“The Naldím are pushing hard,” Briggs said, highlighting a number of points across the line that had collapsed in toward the Core. “We might have the numbers, but they have the tech, and the fleets are spread thin. It takes three of our ships to take down one of theirs.” He looked across the sea of soldiers, his mouth splitting into a grin. “Not anymore.”
The screen changed, now displaying the Vengeance, overlaid with information on its vast array of improvements. “Main goal here is moral support,” Briggs explained. “The Vengeance represents victory, and we’re going to use her to show every battlegroup from here to the Reach that we can win this war.”
“What’s the deployment zone?” someone asked. Ethan looked across the table to see that Elaine Barret, a veteran of Voyager Dawn’s Diamond squadron, was the speaker.
“The entire front line,” Briggs answered simply. A murmur ran through the officers. “You’ve all been in a proper rumble before,” he said, spurred on by their apprehension. “You know how important it is to have a rallying point. We are that point. This ship is how we win.” He paused, allowing his message time to settle in, before continuing on to their first objective. “Hadron Sector,” he barked, jarring his pensive officers back into the present, “better known as home to the Scabbard. SWORD don’t like how close the Nellies are getting, so we’re going to make sure they don’t get any closer. Deployment strategies at the all-hands in one hour. Dismissed.”
Elaine caught up to Ethan on the way out, slapping him on the shoulder in greeting. “Welcome back,” she said.
He grinned. “It’s good to be back.”
Elaine waved a hand at the walls around them – the once bright silver and blue walls that were now matte black and covered in piping and wiring. “What do you think of the ship now?”
“It’s not the same, that’s for sure,” Ethan sighed. “But it still…” He trailed off, struggling to find the right word to convey his bittersweet feelings towards the Vengeance.
“It’s still home,” Elaine finished for him.
Ethan nodded. “Yeah.”
Pausing a second to let the moment pass, Elaine diverted the conversation. “Did you get a chance to look at the Sparrows?”
“Works of art,” Ethan affirmed. “I don’t get how the model number jumped from F-Fifty to F-Eighty-Two, though.”
“Well, they said the F-Fifty-Five was in the works when Dawn left… what was it, Three? Toss in a few upgrades courtesy of the Naldím and you really crank through the version numbers.” Elaine chuckled. “Besides, there’s no accounting for taste. If you ask me, F-Eighty-Two sounds better.”
“It’s a lot easier to say,” Ethan agreed. “I wonder how it stacks up against the Naldím fighters, though.”
“There’s no comparison. The Tridents make Eighty-Twos look like kit planes.”
“Tridents?”
“The Naldím fighters. That’s what we’re calling them now.” Almost as an afterthought, Elaine added, “Apparently.”
Ethan cocked his head. “Aren’t there supposed to be three-”
“Three points on a trident?” Elaine finished. “Yeah, but ‘Bident’ sounds like scutch, so we’re calling them Tridents.”
“Works for me,” Ethan conceded.
They stopped at the elevator where the other officers were congregating to descend to the barracks. “I’ve got some other people to catch up with,” Ethan said, motioning down the hall. “I’ll see you at the all-hands.”
“For sure,” Elaine replied. “I’ll save you a seat.”
Ethan nodded and exited the throng in search of more of his old comrades, more confident than ever that he had made the right choice in returning to Dawn.
The Signal
Though intelligent hunters and certainly menacing foes, nexacors prove time and again to be particularly susceptible to trickery. It’s almost as if, during evolution, they encountered no technologically advanced species at all, thereby failing to develop the ability to differentiate between natural and artificial radio waves.
Excerpt from Hive Life: My Year with the Nexacors, by Richard Abrams
Unlike every other ship in the Navy where matte black, dim lighting, and shuttered windows were the orders of the day, the Phantom’s interior was positively shining, contrasting its stealthy exterior. The walls had an off-white sheen, and punctuating the tube lighting that ran the length of the halls was an array of spotlights that followed each crew member as they passed by. There were no shuttered windows either, only because there were no windows at all.
