The Ghost Fleet

by Trevor Wyatt

I couldn't agree more. We'll see what happens.

  But first, we're almost through the Oort, and it's about time for some target practice.

  Sheila

  I'm in the Captain's office with him and First Officer Drake Prescott. We're going over procedures and itineraries together, seated around a small table. Mahogany, actually, all the way from Earth. It's an informal setting and no one is insisting on formality or hierarchical superiority. We're relaxed and there's a communal feeling of equality.

  Every once in a while, Corson glances over at me and raises an eyebrow, then looks away. I smile. I know that he's silently sending a question along the lines of 'Everything okay?' or something similar.

  I think back to the beginning, to when and where we first met.

  He interviewed me for the Science Officer billet aboard his ship a little over two years ago. I was on another ship patrolling the sectors along the Outer Colonies and, frankly, it was a whole lot of boring followed by a whole lot of more boring, with no end in sight. I had finally had enough and put in a request for transfer. With, I'd hoped, a chance to land somewhere where something actually happened.

  Captain Gibraltar spoke with me at length shortly after that. He had been coming back off-tour on his way to Earth and had been interested enough by my resume to stop and take some time for me. I was impressed. He was evidently sincere about wanting qualified people, and wanted to meet them in person. And he was definitely interested when he learned I was a graduate of the Rhine Research Center in North Carolina on Earth.

  “I only know about the Rhine from what I read on the OmniNet and from what I've heard,” he said. “Could you tell me a little more about it?”

  I was only too happy to do so. “There's very little of worth about the Rhine on the ONet, Sir,” I answered. “We study parapsychology. I mean, study it. Contrary to what the lay populace thinks, it's a scientific investigation of interactions between living organisms and their external environment. Some of those interactions seem to transcend the known physical laws of nature. We're interested in those. Parapsychology can be described as a component of the broader study of consciousness and the mind.”

  He nodded. “What are some of the areas that you concentrate on?”

  “We delve into five main areas, Captain. Telepathy, precognition, clairvoyance, psychokinesis, and survival studies.”

  “Survival studies?” He looked puzzled. And curious.

  I smiled. “Basically, it's the study of human consciousness, and an examination of whether that consciousness can survive the physical form.”

  He looked at me. “You're talking about, what, out-of-body states, ghosts, apparitions…?”

  “Actually, Sir, it's a study trying to determine whether the mind can survive without the body. If it can, that would be a useful thing to try and emulate.”

  He thought about that and looked away. “Yes, it would,” he said. “Especially in a fight.”

  “So,” he said, turning back to me. “Can you employ any of these techniques yourself? Are they of any help in the real world?” He was quietly intense now. I could sense his intelligence, which was of a high order. And his inner strength, his toughness of spirit. Not to mention his utter devotion to his belief system. All in all, he was quite a formidable presence.

  I answered as honestly as I could. I knew it would seem like bragging. It often did, to people who were unfamiliar with the Rhine and its aims and goals.

  I cleared my throat, and replied. “Sir, I'm a highly qualified science officer. I've worked hard to get to where I am, and I believe my record speaks for itself. I'm very good at what I do. I think you know that, or you wouldn't be here now.” I paused. “And I have an edge you should know about.”

  He said nothing. His eyes were fixed on mine. Waiting. Expectant.

  I took a breath. “I have a high Esper rating,” I said. “That means some of my senses are far above those of untrained people. I can sense emotion in others quite easily, and in depth. I have some telepathic capability, limited but still useful. I can 'see', if that's the right word, a little ways into future probabilities. That lets me prepare for situations that haven't quite happened yet. To use your words, an especially good trait to have in a fight.”

  I waved my hand around the office. “In other words, Captain, I believe I can be of value. To you, to your crew, to the Union, and to the Armada.”

  Captain Gibraltar continued looking at me for a few moments. I could feel wheels turning in his mind. Then he got up and walked over to one of the view screens set in the bulkhead. He stood and stared out at the inky, star-flecked panorama of space.

