushing off from Station Luna.

  Stopping in front of the grav-gym, Falco felt the crush of its claustrophobic proportions. ‘The Closet,’ a loving term for the workout box, stood to his left with a training suit plugged into resistance sensors waiting for the next body to torture in the name of fitness.

  A small set of old world ‘free weights’ were strapped to the far bulkhead, a lonely heavy bag dangled in the corner next to the ropes enclosing a tiny ring barely big enough for two people to move around in without touching. Few of the crew used the ring, but Falco, Commander Shar’ran and Lieutenant Wallace used it religiously. He was also fairly certain Ensign Holts spent a good deal of time in the ring, but with whom, he was not sure.

  Slowly over the course of the five-year turn, the rumor had spread that the three friends and officers had a pact. Disagreements would be dealt with in the grav-gym, behind closed doors, never in view of anyone else. Falco had caught Ensign Holts watching a round or two from the open hatch on the rare occasion all four officers were on the skeleton crew together but did his best to keep his time around the Ensign short. He had grown far too fond of the gifted officer. Her strength was intoxicating and she possessed traits that were eerily reminiscent of his dead wife, Luciana.

  He wondered how many boats had officers on their bridge that occasionally wore a black eye, bruised cheek or swollen nose to accent their uniforms. The reality was not that the ring was used to settle disputes, but rather it was used to keep them sane. Hiber-sleep was the friend of the inexperienced crewman or officer, but the experienced crew and officers were on the losing end of the three to one ratio of skeleton crew to hiber-sleep. Senior crewmen spent three times longer being awake during the five-year transit.

  Falco moved on then hesitated as he looked down the ‘Iron Mile,’ straightened his uniform and continued. He was overcome with dread that turned into a primal anger pulsing from his core. Without realizing he had again stopped, Falco stared at the hatch he now stood before.

  The rail-gun compartment was magnetically sealed, but the carnage and sacrifice that had consumed the space beyond was tangible – iron and sweat, blood and tears. Martinez was bright, with a dry sense of humor that Falco was only beginning to truly appreciate. She also held the highest marks in hand-to-hand combat of the crew, including its officers. Crewman Conlin was quiet, introspective and easy to underestimate. He also was fearless and proved it to the end. If either gunner had been afraid, there were no signs of it. They remained at their post, strapped into the battle-buckets even as their sighting system showed the incoming projectiles locked onto their station.

  Falco pulled a sleeve across his eyes, swallowed hard and continued toward his cabin. Many had wondered why the captain chose to have his quarters at the stern end of the boat, farthest away from the other officers. It was the smallest and one of the hottest compartments onboard, located directly above the engine buffer partition and furthest from the bridge. Falco had answered that in case of an attack or accident, having officers housed in opposite ends of the boat ensured that one officer might survive to lead the crew. A few meters higher and his cabin would have been part of the damage.

  The actual reason he placed his cabin furthest from his captain’s chair was simple, he was forced to pass the crew bunk compartments, the mess cube, grav-gym and every crewman along the way. Captains decide who lives and who dies. The Anam Cara was refitted to the new Navy’s standards, which made her compartmentalized and efficient, trading physical interactions with shifts and COM-Boxes, but Falco thought, walking the ‘Iron Mile’ connected him to them all.

  It gave him the much-needed opportunity to interact with those he swore to protect and though many did not know it, they were his family, each and every last one of them. Falco reached his hatch. There was no ‘Captain’s Quarters’ in blocky black letters as was the standard. There was no eagle, wings spread, and clutching a bundle of arrows, there was not even the gold star followed by four gold stripes. The hatch simply read, “Francis,” lovingly and permanently etched in looping cursive, deep into the steel surface by one giant of a man, and his closest friend, Commander Azim Shar’ran.

  The hatch slid open and Captain Falco took a single step inside and collapsed on his cot. Thoughts of Ensign Holts moved through his mind as they often did when things got quiet. The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted other things from Sierra Holts the woman and less from Ensign Holts the officer. Could be the longing built on five years of wanting, but not having? Intrigued with the force of nature encased in the ebony skinned beauty that was Holts… Falco knew it was more than a physical need or want. He knew the bond was that of old souls connecting. Where age and culture were meaningless.

  Ensign Holts never spoke of her family to him, but Falco knew the stories; knew she had lost loved ones as they all had. No one spoke of the billions that once rotted in streets, homes and clogged the public transit systems after the attack – a massive scale of death that overwhelmed the world with mountains of decaying bodies that now floated as ghosts through the minds of the living. Visions of the macabre scenes would be silently carried by generations to come.