The two Wraiths followed their welcome wagon of one – the excitable Agent Kahlo – to the bridge, Rebecca peering into rooms as they passed, curious what new technology was waiting around each corner, while Eve strode silently past, ignoring everything but the path ahead. Rebecca looked sidelong at her, feeling strangely obligated to say something to elicit a reaction, but their tour guide would not let either of them get a word in edgewise.
“It’s no Naldím tech, sure,” he admitted, after regaling them with the details of the micro-compression drive. “But it sure as hell beats anything we’ve made yet. We are literally breaking records with this boat. Fastest maneuvering speed, smallest ship with a compression drive, highest damage threshold for a laser weapon. Did I mention our guns fire lasers? They haven’t even tried that since the Imperium, and you know what? I think this girl could take that thing on.”
Kahlo rounded on them as they approached the bridge, halting the tour in its tracks. “You know what the best part about this whole ship is? Well, besides Cam, but you’ll meet him later.”
Rebecca did not take time to guess. “What?” she said perfunctorily.
Kahlo’s mouth split into a wide grin. “I’m not even here.” With that declaration, Kahlo disappeared as if a switch had been flipped. A moment later, he reappeared at the door to the bridge. “Photon suspension imaging system,” he said, beckoning for them to join him. “Basically a hologram, except I can do this.” He tapped in a passcode, and the door hissed open.
“Impressive,” Rebecca admitted.
“Isn’t it?” Leading them onto the bridge, Kahlo elaborated. “I don’t pretend to understand it, but the point is some madman in R-and-D made a hologram that can interact with the real, physical world. So, I’m stored in a cryo chamber back there, and I’m mentally controlling this projection up here.”
Rebecca instantly saw a flaw in the design, but Eve beat her to the punch. “What happens if there’s a failure?”
Kahlo held up a finger to halt her objection. “That’s the beauty of it. Even if the whole crew goes offline, there’s still you two. And the whole ship – when the need arises, of course – can be controlled by one person.” Apparently, that settled the matter for Kahlo, and he passed the Wraiths off to the captain with a smart salute.
“Blizzard, Xeno,” the captain nodded, dismissing Kahlo. He was a slender man, no taller than Rebecca, and no less fierce. He did not bear a single scar, but his eyes projected more experience than the two Wraiths combined. “Captain Raiyu Prasad.” Almost grudgingly, he added, “at your service.”
“Captain Prasad,” Rebecca said, she and Eve throwing up salutes, “as in Prime Zero?”
Prasad nodded modestly. In spite of herself, Rebecca was slightly star-struck. Codenamed Prime – Wraith zero-zero-zero – Prasad was the very first Wraith, a prototype in conditioning and training techniques. He was not outfitted with the same suite of enhancements as modern Wraiths, and he was old now, unfit for combat. But Prasad was still an icon among members of SWORD and set a standard that every Wraith strived toward.
It was difficult to tell if Eve was impressed. “It’s an honor, sir,” she said, her helmet’s filter deadening any emotional inflection her voice may have carried.
“If you don’t mind dispensing with the pleasantries,” Prasad said, precluding further useless comments, “I’d like to proceed.” He waved a hand at the helm. “Awaiting your command.”
Before either Rebecca or Eve could take action, the comms officer interrupted. “Sir, new signal in orbit.”
In three lengthy steps Prasad was at his side, the Wraiths close behind. “Source?” he asked.
“Unknown, sir. But it’s transmitting directly at the Naldím.”
“At them where?” Prasad demanded.
The officer brought up a map, marking the trajectory of the signal. “At the front. In the caves,” she reported.
“Where the nexacors are coming through,” Eve observed. She and Rebecca glanced at each other.
“What’s the frequency?” Rebecca asked, leaning over the console.
“It’s alternating. J-fifty to J-twenty-three. There’s another one in there, but I can’t make it out.”
Rebecca straightened back up, turning her attention to Prasad. “It’s controlling the nexacors.”
“Certainly sounds like it,” Prasad agreed. “Shall we engage?”
