The infirmary staff and medical automates were already fully engaged with Correlli’s inert bulk when Emerson stepped through the bulkhead’s threshold. He could see they had him fully intubated underneath the breathing apparatus attached to his face, and multiple IVs snaked out from a nearby diagnostic device. Emerson paused to look at what was happening, but the guard following close behind nudged him forward again, preventing further scrutiny.
“Over here, please.”
A nurse waved him to a med bed in a corner away from the tumult. “Let’s get you checked out, shall we?” said the nurse, patting the center of the med bed. His own stock of energy depleted, Emerson sat down heavily. The tingle of a sterilization field danced over his skin.
After a perfunctory visual inspection, the nurse let the medical automate take over. He watched the diagnostic results out of the corner of his eye, but his attention was clearly focused on the medical scrum around Correlli. The big man was beginning to convulse wildly, knocking over trays and kicking like a wild horse.
“Hold him!”
“Get me some restraints in here stat!”
“Twenty ccs of Tranquility, NOW!”
Corelli’s arms flailed uncontrollably. An orderly caught a fist with his jaw and flew across the room, hitting the opposite wall and crashing face first onto the floor. Blood spewed from his nose, painting the speckled gray floor. Finally, Corelli’s seizures began to abate and the infirmary staff regained their composure. The BLUE MONARCH was reduced to mild shivering under his restraints.
“Will he be all right?” Emerson asked.
“I’m sorry?” The distracted nurse barely seemed to notice him.
“The lieutenant—will he be okay?”
“Oh… I… I’m sure he’ll be fine. Combat fatigue can really do a number on you, no matter how well you’re conditioned.”
The medical automate interrupted with soft tones indicating it was finished. The nurse scanned the results more intently this time.
“Well, besides some slivers of glass in your back and a mild bacterial infection from this”—the nurse gently touched the three talon marks on Emerson’s left cheek—“it looks like everything is nominal—” The nurse stopped. An awkward silence hung between them as he pulled the diagnostic datapad off the automate’s squat torso.
“What is it?” Emerson craned his neck to see the pad, but it was wedged in the crook of the nurse’s arm at an unreadable angle.
“What. Is. It?”
The nurse looked him straight in the eyes, and lied.
“It’s nothing. Nothing at all. You check out just fine. I’m going to give you an antibiotic cocktail that should deal with the bugs in your system and some nanoderms to reduce potential scarring, but I can’t guarantee this won’t leave a mark. With some food and rest, you’ll be back in tiptop shape.” He turned away, focusing his attention on the datapad.
Emerson slumped back and rested his head on the sterile-smelling pillow. At least the flinty odor was barely detectable here.
His father was having a heated discussion with Director DeSoto in the far corner of the room, but Emerson could not hear anything over the background noises in the infirmary. Flickering lights added to the sense of unreality.
What is going on around here? Emerson wondered. Any trace of normalcy seemed to have died back on Entropia. He felt condemned to stumble from one crisis to the next, never knowing another moment’s peace or safety. Almost in response, the lights flickered again, went out, then sprang quickly to life again.
The nurse who had attended to Emerson walked over and whispered something in DeSoto’s ear. DeSoto dismissed Richard Avery with a wave of his hand and had a security officer escort the senior Avery to his own med bed and examination. Emerson could see DeSoto reviewing whatever it was the nurse had found during his physical.
DeSoto looked at him questioningly, then frowned as the lights dimmed and brightened again.
Emerson averted his tired eyes and rolled over on the med bed. He buried his face in the pillow and promptly fell asleep.
He did not feel the automate’s injection.
3
* ALL PMC TERMINALS AND TRANSMISSIONS ARE MONITORED AND LOGGED *
From: First Director, PMC, Corporate Asset Defense and Security
To: Director of Corporate Security, Armand DeSoto - Tantalus Station
Re: Guests
Per your earlier query, maintain all basic courtesies and privileges for new arrivals.
Avoid corporate exposure or liability for any injured parties. Render all aid to preserve life and document for submission to UNSA sector commander.
Transmit anomalous DNA and tissue findings immediately. Send physical samples via next PMC armed courier ship.
ETA: 12 days, Standard
No outside parties should obtain access to classified excavations or artifacts.
Confirm receipt and acknowledge.
T. Magnus
FD, PMC-CADAS
* * * END TRANS * * *
4
The retreat from Entropia to Junction had been rife with apprehension and uncertainty. Although no Triven ships had followed the evacuees through hyperspace, there was the lingering fear that some would be waiting for them at the other end of the jump corridor. Never mind that Junction was a key UNSA sector base with its own flotilla of Navy vessels, orbital defense platforms, and extensive planetary surface defenses, the specter of fear haunted the survivors. In the absence of real information, the rumored strength of the enemy increased exponentially.
For Dr. John Reed, those concerns were secondary. His wife, Claire, was still in a medically induced coma aboard their ship, and his children were nowhere to be found. Now the consequences of his decision to leave them on their own preyed upon his conscience. He held onto a slim hope that in the evacuation chaos, they had simply not been registered as present and accounted for aboard one of the escaping vessels. He checked his wristcomm, and watched as the medical automate carefully removed another shard of glass from his wife’s face. It laser-sutured the exit wound with such delicate precision that after the angry red skin cooled, hardly any trace of trauma remained.
