Galactic - Ten Book Space Opera Sci-Fi Boxset

by Colin F. Barnes

  “Do you have your final damage report, Captain?” Trajan was seated, his one eye was closed, and it wasn’t until that moment that Titus realized that it wasn’t just his eye that was missing, it was his eyelid. Somehow that made it worse. On one side, that face looked almost peaceful with its eye closed, contemplating the music sounding from the speakers. But the other half looked like the face of a dead man, especially now with the gash across his cheek and forehead that Trajan for some reason had not seen fit to bandage.

  “I do, sir, but shouldn’t you go to sickbay? Your face looks like it is causing you pain.”

  The eye stayed closed, and Titus thought he saw the barest hint of a smile, but on closer inspection, the Admiral’s face maintained its contemplative aura. “I feel no such thing, Captain. All I feel is resolve. The damage report?”

  Titus approached with the data pad and set it on the desk next to the Admiral. “I have it here sir.”

  “What’s the summary?”

  “One hundred and two dead, fifty-six missing—”

  “The ship, Captain, tell me about the ship,” Trajan said with impatience.

  “Crews are still repairing the breaches in the hull—they were too much for the hull-patch drones. Anti-matter engines are fully repaired, though the gravitic drive will take another week at least. Weapons systems are normal, except for the forward railgun turrets and ion beam cannon. Oh, and the collision destroyed half our assortment of nuclear warheads.” Titus watched as Admiral Trajan absorbed the news, his eye slowly opening to stare at him.

  “Excellent. Wonderful job, Captain. Please extend my personal thanks to the repair crews.” He closed his eye again. “The music. Do you like it?”

  Titus listened to the power chords sounding out in rapid succession, oddly interspersed with what sounded like a banjo. An odd combination, but somehow it worked, even if the music was not to his tastes. “Interesting, sir.”

  “Indeed. You are listening to a band called the Tiny Titans. They were popular on Old Earth about two hundred years ago. Twenty-fifth century. They started out as a heavy-metal crew, but as the story goes, they went backpacking in the Smokey Mountains one weekend, got lost, and didn’t emerge from the wilderness for a month, during which time they holed up with a Shinto Shaman who lived alone in the woods. When they returned to the music scene, they all claimed spiritual enlightenment, and completely changed their style of music. This is the result.”

  “How very … interesting, sir,” said Titus, unable to think of any other adjectives he’d like to use in the Admiral’s presence. In truth, he hated the music. Hated most of the music that the Admiral played in his vain attempt to understand their adversaries. For all the good it had done him, he thought sarcastically.

  Trajan swiveled toward the viewscreen. “You don’t need to play dumb with me, Captain. You may speak your mind. If you are wondering, you will never end up like the Chief Engineer or like his assistants. You are far too valuable to me. So please. Tell me your thoughts.”

  Too valuable? It suddenly struck Titus that Trajan almost never referred to someone by their name, or even by their rank. He always used their position, or their assigned station. Chief Engineer. Comm. Tactical. Captain—that last one the Admiral used often, but it could be a position, not just a rank. People only mattered to the man insofar as they were useful to him.

  “It’s atrocious, sir. Musically, I suppose it works, but it sounds like the result of mastiff mating with a poodle,” said Titus, momentarily nervous that the Admiral had been lying about his ability to speak freely.

  The chair swiveled back, and the eye opened in surprise. “Such vulgar thoughts, Captain. I’m surprised.” He held up a hand when he saw Titus’s mortified expression. “But thank you, Captain, for finally speaking your mind. I will require that of you in the coming weeks and months as we exterminate the rest of the Resistance.”

  “So, our work is not finished? Our sources say over ninety-five percent of all registered Resistance fighters were on those nine ships.”

  “Captain, we may have lost this battle, but the war is nearly won.”

  “Lost, sir?”

