The Chosen Race (Space Empires Book 2)

by Caleb Selby

As Armid and his cohorts began to walk up the staircase, a detachment of Krohn troops came down the stairs and stood at attention on either side as the group passed between them. Darion waited for the group and the Krohns to return inside the facility before he took off through the courtyard, past the huge staircase and to the nearest side of the building.

  Several exposed pipes ran up the wall that led straight to the roof. Darion examined them quickly and after determining that they were secure, tucked his pistol into his belt and grabbed one of the pipes firmly with his left hand only to withdraw it immediately in burning pain! He had grabbed an ion vent. It took all he had within him not to scream in agony.

  He nursed his burned hand the best he could, wrapping it in a piece of his own shirt as a makeshift bandage. When it was secure, he gently patted an adjacent pipe with his right hand. This one was cool. With both hands he grabbed it and began the long and tiring ascent to the research center’s roof. His left hand throbbed in pain every time it clasped the pipe and it seemed like hours before he finally reached the top.

  After several minutes of recuperation, he got up and began to look around the facility’s rooftop. He half expected the deep space transmitter tower to be lying in a pile of burning rubble; but was very relieved when he spotted the large transmitter and receiving dish towering over the building in the far corner of the roof. He made his way toward it, taking light steps so as to not alarm anyone on the top floor that there was an intruder on the roof.

  As he approached the tower, he noticed a hatch fixed securely into the roof at the base of one of the tower’s pedestals. He knelt beside it and flipped open the glass plate covering the security input pad. Darion entered a series of override commands into the pad until the hatch made a loud ‘clink’ noise and then slowly opened. A narrow staircase led the way from the hatch opening to what appeared to be an electrical service room.

  Darion glanced around the rooftop once more before hastily descending the stairs. He drew out his weapon as he reached the floor. He held the ring adapter in his other hand.

  The room was extremely dark. Several large circuit boxes stood off to one corner and an open conduit panel was fixed on the opposite side. A small ray of light from the opened hatch above aided him as he made his way through the room. Cobwebs were everywhere. He did his best to bat them down with his gun as he stumbled toward a strip of light on the floor that he correctly assumed was the doorway into a hall.

  He reached the door, carefully opened it and peeked out. A long, dimly lit hallway awaited him. The floor was covered in dust, and fresh cobwebs hung down from light fixtures. Darion nudged the door open a bit more, wincing as the door squeaked. When it was just big enough for him to squeeze through, he stopped, turned sideways and slipped out. There were only two other doors in the hall. He walked to the first pushing the cobwebs away as he went. The door was labeled ‘Lieutenant Maygin,’ and was covered in a heavy dust.

  Darion tried the door. It was unlocked. He nudged it open only a crack. The room appeared to be vacant. He pushed it open all the way bearing his weapon down into the room. It was just an office and from the look of it, abandoned for some time. The morning sun shown through a window brightly, revealing the mess of the office. Papers were scattered all over the floor, broken data pads were piled in a corner, and signs of rodents littered the empty shelves and the disheveled desk.

  He backed out of the office and made his way to the other door past a darkened staircase that led to the level below. Darion tried the knob on the last door and sighed, realizing it was locked. He input his standard override password into the panel. It didn’t work. He tried another, which also failed. He didn’t have the time to try the dozens of overrides he knew, only to keep failing. It was a safe bet that if his first two attempts failed, the others would too. He leveled his lydeg pistol on the handle and fired.

  The door burst opened as pieces of the door flew in a hundred different directions, both into the room and the hallway. Darion immediately turned around and covered the stairway in case someone had heard the noise and came to investigate. He waited for just a minute before deciding he was safe.

  This room was much different than the others. Instead of filth and disrepair, this room was spotlessly clean and well maintained. The floors and walls were a shimmering white, undiminished by layers of dust and cobwebs that covered the other rooms. In one corner, a system operating station stood out conspicuously. It looked somewhat similar to the transmission stations that Darion’s lieutenants used back at the defense headquarters only more sophisticated. Darion was sure that this was the control station for the long-range transmission tower that he had come so far, and through so much danger, to use.