“Do it.” At her word, the ship lifted off, tilting upwards to target the source of the transmission. Riding on silent thrusters, the Phantom rocketed out of the atmosphere.
With no windscreen to look through, the helmsman splashed a dozen external camera feeds across the bare bulkhead at the front of the bridge. Rebecca, Eve, and Prasad formed up behind him to monitor the displays.
“Six thousand klicks to target,” the helmsman reported. He tapped in a new series of commands. “They’re modifying their orbit.” He entered another command, cancelling out the first and redirecting the Phantom. “I’ve never seen anything move this fast,” he muttered under his breath.
“Just get us a visual,” Rebecca ordered.
“Yes, sir. Almost…” With a click of his keyboard, the helmsman sent a new image flying onto the screen. It was hazy, barely comprehensible, but it said enough. The ship – or whatever it was – looked to be nothing more than a writhing grey mass, twisting and turning like a tortured animal.
Rebecca steadied herself in preparation of her next order. “Chase it down.”
The helmsman gunned the throttle, accelerating far beyond safe pursuit speeds. For a moment, he managed to close the gap. As quickly as the ship grew to fill the display, though, it shrank again with surprising swiftness.
“Have to enter compression to keep up,” the helmsman reported, audibly grinding his teeth.
Prasad looked at Rebecca, cutting her off before she could order the Phantom forward. “We’ll be abandoning the front,” he said lightly. His voice was too soft and too steady for her to determine if he disapproved of the idea. Rebecca didn’t care.
“We were told to test this ship,” she replied, not taking her eyes off their retreating target. “This is as good a test as any. Helm, engage.”
At the helmsman’s command, the Phantom engaged its compressor, lurched, and slipped into the blinding white abyss.
*
“Captain Clay’s been made aware of our absence,” Prasad reported, stepping into Rebecca’s quarters before she had a chance to invite him in. She handed him an oily inner working of her rifle in return. He took it without hesitation, watching pensively as she cleaned the weapon.
“And?” she prompted.
“Disappointed, but coping. The nexacors are easing off him now that they aren’t being controlled.”
“We’re still on that ship’s tail?”
“Barely.”
Rebecca snatched back the part Prasad was holding, giving him her stock in return. After a moment, he inhaled, as if he intended to speak, then reconsidered. Rebecca looked up at him. “What?”
Prasad considered the invitation, finally setting the stock down and leaning against the wall opposite Rebecca. “What was the mission?” Unsure what he meant, Rebecca remained silent, vigilantly scrubbing her receiver. Prasad elaborated. “I’ve seen your type before. The type that screwed up a mission.”
Rebecca glanced up at him, eyebrow arching high. “What?” she repeated.
“I don’t have all your fancy implants,” Prasad said, “but I’ve worked with enough of you to realize there are only two types of Wraiths: those who’ve screwed up, and those who haven’t.”
Rebecca reached brusquely past Prasad to reclaim her stock. “What’s your point?” she muttered.
“Do you know how you can tell the two apart? It’s how emotional they are.” Prasad paused, perhaps waiting for a reaction. Rebecca refused to let his riddling have a visible effect on her. “The one’s that haven’t failed,” Prasad continued, “are the emotional ones. They actually take the time to get in touch with themselves. After all, we aren’t forbidden from feeling. It’s just that limbic monitor you’ve got stuffed in your brain makes it… difficult.”
Grudgingly, Rebecca had to admit her curiosity had been piqued. “What makes the failures different?” she asked, quietly reassembling her weapon.
“They did something – and what they did varies, of course – that they felt was subpar. Made a bad call, had a breakdown, failed a mission. It doesn’t matter. They think they’re losing their edge, and so they overcompensate. They turn into robots. Like you.”
Rebecca stood with a forced calm, her face inches from Prasad’s. “You don’t know me.”
“I think I do,” Prasad replied calmly, distancing himself from her. “Maybe better than you do.”