  “Yes. Lost.” For a moment the Admiral looked incredibly annoyed. “Mercer and the Phoenix got away. And the Heron, inexplicably. We captured only one. The Roc. The plan was for every ship to be either destroyed or the crew captured and put to death. We lost two times today, and if we don’t track down those ships … let’s just say there are too many loose ends hanging out of the cloth. We need to finish this task once and for all. The Emperor demands it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Titus. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Nothing yet, Captain. That is why I am studying this music. It is one of Mercer’s favorite musical groups, after all.”

  Titus noticed that Admiral Trajan used the Rebel captain’s name, and wondered why only that man had earned the honor so far.

  “And you think studying it will give you insight into his character? His strategy?”

  “I do. It already has.” He stood up and walked over to the Panreh pipe hanging in its customary position on the wall. Titus’s back went tense. The Admiral took it off its mount and wiped a smudge with his sleeve. “Really, Captain, you needn’t be so antsy.”

  Titus swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Please get on the comm and get in touch with Imperial intelligence services on Earth. I need the ranking operative on board within two hours. Dismissed.”

  As Titus nodded and turned away, he looked at the deck plate and saw the vague outline of the stain of blood. Trajan had only carelessly wiped it away. As Titus left through the sliding doors, he vowed to let that be the last needless pool of blood carelessly spread by the madman. He’d find a way to protect his men.

  Somehow.

  ***

  Ensign Ayala hurried down the corridor, weaving through the debris still scattered on the floor, avoiding eye contact with the crew members as they rushed past her, only occasionally nodding a vague greeting to someone that recognized her. It was easy to recognize her, she knew. She was used to it. Being from Belen meant being a constant celebrity. Almost like a mascot. And it rankled her.

  But he didn’t treat her like a mascot. He was different.

  “Hello, Willow, coming to the memorial tonight?” Ayala froze. She forced a smile onto her face and turned to face Commander Po. Would the woman see through her? Discern her secret?

  “Hello, Commander. Blessings.” She took a step forward, but crossed her arms, which, after a moment, she decided looked too defensive and she lowered them to her side. “I will. I just need some rest. I’ve been on duty for so long …”

  Po smiled, and reached out a hand to her shoulder. “Of course, Willow. Get some rest. You deserve it. Great job on the bridge today. I don’t know if we would have made it out without you there.”

  Ayala couldn’t tell if the praise was genuine, or if the commander was just trying to be a good XO. Apparently Po didn’t know that XOs were supposed to be gruff, fearsome, no-nonsense. Not grandmotherly. The XO was never your friend.

  “Thank you, sir.” She took a step away before finishing with her usual Belenite farewell. “Blessings be upon you, Commander.”

  She arrived in her cramped quarters sweating, having broken into a run after she left Po in the corridor, and she hadn’t stopped until the door slid shut behind her. Why had she run? She swore at herself, wondering why anyone would want to be with such a wreck—her hair was both fizzy from static and wet with sweat. One of her earrings had ripped free during the battle, and dried, crusted blood covered her ear and part of her neck. What a sight, indeed.

  “You finally made it. I’ve been wondering when you’d return.”

  She turned to face him. And smiled. “I couldn’t wait to get back.”

  “What’s the status? Are we out of danger? How’s the ship?”

  Ayala approached the bed and sat next to him. “We’re fine. We made it out. The ship’s in a bad way, but
we’ll muddle through somehow. Mercer seems capable enough.”

  “Mercer? Who’s that?”

  “The new Captain. Watson is dead, you know.”

  “Well you Rebels had it coming. Fighting us like this? And all my work for nothing? You all ought to be ashamed.”

  She turned to him, and pressed her chest into his. “Sorry, Senator. It’s just, it’s just you’re so sexy when you chastise …”

  Senator Galba pulled off Ayala’s uniform top and squeezed her breasts. “And you’re … you’re simply irresistible.” He kissed her, and she tingled. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this way. Except she did remember. Five months ago, on Corsica. He’d noticed her, and winked at her, and for three nights they’d somehow had their tryst unseen by his aides and by her roommates. How had his aides not known about her? Maybe they did. She didn’t care.

