The Terran Fleet Command Saga BoxSet

by Tori Harris

  “I suppose,” Patterson said pensively. “Unless the mother hen knows that at some point, we have to be able to fend for ourselves. And if we’re unable to do so —”

  “It’s time to cut its losses and move on. I guess that does make sense if you consider that the Pelarans seem to be all about playing the long game. You have to figure that if they’ve completed their ‘cultivation’ program enough times, there must have been instances where late stage failures have occurred. Anyway, we’re just speculating at this point, but I agree that it’s worth a try to see if we can get … what are they calling it again?”

  “‘Griffin,’ but you won’t catch me calling it that,” Patterson scowled.

  “Oh, right … get ‘Griffin’ to play along,” Sexton continued, smiling in response to his long-time colleague’s occasionally cantankerous attitude. “Do you think it will answer our hail?”

  “I do, although there’s still so much radio traffic aimed in its direction that I think we’ll try a laser comlink like we used during the so-called induction meeting. At last check, the Navajo was just coming into range. Shall I give it a try?”

  “No harm in trying it,” Sexton replied.

  Patterson nodded in the direction of Ensign Fletcher, waiting dutifully at her Communications console nearby. With no appreciable delay, the view screen displaying the vidcon image of Admiral Sexton opened an additional window containing the smiling Human avatar of the Pelaran Guardian spacecraft. As if he had guessed the topic of conversation, he was once again wearing what appeared to be a close facsimile of the black flight suits worn by TFC pilots.

  “Well hello, Admiral Sexton … Admiral Patterson. This is indeed a rare pleasure,” ‘Griffin’ greeted them in a particularly amiable tone. “I expected that I would hear from a TFC representative at some point, but I will freely admit that I did not anticipate that it would be the two of you. How can I be of service?”

  “Thank you for taking our call,” Admiral Sexton began with the odd sense of uncertainty that always seemed to accompany a conversation with the sentient machine. “As you know, Admiral Patterson is our Chief of Naval Operations. For the duration of the current crisis, I have placed him in operational command of all of our military forces. We have some questions for you of an operational nature, so I would like to turn the conversation over to him momentarily. Before I do so, however, I want to assure you once again that we have absolutely no hostile intent towards you — now, or during any combat operations that may occur between TFC forces and those of the Pelaran Resistance.”

  “Not to make light of such a serious subject,” the Guardian replied, smiling pleasantly, “but don’t you find their choice of names a little odd? ‘Pelaran Resistance’ makes me think of a group of Pelarans resisting something or someone — not some odd cross-section of the Sajeth Collective resisting the Pelarans. Clearly, they could have used some marketing help at the outset of their ill-conceived little movement. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to get us off-topic right away. Yes, I understand that you harbor no hostile intent towards me. I appreciate your taking the time to reiterate this fact, although it would be strange if we considered one another anything less than the closest of allies, given our long and very successful history together.”

  You’re certainly an authority on marketing, Sexton thought. Everything that comes out of your virtual mouth sounds like a propaganda-laden campaign ad for the Pelaran Alliance. “We just want to avoid any potential for misunderstanding one other’s intentions,” he said with a polite smile.

  “A sensible precaution. So, Admiral Patterson, is there something specific you would like me to do?” the Guardian asked.

  “I hate to answer a question with a question,” Patterson replied, “but can I first ask that you clarify your intentions? You have told us that you defended the Earth against attack for centuries. Are you still acting in that capacity?”

  “Ah, yes, that is the question, is it not? You face an imminent attack from an enemy that until very recently you didn’t even know existed. Worse still, it’s an ambiguous enemy, elements of which appear to share much in common with your species and profess to offer you friendship — perhaps even membership in their alliance at some point. At the same time, you struggle to come to grips with my choosing this point in time to openly reveal myself — and the Pelaran Alliance I represent — to your world. Unfortunately, and I know you’re not going to like this answer, there are long-established rules governing what I can and cannot reveal to a species that has been offered membership in our Alliance, but has not yet made its decision to join. Specific details regarding my continuing role as a defender of your world certainly fall within this category.”

