“Your promise.”
There was a slightly nerve-wracking pause before the AI spoke.
Cole’s eyes widened. “That’s fine and dandy, Cain, and we can’t thank you enough for saying that. But that’s not what I meant.”
“Promise to be our equal. No more. No less.”
A little flattery couldn’t hurt. “After your outburst, how could I not?”
“You’re welcome.” Cole winked at an enormously relieved Lin. He bent down and collected the glass cylinder. As he began to return the brain to its rightful resting place, Rig stepped into his path.
“How do you know that thing won’t turn on us again?”
Cole blinked. “I don’t. That’s why they call it trust.”
ICARUS LOG 002:
Wow... I never thought I’d be making another one of these. Well, as you can plainly see, we’re all still alive and no longer slowly being cooked by the Sun. As I had hoped, Cain and his fancy new blue light, kept his word once I returned his brain jar thingy back to its rightful place. We’re like one big happy, dysfunctional pirate family now, forever on the run from the entirety of the System. Actually it’s kind of comforting to know that only a select few people—and one ever-evolving AI—have my back in the face of impossible odds. I suppose this sort of life was always my destiny.
And what a life it is! I’m captain of a stolen experimental cargo vessel with a state-of-the-art computer system helping to safely guide our every move. Speaking of moves, our next one is to meet back up with my asshole brother. I know, I know...I’m crazy for giving that order, but we did accomplish what was asked of us. Besides, Lin’s father is still in his possession, and I’m hoping to make a big impression on her by getting him back. I think she might like me. I mean, come on! We work well together, and we both had the wherewithal to remove our Ocunet lenses when Cain seized the ship. Couldn’t have him sneaking a peak at our thoughts when I was plotting on the fly. More than likely I wouldn’t be here spilling my guts in front of a camera if we hadn’t.
What else can I say about the talented Dr. Lin Dartmouth? Other than being a beautiful genius, she’s clever and bold despite her deceptive shyness. Did I mention she’s brilliant? I guess that falls into the same category as genius. Regardless, she confided in us all about something she did while she was all alone inside the UniSys satellite station. Seems she and Cain managed to do a little digging when she was given complete access to her ex’s computer. She claims to have updated the government files of the entire crew. When I say update, I mean erase. From existence. Is that even possible? Does that make me a ghost? Is this a new beginning for us all? Can I change my name to Emperor Nero? Did I mention she’s amazing?
Anyway, I digress. No point in pondering whether or not their efforts bought us some time and much needed privacy. All of it would have been for naught if Rig hadn’t tinkered around with the damaged engine while the rest of us panicked about the ship going dark. Ol’ Rigsy made good on his debt by activating and programming our stolen repair drone to do what it does best. Military training and all that time with Terracom technology makes him quite valuable to this crew. Aside from Emmerich’s undying hatred for him, he should fit in quite nicely.
Oh, I forgot to mention the other stupid decision I made. I let Arthur go on his merry way. I couldn’t blow his brains out the back of his head after proving my point to Cain, now could I? I never intended to do so anyway. He’s on his ship floating, aimlessly as we speak. Still tied up, of course, but knowing him, he’ll free himself in no time...and probably plot his revenge. Selling his survival to Rig wasn’t easy, but I am captain. Thankfully Chrysanthemum—I love that name—was still out cold when I gave that order. She would have knocked me out for letting him get away scott-free on his ship. Fortunately, Cain claims to have programmed Art’s ship so that it would not be able to locate us. Not sure how he did it, but I believe him.
And on the subject of location, Lin is well on her way to another solution which will free Rig of his Ocunet prison. Just like she did for her psycho father before he became a cube. Seems Cain had SolEx load her entire lab aboard this ship as “evidence” prior to our harrowing escape. That’s what I call foresight! Now if only he had thought to transfer a quarter of my former company’s yearly gross profit into a secret bank account. We can’t have everything, now, can we?