  But at the thought of the senator’s aides, she pulled away. “Are you sure you’re ok with this? You just lost your staff. And that man on the Fidelius? Was that your double?”

  He nuzzled her ear. “One of them. I have two. Jaques was the best, though. I’ll miss him, poor bastard. Now come here, my Belenite goddess.”

  She hadn’t heard that one before, but let him press down on her. Was she betraying her friends? Was this wrong? No. It couldn’t be. The man was the head of the Reconciliation committee, after all. He wanted good relations with the Resistance. And isn’t that what she was doing right now? Forging good relations?

  Their time together flew past, and after an hour Ayala looked up at the old-fashioned clock hanging above her bed—a miniature grandfather clock that her mother had given her. An actual relic from Belen, before it was destroyed.

  “I’ve got to be at this memorial in four hours. I need to sleep, Harrison.” She cocked her head towards him, resting on the pillow next to her. “Or is it Demetrius? Or Senator? I’m still never sure what to call you.”

  He kissed her forehead. “Call me what you want.” He pulled the blanket over his bare chest and turned over. “So Willow, tell me. What’s our next destination? Anywhere you can arrange to drop me off? I need to get back to the Senate.”

  “Really? They have no idea you’re here. And if they did, well, I have no idea what Mercer would do with you.”

  “Take me hostage?”

  Ayala rolled her eyes. “Please. That’s not what the Resistance does.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard stories, my dear, that would curdle your blood. But no matter. I need to get off this ship.”

  She looked him in the eye. “And I’m telling you that it’s not going to happen for awhile. There’s no way to get you off right away without someone seeing you.”

  His eyes narrowed, as if he were about to protest, or to yell—she still didn’t have a good handle of what kind of man he was—but he set his head down and put on a thin smile. “Very well. I’m sure you know best, my dear.”

  She noticed his brow still furrowed, as if he were still lost in thought, planning or plotting his escape, but she let it be.

  For now, though, she was in heaven, though the ship had nearly been blown to hell.

  Thank you for reading The Terran Gambit

  The story continues in Chains of Destiny.

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  Light of the Earth

  As seen from Tartarus

  By

  Annie Bellet

  Copyright © 2011

  All rights reserved

  Published by Doomed Muse Press

  Chapter One

  Ian Talley sank into his office chair, impressed that the contours still seemed to fit his body after a year’s absence. The cleaning crew had done a nice job on the office, though he wished they’d accidentally vacuumed up a few of the news articles still tacked to the wall.

  “Prometheus Project: A New Hope” and “The Talley Brothers: Taking Big Steps for America.” The others were up there, too. The articles written after, listing the names of the dead, asking questions that no one had easy answers for. No one had wanted the truth, just good sound bites.

  Ian jerked out of his downward spiraling reverie at the light tap on his half-open office door. He looked up and for the first time came face to face with the man proposing to start it all over again.

  William Lancaster was only sixty-four by what Ian had managed to glean about the reclusive multi-billionaire, but he looked eighty. His once tall, athletic frame was bent now, shortened as though something invisible but overwhelming rested in his bones. Mr. Lancaster’s face was hollow; the skin loose and sallow as though he’d lost a lot of weight recently. He had not one bit of hair on his head.

  “Mr. Talley,” he said, his face cracking into a smile. Even his teeth looked worn and thin, translucent and fragile. But his eyes were fever-bright, a warm hazel shining with life.

  “Mr. Lancaster,” Ian said, “Please, sir, sit down.” He motioned to one of the overstuffed and now out of date leather chairs.

  The old man waved off his young assistant, who shrugged with a smile at Ian and went back out into the empty reception area. Ian felt strange putting the big steel and etched glass desk between himself and Mr. Lancaster, but it felt right somehow. Or he just liked having that barrier, he admitted to himself.