  Patterson stared at the Guardian’s synthetic, albeit completely lifelike, image for several seconds, thinking through his options before continuing. “As you say, we have a well-established history of successful cooperation with you during our species’ vetting process — a process that you personally supervised over a period of hundreds of years. And even though we have not yet elected to join, you have graciously extended the offer of membership — and full membership at that, based on our genetic ties to the Pelarans.”

  “To my knowledge, there is simply no higher honor that could be conferred upon a civilization,” the Guardian said proudly.

  “Of that, I have little doubt. So, then, is it logical that, having invested so much time and effort in preparing Humanity to take its rightful place in the Alliance, you would now abandon us in the face of possible destruction at the hands of the Resistance?”

  “From your perspective, probably not, but I am simply not at liberty to provide specifics regarding what actions, if any, I might take in the event you are attacked. What I will tell you, however, is that you have been provided everything you need to defend yourselves from this particular threat with no further assistance from me.”

  “If you will forgive the observation,” Patterson said, “it almost sounds as if you are implying that you see this as some sort of test.”

  “Oh, come now, my dear Admiral, surely there are few challenges in life to which that term does not apply. ‘Tests’ come in many forms, and on scales that range from the individual to the civilization and beyond. As the old saying goes, it’s a ‘much of a muchness.’”

  “Could we, then, impose on you to remain clear of the combat zone once our ships engage enemy forces?” Patterson pressed, undeterred by the Guardian’s typically evasive comments. “We would also appreciate having a commitment that you will refrain from attacking any vessels we designate as friendly or neutral. We will, of course, be happy to share a tactical data link with you so that you will have this information in real-time.”

  “I’m glad you mentioned sharing data, Admiral Patterson,” the Guardian replied, ignoring his question. “I am transmitting a data stream as we speak that your AI will be able to display for you. Consider it an advance on the technological bounty your world will receive once you make the decision to join the Alliance.”

  “Alright,” Patterson replied suspiciously. “And what sort of data are you sharing?”

  “It’s nothing particularly exciting, I’m afraid. In fact, I believe your scientists are already working on something similar based on the technology used in your long-range NRD network comm beacons. I think you will find, however, that it will be of great utility in the coming days.”

  Patterson looked in the direction of Ensign Fletcher, who had become accustomed to his habits when working in the Navajo’s Combat Information Center, particularly those where data communications were concerned. After initially setting up the vidcon with the Guardian, she had been closely monitoring the call, anticipating the next glance from the CNO indicating that he expected something to be handled immediately — preferably with no further explanation on his part.

  Initially, his constant presence in the CIC and his rather exacting demeanor had been nerve-racking for the young officer to say the least, but now that she had a better idea
of what to expect, she took tremendous pride in staying one step ahead of the “old man.” Perhaps even more importantly, the more time she spent in the company of Admiral Patterson, the more she respected and admired him — he was truly the kind of officer whose personal example inspired those around him to offer nothing less than their best.

  “I have the Guardian’s transmission, Admiral,” Fletcher replied immediately. “It’s formatted just like our standard Fleet data exchange streams.”

  “I recommend displaying it on your holographic table,” the Guardian commented offhandedly. “You’ll need to set the scale for three light years or so.”

  Patterson nodded his agreement to Ensign Fletcher, then turned back in the direction of the holo table just in time to see the display reformat itself per the Guardian’s recommendation. Sol itself was now depicted as a yellowish-white pinpoint of light on one side of the table. On such a large scale, the entire solar system out to the far edge of the Oort cloud now reached only halfway across the display, with no other astronomical features of any significance beyond. After a momentary delay (almost certainly for dramatic effect, Patterson assumed), eight red diamond icons appeared within the dark area beyond the system’s outer boundary, each one bearing the two-letter code indicating the type of enemy vessel it represented: one destroyer (DG), one cruiser (CG), and six battleships (BB). As usual, the Navajo’s AI provided some additional information in small text blocks adjacent to each contact, including their current speed as well an estimated time to reach a point within weapons range of the Earth.