Everything... Hm. While I wouldn’t consider this lifestyle to be optimal living—nor would I ever recommend it—I would say that it is strangely satisfying. The more I think on things, the more I realize my life was nothing before the good inspector imposed her will upon this ship. Since then, I’ve found purpose. It might not have given me everything I desire, but for the first time since serving in the Starforce, my life has meaning again. And that’s awesome!
Well, I think it’s time to wrap up this little vanity project of mine. I have a strong desire to blast some Deep Purple throughout the Icarus as we cruise the galaxy as the System’s most wanted.
Oh yeah, that’s the ship’s name now: Icarus. No more of that technical ICV-71 nonsense. We flew just a little too close to the Sun for comfort. I just hope we didn’t lose one too many feathers in the process of naming her.
Icarus. It’s only fitting, don’t you think?
Thank you for reading Icarus
To read more in the series, visit here:
http://mfverish.wix.com/icarus#!newsletter/ck0q
Prelude to Resistance
The Pax Humana Saga
By
Nick Webb
Copyright © 2016 Nick Webb
All Rights Reserved
Against the Rising Force
The galactic war was only an hour away, and Jacob Mercer’s pants were on the floor.
Glancing out the viewport at the field of stars, Lieutenant Mercer sighed contentedly as he pulled Ensign Kelley in close to his chest, and counted the light cruisers assembling into a strike force in high-Earth orbit. From his vantage point on the drab, steel bunk in the utilitarian quarters, he watched another sleek Comet-Class light cruiser pull into formation, shining white against the brilliant blue backdrop of the Indian Ocean, bringing the total to thirteen.
Thirteen light cruisers, two Centurion-Class Capital ships, eighteen full squadrons of fighters that had declared their loyalty to the new Earth Resistance Fleet, dozens of smaller merchant freighters, subversively outfitted for the long-planned covert war against the Empire, and, he thought, smiling at the brown-haired woman nuzzled in his arm, one smokin’ hot lady.
“You’re going to be late,” Ensign Kelley murmured into his chest without opening her eyes, dark-rimmed and lined from days of preparation for the upcoming war. A war that no one in the Corsican Empire would see coming.
That was the hope, at least.
“So are you.” Jake’s eye caught the telltale flicker of motion that indicated a gravitic shift, and he watched the fourteenth and final light cruiser instantly materialize and move to enter formation. The Pritchard-formation, ideal for dislodging an enemy strike group from low-Earth orbit. At least, that was the theory—they hadn’t tested it in battle yet.
That would come soon enough.
“Bull,” she said, “I’m on second shift. I sit the first wave out unless my team loses a few gunners, which I’m a little worried—”
“Relax, honey. No chance in hell we’re losing a few. Admiral Pritchard has this thing planned out to a ‘t’, and has for months. Years even.”
She jabbed his abdomen with a long finger, which Jake knew was intended as poking fun of his hero-worship of Admiral Pritchard, but which he found only sexy. He glanced over at the clock on the wall display and considered pursuing a second round. Nothing like pre-battle sex. Better than make-up sex. Not that he would know. Make-up sex requi
red a relationship. Jake didn’t have time for a relationship. His life was the fleet and his love was his bird.
“I don’t know what you see in him. I mean, he’s alright. British. Curly mustache. I mean, I get it, curly mustaches inspire loyalty and devotion, right?” Her mocking tone sounded flirty to Jake’s ears, and he took it as a resounding ‘yes’ to his exploring fingers.
He rolled to lie facing her. “I sat next to him at the bar last night. Did I tell you? That’s why the men love him—he drinks with us like he’s one of the boys.”
She twisted around to face the viewport, apparently ignoring his renewed advances. “And? Did he say anything about today? Geez, you sit next to the mastermind of the Resistance at the bar and you don’t ask him what’s up? What the strategy is? They’ve been keeping us in the dark for weeks.”
“Hey, I didn’t say that. Of course we asked him. But he just held up a hand and shook his head and wouldn’t say a word about it.” Jake pulled her in closer and nuzzled into her neck. “At least, not until he got pretty drunk.”
