Space Fleet Sagas Foundation Trilogy: Books One, Two, and Three in the Space Fleet Sagas

by Don Foxe

  Lisza Kaugh translated into Light Cutters. Yauni’s race produced crystals designed to provide power sources for a variety of devices throughout the Trading Alliance worlds.

  “We place the crystal in a copper-alloy cage,” Dr. Hernandez tells them. “The cage contains fibrils similar to organic neurofilaments. The filaments connect to a larger cage encapsulating the smaller cage and the crystal. When refracted light is emitted at the cutlet, it escapes into the fibers, and charges the surrounding cage. The cage emits a power field, creating a bubble, which surrounds the ship. The bubble absorbs space and time from in front of the ship. The ship, and crew slip into a space-fold event. The bubble releases the compressed space and time behind the ship. The result is faster-than-light travel.”

  “Like a jet-engine taking in air, mixing it with accelerant, turning the turbines to create the force necessary for flight, and speed, and then emitting the hot air,” Dr. Ordon surmised aloud.

  “Besides the main laser, we use a number of others that strike the crystal at specific angles. We also mix, and match an assortment of colored lasers. Each color represents a prescribed level of strength. We use red, green, and blue to charge intersecting facets. Either a blue-violet, or white laser is utilized as the main beam. Each crystal is unique. It requires time to discover the combinations necessary to produce a space-fold bubble and produced the desired rate of travel.”

  “And this square cut design?” Yauni asked, picking up the third crystal. “We have similar cuts, but usually smaller. We use them to emit light. We can place them in a manner that, if one is activated, it will activate succeeding crystals. Dwards, the miners on Rys, use such a system to light tunnels.”

  “It’s called a radiant,” Trent explained. “Placed within a special ceramic-carbon-polly alloy tube, and activated with a narrow beam white laser, it provides the power for a tachyon burst. These are the energy source for the tachyon cannons we created. The one you hold will power the cannon installed on the 109.”

  “These radiants are the crystals for the people on Rys?” Tasha asked. “You’re sending crystals, to a planet of crystals, to purchase crystals?”

  “Like sending coal to Newcastle,” Trent agreed. “It sounds silly on the surface, but as Yauni pointed out, these cuts are unique. The two space-fold crystals are back-ups for the 109. They remain on the ship. As far as we know, Earth has the only space-fold technology active in the universe, and we are not letting it go. If the Zenge gained space-fold travel, there would be no stopping them.

  “Rys will receive a half-dozen radiants, and the equipment to build six tachyon cannons. In return, we’re asking for raw crystals we can use to build more space-fold arrays, and tachyon cannons. We have the equipment for cutting, shaping, and polishing the raw crystals to create what we need.”

  “But you will not share your knowledge?” Yauni asked.

  “As I said, and as I have been instructed by the Board of Governors for the United Earth Council, space-fold technology will not be shared. What your people do with the radiants provided to you, is up to you. Your cutters are welcome to replicate the radiant cuts, and reverse engineer the remaining elements of the array.”

  “If we can replicate the radiants, but cannot produce the materials for the cannons themselves?” Yauni let the question sit.

  “Then we may have a basis for future trade between our aligned worlds,” Trent replied with a smile.

  “An alliance of mutual assistance,” Tasha mused aloud. “For a species who have not traded with others in the galaxy, you have a shrewd mind for it.”

  “Humans are unfamiliar with interstellar commerce, but we have engaged in trading for centuries,” Hiro added to the conversation.

  “Upon reaching Rys, we would like Yauni to introduce us as friends, and have Tasha barter for an alliance,” Trent said. “If the Zenge are there, then Captain Cooper will do all he can to kick them out. If they are not there, we provide Rys with the weapons to keep them out.”

  “Shouldn’t Captain Cooper be present for this meeting?” Hiro asked. “It seems the captain of the ship should be aware of the mission.”

  “Kennedy?” Trent spoke aloud.

  “Yes, Dr. Trent,” came the AI’s immediate reply.

  “Are you keeping Captain Cooper apprised of everything we discuss?”

  “He is receiving the meeting notes in his office. He is completely aware of the mission.”

  “Unless someone has something to add,” Trent said, standing, “I would suggest everyone get as much station time as you need. The 99 will transfer to the Mars Shipyards for her official launch in twenty-four hours. The 109 will join her there for the ceremonies. Your trade mission begins two weeks following the 99’s launch.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Lt. McCormack, those people are really the Space Rangers?”

  A young corporal, assigned to the Officer’s Club on MSD, held a swinging door to the kitchen partially open. His eyes on a group seated along the far wall of the lounge. His commanding officer, Lt. Heidi McCormack, worked behind him, overseeing preparations for evening meals.

  “They call themselves Space Ranger Grads,” she said. “Not enough people survived the project to actually form a Space Ranger company. It is rude to stare, corporal.”

  The enlisted man allowed the door to swing shut. “I’ve read stories, and I’ve seen a couple on news-streamers. Guess I never really thought of them as real. I mean, super humans?”