  “I'm looking for some good people,” he said. He turned and looked at me. “People like you. I have a hunch that something big is coming. I don't pretend to know what that is. It's just a feeling. You're probably familiar with that.” He grinned, then sobered. “I want to be prepared for it. And I need the best people to do that.”

  He walked over to where I sat at the table. “I have an open billet for Science Officer aboard the Celestia. I can't promise you exotic vacations and haute cuisine. But I can promise you that you'll never be bored. Interested?”

  I stood up and smiled. I couldn't help myself. “Very much, sir.” was all I could manage.

  “Good. Very good. I'm going to ram your request for transfer through. I'll speak to your C.O. and forward it through to Armada Central.” He looked down at some papers on the table, then back at me.

  “Go to your quarters and start packing, Lieutenant. Say your good-byes and all that. I'll see you on board the Celestia at 0800 hours tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Sir. Will report as ordered.” I saluted, turned, and walked toward the door.

  “Oh, and Lieutenant,” he said.

  I turned back and he said, “Good to have you aboard.” And winked.

  “Good to be aboard, Sir,” I said, and left. I was on top of the world.

  And that brought me back to the present.

  Corson is speaking. “... almost out of the Oort, then. Good. Before we engage FTL and proceed to our destination, I want to call the fleet to a temporary halt. It's a long haul ahead, and I want to conduct a weapons test before we're underway. We're not likely to get a better opportunity.”

  He looks at his First Officer. “Drake, contact each captain of all the ships. Give them a heads up.”

  He then turns to me. “Sheila, find me a target. There's a lot of floating rock out here. It shouldn't take long.”

  I nod. “How big do you want it, Captain?”

  Corson laughs. “‘Captain’? Come on, Sheila. This is liberty hall in here. We don't stand on ceremony. You can spit on the deck and call the cat a bastard.”

  Drake and I laugh along with him. “Okay, Corson,” I say. “How large a hunk of rock do you want me to find?”

  “Ceres-size will do it. That would be about as big as Texas. Lots of target area.”

  “Got it.” I look down at my notes, then at Drake. “Anything else before we break?”

  Corson shakes his head and stands. “No, I think that should do it for now. Let's get back to work.”

  Back on the CNC and at my station, I start scanning for suitable targets in the debris field. The Oort is ancient, dating from the formation of the solar system when our sun first ignited and flung untold tons of matter outward in all directions. And there are billions of rocks out here to choose from. All shapes and sizes, slowly spinning in dark, lonely isolation.

  The ship is running sub-light, using our nucleonic drive. We can theoretically reach .75 C using nucleonic, but we're down to a virtual crawl, scanning, weighing, searching.

  Amongst the debris, I find something that seems promising. I zoom in long-range. It looks perfect.

  I take a tablet over to the Captain. “Sir,” I say.

  He looks up. “You have something, Commander?”

  I hand him the tablet. “I think so, sir. It's the right size, and it's not too far from our present position.”


  He studies the tablet. “How far, then?” He's interested.

  “A little over 500 kilometers, Sir.”

  He's satisfied. “Good job, Commander.”

  He turns to Commander Prescott. “Prescott, bring us to within 150 kilometers of the object. And notify the Maverick and the Aurora to follow suit. Tell the other ships to stay close and standby. Initiate full stop at the designated distance, and instruct the two cruisers to take up positions on our flanks.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  We're underway toward the object. I can sense the CNC personnel's excitement at the upcoming weapons test. They're all anxious to see a demonstration of the triad's armament.

  I should feel the same way, but I don't.

  I don't say anything. But I have a bad feeling growing in my gut. I don't know why, but I can't ignore it. Perhaps it will pass. Maybe it's nothing but free-floating anxiety. Or pent up tension about the nature of our mission.

  But I doubt it. I really, really doubt it. Damn.

  Drake

  We've reached the Oort target, and I inform the captain.

  “Full stop,” I instruct the helm. “We're there, Sir.”

  Captain Gibraltar nods. “Status of the other ships?”

  “Yes, sir. The Maverick and Aurora are flanking us. The fleet is also on standby, Sir. We're all at full stop.”