“And?”
“And he told me something odd. He leaned in close to me and he said, ‘I’ve got a secret’.”
She pulled away and looked at him, confused. “That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
“He told you he has a secret? Like about the strategy?”
Jake shrugged. “Don’t know. Wouldn’t say. I pressed him for more, but he just winked at me and then left. It was actually pretty weird—he was pretty drunk.”
The klaxons nearly deafened them.
A stern female voice sounded over the comm system. “Red alert. Red alert. All hands to battle stations. Repeat, Red alert. All hands—”
Jake vaulted off the bunk and landed on his boots, nearly knocking him off balance as he reached for his pants.
“What the hell?” Ensign Kelley stared out the window, and Jake, seeing her slackened jaw, followed her gaze.
Four Imperial Centurion-Class capital ships hung like spectres against the speckled backdrop of stars, surrounded by an impressive fleet of smaller cruisers, missile frigates, and a swarm of fighters.
With a deafening roar, an explosion rocked their ship—the newly redesignated USS Fury—as the rapidly advancing Imperial capital ships opened fire with a full spread of railgun slugs and ion-cannon beams.
Jake gulped. All the careful planning. All the drills and meticulously drawn battle strategies, the freighter modifications, the fighter squadron maneuvers practiced until Jake’s ass was numb from sitting in his cockpit for so long. All for nothing—it looked like the Imperials had caught Admiral Pritchard and the infant Resistance fleet with their pants down, and they were about to get spanked.
That secret had better be good.
***
Running like a madman down the curved corridor while still struggling to zip up his pants, Jake collided with a damage control crew running the opposite direction down the stark, crimson-lit hallway.
Another explosion rocked the ship, and Jake shoved one of the shell-shocked men out of the way. He felt a twinge of guilt at his rough treatment of the wide-eyed young man, but he didn’t have time to regret his manners. He had a fighter to fly.
And enemy bogeys to blast out of orbit.
And a co-pilot to track down.
Would Kit meet him in on the flight deck? If he didn’t there’d be hell to pay. Aw, who was he kidding, the excitable balding gunner had probably camped out in the cockpit of their fighter, so worried he was about the impending war.
A war that had come exactly one hour too early.
Down two sets of crowded stairs, and several debris-littered hallways later, he finally emerged onto the bustling flight deck and sprinted over to his fighter, a sleek, narrow bird with wings meant for both soaring through the atmosphere and outfitted with an array of high-powered ion-pulse guns for lightning-paced space battles.
Jake grinned when he glanced up at the cockpit—sure enough, Kit was in his seat, hands fluttering over his console. Jake jumped through the hatch and settled into his seat. “You ready, Rooster?” he asked, using the man’s callsign.
“Sure thing, Shotgun. Nice of you to join me. Just have a seat and the flight attendant will bring you your refreshments shortly—” Kit said without so much as a wry grin.
Jake, accustomed to his co-pilot’s deadpan wit, quipped, “I thought she was my refreshment,” as he strapped his harness into place and closed the hatch.
“Unfortunately, she’s a bloke. I don’t think he’ll take kindly to your advances.” Kit’s British accent still peeked through after all his years living in North America, not like Admiral Pritchard’s outrageously exaggerated accent. Jake half-believed that the man played up the stuffy British admiral shtick to inspire admiration and loyalty from his mainly North American and European resistance force.
“You’d be surprised,” said Jake, spinning up the gravitic drive that would repel the artificial gravity field from the deck plates underneath the fighter, “I can be very persuasive. What’s our launch order?”
“We’re up in thirty seconds.”
“Orders?” Jake hadn’t heard anything over his personal comm during his sprint to the fighter deck, and assumed his ever-responsible co-pilot would know.
“Pritchard ordered our squad to ignore the fighters and go straight for the heavy cruisers.”