  “Are you able to see this as well, Admiral Sexton?” Patterson asked.

  “I’m sure it doesn’t have quite the impact as it does on the holo table,” Sexton replied, “but yes, I see it. I assume that these are the remaining Resistance ships from Location Crossbow. Is this some sort of an estimate, or an actual, real-time display of their positions?”

  “Really, Admiral Sexton, do you think I would bother offering you an estimate?” Griffin asked, seemingly offended by the implication. “Of course it’s a real-time display. And, as a continued example of our good faith, I will continue providing you with access to this information until the Resistance ships are no longer a threat. Note that this data feed will only display ships currently in hyperspace. Ironically, it was the Sajeth Collective’s repeated forays in and around the Sol System that allowed me to develop this tracking technique.”

  “Wait, you’re telling us that you somehow invented this yourself?” Patterson asked, incredulous.

  “My, you two are full of implied barbs today, aren’t you? Is it such a surprise that I would be capable of such a thing?”

  “Oh, please. If we’re going to work together effectively, you’ve got to develop a little thicker skin than that. Hell yes, it’s a surprise,” he laughed. “That’s a monumental scientific achievement, and it’s a surprise that anyone would be capable of such a thing, particularly on your own.”

  “Ah, well, the truth is that I did have some help … in a manner of speaking. There has been a significant amount of research done on this topic within the Alliance. Their basic technique was sound, but they had difficulty overcoming some problems with signal processing and ultimately abandoned the effort.”

  “And, what … you just happened to have plenty of time on your hands to work through the problem yourself?”

  “As I said, your scientists were already working on something similar by applying existing hyperspace communications technology.”

  “You stole their work, didn’t you?” Patterson asked with triumphant smile.

  “I did nothing of the sort. I merely monitored some of their ongoing tests. But I will admit to gaining valuable insight based on some of the emissions I detected. Besides, it can hardly be called ‘stealing’ since their work is based on technology I provided in the first place,” he scoffed, dismissing the accusation with a wave of his hand. “As I mentioned, Sajeth Collective ships have been making incursions in and around the Sol system for months. Some of the data I gathered while attempting to monitor their vessels proved invaluable in perfecting the technique I’m sharing with you today. Bear in mind that it is a relatively short-range system — accurate out to only ten light years or so. Tracking ships in hyperspace over larger distances requires a much more sophisticated approach. Unfortunately, information regarding that particular topic is restricted to members of the Pelaran Alliance with appropriate security clearances. I’m sure you two, of all people, can appreciate that.”

  “We certainly do, and we thank you for access to this information,” Patterson said. “I’m sure it will be of tremendous help in placing our ships to defend the planet. Returning now to my original question … will you provide us with some assurance that you will remain clear of active combat and refrain from attacking friendly vessels?”

  The Guardian paused for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Those do sound like reasonable requests, Admiral, and I understand your concerns, so how about this … I will endeavor to remain clear of active combat inasmuch as doing so will not prevent me from accomplishing elements of my own mission. I take full responsibility for my own safety if I do enter a live fire zone, and will hold your forces blameless for any damage I might suffer as a result of doing so. This includes fire from all TFC sources as well as any vessels you choose to designate as friendly. And, yes, I will make every effort to avoid destroying any of these quote, unquote ‘friendly’ ships you mention, although before all of this is over, I doubt you will ever again make the mistake of placing any Sajeth Collective vessels into that category. Is that an acceptable compromise position, sir?”

  “Short of a commitment to actively participate in our defense of the planet, yes, I suppose it is. Thank you,” Patterson replied.

  “Very good,” the Guardian chuckled, shaking his head in mock admonishment. “I mean this is a compliment, of course, but it’s stunning to me how similar you Humans are to the Makers — the Pelarans, that is. You both seem to have an abiding love of all things legalistic.”

