by Eric Thomson
“Now hear this. We arrived at the target system’s heliopause. Before proceeding on our next hyperspace jump, we will assume survey stations. Report any discrepancies or suspected issues to your divisional chiefs. That is all.”
Ardrix gave Torma a questioning glance. He touched his workstation’s screen and called up the lexicon.
“Survey stations means checking the ship bit by bit to make sure our lengthy FTL run didn’t cause undue stress on the hull or systems.”
“Is there a human equivalent, something that might detect undue stress on crew and passengers?”
He snorted with amusement.
“I think that’s called a Void Sister scan. Ask your colleagues if they need help. In any case, at least we know we hit the right star system, so that’s progress, though I can’t help but feel like the explorers of old. You know, the ones who left Mother Earth in the first faster-than-light starships almost two thousand years ago, not knowing what they would find at the end of an impossible journey.” A pause. “I wonder if we’ll ever find her again.”
“Who? Mother Earth?”
Torma nodded.
“Legend has it she was mostly abandoned shortly following the empire’s formation after vast swaths were scoured by civil war.”
Ardrix gave him an amused smile.
“Legend? I daresay the fate of our species’ original homeworld is mostly myth in an age when the fall of the empire has become in large part a fairy tale where fact cannot be separated from fiction.” A pause. “Is it true the navigation records that survived the collapse don’t give coordinates for Earth?”
“I couldn’t say. Perhaps Repulse’s sailing master knows.” Torma stood. “Now that my stomach has settled, it realized the midday meal should be ready. If we’re lucky, she’ll be there, and you can ask her.”
Lieutenant Commander Prince, the cruiser’s second officer and one of those who regularly ate with Torma and Ardrix, chuckled when the latter asked her about Earth.
“We know her galactic coordinates and spectral signature. But according to our files, Earth only has two wormhole termini which lead nowhere useful without several transits through uninhabited systems. As a result, she became a backwater once the empire’s entire shipping network shifted to wormhole travel. I’m afraid Earth withered on the vine, as one would say, well before the Retribution Fleet scoured rebellious worlds. In fact, she may have escaped that fate entirely because she no longer mattered.”
Ardrix put on a disconsolate expression.
“Quite a sad epitaph for our original home.”
Prince raised her coffee mug.
“Here’s hoping a functioning civilization flourishes on her surface, perhaps even a space-faring one, keeping the memory of bygone glories alive.”
Torma raised his own cup and smiled.
“I’ll second that motion.”
Once more, Ardrix marveled at his curious and unaccustomed lack of introspection. Did he not wonder how both made friends with the ship’s key officers so quickly? The thought of asking her obviously never crossed his mind.
He’d simply accepted the idea that his presence, and hers, as members of the commodore’s staff while he led his task force on a secret mission, was a good omen as far as the rank and file were concerned. After all, spacers loved their strange notions, the sort that most of humanity considered little short of superstition.
Ardrix gave him a sideways glance before concentrating on the simple meal before her. Fortunately, keeping the friends she’d helped him make took less and less effort with time as they grew accustomed to his presence. That he had a reasonably pleasant personality, despite being somewhat taciturn, when not hunting subversives helped, of course. Then there was the matter of them counting among the subversives, now that they’d left the Hegemony sphere without permission from the Council.
“How much time will we spend in this system?” She asked.
Prince swallowed a sip of coffee.
“We can’t make for the exit wormhole directly, so the plan is two jumps, with a pause between them so we can run a detailed scan, in case there are imperial remains that might be of interest.”
“And if we find some?”
“We’ll make a note for any follow-on mission.”
Torma nodded.
“Wise.”
Prince studied him with a thoughtful gaze.
“I hear you’re the ones who made this expedition possible.”
“We found intriguing evidence and passed it along to Naval Intelligence.”
“I didn’t know inter-service cooperation was that good on Wyvern.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“It’s not on Arcadia?”
Prince grimaced.
“We can’t be called a happy Hegemony Guards Corps family there, unfortunately. The rivalry between Navy, Ground Forces, and Commission is rather fierce. Neither trusts the other, though the two combatant services trust each other more than either trusts the Commission.”
“In truth, it would be just as bad in our star system if it weren’t for the Regent’s unblinking eye staring at us directly. That and the fact we share space with the Navy and Ground Forces HQs.”
Torma, ever the cautious Commission officer, wasn’t about to mention the personal relationships between flag officers of the three services who made this expedition possible. But they were no doubt a strong influence pushing back against mistrust and internecine conflicts.
A smile lit up Prince’s round face.
“Got it. Bickering and backstabbing where the top brass can overhear isn’t a career-enhancing move.”
“It depends on how, where, and who. Infighting still happens, just not as visibly.” Torma took a sip of coffee. “But back to your original question. The evidence we discovered in the course of our investigation hinted at a possible external threat to the Hegemony, hence our informing Naval Intelligence. Once I did my duty and briefed the CNI, events proceeded without my or Sister Ardrix’s intervention. We’re merely on this expedition as mission specialists of a sort.”
“And not what my fellow crew members and I expected.”
