by C. R. Turner
Marcus joins him up front. “You’ve all heard about the ghost ship, but what I haven’t told you are many of the particulars I’ve kept close to my chest.” He pauses to clear his throat. “Seven and a half years ago, I was off-world when I heard about a salvage team trying to sell a starship on the black market. The starship was a brand-new, extremely hi-tech Timberwolf-class starship, of unknown origins. As it turned out, it was the largest Timberwolf I’d ever seen – roughly a mile in length. You know the Talon Bridgeport catalogue has one hundred and twenty-one planets, and the Makri catalogue has one hundred and thirty-one, all of which are in this arm of the galaxy. Well, the salvage team claimed that the ghost ship, which they ‘just happened to come across’ in interstellar space, had over ten thousand planets in its catalogue from all over the galaxy.”
The room erupts into chaotic noise as Marcus is bombarded by questions. The only people not shocked by the news are Warain and Bradley. Warain calls for silence and Marcus continues.
“Masquerading as a potential buyer, I arranged to meet the salvage team on a planet called Ollen-5. I obviously didn’t have anywhere near the bills they were asking for, so I planned to steal the ship, download some of the Bridgeport catalogue to a Union starship I would have waiting on the surface, then return the Timberwolf to its rightful owner. I figured the additional planets in the Timberwolf’s BSP, and a quick survey of the ship’s technology, would be highly valuable to the SESS.”
As Marcus pauses, I glance around the room. Everyone is staring at him, the same way Max stares at me hypnotically when I’m eating. This is unbelievable! I can see why he wouldn’t give up the ghost ship’s whereabouts. But five years in prison … it’s still not a price I’d pay.
“When I landed on Ollen-5, I waited for the salvage team to exit the Timberwolf, then discharged the Union starship’s Pulsar to incapacitate them. I’d planned to cuff them while they were unconscious, then board the Timberwolf. Easy … right? Well, that’s when it all turned to custard. What I didn’t know was the salvage team were also hooking up with the Ollen-5 government in a bid to offer the ship to them as well. The government turned up while I was still cuffing the salvage team. I managed to get the Timberwolf into space and figure out the Bridgeport system. From there, I had to come up with a way to hide the ship. I didn’t want to fly it back to Terra Primus, because I was worried the owners might track it back here, shoot first and ask questions later. So, I crunched some numbers and formulated a long-term plan to hide it—”
Chordus Emerson, who’s wearing a tight, long-sleeved Union shirt showing off his enormous muscles, says, “Where do you hide a Timberwolf?” His blasting voice in the confined space jars me. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how loud it is.
Marcus smirks. “Not where … when. I found a solar system called Tet in the ship’s catalogue that was safety locked due to its proximity to a black hole. I programmed the Timberwolf to fly to Tet on autopilot, wait an hour, then automatically fly to a remote uninhabited planet call Barchee. Before the ship left for Tet, I used an escape pod to land back on Ollen-5.”
Sam’s voice cracks. “That’s when you got caught and incarcerated by the Ollen-5 government.”
Marcus slouches as he frowns heavily. “I’m sorry Samantha … I was careless.”
Sam grimaces, looking confused. “That was seven and a half years ago. Why are we only going after it now?”
“Because the closer you get to a black hole, the more time slows down – relatively speaking. While the Timberwolf spent an hour in the Tet system, seven and a half years has gone by on a planet in a regular solar system such as Terra Primus or Ollen-5. I’ve calculated it should arrive at Barchee in one week’s time … give or take a few days.”
Bradley takes over. “Our first objective is to rendezvous with the Timberwolf in the Barchee system and board the vessel in space. Our second objective is to land the Timberwolf on Barchee and download the Bridgeport catalogue from its BSP. Barchee’s an extremely remote planet, which we consider a safe, neutral place to work. We’ll spend two days on the surface, giving eight SESS specialists a chance to go over the ship. Our third and final objective is to return the ship to its port of origin.”
