Prime Alpha (Planetary Powers Book 1)

by Joshua Boring

  “Unidentified frigate, this is docking control. You are not on our roster. Hold course in queue until further instruction.”

  Gordon touched the commswitch on his control board.

  “Docking control, this is the modified peace frigate Kafka Dogma. Check your books again, we're expected.”

  There was a long pause. After a moment, the irritated docking controller came back.

  “Your identity is confirmed,” he said. “However, you are not cleared for approach at this time. Queue up and-”

  “I don't mean to step on any toes here,” Gordon said, warming up to a rebellious tone. “But we've got a job to do, and we're not getting it done sitting out here. Now, are you going to let us in, or should we start writing up our bill for oxygen and fuel burned while twiddling our thumbs in your 'queue'?”

  There was another long pause as, somewhere on the other end, the man consulted his superior about the pushy paramilitary captain on the other end of his comm. Finally, the tired-sounding dock controller spoke again.

  “Kafka Dogma, you are cleared for approach to cradle 5-B on the lower section. Have your forms in order for your away team before you reach final approach. An escort will meet you at the umbilical. Orbit Angel, out.”

  Gordon severed the connection and swiveled to face Nathen.

  “Well, that went smoother than I thought it would. Is your team ready?”

  Nathen nodded. “We ought to be by the time we dock.”

  “Perfect,” Gordon said, spinning back to the front. “We should be roughly twenty three minutes.”

  “Right,” Nathen said. He started to turn away, stopped, and turned back.

  “Make sure no one uses the comm room.”

  Gordon, still curling a finger through his thin beard, gave Nathen a knowing look.

  “I know how to handle my own ship, Commander,” he said. “You look to your own people. Leave me to mine.”

  Nathen glanced out the window at the slowly spinning, steadily approaching Orbit Angel. The few ships that were docked there as station guards—three stormbolts and a destroyer—lay quiet and dormant in the presence of the much larger fleet. While the station was likely crawling with crews and officers, Nathen expected a relatively quiet visit. He turned and headed for the lift, straightening his jacket as he went.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, the helmsman turned to look over his shoulder.

  “Captain,” Tycho said. “We are on final approach.”

  “Initiate docking sequence,” Gordon said, sitting up. “Activate momentum thrusters in ten and cut power to main engines by eighty percent.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Gordon watched as his orders were carried out with utter precision. The mobile headquarters banked in slowly, shedding its approach speed and bringing its stern in toward the waiting umbilical. Soon, as per docking procedures, Haven Alpha was gliding in sideways, pumping its gravjets to adjust for the station's mild spin. It was a routine Gordon's elite crew could do in their sleep.

  Then, something strange happened.

  The main vidscreen positioned in front of the Captain’s chair glazed over, blurring the flight statistics. Gordon lifted his head off his hand, abruptly brought out of his contemplative state. The screen snapped back into focus.

  “Odd...” he said.

  Before he could brush it off, it happened again, this time more noticeably. The screen flickered and wavered, with random tidbits of information running across the screen. Gordon sat up straight and gripped both arm rests with his hands.

  “What...”

  Over to his right, other control screens were dealing with the same interference. The command crew gazed at their consoles in befuddlement. Gordon stared at his vidscreen for another moment, then stood and stepped around to lean on the railing separating him from his command crew pit.

  “Tycho, what's going on?”

  The helmsman spun, obviously concerned.

  “I just lost telemetry,” he said. “The station's gone dark.”

  “No,” said Gordon's sensor operator. “We've gone dark. My scope's all screwy.”

  “Get it sorted out,” Gordon said. “Tycho, put us in stall before we ram the station.”

  “Yessir!” the pilot said, scrambling to comply. Meanwhile, Gordon searched for answers.

  “What is this?” he asked out loud, eyeing all the stations. “Solar phase? Ion pulses?”

  The Sensor's ensign checked a side screen, glared through the fuzz, then shook his head. “No sir. It’s not that kind of interference. Some kind of, transmission signal, I think.”

