Prime Alpha (Planetary Powers Book 1)

by Joshua Boring

  The engulfed destroyer finally reached critical mass, and the ESCs knew it from the teeth-rattling shockwave that kicked their corvette in the rump. Nathen quickly reseated himself in the back-to-back pilot's seat and strapped in while Helen throttled straight into the throat of an oncoming Stinger formation. Plasma lances hailed into the corvette, sinking into its armor and hissing against the egg-bubble cockpit. Nathen was powering up his screen for another round of tag when his helmet rang with a familiar voice.

  “Alphas. Divert to course 2-B, now.”

  Helen responded immediately, simultaneously avoiding a cannon blast from a nearby War Hive frigate. For several seconds, the Kastar weaved its way through the battle, trying to avoid any engagement that came its way. For an instant, another Kastar actually ran interference for the ESCs, thinking it was assisting a comrade. Then a missile struck it in the cockpit, and it fell back, breaking apart. Nathen hoped it wasn’t a view to their near future.

  A War Hive frigate finally moved to block their way, sensing a target that was trying to make a run for it. Helen uttered something that wasn't quite a curse and tried to maneuver, but a direct hit on their right curve caused the C-saucer to spin into a gut-wrenching roll. There was a startled, high-pitched scream from the assault chamber as Calico lost herself for a second in her own terror. Helen grunted, fighting ferociously to bring the corvette under control. She tried feeding power to the maneuvering drives, attempting to use their damaged spin to rocket free of the enemy's weapons. The frigate was crafty enough to anticipate her move, though, and blocked her.

  It wasn't crafty enough to watch its own back.

  There was a shimmer in space, a bright wink, and then the imposing frigate was suddenly in two halves as a point blank kinetic strike guillotined its engine pods from its reactor. The frigate died a quick, quiet death, internal components self destructing as the concussion wave ripped the ship from the inside out. As what was left of the Insectoid frigate drifted away, the velvet black of space rippled like water, and then the cloak dropped. Haven Alpha brought itself around broadside, spearhead railguns cooling after the killshot.

  “Team Alpha, this is Ambassador,” Gordon's voice declared. “Welcome home.”

  Nathen let out a sigh of relief he didn't know he'd been holding.

  “Good to be home, Ambassador. It’s been a long day.”

  Suddenly, back in the assault chamber, Nathen heard a helmet bounce off the floor, followed by a horrible wretching gargle, followed again by a splatter.

  “Ohh,” he heard Phillip groan. “Now I'm gonna be sick.”

  Nathen sighed again. “Better late than never,” he muttered to himself.

  Cravac was soon behind them.

  ***

  Fires continued to spread throughout the ships in orbit around Cravac-B. Golden power bolts blasted away entire chunks of hull while red plasma chewed away at the advanced Yew ships. The images of fighters exploding and bombers burning reflected in the eyes of Merthal, Second Admiral.

  The Stelkan's piercing, telescopic eyes watched the battle through the magnified war helm on his armored bridge, buried deep within the bowels of his flagship carrier, the Celestial Wind. Sounds of faint cries and oblivion drifted from station to station as reports from the battle were received. From their position and distance, everything they saw and heard had happened five minutes ago. With a flick of his claw, and whisper of an order, the Celestial Wind and her fifty ship escort could jump five minutes through lightspace and join the battle.

  That order did not come. Merthal did not give it.

  The Stelkan admiral watched in silence, ignoring the cries of his own orbital fleet as they fought for their lives. The war helm focused and highlighted a specific ship amongst the fray. It was barely visible; it had a sleek profile and barely registered on the Celestial Wind's sensors. But finally, as the ship banked and broke away from the battle, following a Kastar combat corvette, Merthal got a decent look at it.

  “Hold,” the Admiral ordered. The picture froze, highlighting the fleeting glimpse of the ship where its hull became slightly more visible. “Analyze.”

  Merthal had an entire team of analysts at his disposal, and the Stelkans immediately started pulling data from the frozen picture. Digitized “fat” was trimmed from the image, sharpening details until you could pick constellations out of the background. And yet, somehow, the ship remained obscure. Its image was blurred. Veiled.