Reed looked out of the medical bay’s small viewport and saw the stars compress from streaks to static points of light, and his queasy stomach confirmed they had just exited hyperspace. Junction’s largest orbital platform loomed large off their portside winglet, hiding a sizeable part of the planet from view. He saw several other ships flash, shimmer, and materialize close by, and as a group they banked and headed to one of the many docking bays in the massive station.
He wanted to let his mind wander far afield and forget his recent ordeal, but the realities staring him in the face would not permit escape from the present. Reed was grateful when the landing sequence began, and the darkness of space was replaced by the bright lights and flashing directional strobes of the docking bay. Compared to his departure from Entropia, this was a beautifully choreographed ballet, ending with only the slightest thump as the ship touched down.
Airlocks cycled and unlatched, ramps extended, and people began moving to disembark. A calm, soothing female voice sounded over the ship’s intercom: “All Entropia personnel, please exit your ships and prepare for a full medical exam and debrief.”
As the message repeated, Reed turned his attention back to Claire. “Don’t worry, hon, I’m not going anywhere without you.” He had barely finished speaking, when the tramp of combat boots invaded the medical bay.
A determined-looking young officer in gray fatigues and an aura of self-importance strode up to him, holding a datapad. “Dr. John Reed?”
“That’s me. Who’s asking?”
“Ensign Redding, sir. I need you to come with me right away.”
“Sorry, son, I’m staying with my wife.”
“She’ll be looked after, sir. We’ll take her straight to the surgery center.” Redding snapped his fingers. Two orderlies in pristine white uniforms hustled in and began preppin
g their patient for transfer.
“Look, I’ve already been through this once,” said Reed in a firmer tone. He felt his small reservoir of tact rapidly dissipating. “I’m not going anywhere—”
“The admiral thought you might feel this way, sir, so I’ve been instructed to show you this.” The young officer flipped his datapad around.
Reed’s eyes widened briefly, then narrowed as he fixed his gaze on a set of grainy images.
“Where did you get these?”
“Please come with me, sir. I’m sure the admiral will be more than happy to answer any questions you may have.”
“Fine!” said Reed. His resignation echoed hollowly through the empty ship. He gave Claire’s hand a final squeeze, then let the orderlies take her away.
“Watch your step, sir. And welcome to Normandy Station,” said Redding as he exited the ship.
Idiot, thought Reed.
***
At the base of Normandy Station was a very large, very secure, briefing room. Sequestered from the daily traffic of station personnel, its viewports afforded a stunning 360-degree view of the surrounding space. The sounds of hushed discussions floated lightly above the antique wooden conference table. Formed from the deck planks of ancient Earth warships, it was a monument to longstanding naval traditions, courage, and sacrifice. And as a place where critical United Nations Space Alliance decisions were made for the sector, it was a reminder that those decisions had repercussions. Some of them deadly.
Despite the breathtaking and peaceful view of Junction rotating serenely below, the atmosphere in the room was tense. Many in the room did not know why they were there, only that they had been summoned. Some nervously sipped drinks or pushed appetizers around on small plates. A cursory glance at the uniforms, rank insignias, and military decorations on display meant it was an important meeting, but no agendas were forthcoming and datapads held no answers.
The man they assumed knew everything sat tucked in a dimly lit alcove a short distance from the room’s main entrance. His scarred face betrayed nothing, and his eyes remained firmly fixed on an ancient book he held open in his lap with white-gloved hands. A gleaming brass nautical clock tolled the bells of the watch, prompting him to look up briefly. The motion revealed thin, wire-framed spectacles perched on the bridge of a synthetic nose. Behind this professorial façade lay a brilliant strategic mind, and a fierce temperament that brooked little dissent.
The man rose stiffly, ignoring his protesting joints (both real and artificial), and began walking in slow, measured steps to the small lectern at one end of the table. One of the junior officers noticed him and came to attention by his seat, bringing everything in the room to a sudden halt.
“Admiral on deck!”
Around the room, shoulders squared, chins came up, heals clicked, and eyes focused straight ahead.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated,” said the admiral. Those not near the table scurried to find a place. Stewards in perfectly creased uniforms cleared away abandoned plates and cutlery, refilled glasses, then exited swiftly and silently.
“Computer, secure the room. Voice authorization Prescott, Carter J., Vice Admiral, UNSA Fleet Operations. Identify and confirm.”
“Good morning, Admiral Prescott. Your request has been authorized and confirmed. Please stand by,” replied a neutral voice.
The main entrance doors locked, and a second, more powerful blast door lowered and locked into place with a heavy thud. Marines in full combat armor stood guard on either side. Unseen, but just as potent, a dampening field surrounded the conference room, blocking every possible frequency known to man, and several known by other unfriendly species. Every link to external and internal networks was severed. For all intents and purposes, the room was an island unto itself.
