by Donald Swan
In truth, Nick was beginning to feel like he wouldn’t make it out of this one alive. His nerves were on edge even worse than before as he crawled out from under the instrument panel and readied himself for what was to come.
M-957 sat in his command chair, stunned for a moment by the Grok’s assault on the other Dragoran vessel. “D’rog must want this weapon for himself. That would explain why his ship disappeared and was presumed destroyed. He’s turned renegade.” M-957 was almost amused by the realization. He would have grinned if his metal face was capable of such an unnecessary expression.
Nick was working on regaining the module’s attitude control when he realized the close proximity of the Star-Killer. As the module came around to its original vector, the Mok’tu’s massive ship filled his view. Nick couldn’t see a single star in any direction. The Star-Killer appeared to go on forever. “Damn, that’s big,” he said, in sheer awe of the giant vessel.
The Kohg finally succumbed to the brutal pounding of the two attacking vessels and erupted in a cascade of fireballs down its length. The ships fiery hull slid through the blackness of space, its own weight carrying it forward. The listing vessel drifted further off its course as the Grok overtook it.
M-957 had been waiting for the Grok to come into range. The Dragoran ship had no more chance of destroying a Star-Killer class vessel than the Kohg. Captain D’rog had been a crafty opponent in the past, a real thorn in M-957’s side. Like a Scuddle Wasp, he would strike and retreat, avoiding the crushing blow of the more powerful Star-Killer. But there was no escaping this time. D’rog had grown careless. His desire for power would be his undoing.
The two enemy ships opened fire on each other. The shields of the Mok’tu vessel had no problem fending off the Grok’s plasma cannons, but the Grok showed signs of weakening within minutes.
With the two enemy vessels engaged in battle, Nick knew this might be his only chance of survival. He reached a shaky hand over to the hyperspace generator switch, flipped up the protective switch cover and turned on the generator. He cranked the amplitude up to maximum and held his breath. In front of him, a hyperspace window formed within mere feet of the Star-Killer’s hull. Nick punched the throttle and streaked toward the hole, aiming for the safety of hyperspace.
The immense distortion of normal space-time so close to the side of the massive Mok’tu vessel warped the ship’s hull. The center of the ship bulged outward toward the hole. The internal stresses were more than the metal structure could bear, and the hull buckled. Mok’tu soldiers spewed into space from ruptured sections of the ship. Small explosions accompanied the fractures forming in the hull. The resulting debris was sucked through the window and into hyperspace. Nick raced to close the gap and escape. Debris swirled in around him as he plunged into the red hued underworld.
A Mok’tu soldier floating in the nearby debris pushed off the twisted metal heap it clung to. The calculated move launched the metal soldier through the eerie red vacuum of hyperspace and directly toward the module. The soldier was upon Nick before he knew it. The Mok’tu’s powerful metal hand clamped onto the wing of the module.
“Shit! I forgot you metal heads can survive in a vacuum!” Nick was frozen with fear for a moment as he waited for his brain to come up with a plan. There had to be something he could do. But what?
The Mok’tu peered at Nick through the canopy, one of its legs broken and twisted from the disaster it had just survived. Just as Nick feared, the soldier grabbed the wing with its other hand and started to pull itself toward the cockpit of the craft. All the while, it kept the visual receptors in its metal skull trained on Nick. Nick was quickly running out of time. He had made it into hyperspace, but he was nowhere near safe. He looked around nervously. There had to be something he could do. He scanned the cockpit for something of use, but there was nothing. His brain was going into panic mode as the monster dragged itself closer and closer. The corner of Nick’s mouth suddenly curled upward as he surveyed the space ahead of him. He turned back to the Mok’tu with a growing grin, only to be startled by the Mok’tu face pressed up against the glass. It was right outside the cockpit now.