  “We all lost,” he whispered, and it was why no one spoke of it. It had all the characteristics of those that had survived genocides of the past. United Nations Navy required every member to take a three-month course that covered every major atrocity acted on humanity, by humanity. And, he thought, it could easily have been a twelve-month course with material left over.

  A gentle
rap sounded on his hatch, mercifully breaking his train of thought.

  “Yes?”

  “Ensign Holts, Captain. Commander Shar’ran has found something ‘of interest’ on the last visual feed from the Battle-Net and would like you to look at it, sir.”

  Falco was exhausted and his cot felt like a cloud. He rubbed his eyes in the heels of his hands, the thick bristle of a full day’s beard growth scratching in his ears. “I’ll be on the bridge in five. Thank you, Holts.”

  From the other side of the hatch, light footsteps sounded down the corridor. Falco slowly stood, stretched his back and looked out the small porthole above his bed.

  The faint glow from the main engine below made it harder to see the pinpricks of distant stars surrounding a vast wall of black. The dark energy or whatever the hell it actually was, loomed behind them, but Falco knew it was more than that. It was not just a threat – he was afraid of it and what else may lurk behind its cloak. What else would be unleashed from its depths?

  the Darkness

  Aris the Chose One

  She clung to the edge of the Darkness. I should have launched my Seekers. Thousands of voices answered. She was connected to the open thought-stream.

  Hate and pain flowed from the clans, none blamed the young Prox, but all were ready to fulfill their Oaths to the Creators, the Darkness and all the clans. The aggressors must be punished, their iron beast destroyed, their voices obliterated and scattered without hope of a warrior’s afterlife.

  The clans had arrived en masse. They floated near the Veil, cloaked in the Darkness, invisible to the fleeing enemy in the Void. The young Prox switched to a private thought-stream that allowed her isolation from the clans. She allowed the final moments before her mentor pushed her out of the void and into the Darkness to float through her sensors. Again and again the loop continued before her. She had froze, giving in to the fear of battle as her elder died alone. The mentor gave her life to save the apprentice. Shame diminished the warrior’s rage slowly seeping into her organs and systems. I curled into a protective orb, hardened my exterior plates, immobile from fear, and I allowed the voices to leave, I did nothing.

  The loop stopped and the vision of her cowardice dissolved into a warm flood that brought the young Prox peace, washed away the fear and shame that threatened to consumer her.

  Aris. The young Prox again found herself unable to move. This time in wonder as the name again filled her private thought-stream, Aris. It was the rank of the Prox clan’s leader. How was it possible? The voice echoed from something else or from somewhere else in her private thought-stream. Or has my fear taken my own voice. I am lost.

  Again she tried to use her fins, tried to unlock and unroll from her defensive position. She needed to pass through the Veil, banished from the Darkness to starve, unprotected and alone in the Void and die far from the Realm of Warriors.

  Aris. The name entered her systems and faded.

  I am a young warrior who was defeated by fear. I do not understand. I do not deserve to ascend to the Realm of Warriors. She finished her thought not knowing whether it spoke from her fear or whether her own systems were failing and she was dying.

  Aris, ascend and take your place.

  An agonizing jolt flashed through the young Prox’s bound carapace and power surged through every system. Her plates softened and unlocked. She uncurled and extended to her full mass, painfully moving her fins to keep her carapace from drifting out of the Darkness and into the Void.

  Creators? she asked, but knew it could only be them. I am sorry, great ones. I did not fulfill my Oath and I do not deserve this honor. Cycles passed without a response, then a sense of balance returned to the young Prox and with it came a new awareness – power with full control over the warrior’s rage. To harness that which was without control and always led the clans to a hero’s death, to the Realm of Warriors… to gain control of the warrior’s rage was to harness the power and ascend to the position of Aris, leader of the Prox.

  You are now Aris. Your duty is to your clan and our worlds. You will guard our territories, remain concealed in the Darkness and if the enemy returns… destroy them.

  Wait! Aris’s balance was gone and the uncontrolled warrior’s rage rushed into her, filling the vacuum. We have the clans waiting at the edge of the Darkness. The enemy is beyond our sensors, but they are close and there may be more! We must destroy them!

  A jolt of energy sliced through her thought-stream. Contain your emotions, young Aris, the time for battle may still come. Safeguard our borders, control your rage and let us see if this is truly an enemy of the Darkness. Control your rage and do not fail us. Data pushed into systems. The Creators uploaded their plan.

  A thought-stream opened to all the clans. The new Aris has ascended.