Bradley pauses to ensure he has everyone’s attention. “This mission’s threat profile will be high because we know so little about the Timberwolf or its port of origin. Today’s planning is about identifying all the threat dimensions and establishing emergency contingencies. There are no stupid questions, so if you have a concern about anything, please raise it.”
“Sir, why are we returning the ship? Why don’t we just program it to fly back to its port of origin by itself?” Emerson asks.
“We’ve been given the responsibility to make contact with the race who built the Timberwolf,” Bradley replies. “Their advanced technology and ship-building capabilities could make them good allies.”
“Or the harbingers of our doom,” Sam says.
Most of SF Raptor laugh, including some of the flight crew, but Warain glares at her. Some people don’t get it, but I love Sam’s dark side.
Bradley continues with a thin smile. “The grand master feels, and I think you’ll all agree, that returning the Timberwolf would give us a better strategic advantage than keeping the ship or simply sending it back. The Union starship flight crew and additional SESS specialists will return to Terra Primus once SF Raptor and Marcus leave the Barchee system on the Timberwolf. The ship’s port of origin, we believe, will likely be in the ship’s computer.”
“Will ten thousand planets even fit in a Union BSP?” Sam asks.
“We’ll be taking the Union’s newest addition,” Marcus says, “an Explorer-class starship called the Cosmic Origin. It has dual high-volume BSPs that can easily store that much data.”
“So, I take it the flight system we’ve all been trained on is for the Timberwolf?” Emerson asks.
“That’s correct,” Marcus replies. “The emulator was as best I could construct from memory and my brief time with the ship. So, we shouldn’t have any trouble with the basic operations.”
“Are the ship’s weapons commissioned?” Emerson asks.
“I’m not across that,” Marcus replies. He looks away, and I wonder if he’s deflecting the question.
Emerson asks Bradley, “What’s our extraction plan?”
“After returning the Timberwolf to its port of origin, we’ll send the Core a data burst requesting to be picked up. If the Core doesn’t receive a communique from SF Raptor after two weeks, a search-and-rescue team will be assembled.”
Taylor, our navigation and communications specialist, is standing at attention. Her chiselled jawline and weathered skin reflect her hardened personality. “Sir, do we even know if the Timberwolf has data burst capabilities?”
“We don’t,” Marcus replies. “I’m assuming it does, but just in case, we’ll be taking a portable data burst transmitter.”
After hours of planning, the group take a break, and the room fills with chatter.
Bradley approaches. “Now’s your chance … come and I’ll introduce you.”
My heart races as we walk over to Warain. Once he finishes talking with an SESS specialist, we step closer.
“Master Regulator, this is Specialist Stinson,” Bradley says.
Warain hesitates, then we shake hands.
He looks at the MOSAR patch on my shoulder. “So, you’re SF Raptor’s paramedic.”
I clear my throat and raise my voice. “Pos, sir.”
Bradley looks at me, then Warain. “Stinson has a proposal, and I thought it would be best if it came from him.”
Nausea builds in the pit of my stomach as my heart continues to race. “Sir, I wanted to propose creating new teams within the Striker Division, called striker pursuit teams. Running in parallel with striker force teams, they would liaise with the Special Investigation Division and be tasked specifically with hunting down war criminals to face trial on Terra Primus in the Union Prime
Court.”
Warain arches an eyebrow. I don’t know whether he’s mad or impressed.
“Well hell, that’s an outstanding idea, Stinson,” Warain barks. “While we’re at it, why don’t we just replace all soldiers and start with a clean slate?”
The whole room falls silent.
“You know how much that would cost, Stinson?”
I freeze as Warain stares me down.
“No—”
“Well, why don’t you leave the planning up to people who know what they’re doing?”
He storms out, leaving everyone looking at me, as adrenaline surges through my veins.
“Sir, what the hell was that?” I ask.
Bradley points toward the door with his chin, then walks out. I follow him down the hall a short way until we’re alone.