  “Very well. Bring up the object on screen, Commander.”

  I do so, and the asteroid, or planetesimal, fills the forward screen. It's an irregular-shaped body, mountainous, craggy, roughly pear-shaped, and it tumbles slowly along is long axis. Even from a distance, it looks huge.

  “Magnify, Mr. Prescott,” instructs the captain.

  And it's even larger, nearly filling the screen, a primordial piece of the solar system's beginning, awesome and majestic in its immensity.

  “Wow,” I mutter. It's unintentional, but the Captain hears.

  “Yes, it's big, isn't it, Commander? A bit over 500 miles in diameter, I believe. A fitting target. Bring up Captains Lamans and Ries on split screen, please.”

  Both appear on the screen. Captain Susan Lamans of the TUS Maverick is in her mid-forties, with short dark hair and startling green eyes. She's attractive, but there's no concealing her predatory aspect. You can tell she's all-Armada, all the way. A no-nonsense warrior.

  Captain Jamison Ries of the TUS Aurora gives the same impression, but in a different way. He's also in his forties, dark hair frosted with incipient gray. And his eyes are like dark crystals, glinting with intelligence, experience, and, yes, danger. Not a man to cross in battle. Or in any other instance.

  “Good morning to you both,” says Captain Gibraltar. “It seems a good day for some target practice.”

  Both captains smile and nod.

  “I want to deploy all our Directed Energy Weapons, Captains. Susan, please employ your Particle Accelerator Guns and ion cannons. Jamison, you'll be using your proton beams and lasers.”

  They both signal acknowledgment.

  “Where should I direct mine, Sir? Any particular area?” asks Captain Lamans.

  “Target the southern end of the object, Susan. Jamison, you take the northern quadrant. Susan, you fire first, then we'll inspect the result. You'll follow after that, Jamison. Mr. Prescott, bring the object up on the screen.”

  When I do that, there's a short silence. Everyone seems to be holding their breath, including me.

  The captain looks around the CNC. We're all caught up in the moment.

  Finally, Gibraltar says, quietly but forcefully, “Captain Lamans, fire when ready.”

  Multiple beams of energy flow into the object, incandescent streams of incalculable destruction. Intense light floods the screen, blinding and malevolent. I filter it down immediately. We watch as the overpowering glare on the planetesimal slowly fades into nothingness.

  “Cancel the filter, Mr. Prescott,” says the captain. “Let's take a look.”

  The object has undergone an amazing transformation. It looks like about half of it is simply gone. In its place are millions of fragments of all sizes, blowing away in all directions.

  “Results, Mr. Prescott?” asks the captain.

  “The object has lost forty-four percent of its mass, sir. That mass is now debris.”

  The captain smiles. “Okay. Good job, Susan. Jamison, you're up. Let's see what you can do. Fire when ready.”

  Instantly, the object is bathed in green and blue light, and it seems to turn into a blinding, multicolored explosion. Again, I have to turn up the filter. When the luminous bedlam fades, there is nothing left but more rocks, billions of them flying blindly into the night.

  “Status, Mr. Prescott?” asks the captain.

  “The planetesimal is gone, Sir,” I respond. “Nothing left but rubble.”

  He nods in satisfaction. He turns to the other two captains now on the screen. “Good job, both of you, and well done. Thank you. You can power down now.”

  The captain turns to me. “Let's give the Harpies some exercise, Commander. Inform the squadron head that he's to release half of them for some agility maneuvers and let them take a few potshots at some rocks.”

  Smiling, I say, “Very good, Sir. Will do.”

  Harpies are only part of a carrier's arsenal, which is what the Celestia is, of course. The other starships on this mission, including TUS Aurora and TUS Maverick are heavy cruisers. Those ships are 2500 feet in length and designed for heavy offense, supporting the weapons just used, and high-caliber force fields for defense. Formidable ships, those.