  “I’m not sure I can agree with you there,” Sexton replied. “Perhaps we both just have a certain level of, shall we say, discomfort, with ambiguous situations. Spelling things out in such precise terms provides us with at least the illusion that events will unfold in a predictable manner.”

  “What you’re describing is an attempt to impose order on a naturally chaotic universe that has no regard whatsoever for your comfort. So, yes, ‘illusion’ is precisely the word I would use,” the Guardian smiled. “On a related subject, I truly hope that the situation you find yourselves in today provides the two of you with some additional perspective regarding the existential dangers faced by your world. As I have said many times, Earth need not stand alone against these threats.”

  “Our opinions matter very little in the grand scheme of things,” Sexton replied. “And if we do have as much in common with the Pelarans as you say, it surprises me that you would expect our species to be comfortable with forfeiting so much of our sovereignty, particularly just as we begin taking our first steps away from home.”

  “Ah, there’s that word ‘comfort’ again. Gentlemen, please ask yourselves how many worthwhile endeavors from Earth’s history — be they scientific discoveries, great voyages of exploration, or the formation of grand alliances to conquer the forces of tyranny and oppression — were accomplished from a position of comfort?” the Guardian asked, smiling triumphantly as if he had just provided incontrovertible proof in support of his argument. “As to your good opinions, I believe that if the two of you voiced your public support of Earth’s entrance into the Alliance, it would have a profound impact on a great many of your people.”

  “I’m sure you can appreciate that most of Earth’s nations have a long tradition of civilian control over military forces. That implies that, as officers, we are not at liberty to voice our personal opinions on political matters. Don’t get me wrong, there are a great many who have done exactly that, but
it was and still is highly inappropriate for us to do so. Our role is to act as servants … instruments, if you will, of public policy, rather than its creators.”

  “Besides,” Patterson added, “all of this is academic anyway if we don’t manage to survive what happens over the next few days.”

  “Take heart, Admiral,” the Guardian said facetiously. “All of the simulations I have put together thus far indicate that you have a reasonable chance of prevailing in the coming battle. But make no mistake … this is only the beginning.”

  Chapter 17

  TFS Theseus, Location Dagger

  (3.3 light years from Earth)

  “Transition complete, Captain. Range to our Sherpa, one zero kilometers. Adjusting course and speed for recovery,” Ensign Fisher reported from the Helm console. “We’ll have them aboard in approximately five eight seconds.”

  “The faster the better, Ensign,” Prescott replied. “At your first opportunity, plot a C-Jump to Location Willow.”

  “Aye, sir, already entered.”

  At the Science and Engineering console, Lieutenant Lee had been closely monitoring every aspect of Marine 11’s departure from the Keturah. Having worked feverishly to ensure that the shuttle was in the optimal position to evacuate the Marines and their cargo of Wek survivors, he now found himself with nothing remaining to do but simply watch and wait as Theseus maneuvered to place herself between his brother’s team and the distant enemy battleships.

  My brother’s team, he scolded himself. There are ten other lives at risk aboard that shuttle, but when it comes down to it, my brother’s life is really the only one I’m worried about.

  In a desperate attempt to pass the remaining seconds as quickly as possible, Lee allowed his mind to reflect momentarily on the nature of Human compassion — on the assertion that all Human life is endowed with fundamental value … equality … importance. He wasn’t entirely sure that he had ever taken the time to consider the topic in quite this manner before. Now, however, with his brother facing imminent danger, it struck him as strange how most of us seem to agree to such lofty notions from an intellectual standpoint, even though they in no way reflect what is truly in our hearts. Once our emotions are taken into account, it simply isn’t possible to assign the same level of importance to all Human lives as we do to those with which we have a personal connection. Was this a hypocrisy, or evidence that such complex concepts are not so easily distilled down to the bite-sized statements often seen in governmental documents and corporate vision statements?