  Thousands of clans answered as one. A soft, rhythmic chant moved through the open thought-stream.

  I am Aris. Her voice rode atop the chant, growing louder with each word. I am the chosen leader of the clans and we will defend our territories against all invaders and if we are worthy, will fulfill our Oath and reach the Realm of Warriors!

  The clans’ chant turned to roaring war cries and Aris switched to her private thought-stream.

  I will wait for now, but the fleeing enemy voices will be silenced. I will fulfill my Oath and travel to the Realm of Warriors after I obliterate the iron beast and everything that cowers within its ancient carapace.

  21

  Space Station Pluto

  Admiral Chen of 10th Fleet

  And this is the ‘man’ running the newly completed Station Pluto, Admiral Chen pondered while the skittish Director Lipinski sat uncomfortably behind his vast desk. Chen hated meetings; even worse, he loathed wasting time with bureaucrats who regardless of the agreement reached, would scurry behind closed doors to do as they wished.

  The fact the Americans now held immense influence within United Nations to put this man in charge of the greatest engineering feat in human history was a sign of their resurgent power. A power to be respected and hopefully suppressed when needed or at least channeled to the will of China and her people.

  The admiral broke his silence with the director. “There were signs.” Chen pulled his data-pads from their leather case and ran a powerful thumb and finger down the sides of his chin. He knew Director Lipinski was a man of patience, especially when confronted by those more powerful than himself. Chen read the final paragraph of the report uploaded from the Anam Cara’s Data-Pod and set the paper-thin screen on Lipinski’s desk.

  “A battle group prepares to leave as we speak. They will gather more information on these weapons and who could have placed them this far in our solar system without us knowing. Weapons that look to be archaic, spears and cannonballs, but if that were truly the case, Director Lipinski, we would not have a wounded Cyclone Class scout ship limping home. Would we?”

  The director looked confused. “Sending out a battle group?” Lipinski’s questioning look was well-practiced, Chen thought, but nothing happens on Station Pluto without a man like that knowing. A battle group preparing to shove off would be the talk of the station.

  Admiral Chen focused on the tightening muscles around Lipinski’s mouth, the slight furrowing of his brow. Brewing beneath the calm bureaucrat’s face, was a heated panic. Chen’s rank as Admiral of the People’s 10th Fleet was probably all that kept the director from losing his composure and running toward the nearest shuttle for escape… if five years in hiber-sleep rotations back to Earth could be considered an escape.

  Lipinski cleared his throat. “Captain Jack Falco is almost in range of Station Pluto and the COM-Sat is up and going through the final testing. We soon will be able to contact the Anam Cara and get the details first hand. The captain is sure to have crucial information regarding the confrontation.”

  “As you well know, Director, Captain Falco has kept an open feed to 10th Fleet until their COM-Sat was damaged. I chose to keep the information in the hands of 10th Fleet. The last
thing we need out here is a station wide panic.”

  A glow moved across Admiral Chen’s data pad sitting on the director’s desktop. He glanced at the update and simply pushed the screen towards Lipinski who was already staring at the glowing text.

  The director looked up at Admiral Chen. “Five Viper-Class vessels just pushed off their gravity moorings and are preparing to take a hard burn toward the coordinates provided by the Anam Cara.” He slid the screen back across his desk, a bit too hard and Chen caught it before it found his lap. “You have already decided then, so further discussion is pointless. Good luck, Admiral.” Lipinski’s eyes shone bright.

  A cunning smirk barely held at bay, Chen thought as he studied the director’s face. Chen knew Lipinski had gotten exactly what he wanted. The man played the role of coward with only a few awkward glances and half-finished sentences. The clearing of the throat, he thought, was brilliant and yet I have also gotten exactly what I want. To possibly test our newest weaponry.

  Chen launched himself out of his seat, whipped around to face the hatch and gently pushed the release. The door sliced open and with perfect oak-like posture the admiral marched out. “Admiral Chen?”

  Chen stopped and just stood there, his back to Lipinski, silently waiting. The hatch’s sensor patiently postponed its closure while a soft beeping sound warned the object to move out of its path.

  The director finally continued. “You said there were signs. What did you mean?”

  Chen did a hard turn and faced the director.

  “Signs like the COM-Sat being scrapped off the station without damaging the plating it was connected to. Not once, but twice.” The admiral fell silent, thinking of how much information he could release to this mouse of a man. “Three months ago, the supply frigate Liberté retracted its solar sails too late, sending it well beyond Station Pluto and was destroyed by a ‘meteor shower’ that suddenly appeared on our scanners.”