  Carriers, however, are of a different breed. Some 4400 feet long, the Celestia and its brethren are modeled after planetary, seagoing aircraft carriers of bygone eras. We carry a squadron of 80 Harpies, one-man fighters endowed with speed, agility, and weapons which include lasers and particle accelerators. They also carry high-energy missiles, but these are normally used for in-atmosphere conflicts with aircraft, as it's considered that they're ineffective against a major ship's force field protection.

  On the CNC, we watch as Harpies from the Celestia fly out and amidst the scattered debris of the planetesimal's debris field. Swooping and engaging in impressively agile maneuvering, they dart in and out and around the millions of rocks, shooting at will and turning many into dust. It feels good to have them aboard.

  After 30 minutes, Captain Gibraltar calls and halt to the maneuver, and the Harpies return to the ship. Everyone feels that the exercise was good for morale and the mood on board is considerably lightened.

  The next communication is from the captain. “Attention, all hands aboard the Celestia, the Maverick, the Aurora, the Iris, the Magus, the Lysander, the Griffin, the Mercury, the H.R. Wells, the Santa Maria, the Hornet, the York, the Wesley and the Lexington. This is Captain Gibraltar. A big thanks to everyone for their participation in the exercise. It went very well, and you should all feel more than ready for the upcoming assignment. We will be departing in ten standard minutes for our destination, where we hope to recover the debris and re-open the investigation of TUS Mariner. Captain Montgomery’s report is with you all. I suggest you read it and familiarize yourself with what happened and why the investigation was aborted. We need to determine if these Sonali were the cause for the destruction of our ship. It's a long trip, but we have more than enough to keep us busy on the way. Everyone, prepare for interstellar. Captain out.”

  He then addresses the helm with, “Lieutenant Cooper, ahead, FTL 3. Apply.”

  “Applying, Sir,” says the helmsman. And we feel that slight, otherworldly shifting of reality as the ship wraps itself in an N-space warp field and begins interstellar transit via FTL.

  Developed by the legendary Dr. Denos Mitchel in 2103, the drive allows us to travel up to one light year per day, ship's calendar, and is calibrated up to FTL 5. The captain had selected FTL 3, which is already very, very fast. Evidently, we weren't going to dawdle.

  He motions me over to his command chair. “So, first, what's your impressio
n of the exercises? I thought they went rather well.”

  I agree. “And I think they were good for the crews, too, Sir.”

  “Absolutely.” He seems to muse for a moment, then says, softly, “I pray there are no Sonalis at the rendezvous point looking for trouble. And I pray for them if they are. You have the CNC, First.” And he gets up and heads for his office.

  Stretching, I walk over to Sheila's station, where she's glued to her instruments.

  “Hey, Sheila,” I say.

  She turns and smiles. “Hey, Drake. What's up? Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I just need some limbering up. When we go off duty, do you feel like joining me in the gym? I heard you were a martial artist, and I thought about doing some light sparring.”

  “Sure,” she says, “I'd like that. I could use some activity, too.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  Interlude: Sheila

  Drake is incredible. I've never sparred with anyone remotely on his level. We went at it for fifteen straight minutes, a long time for full-contact, no-break sparring, and I barely escaped with all of my limbs and organs intact.

  And I'm no slouch. Not a professional, no, but I've been studying baguazhang since I was a kid, and I've learned from the best teachers I've ever known. But against Drake? I felt like a baby. He moves faster than anything human I've ever seen. And he's as agile as quicksilver. He moves like intelligent water. I was able to survive thanks to my Rhine-backed prescience. He only grazed me, couldn't seem to connect the way he knew he should. Thank god. But now that we're resting, I can see he's puzzled. Very puzzled.

  “What are you, Sheila?” he finally asks. “Are you Boosted? Nanites? What? I've trained nanite-imbued spec ops guys, sparred with them. None of them have what you have. None.”

  I laugh. “Rhine-based training,” I answer. “For years. I'm a graduate.”

  His eyes widen. “Oh, wow, parapsychology and all the rest of it, huh?”

  I rub my shoulder, where a kick grazed my deltoid. It hurts. “Yeah.” I grin. “And all the rest of it. But what about you? I've never seen anyone do what you do. What's your story?”