“You mean we don’t come across as dour, unfriendly political officers who spend their waking hours sniffing for subversion and treason?” Ardrix asked in a mischievous tone.
Prince nodded. “Something like that.”
“Many of us have hobbies and a sense of humor, Commander,” Torma replied, deadpan. “The good Sister here builds scale models of ancient torture instruments in her spare time, and I’m part of a group re-enacting Empress Dendera’s 1st Bodyguard Regiment during the Great Purge.”
When Prince gave him a startled look, not knowing whether he was joking, Torma winked. She let out a burst of laughter which stopped suddenly seconds later, and a faint air of embarrassment replaced her mirth.
“You are definitely not what we expected from a Commission colonel, sir. But no complaints on anyone’s part.”
“Good. Otherwise, we’d be forced to investigate. Any complaints that is.”
“Noted.” Prince drained her coffee and stood. “No rest for the wicked. It’s time I checked the navigation plots our sailing master and those in the other ships prepared.”
When she saw the question in both Torma’s and Ardrix’s eyes, Prince added, “It’s a way of making sure we’re not committing errors. If the five sailing masters come up with the same solution, then it’s either the right one, or we’re beyond hope. Should one or more of them differ from the rest, then they go back and re-run their calculations.”
“Ah. Added safety. Good. I’d hate for us to roam the galaxy, lost without hope of returning home.”
Prince chuckled.
“An error would hardly be that dramatic, but it might cost us precious fuel and even more precious time. Wormhole transit errors, on the other hand? Our charts are old, and termini do shift over time.
”
She wiggled her fingers by way of goodbye and walked away.
“I think Commander Prince meant that last comment as a joke, Crevan,” Ardrix said in a low tone.
He gave the Sister a stern look.
“Why would you think it worried me?”
“Because I know you.”
They finished their meal and returned to their quarters. That evening, just before twenty-two hundred hours, Task Force Kruzenshtern went FTL again, its ships having shown no sign of undue stress from the long interstellar jump, and they crossed the system’s heliopause on the first leg. By the time breakfast rolled around, Repulse and her companions dropped out of hyperspace deep within the star system identified only by an old Imperial Catalog number.
They were enjoying a second cup of coffee in the mostly empty wardroom when Torma’s ship-issued communicator chimed. He retrieved it from his tunic pocket.
“Torma.”
“Flag CIC duty officer, sir. Our scans picked up something unusual, and the commodore wondered whether you and Sister Ardrix were free to join him in the CIC.”
They glanced at each other in surprise. Watanabe granted them the freedom of the CIC at the beginning of the voyage, but it was a privilege neither used without invitation, and this was the first one.
“A flag officer wondering if we’re free means he expects us there forthwith,” Torma murmured before draining his half-empty mug. “Besides, I’m curious about what they discovered.”
Watanabe didn’t stand on ceremony, and they entered the CIC without breaking step when the armored door slid aside silently. Once inside, both took seats at unoccupied stations and waited until the commodore, deep in conversation with his chief of staff, acknowledged them. After less than a minute, Watanabe’s chief of staff stepped away from the command chair, and the commodore turned to face them.
“I’m sure this will interest students of history such as yourselves. We picked up several faint distress beacon signals from this system’s second planet, an airless rock. We can’t decipher the data stream. It’s too degraded at this distance. But according to our records, the frequency is that used by the Navy during the empire’s final years.”
“Survivors?” The moment the question left Torma’s lips, he felt foolish. “Surviving ships, I mean.”
“Or wreckage. The signals are so faint we can barely make them out against the background static, indicating their power sources are almost depleted. That they survived this long is nothing short of amazing, however.”
“Will you check out the source close in, sir?”
“That’s why you’re here, Colonel. This may prolong our expedition by a few days, and as the closest thing to a political authority in the task force, I’d like your opinion.”
Torma immediately understood Watanabe was keen on examining the signals’ source and asking him if this side trip would come under the same political cover as the primary mission.
“I think it would be in the Hegemony’s interest if we investigated what might be still-functioning remains of the old Imperial Navy, sir.”
Watanabe glanced at his chief of staff.
“Please enter Colonel Torma’s advice into the task force mission log.”
“Sir.”
“And then get us there.”
— 13 —
––––––––
Shortly after Task Force Kruzenshtern emerged at the rocky, airless planet’s hyperlimit, Commodore Watanabe invited Torma and Ardrix to join him in the flag CIC once more.
“Since you’re as curious as the rest of us, it seems only fair,” he said, indicating vacant workstations when the pair entered. “Without you, we wouldn’t be here.”
This time, Torma resisted glancing at Ardrix. Part of him was beyond tired at his status as the perceived catalyst for the first naval expedition beyond Hegemony space in living memory. If the Regent ever decided on a scapegoat once they returned and faced her wrath, he might well be forced into the role. And should that happen, he would face execution in the State Security Commission Headquarters' basement.
Ardrix would likely be safe, although cloistered at the abbey for the rest of her life. Suddenly, his role as alibi or safeguard didn’t look quite as rosy anymore. Were General Robbins and Admiral Godfrey planning on his acting as the sacrificial offering all along?
He mentally shook himself. “You give me too much credit, sir.”