  One analyst looked up. “No known profiles,” he chirped. “Ship origins unknown.”

  Merthal tapped a claw against his suspended armchair, pondering. No known profiles, no adequate information, and no hint as to the ship’s origins.

  It would have been quite a mystery if he didn't already know it was Human.

  “Track,” he ordered.

  The image unfroze and resumed. Just a few seconds later, after clearing the point defense range of the battling craft, the mystery ship vanished. Sensors sifted through the delayed image to find a sign, but the ship had disappeared, along with the Kastar.

  Merthal leaned back, stretching his wings out through the gaps in his command chair. It felt unnatural, sitting here. Allowing an enemy to escape. Being any Stelkan in the Alliance, much less an admiral, meant he treasured more than just his duty and obligation. He had dignity. And allowing the enemy to leave after this insult when he could have easily blockaded the system hours ago just... stung. The only thing Merthal could do was watch, plan, and seethe in his frustration.

  The slow, deliberate tap of boots coming from behind the command chair alerted Merthal to company. A smooth, familiar voice in Vor oozed into Merthal's ear like an audible stain.

  “Does your blood boil, Admiral?”

  Merthal sighed, wings fluttering and hooking into the back of the chair as the Stelkan admiral tilted his raptor's gaze back, pushing his eyes back into their sockets and turning his head to account for the poor peripheral vision.

  “General Synks,” Merthal muttered in shrilly accented Vor. “Perhaps you've come to glower over my shoulders, despite my orders to remain at quarters.”

  A stolid, silent gaze ahead at the illumined war helm was the only response from the uniformed Vorch general. Master General Scizzor Synks was something of a legend amongst his peers. Known for his genius in war and his ferocity in battle, Scizzor was none the less a loose cannon. Beneath his strictly pressed uniform and his kindly demeanor, a beast paced in its cage, searching for an outlet. Merthal pulled at the scaly hide on the ridge of his beak and turned back to the war helm.

  “It is of no use now,” Merthal said. “The Humans have accomplished their mission. Cravac is lost.”

  “If you had put me on the moon hours ago when we first learned of their incursion,” Scizzor spoke, in a slightly smug tone. “We would have avoided this catastrophe.”

  “For a general, you have a crippling lack of tactical thinking,” Merthal squawked, annoyed at the jabs. “If we preemptively defeat them at every step, then the Humans will become desperate. Desperate enemies are unpredictable. Far more dangerous.”

  Another destroyer cracked apart on the magnified war helm. Merthal whistled in disdain, ruffling the scales on the back of his neck.

  “Such cost...” he muttered in Albiac before reverting to Vor. “I take it upon myself to remind us both. War is not measured through losses, but through gains. And what would killing one small team of Humans gain us when we could kill thousands?”

  The two Yew leaders were silent in thought for several long moments. Finally, Merthal looked down at his three pilots.

  “Plot course for the outer system. Tell the fleet we are moving out.”

  “What of the battle?” Scizzor said. “Are we to just leave them?”

  Merthal took another look at the war helm. For a second, he drew in every lost ship and dead brother, and he considered changing his mind. But then he turned away and shut off the magnification.

  “Let them die with honor,” the Stelkan admiral said at
last. “We could not turn the tide of battle now. We must look to the future.” Merthal let his wings unfold slightly as he relaxed into his chair. “Let our enemies revel in their little victory, while we secure the future of the war.”

  Scizzor let out an incredulous 'hmph' that sounded like a tiger dragon growling. “It is hard to imagine winning a war when we are required to lose.”

  Merthal watched as the Celestial Wind prepared for lightspace, along with its fifty ship escort.

  “Don't worry, General Synks,” Merthal said, distractedly. “You'll have your triumph soon enough.”

  The tall, well-built Vorch general looked down, favoring the Admiral with a knowing look.

  “So you mean to go through with the insider's plan?”

  Merthal eyed the general, then turned back to the war helm.