  After all, it wasn’t every day that he got the chance to tell a multi-billionaire thanks, but no thanks. Even though a part of Ian still hoped that somehow there could be second chances.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Talley, I’m not good with small talk and at my age just want to get down to business.” Mr. Lancaster smiled in apology, spreading hands ropy with tendon and bone before resting them in his lap.

  “I understand,” Ian said, trying not to smile back. “I can cut right to the chase, sir, I read the proposal your lawyers sent over. We can’t do it. I’m sorry you had to even come out here. I won’t waste anymore of your time.” He would have told the man over the phone it wasn’t going to happen, but somehow Mr. Lancaster’s enthusiasm and manners had frozen the words in Ian’s throat.

  “I’m going to change your mind, son.” The old man nodded, half to himself. “You haven’t wasted my time, because you can do it. You, in fact, are the only man in the world who can help me. I know you’ve kept your ship, even started improving and rebuilding it. I’ve got a legion of people and they went through your records with a fine-toothed comb. You’ve got everything you need to go back up into space. Everything but money. And, well, I’ve got that. It’s about all I’ve got.” He tried to chuckle and it turned into a cough.

  Ian gripped the arms of his ergonomic desk chair and wished they still had a water cart in here. Instead he waited as until the coughing subsided and then motioned to the wall of articles.

  “Yes, I still have the ship that would have been the Prometheus III. Yes, technically, I could get things going again, possibly. I’d need some of my old staff and I don’t even know how to track them down.” That last was a little white lie. He knew where they were, most of them anyway. “The mission was a horrible disaster, and I don’t know if we’ve solved what went wrong. And that was just a run to Jupiter, god only knows what might happen on a voyage to Pluto. It might not seem like it, but compared to Jupiter, Pluto is a hell of a long ways out. It could take years.”

  Mr. Lancaster was already shaking his head. “No, it’ll take months, a year tops. The speeds your ship clocked to Jupiter were incredible. And I’ve had experts read over Dr. Walker’s reports on the structural failure, as well as the measures taken by your brother and the crew. Any problem is surmountable.”

  Ian’s heart beat a little faster and he forced himself to breathe easy and regular. He knew everything the old man was telling him because he’d thought it too, before. Jack, his brother, had begged him to try again; he’d even wanted to return himself, despite his inj
uries.

  But the PR hits kept coming and the money dried up, investors in the “The Future of America, the Future of Earth” fleeing like birds before a hurricane.

  “You aren’t trained for a space mission, sir.” Ian tried another tact.

  “Don’t give a damn,” Lancaster said, his death’s mask grin back, “I’ll have six months to train, your people will do a fine job.”

  “That’s the other issue. Even with the money, getting an unfinished craft running in half a year? And a team trained? That’s not ambitious, it’s suicide. No test runs, no time for safety checks or-”

  Lancaster cut him off. “I don’t have time for all that, Mr. Talley. That’s why this has to get done and why the Prometheus Program is the one for me. I know this will shock you,” and his smile turned somewhat self-deprecating, “but I’m dying. I need to get to Pluto, and I know I might be making part of that journey in a body bag, but I’d like to at least start it. I have to try.”

  Ian sighed. He had one last card to play. “We can’t just drop you off at Pluto, even if we can get there on the timeline you’re asking for. To slow down enough to do anything outside the craft would mean losing all our momentum, not to mention adding a lot more time to the journey. You can’t just stop on a dime up there, not without a lot of power we won’t have.”

  “I don’t expect you to stop off and let me out. You can jettison a body on the right trajectory. That’ll do.”

  “What if you’re not dead?” Ian said and then immediately regretted it.

  “Leave that to me, son.” Lancaster stopped smiling. The air hummed between the two men, the silence full of thoughts and doubts.

  One hundred billion dollars. That’s what the man was worth, according to the lawyers Ian had spoken with. And it was all Ian’s and the Prometheus Program’s money if they took on this final wish. Rich people were eccentric, Ian told himself, not crazy. It still sounded crazy.