“Well, now that that’s taken care of, let’s proceed to business, shall we?” Prescott proposed. A few heads nodded, all eyes looked expectantly at the admiral.
“You’re probably all wondering why you’re here.” A wave of soft laughter rose and quickly subsided.
Prescott paused for effect, looking intently at the poker faces around the table. He knew many of them were staring at the synthetic parts of his own face. They were hard to miss. Well let them stare—I earned them in combat! He gently placed his book on the table, and began.
“It has become conspicuously apparent that we are stuck in a temporal loop.”
Quick, questioning glances were exchanged around the table.
“Lest you misunderstand me, I simply mean that history is repeating itself yet again.”
Prescott took a sip of water and continued. He swiped a control on the lectern, dimming the lights and projecting a holomap in the center of the room. Pulsing red arrows advanced from Germany, through Belgium and into northern France while blue arrows retreated along the entire Western Front.
“In August 1914, on Earth, the military leaders of the ancient European nation-states were confident in their ability to rapidly defeat each other. Germany and France had detailed plans for their respective offensives, and followed them to the letter. Each side disregarded what the other was doing, and even ignored information that ran contrary to the way they expected the enemy to behave.”
Prescott saw a few eyes roll.
“I promise not to recount the entire First World War to you in detail.” More polite laughter rippled through the assembled officers.
“Obstinacy. Condescension. Contempt. These permeated the high commands on both sides. Poor communication, coupled with a stubborn refusal to face facts and understand the technological changes that had occurred, nearly doomed France during those first four weeks of the war. And what was the result?”
Another sip. Time to shake them out of their complacency.
“Four years of bloody stalemate. And that is exactly where we are today, ladies and gentlemen, almost 200 years after our first encounter with the Triven.”
Prescott looked down at the book as if for moral support, though certain he was right. He ignored the murmuring around the table. The reason why he was right concerned him the most. He read the gilded title on the ancient cover, elegantly preserved at the molecular level against further decay.
It read: The Guns of August.
“Now,” he said, his tone filling with deep foreboding, “I’ll explain to you why this is our current situation, in detail. Just as the Allied and Central Powers were locked in a stagnant war of attrition along the Western Front for four long years, so have we been against the Triven for two centuries.”
A snort of disgust broke the respectful silence that had blanketed the room. Discreet sidelong glances were cast, voicing hidden thoughts: The old man’s lost it… not possible… we’re fighting harder than ever…
“It’s true, and I have the evidence to support my claim,” said Prescott defiantly. The hologram switched from 1914 to a scrolling graphical summary of battles with the Triven that stretched back nearly to first contact. Fleet movements ebbed and flowed while the strategic star map of Triven- and UNSA-controlled worlds waxed and waned.
“An undeniable pattern has emerged, one that has repeated itself with almost clockwork regularity. Whenever we achieve a major victory, within six to nine months, the Triven manage to restore the status quo or offset the strategic advantage gained somewhere else. As a result, there have been no major breakthroughs, no decisive battles or significant upsets that tilt the advantage to one side or the other. Our technologies are roughly equal despite some obvious disparities. Even the relative number of powers allied with each side is about the same.”
“Admiral, with respect, you can’t be serious about all this,” said a destroyer squadron commander.
“I’ve never been more serious, Jim. Remember when your taskforce captured the Sigma Delta Five system, disrupting the Triven supply lines in that sector?”
Jim nodded.
“How long was it before the scalies took it back from us?”
“Six months to
the day.”
“Precisely. And each one of you has personally fought in victorious campaigns that were either undone or strategically offset elsewhere.”
“Isn’t this just the natural progression of a multi-decade conflict?” asked another captain.
“The pattern is too defined, but we’ve never noticed it before because we weren’t looking for it.”
“And you discovered this how? What’s the root cause?” interrupted an incredulous Marine Corps general.
“I used my brain instead of a bludgeon, Pat,” replied Prescott laconically. That garnered a few laughs, including one from the Marine Corps general.
“Actually, my good friend here has asked the right questions. But my second theory may be even more difficult to accept than the first one I’ve proposed.”
Prescott sipped his water once again and brought up his second set of notes.
5
Emerson Avery ran down the narrow woodland trail and tried to leave his conflicted thoughts behind him. The path was a meandering trough between two hillsides, perfectly shaded, thick with roots and the detritus of countless seasons. He focused on the aroma of densely packed conifers in the crisp morning air, and pushed through the heavy mist that languished in the open spaces before him. His breath was a stream of vapor all its own. The forest was peacefully quiet, save only for the sharp sounds of his respiration and the crunch of pine needles under his feet.
He pumped his arms and lengthened his stride as the trail undulated gently downwards, but he could see ahead the inverse of what he now savored. A steep hill loomed large, so he assaulted it with as much energy as he could muster after such long a run. His breathing became even more labored, and his calves ached and burned in protest. As he crested the hill, his pace slacked and his head drooped. All other thoughts were momentarily banished as muscles and lungs demanded more energy and the oxygen to burn it.
Cerulean Rising - Part II: Evolutions Page 2