  Gordon blinked. “A transmission sig-“ Gordon whipped around and stabbed a finger at the comm station. “Lock that down! Now!”

  The comm officer looked distraught. “I'm not doing it, Captain! There's something overriding my console!”

  Gordon was down in the pit and at the substation in an instant. He pushed his comm officer aside, gripping the screen with his locked arms. The data and coding blurred into an incoherent mess. But it was clear the console was active.

  “Shut it down.”

  “I tried,” the comm officer said. “It takes a root command!”

  Gordon hammered the manual override and punched in his captain's override code. The console spat it back in his face and continued to misbehave. Gordon growled in frustration and pushed away from the station, turning to his System's operator.

  “Where’s it coming from?”

  The specialist ran his hands over the metal sheet of dials and switches, filtering through the static. “I’ve got a lock in progress...” The specialist arched an eyebrow. “Er, according to this, we’re sending a data transfer. We are.”

  Gordon slashed his hand in a cutting motion. “I know that already! Just shut it down!”

  “I can’t! It’s using a clearance higher than mine!”

  Gordon motioned, in a gesture that was both frantic and threatening. “Then do something else! Find out what’s on the other end of that transmission!”

  “Sir, with the interference, it's going to be-”

  “I don’t care how difficult it is! Just do it!”

  Gordon turned with a sudden thought. “And get someone down to the comm. room. Someone who has guns.”

  Then, as suddenly as it had started, the buzzing and interference ceased. The screens returned to normal, and the fuzziness vanished. Tycho frowned in confusion as his docking telemetry returned to its proper screen. Gordon looked about, poised like an animal scenting the air. He didn't move until he was absolutely sure everything was normal.

  “Crew, report.”

  “Systems report no abnormal behavior.”

  “No report of whatever just happened, either. It’s like we all imagined the same thing.”

  Gordon ran a hand through his hair. Nothing he’d just witnessed matched up to any bugs Haven Alpha had previously experienced. It was an anomaly to add to the recent chain of strange events. The comm chimed, and Gordon dropped back into his chair and opened the channel.

  “Kafka Dogma,” he announced.

  “Kafka Dogma, this is docking umbilical 5-B. Is everything alright? You changed your approach pattern.”

  Gordon looked down into the command pit, eyeing his helmsman. Tycho turned and gave a tentative thumbs up, indicating he maintained full control.

  “No problems,” Gordon assured. “Just a slight miscalculation in our number crunching. We'll be a minute longer.”

  “Copy that,” the controller replied. “Take as much time as you need.”

  The connection severed, and Gordon clicked his comm off, resting his chin on his knuckles and staring curiously out the front window.

  “Did we get a fix?” he asked, already knowing the transmission hadn’t lasted long enough.

  The comm. specialist slowly turned in his seat and shook his head. “I’m sorry sir. There wasn’t enough time.”

  Gordon sighed. “Whose clearance code was used?”

 
The specialist stared at Gordon, not sure how to answer. After a moment, the specialist pointed directly at the Captain.

  “Yours.”

  Gordon sat silently pondering until the ship resumed docking.

  Chapter 30

  Nathen waited patiently while the lift crawled upwards. The sheer length of corridors winding from Haven Alpha's docking station to the Orbit Angel's upper barracks would have taken forever to walk and navigate. The lift running straight up and down the station's shaft went much faster, even though the old lift itself was slow. Nathen glanced over his shoulder at Helen. She was dressed in an official-looking black and white brandless uniform, similar to Nathen's, though hers was trimmed in such a way as to accentuate her curves. Across the left breast pocket was a patch of a white sun with six extended spikes, outlined in black. Both uniforms had hidden armor plating that wouldn't become apparent until someone “tested” them.

  Helen looked a tad tense, which was fine, given their cover story. It could have been something about the uniform, but Nathen suspected it was most likely her hair. She had her long, flowing cape of brunette hair bound up like a prisoner, tied so tightly to the back of her head that not a lock fell past her ears. There was barely a shred of vanity to Helen, but accounting for her Monenite background, binding her hair up was practically torture. Nathen appreciated her sacrifice for appearance's sake. He shifted his eyes back to the lift door, running a black-gloved hand uncomfortably across his own well-combed hair.