  In the opposite corner of the room was an empty weapons rack and along the wall there were several green storage chests with the Namuh insignia engraved into their sides. A pair of optic enhancers hung on a peg above the chests. Other than that, the room was entirely empty.

  Darion glanced back down the stairs, still nothing. He turned around and went straightway to the chests along the wall. After retrieving the optic enhancers and placing them around his neck, he examined the chests. They appeared to be weapon transport chests, rousing Darion’s curiosity. They were locked tight with a reinforced padlock. It didn’t slow him down. He pointed his lydeg at the heavy lock, turned his head away and fired. Pieces of twisted metal flew, many lodging themselves into the wall while others grazed Darion’s arm and leg inflicting sharp but transient pain. He lifted the heavy lid and peered in.

  Rows of shiny black shock grenades, complete with remote detonation devices, lined trays within the deep chest. “Hello, boys,” Darion said smiling, as he grabbed several. “You’ll certainly come in handy.”

  Having no other place to put them since losing his pack in the trash pod, Darion unbuttoned his shirt and tied it at two ends making it into a sack. He gently emptied two trays of the black grenades into it and was going for a third when he looked at the other chest. Perhaps something better was in there?

  He stepped back and blew off the padlock. After lifting open the heavy lid, Darion was surprised, but delighted to see an experimental, lightweight explosive device that his predecessor had helped to develop. The project had first been proposed years ago and Darion had since forgotten about it. Darion placed his pistol on the ground and gently lifted the small device from its foam-padded case. It was as light as his gun and just a little bit longer. He knew one of the design specifications for the device was lightweight but it was so light, that Darion wondered if it really worked. He picked it up and placed it, together with the shock grenades, in his makeshift pack. He tied the pack to the harness that now dug into his bare back increasing his personal arsenal a hundred fold.

  After once more checking the stairway, Darion made his way over to the transmission terminal and sat down on the small stool facing the interface. The controls were simple. He setup a security one coded transmission to the NPF Iovara, took a deep breath and activated it. “Attention, this is General Darion of Namuh Prime. Admiral Fedrin, are you out there?”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Defiant

  “Can you believe that’s our new First Lieutenant?” the Idok’s weapons officer sneered to the chief engineering consultant, all the while glaring at Tarkin with distain.

  Tarkin looked up, hearing every hateful word the officer had said. He had sensed there was some animosity amongst the Idok crew when Kesler and himself had taken temporary command in place of the injured Commander Etana; but he had shrugged it off as mere paranoia. After all, he had felt perfectly at home on the Iovara. But not even ten minutes after Kesler had left Tarkin with the bridge for the first time, the whispers started. Soon the whispers turned into hushed chatting and before long, into regular full volume conversation that could be heard by everyone, including Tarkin.

  “It makes me sick,” the engineer replied, with a shake of his head. “To
think that low-life leaching Branci is now our Executive Officer.”

  “Well he’s not my XO!” the weapon’s officer retorted. “For all we know, he could be one of those Unmentionables. Not a chance I’m obeying his orders.”

  Tarkin looked down and tried to focus at his workstation. He knew he should say something, but he didn’t want to further alienate himself on the bridge than he already was. Maybe with time they would come to see him for who he really was, a patriotic hard worker who would give his life for the cause if required. It was likely wishful thinking and he knew it, but what else was he to do?

  He was staring intently at his instruments when a status screen began to flash in red. He looked at it for just a moment before reaching for his transmitter. “Commodore Kesler to the bridge,” he said uneasily, well aware that everyone was watching and listening to him. “Commodore Kesler to the bridge.”

  “Hey, Branci!” the weapon’s officer said, purposely not using Tarkin’s name or rank. “Why don’t you go look for the commander yourself, instead of paging him?”