He stares me in the eye. “You’re not to repeat what I’m about to tell you, understood?”
“Pos, sir.”
“Warain is under investigation by SI for his involvement in several murders committed by soldiers under his command – the striker scout who killed your father, among others. I don’t believe he was complicit, but at the end of the day, those murders happened under his watch,” Bradley says.
“Will he go to jail?”
Bradley shakes his head. “Unlikely. I know Warain. He’s not a bad person, but whether he knew about the murders has been called into question. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s discharged from the Union. I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t expect him to react like that.”
“If Warain has something to hide, maybe I should go over his head?” I ask.
Bradley raises his eyebrows. “Are you serious?”
“Positive!” I reply emphatically.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m behind you all the way,” Bradley says, “but going over the Striker Division’s master regulator could backfire spectacularly.”
“That’s no reason not to try,” I say.
Bradley nods in thought, then finally replies, “Come with me.”
Back at the lifts, the man-at-arms asks, “What level, sir?”
“One hundred, Gunner.”
The man-at-arms pulls his hand back from the touch screen. “Sir?”
Bradley glares at him. “Do it, Gunner. That’s an order!”
The man-at-arms selects the last level on the touch screen, what must be the very basement of the Core. His hesitation worries me. What am I getting myself into?
When the doors open, I’m struck by the change in atmosphere. The halls are dim and lined with men-at-arms in dress uniforms. Their polished boots and Ashras sparkle in the minimal light. One steps forward. “Sir, what’s your business?”
Bradley takes a deep breath. “We’re here to see Grand Master Nueran.”
“Is he expecting you, sir?”
“Negative.”
The man-at-arms reads Bradleys face, presses the button on one of his earpieces and speaks to someone. These men-at-arms are hardcore. They look like they’d snap you in two if you gave them the wrong answer.
A few tense seconds pass, then the man-at-arms says, “This way, sirs.”
As we follow him, I whisper to Bradley, “Grand Master Nueran?”
Bradley frowns. “What?”
“I said I wanted to go over Warain’s head, not to the very top.”
Bradley grins.
“What is this level?” I ask.
“It’s the War-room, where the Union conducts all war operations. It’s the most secure place on Terra Primus.” Bradley pauses. “By the way … when you pitch your idea to Nueran, be prepared to back it up. He’ll likely push back just to test you.”
We follow the man-at-arms around an elevated platform that wraps halfway around the roughly two-hundred-foot diameter of the Core. Computer screens wrap around the other half, displaying what looks like real-time operations. The display is at least twenty feet tall and provides the main source of light in the darkened room. Just below the elevated platform is a hive of activity with dozens of Union staff sitting at computer screens in stadium-style seating. In the very centre of the room is a three-dimensional holographic display of hilly terrain, a city and various military assets marked with icons.
The man-at-arms knocks on an office door on the back wall.
“Enter.”
“Grand Master Nueran, I have a striker prime here to see you.”
“Very well.”
The man-at-arms steps out of the way, and I follow Bradley into the office. Nueran gets up from behind his desk. He’s wearing full military dress uniform – his left sleeve covered in a rainbow of sewn-on distinctions. He looks just like the pictures I’ve seen, only older. The grand master looks in his mid-sixties and – as Bradley has warned me – has a reputation for being relentless and fearless. His face is well weathered, wrinkled, and if there were ever a man whose life story I’d like to hear, it’d be his. The things he’s seen must be amazing.
He glances at Bradley as he drops a handful of papers on his desk. “Prime Bradley.”
The glance was too fast for Nueran to have read Bradley’s name on his shirt; I guess they’ve met before.
After Bradley introduces us, Nueran asks, “Is this about the upcoming Timberwolf mission?”
“Negative,” Bradley says.
“What can I do for you then?”
Bradley looks at me. “Stinson.”