  Nathen's eyes caught sight of the guard to his left, staring at him. The soldier, like the three other fellows joining Nathen and Helen for the lift trip, was young. Not as young as Calico, but definitely still in his early twenties. The army uniform looked new, and almost costume-y. He had forced a squint to his face, like he was trying to appear serious but the attempt ended up looking like a pout instead. His fingers were wrapped a bit tightly around a .45 Casper SMG, sizing up Nathen and Helen in their non-military uniforms like a dog that couldn't decide whether or not to growl at a passerby. Nathen paused, dropping his hand to his side and letting his bangs sag against his forehead in a disheveled cluster.

  “How's it going?” he asked, eyes flashing.

  The young soldier straightened unexpectedly. Nathen's tone was somehow friendly and threatening at the same time, and the soldier, not knowing how to respond, just looked away. Nathen ignored the man as the lift started to slow. He could feel Helen's gilded smile without even needing to turn around. Nathen didn't grin. He just waited for the doors to open and stepped out, letting their supposed escorts follow him rather than wait to be led.

  They reached the barracks in a few minutes. They passed numerous soldiers who were either idling or on their way to some other part of the station. Nathen was catching fleeting glances his way because of his white and black private security uniform, but it was Helen who was turning heads. Her full six-foot figure was taking command of the barracks, overwhelming most of the men, who couldn't help but stare. Even some of the women in the barracks cocked an eyebrow her way, taken in by her powerful and utterly confident stride. Nathen bet that even if she'd been in an Infantry uniform, she'd draw attention from her vibe alone. She walked like a foreign dignitary on visit, and expected everyone else to clear the way.

  The four escorts who had ridden in the lift with them trailed behind, looking at their comrades uncomfortably like they were being pulled along on invisible leashes. Nathen navigated his way around several bystanders and paused for a moment in front of the two guards posted at the entrance to the overseer's office. Nathen, not giving the guards a chance to take control by questioning him, threw them a salute and pushed right into the room, much to the sentries’ surprise. They started to follow, until Helen gently but firmly pushed past them.

  The middle-aged sergeant sitting at the overseer's desk looked up, arching a brow in inquiry as his trained eyes scanned the two newcomers. By the time Nathen and Helen reached his desk, he'd put down the datapad he'd been reading.

  “Who the 'eller you?” he asked, looking at Nathen as if he'd just tracked mud on his favorite exotic dragon-skinned rug. Nathen saluted, smartly.

  “Sergeant Donal,” he said, addressing the man.

  “Dogspit,” the sergeant said with a snark. “I'm Sergeant Donal.”

  Nathen let the snap go and flicked his fingers at himself. “Thomas Bracken. White Sun Paramilitary Corp.” Nathen turned halfway around and delivered Helen's alias with a gesture. “Zora Monroe.”

  Helen nodded in silent confirmation. Before the sergeant could comment, six Infantry piled into the room; the two door sentries and the Alpha's escorts. The sergeant dropped his hands onto his desk with a hard slap that practically made the deck rattle.

  “You sorry stick dicks just gonna let anyone and their sister walk in here without a challenge!?” the sergeant bellowed, ignoring the newcomers to chew out his own men. “You dumb cross-eyed pups! Go back to your bunks and drool into the toilet bowl so I can get some work done! Maybe later you and third squad can get together and change a blinkin' light bulb!”

  The flustered soldiers retreated, some glaring at Nathen, the rest just sighing and shaking their heads without a word. After they left, Helen turned and blinked at Sergeant Donal.

  “I'm not his sister,” she said, clarifying.

  Donal shrugged, waving his hand with a groan.

  “Figure of speech,” he said, leaning back.

  “Ah,” Helen said, turning her chin up, pretending to decide if she was insulted or not. After a long, drawn out pause where Donal rubbed his receding hairline, the sergeant locked his fingers and rested his arms on the surface of his desk.