  “I would sooner lose five systems to the War Hive than pass up the chance to destroy Humanity’s fleet forever.”

  Chapter 25

  Nathen took several deep breaths, then nodded his white helmet.

  “Okay,” he said, trying to relax. “Do it.”

  Outside the armor case, Photos waved a hand at the Elite Stellar Commando. Instantly it felt like a thousand acupuncture needles were being systematically pulled from his body. Coming out of symbiosis with the Genesis armor was always a jarring experience. You grew so used to its... its envelopment. The heightened sense of awareness, the comfort of bonding, the vibrancy of enhanced sights and smells and danger; these were all part of looking at the universe as an Elite Stellar Commando when joined with the Genesis armor. The dermasuit slowly broke its bond with Nathen's body, peeling away from his arms and legs as the millions of nano fibers that made up boots and gloves unraveled and disconnected leaving his hands and feet bare.

  Nathen grimaced as his helmet slid back, slurping around his face until his nose, forehead, teeth, and jaw had pressed through its softened surface. The Zen alloy slurped free of his head and rippled in place, reforming as an impervious, faceless shell, hovering behind him. As the dermasuit continued to release him from symbiosis, so too did the mystical Zen alloy. The white, vibrant alloy slid off his chest and shoulders, fell away from his biceps and forearms, and crawled off his legs. The Zen alloy, once separated from its host, just floated in the armor case, shifting and reforming until the armor was standing on its own, while Nathen leaned against the glass, his skin tingling. With the dermasuit now hanging more loosely around him, waiting to be removed, the reverse symbiosis was finished. It didn't hurt, in a sense. It was as if your body had fallen asleep, and the blood flow was trying to circulate, which made your bloodless limbs ache after being so inactive for so long. And then you remembered that was just how your body felt naturally...

  No. It hurt.

  It hurt to feel a part of you leave when you got used to it. It would be wrong to say you could get addicted to the Genesis armor, like one could form an addiction to cigarettes. But there was some part of you that felt... empty, after it was gone. Everything was slightly different in the armor. You could see, but the colors were more alive. You could smell, but scents were less obscure. You could feel, but the nanoskin would change in response to things that normal Human skin wouldn't. Despite it being built for Humans, Nathen was again reminded that the Genesis armor was undeniably alien.

  The case opened up and Nathen dropped onto the deck, skin tickling as he reached up and peeled the top part of the dermasuit off and the mobile headquarters’ ventilation system blew against his exposed skin. He replaced the suit, piece by piece, with casual wear, strapping on his shoulder holster and Denchura II before shrugging on his coat over that. Photos wandered about, picking up pieces of discarded nano skin and folding them like a diligent butler.

  “I pray your mission was a success,” Photos said, politely. Nathen did not respond, and the Splinter did not probe. They both knew every time Nathen put on the armor, he was going to do something a Splinter could not do in good conscience. Photos held up a sleeve of the dermasuit, scanned it with his stained-glass eyes, and folded it away with the rest.

  “I need you to confer with Doctor Cray,” Nathen said, snapping his jacket in front of him to shake out the wrinkles. “Jonathan was severely wounded, and I need to make sure he's not going to die when we reverse the symbiosis.”

  Photos peered up with the look of a concerned puppy dog. “Jonathan Harper does not endure my presence.”

  Nathen sighed and headed for the door. “He'll get over it.”

  The commander slapped the controls and ducked out through the door before it opened all the way. He speed walked through the corridors of Haven Alpha, passing crew in a hurry. He didn't stop until he came to the double-door entry to the security room. Standing on either side of the door were Trent and Helen, still in full armor, freshly re-armed with Casper submachine guns. Trent came to attention and Helen stood slightly more upright. Nathen gave them affirmative nods, then stepped through as soon as the doors opened.

  The ship's single detention block was built like a clamshell turned over to absorb the stress of the ship's combative nature. The antechamber was small and well fortified, built to withstand explosions and small arms fire. The antechamber had controls to manipulate the conditions inside the holding cell, including atmosphere and lighting. One could see in, but none could see out. The holding cell itself was designed around blast-proof half domes that rotated out of the floor and could be used for more isolated containment if need be. And sitting in the center of the floor, under the clear dome, was a solemn Stelkan.