“Ah, crap!” Nick swallowed hard as the Mok’tu’s right hand balled up into a fist. It reared back, preparing to drive a hole into the canopy with one powerful blow. Just as the Mok’tu moved to strike, Nick throttled up to maximum and glanced off a large piece of nearby debris. His precisely aimed impact ripped the Mok’tu from the module, leaving its mangled body embedded in the floating, twisted debris. One metal arm still held onto the module, spewing sparks and fluid from its severed end. It was all that remained of the killing machine.
“Yeehaw! Didn’t see that coming, did you? You metal bastard!”
Nick flew clear of the debris field and pulled an Immelmann maneuver to get a better view of the hyperspace window. Massive, exploding sections of the Vontuk’s hull poured in through the huge window. There was no doubt that the mighty Mok’tu vessel would not survive. Nick watched in awe as inner pieces of the ship flooded into hyperspace. It was an amazing testimony to the destructive power of hyperspace technology. As a scientist, he had only imagined hyperspace as a way for faster space travel. He had totally ignored the destructive implications of the technology. No doubt his military backers were fully aware of its potential as a weapon. How naïve he had been.
After a few minutes of reflection, Nick finally came back to his senses and switched off the hyperspace window. Mok’tu soldiers floated in the debris field, moving in the distance as they struggled in the weightless vacuum of hyperspace. The creepy montage of ship debris and living machines distracted him for a few more moments. How long would they survive? He wondered.
Nick quickly put some distance between him and the dangerous twisted metal, scanning for gravitational anomalies to get a fix on his location. He had a plan. He almost always had a plan. But would his luck hold out?
He kept a watchful eye on the module’s power level, turning off every non-essential system he could. If he could locate the probe that had been launched from the Ashok before his salvaged battery power ran out, he would at least have a chance. Without precious power, he would freeze to death or suffocate in the cold empty void of hyperspace. It would be too risky to jump back to normal space now. He needed to find that probe.
Captain Arya sat quietly on the bridge of the Ashok as the ship’s engines continued to put distance between them and the enemy. Unlike the heavier ships of the Mok’tu and the Dragorans, the Ashok had speed on its side. The Grok was already fading from their sensors. Its captain had hesitated too long before giving chase and would not be able to catch up to them now.
Signaling the Dragorans with the location of Nick’s rendezvous with the Mok’tu had worked beautifully. Maybe too well. The Dragorans never suspected that the signal Arya had sent was a ruse. The Dragorans trusted their spies, maybe a little too much. They had never expected Arya to get free from the clutches of their insidious spy nanites. The Dragoran nanites were programmed with a number of fail-safes, one of which was a command to survive at all cost. But in a case of total failure with no chance of escape, the nanites that inhabited the spy’s brain would simply terminate their host and then self destruct. Most likely, no one had ever survived their removal.
Despite the emotional pain the Dragorans had caused her, Arya had discovered a perk to having carried the nanites. She had only just now begun to understand the vague images she saw in her mind, but having been a Dragoran spy might have given her an edge over the enemy. She had begun to piece together glimpses of Dragoran codes, procedures, and other images that flitted around in her head. Somehow a portion of the knowledge contained within the artificial neural network of the spy nanites had been imparted to Arya’s brain. Some sort of neural bleed-back effect. That’s how she was able to trick the Dragorans with a coded signal. But Nick may have paid the price for her success.
Arya replayed the vid of Nick’s craft plunging into hyperspace. At least it looked lik
e Nick had survived entry. But would he now die alone in hyperspace? Would he find his way home or come out into some other part of the galaxy? Even if he managed to make it out of hyperspace alive, he could end up far from any habitable planets. She couldn’t shake an image of Nick’s frozen body, floating along in hyperspace, encased in the metal casket of a powerless hyperspace module. Ironically, the elusive domain of hyperspace that Nick sought so hard to uncover may turn out to be his final resting place.
She stared out the forward view-screen of the Ashok. Nick had known the risks. The entire crew had known, and they had all signed off on the plan. The Mok’tu Star-Killer had to be destroyed at any cost. The research being carried out aboard that ship had to be eliminated. No trace of the data could be allowed to remain. Nothing could be left that the Mok’tu could use to begin their research again. Arya kept telling herself that Nick’s plan had been necessary, that it had to be done, but all her inner talk didn’t change the way she felt.