  “That would not be time efficient,” Tarkin answered, knowing he was likely walking into a fresh array of insults and putdowns.

  “Yeah, that’s the point stupid! We want you to take your ugly, stinking self off the bridge and give us a break for awhile,” the engineer added. “Spend as much time looking for the Commander as you’d like. Maybe check in the aft hangers.”

  The weapon’s officer laughed heartily.

  Tarkin looked up at the two officers and shook his head.

  “Hey, he was talking to you!” the engineer pressed. “Why don’t you show some respect for your betters?”

  With no emotion displayed, Tarkin immediately looked down at his terminal and began typing rapidly.

  “Hey!” another officer called out, angry his taunts were being ignored. “Did you hear me?”

  Tarkin again ignored the jeers of the officer and finished typing. Once finished, he printed out several slips of yellow paper, which he then gathered. He stood to his feet and one by one, made his way to the various officers on the bridge that had been tormenting him and handed them each one of the slips. This act was done in silence. When he finished, he quietly returned to his post.

  The officers looked down at the slips and then in near unison, erupted into indignant laughter.

  “Did you seriously just give us written warnings?” one asked riled. “Can you believe this guy? Wait until Commander Etana hears about this!”

  Another shook his head in disgust. “I graduated in the top ten at the Venter Academy! Where did you graduate from Branci? Can you even read? How dare you give me a write up!”

  “You are the biggest idiot in the history of the fleet!” said another. “It just goes to show you that it’s not what you know, but rather who you know that gets you anywhere!”

  With that final comment, Tarkin calmly stood to his feet and turned to face the outspoken members of the command crew. He spoke calmly, yet deliberately. “Under section G-eleven of fleet operational regulations, your continued disrespect and insubordination has been addressed by written warning and has been subsequently ignored. You are henceforth relieved of your posts and ranks and will be confined in your quarters for the remainder of this tour of duty.”

  Suddenly, a small troop of ensigns and lower ranked lieutenants came marching onto the bridge. Upon spotting Tarkin they saluted him and then remained at attention. The command crew officers looked at the spectacle in bewilderment.

  “Thank you for coming up so promptly,” Tarkin said, addressing the new arrivals. You are dismissed,” he then said, looking at the dissident officers.

  The relieved officers looked at one another with fury and then, before anyone knew what was happening, three of the more vocal antagonists rushed Tarkin with hostile intent. As they reached arm’s length of their target, Tarkin lashed out at each of them with a pair of his strong and versatile arms and held them fast. The aggressors thrashed wildly but were unable to land any blows upon Tarkin until at last, they reluctantly succumbed to their plight.

  “If I report this attack, you will each be sent through the airlock,” Tarkin calmly spoke, in turn, looking squarely into the eyes of each of the officers. “I hear that this is one of the more unpleasant ways to die ever invented by your people,” Tarkin continued. “After your eyeballs get expelled from their sockets, your heart freezes and shatters and your lungs depressurize. After that, your blood turns to fire, then to ice. Once that happens, your metabolic systems slow to the point where you appear dead to everyone but you actually live on for weeks in blind agony with no voice to scream into the emptiness of space.”

  The three men looked at each other in terror, knowing that they had no defense and would surely be killed. Yet much to their surprise, Tarkin placed the three on the deck and released his hold. “I have no intention of reporting this attack...on one condition,” he said nodding toward each of them. “I want you to remember today for the rest of your lives as the day you were given back your life by a Branci!”

  The three officers reluctantly nodded. Tarkin nodded in return and then motioned toward the door. “You are dismissed,” he said with authority. The three officers before him, and the several others that had taken less active roles against him, immediately saluted their First Lieutenant and marched off the bridge.

  Moments later, the critical stations on the bridge were manned by new officers, when Commodore Kesler entered the room. He looked about the bustling room and at the new faces curiously before approaching Tarkin for an explanation.