  Gordon Bryor stood with his back to the main door, staring into the holding cell with a mute expression, hands locked behind his back. His black and red captain's uniform seemed to silently radiate the vibe coming from the man wearing it. Nathen came up beside him and tried to read his expression. The captain had his shields up, and was unapproachable.

  “Why did you bring this one aboard my ship?”

  Nathen let his eyes linger on the captain for a moment before turning and crossing his arms, staring into the holding cell.

  “I don't know,” he said, drumming his fingers on his arm. “Nothing.”

  “You would not have brought him here if it had been nothing,” Gordon said, knowingly. Nathen shook his head.

  “It could be nothing. But...”

  Gordon was silent a moment, then turned and looked at Nathen.

  “It’s one of those hunches you're so fond of,” he said with a humorless smirk. Nathen nodded. Then, after a moment's thought, he turned to the captain.

  “I just want to ask it a few questions,” he said. “Like how they knew to mine our entry point.”

  Gordon 'hmm'd, reaching up and lightly rubbing his temple as he thought. “That is an interesting question.”

  A moment passed as the two men thought it over. The Stelkan captive shifted in its blast-proof bubble, wings pinned together behind it. Finally, Gordon sighed and looked sideways at Nathen.

  “I'll do it.”

  Nathen eyed the captain hesitantly. “I'd rather-”

  “No,” Gordon said, resolutely. “If there's a hidden threat to Haven Alpha, then I will draw it out myself.”

  “It’s my prisoner.”

  “It’s my ship,” Gordon countered. The captain turned and clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the captive.

  “Besides. Am I not the Ambassador?”

  Nathen couldn't think of a further argument and silently resigned. He didn't feel like arguing anyway. He'd done his part, after all. He'd wrenched an entire system from Alliance control. The next few days would tell just how much pressure that took off the Humanity Space Navy. For his part, though, it was mission complete.

  And yet Nathen felt uneasy.

  The double blast doors hissed open and Nathen turned to see Calico Trast walk in, still in full symbiosis, red armor gleaning against the polished bulkheads. Her helmet was tucked under her arm, and she wore the look of a person who'd been stuffed in a bag and violently
shaken. She was still reeling from the rough corvette flight.

  “I thought you were in the infirmary,” Nathen said, frowning. Calico swallowed and came to attention, saluting.

  “I wasn't dismissed,” she said, dropping her arm to her side. “I thought I might be needed for the...”

  Gordon turned halfway around and eyed the translator. “Miss Trast. I appreciate your initiative, but your skills are unnecessary. We'll use the two-way translator for this one.”

  Calico stiffened at the rejection. Nathen thought she was going to slink out of the room with her tail between her legs. She surprised him by taking another step forward and standing ramrod straight.

  “With all respect, Captain,” she said, staring straight ahead through the transparent glass. “Your speech boxes can't differentiate between a Faligron Dialect and a steam whistle. I can.”

  Gordon shot Nathen a look that was either pleasantly surprised or incredulously annoyed – it was hard to tell the difference behind the Captain’s frosty exterior. He turned and faced the shorter girl squarely.

  “I was not asking,” the Captain said, tone turning a shade more serious.

  “Neither was I,” Calico said, swallowing and avoiding eye contact while putting on a front. “I was brought into this team to be a xenolinguistics specialist. If you are not going to utilize me to my full potential when such an opportunity arises, I suggest you find someone less qualified to waste.”

  Confronted with his speaker's sudden attitude, Nathen was speechless. Gordon didn't seem to know what to say either. The captain stared at the girl, who refused to stare back, waiting for either a reprimand or a dismissal. She received neither.

  “Very well,” Gordon said, shrugging and turning back to the holding cell. “You will observe and assist.” Gordon cast a warning glare over his shoulder, catching Calico's green eyes. “You will not interfere. Are we clear?”