At least there was one good thing about the Mok’tu. They guarded their secrets well. They always kept their high priority research projects on one vessel. The Vontuk was the Star-Killer assigned to acquire the hyperspace technology. That’s where the freking Tac Squad had come from. All the Mok’tu’s research into hyperspace was most likely contained within that one ship. The Mok’tu tended to be overly confident of their superiority. A flaw they shared with the Dragorans. It was their biggest weakness. They would have felt safe with their hyperspace research tucked safely away aboard one of their most powerful ships. With luck, Nick’s sacrifice had destroyed the Mok’tu’s entire hyperspace research program in one lethal blow. At the very least, it should delay their progress long enough to give the Resistance a fighting chance.
Arya gazed again at the video of Nick’s final moments. Without looking up from the screen, she asked for a status report from her first officer. “Sirok, what’s our ETA?” She pushed a few buttons on her console to change the video’s wavelength to the infrared spectrum.
“Estimated arrival in three days, Aris time. That is, if the charts you acquired on that commerce planet are accurate.”
“Good. I’ll be in the…um, my ready-room. Keep me posted.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Arya pushed herself up from the captain’s chair and walked through the ready-room doors. The room felt different without the powerful presence of Argos. So cold and quiet, like the spooky emptiness of a deserted building. She could almost feel the spirit of Argos sitting behind his desk.
A voice suddenly broke the silence, calling out her name. “Arya.”
Arya jumped. “I must be going mad. That sounded like…Argos? But how can that be?” She panned her gaze around the room, scanning nervously for a ghostly figure.
“Arya, it’s your old friend Argos. Prophecy is upon us,” the voice continued.
This time Arya’s cat-like ears pinpointed the location of the voice. She spun toward the desk. A dim light emanated from a monitor, illuminating the chair directly in front of it with an eerie glow. For a split second Arya swore she saw Argos sitting there, his back as straight and strong as always.
“I have recorded this message for you and you alone. The computer sensed that you are the only one in the room and activated the display.” The voice came from the monitor on the desk.
Arya was relieved and saddened at the same time. It was only a recording. Not some ghostly embodiment of Argos. Part of her wished it was Argos somehow returning from the beyond. She so desperately wanted to see him, talk to him again. But she’d seen him die with her own eyes. She knew he was gone.
Ignoring the burning of emotion in her eyes, she moved around the desk to see an image of Argos displayed on the screen. He had been like a father to her. It was her fault that he was dead, killed by her own hand. Everyone had told her that she wasn’t to blame, that there was nothing she could have done. The nanites had gained complete control of her brain, and she wasn’t responsible for her actions. But that was of little comfort. The nanites may have blocked her outgoing nerve impulses, severing any control she had of her body, but they didn’t keep her from seeing and hearing everything that unfolded. Perhaps that was part of the Dragorans plan; keep the host weak by preying on their emotions. Force the host’s brain to watch as their own body murdered everyone they cared about. It was a torture of immeasurable cruelty. She had been a prisoner in her own body, screaming and clawing to get out. Begging to find some way to overcome the nanite’s control and stop her own finger from pulling the trigger. She could still feel the pistol in her hand, still hear the final moan from Argos as he hit the floor.
Argos must have suspected her brain had been compromised. He had tried to covertly scan her that day, in this very room. His attempt had been a fatal mistake. The nanite’s artificial personality, with its almost paranoid state of awareness, had detected his attempt to scan her and sprang into action. A split second later, Argos lay dying on the floor. The vivid memories were not something she would ever forget. No matter how hard she forced it to the back of her mind, it was always there, haunting her. Now the vision of Argos on the screen brought it all flooding back, every terrible second of it.
Tears flowed unchecked down her face, dripping onto the desk as she reached to touch the image of Argos on the display.