“Be that as it may. Yet even the smallest pebble can trigger the most devastating landslide.”
Torma’s lips uncharacteristically ran away from him.
“I’ll try not to take that personally, sir.”
Instead of rebuking him for his less than deferential tone, Watanabe chuckled.
“None of us in your situation would feel any different, Colonel.”
Before Torma could debate whether the commodore’s comment merited a response, he felt Ardrix’s hand on his forearm, and the urge to reply vanished.
Instead, he asked, “Can we make out who or what they were, sir?”
Watanabe pointed at a side display.
“Definitely Imperial Navy ship emergency beacons, five of them, but we’re still decrypting the data they’re transmitting.”
“Why would an emergency beacon be using code, sir?” Ardrix asked in a soft tone.
“Operational security, so potential threats can’t tell what sort of ship is in distress, or whether it’s in distress, period. We use the same protocols, Sister.”
“Sir.” One of the duty officers raised her hand. “The sensors pinpointed the signals’ source. Visuals coming up on the primary display now.”
When the image swam into focus, centering on a dark starship hull, Torma let out a low whistle.
“That’s no wreck.”
“Indeed not,” Watanabe replied without glancing at him. “A heavy cruiser, I should think.”
“There are three of them, sir. Along with two smaller frigate-sized ships. They appear to be in the same general condition.”
The heavy cruiser shrank as four more images joined it on the display, each showing what seemed like an intact starship.
“And after so long,” the duty officer added, wonderment in her voice.
“They built solid ships back in those days,” Watanabe’s chief of staff said. “Not that we don’t, but still.”
“Sir, we found a tentative ID. The larger ships are Conqueror class heavy cruisers, and the smaller, Byzance class frigates, the two most common imperial types used during the Ruggero Dynasty. We can’t detect any emissions other than the beacons at this range, not even faint traces of heat from the hulls.”
Watanabe turned his chair to face Torma once more.
“What do you say, Colonel? Shall we join them in orbit and send boarding parties?”
“That is entirely up to you, sir. But why five seemingly intact ships are orbiting this dead world almost two centuries after the empire they served was destroyed intrigues me as much as anyone else. Were their crews perhaps decimated by the so-called Barbarian Plague that supposedly ran through the former empire’s outer sectors like wildfire during that era?”
Watanabe furrowed his brow.
“Hard to say. Most records about this plague date from at least three decades after the empire fell, which could mean it didn’t emerge until a generation later. Still, I suppose we should send remotely operated probes aboard first, nonetheless. Good of you to bring it up.”
When Task Force Kruzenshtern entered orbit a few hundred kilometers ahead of the ghost squadron, closeup imagery revealed scarred and pitted hulls, damaged by decades of micro-meteorite strikes. Some even looked like through and through punctures.
“What in the Almighty’s name happened aboard those ships?” The duty officer whispered as she studied the images.
“Whatever that might be, it surely wasn’t in the Almighty’s name,” A
rdrix said in a gentle voice. “There’s a dark aura surrounding them as if something horrible happened long ago. Or I should say the echo of a dark aura that is even now fading back into the Infinite Void. Time erases just about everything except the worst evils, which can last until the end of all things, defying even entropy.”
Watanabe glanced over his shoulder and gave her a strange look. When his eyes shifted to Torma, the latter made a small, helpless shrug that said don’t try to understand a Void Sister’s mystic side.
“But it should be safe for a remotely operated probe?” Watanabe asked.
“It should be safe for flesh and blood, sir. An echo carries no actual power. However, I can’t speak for a virus surviving almost two centuries without a living host. I’m not trained as a healer.”
Watanabe visibly hesitated for a moment, as if wondering whether he should ask about her training, then simply dipped his head by way of acknowledgment.
“I’ll speak with the ship’s chief medical officer in that case, Sister.” Watanabe gestured at his chief of staff. “Repulse and Reprisal will send boarding parties to the furthest two heavy cruisers. Dominator and Devastation will take the two frigates. Terror gets the leading cruiser. Boarding parties shall stay on the outer hull and send remotely operated probes through the airlocks. Once we know what we’re facing, I’ll issue further direction.”
“Yes, sir.”
**
After a few hours in their quarters and a meal, while the various boarding parties prepared for their sorties, Torma and Ardrix returned to the flag CIC and took their by now accustomed seats behind Commodore Watanabe.
“Just in time,” the latter said without turning around. “Boarding parties are leaving their ships now.”
The primary display was once more split into five, each segment showing a standard Navy shuttlecraft nosing its way through open space doors, including that from Repulse.
“If I may inquire, how will they get aboard?”
“Ask any question you like, Sister. It’s quite simple. Our basic starship design principles haven’t changed since imperial days and include certain fail-safes. For instance, should a ship lose power, manual access to door and hatch locking mechanisms is automatically enabled. The boarding parties will simply look for a given airlock’s access panel, open it, and unlatch that airlock. Then, it becomes a matter of brute force. But if necessary, they’ll use laser cutters. I doubt those ships are salvageable, even for parts, after so long since it’s unlikely in the extreme that they used proper storage procedures, as a result, some creative destruction won’t matter.”