  “So yer the one's making trouble down at fifth dock,” he said, chewing his lip. “And you came all the way up here to see me.”

  Knowing when he was being baited for a confrontation, Nathen pulled a folded datasheet from his jacket and tossed it with a nod in front of the sergeant.

  “Joint orders from Admiral Reidfield,” he said. “Checked and cleared.”

  Sergeant Donal sighed and pulled a set of polarized glasses from his breast pocket, sliding them on. The shades shifted tint in the office's low-powered light as the man read the form. After a second, he folded it and handed it back.

  “Looks fine,” he snarled, putting the glasses away. “Fine as a badger with a canker sore.”

  The bitter soldier took a deep breath and straightened himself up, facing Nathen anew.

  “So,” Donal said, bored. “Just what ropes you White Sun mercenary types into military business?”

  Nathen tucked the datasheet back into his jacket, brushing against his recently-maintenanced Denchura II.

  “Security drills,” Nathen said, linking his arms wrist against wrist behind his back. “As a private military organization, we have the honor of being called upon by branches of Humanity's armed forces to provide outsourced services to better everyone's positions.”

  Sergeant Donal broke his scowl into a bemused grin. Nathen frowned, tilting his head slightly.

  “What?”

  Donal shrugged. “I'm just tryin' to imagine all the schoolgirls you musta caused to blush blushed with that silver tongue.” Nathen cleared his throat and said nothing. The sergeant leaned forward. “I can see why they sent you. You know how to kiss up in just the right way without overstepping your bounds.”

  “I don't 'kiss up.' I get results.”

  “Right, right,” Donal said in a condescending tone, leaning back again, like a slow-motion drinking bird with his constant back and forth bobbing. He donned his serious face again. “So what's it feel like, being back among your kind?”

  This time, Nathen was genuinely confused. “Pardon?”

  “Look, I got drummed out of sniper school ten years ago for poor eyesight. But I got brains enough to use what sight I got.” Donal waved a hand at Nathen as if it was obvious. “Pressed uniform, rigid stance, solid stare. Yer military.”

  Nathen nodded, playing it o
ff. “White Sun does have its own training...”

  “Nah, more than that. You walk through that door unannounced, and yet you still have more etiquette, procedure and discipline than any of those buffoons who waddled in after you.” Donal pulled in a slow breath through his teeth. “What were you? Infantry?”

  Nathen fixed Donal with a lethal warning glare. Donal caught the laser eyes and whistled his short breath out.

  “Damn. Marines.”

  Nathen sighed and averted his telling eyes. Donal turned his searching stare onto Helen, who had already unknowingly turned so many gazes her way. The sergeant took one long look at her and shook his head. Helen tilted her eyes, silently challenging Donal to speak.

  “Tongue stuck?” she asked, half warningly. Donal raised a hand defensively.

  “I'm not saying a word.” Donal turned back to Nathen. “So what's your deal, Mister Bracken? What got you out of the Marines and working for the other team?”

  Nathen shook his head with a resigned sigh. “Same team, Sergeant. At the end of the day, we're still fighting the same war, and we're all still Human.”

  Donal shrugged, wrinkling the shoulders of his neatly pressed uniform. “I guess I just don't know what to think of a man who left the Glory Corp to bunk up with a bunch of sellswords.”

  Nathen let slip a small shrug. “The way I look at it, I'd rather be the single Marine in a host of mercenaries than a single mercenary in a host of Marines.”

  “A soldier of fortune and a poet at heart,” Donal said. The sergeant thought for a moment, then sighed as if releasing tension. “Ah well. I guess I like you. What do you need?”

  Nathen, glad he'd gotten down to business, moved forward and rested his fingertips on the sergeant's desk.

  “Our presence on the Orbit Angel is to assess its readiness for war. Internal security needs to be checked for leaks. We'll be doing analysis of strongpoints and weaknesses, as well as devising ways to exploit them.”

  “Like how?”

  “Simulated sabotage drills,” Nathen clarified. “We’ll stage mock attacks on various points of interest to expose any lax security measures.”