Standing in front of the leader of the Union, I feel as if I’m about to be sick. I repeat the speech I just gave to Warain, and by the time I’m done, my heart’s racing. Nueran looks at Bradley. I’ve been rehearsing my speech over and over in my head for months and now it’s out, I’m quite pleased with myself. Especially giving it to someone with a reputation that precedes him by light-years.
“Do you know how dangerous that would be?” Nueran asks. “Anyone who has made it on the Interplanetary War Crimes register is on it for good reason; we’ve failed to incarcerate them. You’re talking about going after men who have evaded not only the Union, but dozens of other military organisations.”
I second-guess myself as Nueran pauses. Is my plan flawed? Is this just another one of my wild dreams, an impossible dream?
“Why create new teams in the Striker Division? Why not let SI handle it?” he adds.
“They’re pencil … pushers … sir … with all due respect. They’ve done a good job at home, but when’s the last time they arrested anyone on the IWC register? I feel the worst criminals need a more direct approach, sir.” Hell, I’ve blown it now.
He looks at Bradley, then back at me. “Well, for starters, only Talon criminals can be brought back to Terra Primus for trial, and only Union soldiers can be tried in the Union Prime Court. Anyone else on the IWC register, not from Terra Primus, would have to be tried in the Galactic Federation War Court.
“Forming new teams within the Striker Division isn’t to be taken lightly. The government would have to sign off on it, and we’d need to raise the capital to fund it, all at a time when the government’s cutting back spending on the Union.”
My heart sinks. Nueran stares at me, unflinching.
“But, sir,” I counter, “we can’t just sit by and do nothing when Union funds, food and hardware are being stolen, to say nothing of the countless murders. The Union’s a defence force; it needs to defend the Talon people, and not just from foreign aggression but from domestic aggression as well. I think it could make a real difference, reconciling with the Terra Primus Republic Army and putting the civil war to a permanent end.”
Nueran gives me a solid nod, I guess agreeing with at least some of what I’ve said. “I already have things in play that could put an end to the civil war,” he says. “I take it you’ve already approached Warain?”
“Pos, sir. Warain scoffed at the idea,” I reply.
Nueran nods again as he averts his attention to the papers on his desk. “Warain’s under a lot of pressure …” He stares at the floor for a moment, then looks me in the eye. “You’ve
got gall, Stinson, going over Warain like that. I appreciate your initiative. Leave it with me. I’ll reach out to the government and see what their appetite for it is.”
I smile with relief. “Thank you, Grand Master Nueran.”
As Bradley and I wait for the lift, he slaps me hard on the back. I crack a smile and loosen my shoulders as I exhale heavily. After spending countless sleepless nights imagining all the different outcomes of that conversation, I’m ecstatic.
“What will Warain do when he finds out I went over his head?” I ask.
“I don’t know … I wouldn’t worry about it right now,” Bradley says. “I think Nueran liked your idea. If Warain tried to remove you now, it would only appear as if he has something to hide. If anything, Warain being under investigation could even help Nueran get approval to form new teams.”
“What did Nueran mean when he said he had things in play to end the civil war?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Bradley says, shaking his head. “It’s news to me.”
“How did the civil war even start on Terra Primus?”
Bradley raises his eyebrows. “I’m surprised you don’t know … being from the south and all. It was started by farmers.”
“Farmers?” I ask incredulously.
“Hey, you don’t mess with farmers. They’re armed, and while they mightn’t be the first people to pull the trigger, they don’t miss!”
We both chuckle and Bradley continues. “Fifty or sixty years ago, the government was confiscating twenty-five per cent of all produce made in the south, to feed the war. A cooperative of farmers banded together to form the TPRA to fight back. It was a big part of why the government collapsed.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
There’s another question I’ve been mulling over for weeks, and I finally pluck up the courage to ask now, “I know it’s not their job … but if I’m the only person to have ever evaded a striker scout, why hasn’t the Union sent striker scouts out after people on the IWC register before?”
I almost regret asking as Bradley’s face slowly goes blank, as though he’s just died. He stares into nothing, shaking his head before we lock eyes.