Taking a deep breath, Rebecca reseated herself. In a second she had regained her composure, though she feared her authority over Prasad had all but vanished. She tested the waters. “Dismissed, Captain.”
Prasad nodded, stepping back through the threshold and reaching out to the control panel to shut the door. His hand hovered over the button, and he turned to look at her. Her heart churning, Rebecca thought she recognized the faintest look of sadness on his face.
“I’m trying to help you, Agent Winters,” Prasad said.
“I don’t need help.”
Prasad did not respond. Instead he closed the door and walked away.
The Encounter
As the Vengeance plunges into battle, it becomes increasingly clear that the Series X Imperium, a product of the Frontier Disputes and, until recently, the most powerful ship in the Imperial Navy, is becoming antiquated. Whether or not this is intentional, and warships based on the revived Voyager Dawn are to take over the Imperium’s duties, remains to be seen, but one thing’s for sure: there’s a new hotshot on the block.
Starla Haley, C01 Empire Nightly
A shroud had been placed over Vengeance’s runway, allowing multiple squadrons to be staged for takeoff even while the ship was under fire. Tactically, it was a clever addition, but the fact that it blocked Ethan’s view of the void into which he was about to plunge seemed to be a glaring oversight. There was no way of gauging the situation until he was in it.
Deciding it was best not to dwell on the impending conflict, Ethan turned his attention to the comm where Ford was complaining about the number of visitors the Vengeance was hosting.
“I mean, that reporter lady’s fine. I mean fine,” Ford said, drawing out the last syllable lustfully. “But these SWORD guys. Let me tell you, there’s something wrong with them.”
“At least they’re not staying,” Ethan pointed out. “And she is.” He had yet to meet this reporter he kept hearing about, and was in no rush to do so. The frustratingly fluffy way in which Empire Nightly and every other news organization on Mars was handling the war made Ethan feel quite acidic toward journalists.
As if to affirm his attitude toward her ilk, Ethan suddenly noticed that the reporter had dispatched a drone onto the flight deck, which was hovering over his wing like a gnat. Ensuring he was still locked in place, Ethan jammed on the altitude adjuster, sending a cascade of thrust upward from the energy web. The drone was catapulted away.
“They’d better not stay,” Ford said, oblivious to Ethan’s misdeed. “It’s weird enough knowing one of those spooks was living with us for a year.”
“Who? Oh,” Ethan caught himself. “Rebecca.”
“Yeah.” Ethan found it odd to think of Rebecca as just another Wraith. The agents of SWORD held reputations for being cold and robotic, but Rebecca’s last days aboard Voyager Dawn had proved otherwise. Ethan might have gone so far as to claim there had been a connection between them before they parted ways. At the very least, they were able to see eye-to-eye.
He had not thought about her much since he returned to Mars, instead spending his time worrying about comrades who could not so confidently guarantee their own safety. There was not much he could do; comms rarely reached the battlefront, where Mason and Luther Brook and almost everyone Ethan cared about had run off to. To that end, his life on Mars was useless. Here, he could make a difference, and he had no doubt that was why he felt no fear – only determination – as the shroud’s doors peeled open, exposing the assembled squadrons to the cold void of space.
“Raptor Lead, clear to launch,” the tower droned. “Advance to mark point and gauge.”
“Copy.” Ethan gunned the throttle, bypassing the catapult his fighter had no need for and rocketing ahead of the Vengeance. He paused a moment, idling the throttle as he took in his surroundings.
The Scabbard – fabled home of SWORD – was positioned in the most empty part of the void Ethan had ever seen, so far from any celestial body that it had to generate its own gravitational well for ships to lock onto. The only light that illuminated its bulkheads was cast by Vengeance’s thrusters, and even then, it was barely visible, a matte black cube floating aimlessly along without a turret or hangar in sight. Despite its lack of detail, or perhaps because of it, Ethan found himself oddly impressed.
The only sign that there was life aboard the Scabbard came a moment later, as an agent patched into Ethan’s comm. “Raptor Lead, report.”
“Scope’s clear.”
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