“Argos, I am so sorry.” The pain in her eyes was starkly clear from the reflection in the ancient ship’s bell that was proudly displayed on the desk. The bell had been a gift to Argos from the Admiral. The reflection of her face startled her. The last time she had seen an image of herself staring back from a mirror, it hadn’t been her at all. Instead, she’d seen the face of a monster looking back at her. A monster with her face, her eyes, her mouth.
Arya turned away from her reflection. She still couldn’t bear to look at herself.
On the screen, centered in front of a paused vid of Argos, a small window prompted her for a password in order to continue playback. Arya stared at the flashing cursor, lost in her own regrets. Suddenly, the request for a password tugged at her brain and she became more present in the moment. “Password? What password?” She frowned in concentration. Argos wanted to tell her something but he hadn’t bothered to give her a clue how to access it.
“Password,” she murmured. “What could it be?”
She tried entering a couple of passwords that she had used in the past, but it gained her no entry into Argos’ message. Trying to use a patience she didn’t feel, she punched in a few pass codes she thought Argos may have used. Nothing worked. She thought hard about what kind of password he could have possibly used to encrypt the video, but everything she tried failed. Arya’s frustration was mounting. It had been building all day. She had felt helpless to save Argos, helpless to protect Nick, and now helpless to even hear a message from her dead Captain. Her emotions were beginning to get the best of her. Everything she had been through lately and now this? Is this some sort of cruel joke?
Arya closed her eyes and breathed deeply and slowly in an attempt to calm herself. No, Argos would never play a joke on her. He must have encrypted the message for a reason.
She took another deep breath. “Alright then. What could Argos have been thinking? He must have set the code to something I would know. But what?”
She reached over and pressed a button on the console, starting the video over from the beginning. “Arya, it’s your old friend Argos. Prophecy is upon us.”
She paused the vid, trying to decipher that last cryptic phrase.
“Prophecy is upon us?”
Her brow lowered as she concentrated. The Captain wasn’t one for believing in prophecy. Still, he may have used something common to their ancestry, an old story they would have both heard in childhood. Could it be? What was the name of that prophecy her mother had told her as a child? The one of the noble warrior from a distant world. She knew the story, but what was its name? The Prophecy of….
“Frek!” she shouted in frustration.
It was no use. She couldn’t remember the name of the freking story. Who else might know? The ship’s database was far from complete, but…. “What the hetek.” It wouldn’t hurt to give it a try. Without touching the console, Arya’s wireless neural interface signaled the computer to run a search.
“Searching,” the computer stated in a mechanical voice.
Arya sat down in the Captain’s chair and waited impatiently, hoping.
After a short time, the computer stated, “One result found.”
Arya leaned forward, her heartbeat quickening. Maybe the answer was in the database, after all.
The Prophecy of Arimis displayed on the screen in front of her.
“No. Not Arimis,” she sighed with discontent. She was familiar with the prophecy the computer referenced. It was a well known story, but not the one she was searching for.
“It freking figures. I wish we had even half of the dran data from the Arisian archives.” If they weren’t so far into Demented Space, she might be able to contact someone in the Resistance for more information on Arisian prophecies, but that was not an option to her at the moment.
Disappointed, she leaned the chair back as far as it would go and closed her eyes. She could see why Argos liked the chair so much. It felt like floating on a cloud. Soft and comfortable, and yet supportive. It was by far the best chair on the ship. She hadn’t felt anything this comfortable since she’d been whisked away from the Palace in the middle of the night for her protection. That had been so long ago, and so much had happened since she’d barely escaped the Mok’tu invasion.
The stress of the long day was taking its toll on her. Exhaustion was beginning to set in. As she reclined there, she pondered the name of the old forgotten prophecy. Her mind drifted to her childhood in the Royal Palace. So many of the things she’d been taught as a child had seemed silly, boring, and useless at the time. But now it was all beginning to make sense. Government structure, politics, the heritage of the Arisian people. They’d been training her, even at that young age. Grooming her for her future role as Queen. Combat training. Now that was something she hadn’t minded at all. She would have spent all day in the combat sim room if they would’ve let her. She smiled at the thought of those carefree days of childhood.