Jake pulled up on the controls, lifting the fighter gracefully off the deckplate. Other pilots, gunners, and the deck crew scurried around the bay, rushing to deploy the two dozen or so fighters lined up near the starboard wall. “Really? Won’t that leave the other squads outnumbered? That’s kind of a last-ditch kind of strategy.”
“Sure,” Kit said, nodding, “but he says that will draw the battle around the Imperial cruisers rather than us, meaning that as they fire at us and miss, they’re far more liable to hit another Imperial ship than not.” He glanced down at his console. “Ok, we’re good to go.”
Jake pushed forward on the controls, swung the bow around to face the opened bay doors, and the fighter sprang forward, shooting out of the fighter bay like a fiery arrow. “Yeah, but what happens when they fire at us and don’t miss?”
“Trouble,” said Kit, straight-faced.
***
There is no sound in space.
A convenient lie, of course, as most modern day fighters in the year 2675 come equipped with a fully integrated surround-visual-and-sound media system which alerts the pilots to all moving ships, firing patterns, obstacles, debris, and friendly fighters with an impressive and utterly realistic array of audio and video effects.
So as Jake swiveled his head around to watch the unfolding battle, the sounds of rapid-fire pulsed-ion guns sounded out from the wave of imperial fighters bearing down on them, accompanied by the ominous booming rumble of the dozens of railguns blazing off the hull of the four Centurion-Class Imperial ships, and the dull pounding of the high-velocity slugs on the hull of the USS Fury and its accompanying cruisers. Ion beam cannons on the Resistance ships belched out columns of eye-piercing white and blue beams towards the aggressors, announced by an almost ethereal sound over the speakers surrounding Jake’s head.
The comm flared to life. “All Resistance fighters, this is Admiral Pritchard.” Jake turned his head towards the speaker, still keeping an eye on the approaching wave of fighters. Whenever the admiral spoke, people listened. And not just because of his accent. But because the man was brilliant. Simply brilliant. Surprise attack or not, there was no way the Imperials were going to out-maneuver them. Not with Pritchard in the lead.
And he had a secret, after all. A new weapon? An innovative strategy that would stop the enemy short?
Pritchard cleared his throat and continued, “We’ve a bit of a setback, chaps, but not to worry, I trust you boys completely. We were expecting the South American fleet at any moment, but they’ve run into problems and will not be joining us today. Their president sucks dogs’ bollocks if you ask me, but
don’t tell him I said so.”
Kit shot Jake a look that said, “Oh shit.”
The South Americans weren’t coming? Jake swore to himself as he reconsidered the wave of fighters that had nearly crossed the chasm of space between the two fleets. He glanced down, towards the shimmering blue globe below, just barely making out the outline of New Zealand as twilight enveloped it.
Pritchard continued, “But not to fear, ladies and gentleman. You are the best, and don’t forget it. So keep calm and carry on. Draw the fight to them. Keep their cruisers away from ours at all costs. The success of our mission depends on it. And remember: our mission is not just to kick the bloody Corsican Empire off of Earth. Our objective is freedom for every man, woman, and child on the planet, whether they want it or not. Pritchard out.”
Jake gripped the controls of the fighter, a knot beginning to form in his stomach. This was not how it was supposed to be. The South American contingent was supposed to show up, and then, as one massive fleet, they’d make a gravitic shift to the Imperial scout fleet patrolling Earth in an highly inclined orbit, and blast them out of the sky. The next target was the Imperial garrison on Mars, and then, once all the Imperial cruisers were mopped up, they’d make a strike on Geneseo station—the giant shipyard and orbital construction facility that was the prize over Earth.
But now they were facing defeat, before the war had even started. How had Pritchard let this happen?
“V-leader is signaling for the open fist,” Kit said.
“Right. On it.” Jake moved their ship into formation with the rest of Viper squad, pulling out in front of the rest of the Resistance fighters, and at the last second before the arrival of the Imperial bogeys, blasted apart into a sprawling star formation, veering around the oncoming fighters and continuing on towards the cruisers.
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