  “Long story,” Tarkin said with a wave of his hand. “We can discuss it later. But I called you up here to look at this.” Tarkin pulled up a bluish screen and pointed to a small sector not too far away.

  “What am I looking at?” Kesler asked, leaning in to get a better look at the screen.

  “It’s the Defiant,” answered Tarkin emphatically. “She just popped up on our scanners and started broadcasting a transmission.”

  Kesler looked at the screen critically, remembering how the Defiant had left the fleet just before the battle with the Krohns and how she was possibly boarded by an Unmentionable in the Second fleet debris field a few days prior. Seeing her now in such an unusual state and location was unsettling. “What is she saying?” he asked noticing the transmission waves rhythmically emanating from the vessel.

  Tarkin shook his head and tapped a few keys. “It’s all deeply coded,” he said and the motioned to the screen.

  “I’ll say,” exclaimed Kesler with a nod in marvel of the intricate lines of code running across the screen. “Get our analysts on it now!” he said as he made his way to his command seat.

  “Already forwarded them the data stream,” Tarkin replied. “I’d be surprised if they could break that one in under a week though.”

  “What about Commander Drezden or any of his command crew?” Kesler asked. “Anything from them yet?”

  Tarkin shook his head. “Nothing coming from her except that coded message.”

  “Whoa!” the tactical officer suddenly exclaimed.

  Kesler looked up from his seat. “Report?”

  “The Iovara just took a shot at the Defiant!” the officer answered excitedly. “Looks like they hit her primary communication tower!”

  “They shot at her?” Kesler exclaimed. “What is going on?”

  Tarkin shook his head. “Iovara command is saying that the transmission was not of Namuh origin and opened fire on her communication tower to stop it.”

  Kesler rolled his eyes. “Ask Fedrin if there’s anything he wants us to do,” he ordered as he opened a schematic of the Defiant.

  “Already received a transmission from Commander Etana,” Tarkin replied. “Looks like orders are that all ships are to create a perimeter around the Defiant. Our intent is to prevent her from escaping...again.”
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br />   The new tactical officer leaned over the railing. “Should I charge any weapons to that effect?”

  Tarkin scrutinized the bulletin before slowly nodding and turning back to the officer. “Commander Etana says only the secondary particle weapons should be readied. Leave the Sion Incinerator beams and the plasma launchers off line for the time being.”

  The officer nodded and typed the activation codes into the computer. “I’m assuming engines are our primary target?”

  Tarkin nodded. “Engine thrusters, stabilizers and primary weapon platforms have all been marked and approved targets by Iovara command.”

  Kesler raised his hand. “To clarify gentlemen, we’re only firing if we are threatened or told to by Fedrin. That’s our ship out there and we need her in one piece. We don’t have extra ships to be blowing holes into right now. Got it?”

  The officers nodded in unison.

  Kesler leaned in toward Tarkin. “So what happened up here while I was gone?”

  Tarkin shrugged his three sets of arms simultaneously. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  Kesler smiled, sensing he knew what had happened. “You know, it wasn’t so long ago that I would have been right there with them being a regular jerk. I know how hateful their words can be. Are you sure you’re ok?”

  Tarkin nodded frustratingly. “The thing is Kesler, your people are, to some extent, justified in their negative attitudes toward us Branci.”

  “Oh?” asked Kesler.

  Tarkin nodded. “My people have used your people’s well meaning to live on handouts to the point of nearly bankrupting the Federation while offering little in return. When the Krohn War started, Admiral Nebod begged our people to join the Namuh ranks, but very few did. They were too afraid and too uncomfortable to risk dying in a war they felt didn’t involve them. When they refused to join the military, Nebod asked us to increase food production and work the factories and shipyards so more of your people could join the armed forces; but we didn’t do that either! Frankly, most of my people are lazy and ungrateful and it grieves me.”