  “Exo-meta-humans.” A large, black-granite block of a man leaned against the wall beside the walk-in freezer. He snacked on cheesecake. Lieutenant Commander Henry Smith, Command Supply Officer for MSD, wiped his hands, and then his mouth with a linen napkin.

  “Excuse me, Suppo. What?”

  “Corporal, an exo-metahuman is someone with powers, and, or abilities considered beyond human norms. Said person receiving such abilities through a combination of external mechanics, bio-engineering, and the presence of a metagene. A metagene is a genetic trait which lies dormant until activated.” The black officer smiled. White teeth, and the mirth in his eyes, equally bright.

  “Henry made that up,” McCormack said.

  “True,” he agreed, “but it fits. Do you know the whole story about the Space Rangers Project?” he asked the serviceman.

  The kitchen staff gathered.

  “Henry, you can tell your story, but keep it quick, and simple. I need these people back to work.” Henry noted Lt. McCormack did not depart. The Space Rangers bridged important milestones in human history. They represented living story-book characters.

  “Three decades ago, the United Earth Council began considering the creation of Space Fleet. They knew, one day Earth would possess the ability to reach out to the galaxy. To insure success, those ships needed special crews. People able to operate in the hostile environments of outer space.”

  Henry commandeered a stool. He sat in front of the prep table, within easy reach of assorted munchables. “Nathan Trent decoded the files left by whatever alien race built, and then abandoned a flying saucer there, on Mars.” He pointed to his right. He was pointing into deep space, nowhere near Mars’ current location, but no one corrected him.

  “How to manipulate genetic sequences, and bio-enhancement formulas were found among the data deciphered. Formulas to generate beings with incredible resilience, strength, and speed. How to re-engineer people capable of self-healing, and molecular-level regeneration.” He leaned forward, bringing his audience near, and whispered. “A way to make someone more likely to survive prolonged periods in space. Away from civilization, and far from help.”

  “Like us, sitting in a fully stocked kitchen, attached to an orbiting saloon for officers?” McCormack asked, the snark obvious.

  Henry’s voice returned to its normal deep bass. “No, not like that. Thirty years ago, people saw space as big, and scary. No one considered travel to alien planets occurring in days. They thought trips would take decades.”

  “Is this why
Space Rangers don’t age?” the corporal asked. “So they can survive in space for decades?”

  “It was a major consideration,” Henry acknowledged. “Geneticists on Earth, while working on a cure for the pandemic virus, discovered the Methuselah gene. There was a time, before the great flood, when humans lived for hundreds of years. In the Bible, Methuselah was described as over eight-hundred years old. The codes for extended lifespans still exist within human genomes.” He leaned back, and reached for a black olive.

  McCormack looked at her watch, but did not hurry the story, or disband the impromptu meeting. Henry did notice her concern. He continued, deciding to cut to the chase a bit more quickly than normal.

  “Genetic engineers, biochemists, and physicians gathered by the UEC, were provided this data. Then told to create a re-engineered human capable of exploring the universe.” He popped the olive into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed while everyone waited.

  “Exo . . . meta . . . humans,” he finally said. “They designed external methods to enhance human capabilities, and found a way to reactivate the Methuselah gene.”

  Before anyone could comment on his amalgamation, he continued. “While they refined the process, every military unit, police force, and para-military group on Earth received a dispatch . . . the UEC needed volunteers. Any volunteer who passed the physical, and psychological tests, would join an experiment to create a Space Ranger Corps. A company of elite humans trained to operate in space, and on any planet, moon, or planetoid. People with the strength to lift a tractor, and the speed to outrun a hover-cycle. Explorers able to survive life in space, resistant to infections. Astronauts with unbreakable bones. Any non-fatal wound would self-heal in hours to days, depending on the severity.”

  Henry, who truly loved telling stories, looked up, as if looking back in time, taking his little group along.

  “Over 20,000 answered the call. Psych exams reduced the number to less than 12,000. Physicals and medical tests dropped it another 6,000. A board of experts reviewed those 6,000, and produced a list of 2,000 finalists.

  “Everyone agreed these 2,000 met every requirement, and possessed the characteristics for success.” He told them this, as if he had been there to agree.

  He pointed at the corporal who had initiated the conversation. “2,000 of the world’s finest special operators were brought to a secret location somewhere in Nevada. They began a six-month process to cull the best from the rest.”

  Again, he leaned forward, and they leaned in. McCormack, who knew the Space Rangers’ story better than most, could not stop from leaning forward herself.

  The LCMD then whispered, as if sharing state secrets, or scary stories around a campfire. “Daily tortures.” A pause, and he resumed at his normal volume. “From physical readiness, to armed combat; hand-to-hand matches to see who could beat who. Your sex didn’t matter. Your age didn’t matter. You fought to remain in the project. Mental games tested their wills. They were judged on their ability to act, or react to situations from the seemingly insignificant, to impossible scenarios. They were dropped in the desert without supplies. They had to climb a mountain, in a thunderstorm.

  “By the end of the sixth month, only two hundred-twenty remained.”

  Henry turned on his stool to inspect the prospects available from the prep table. After careful consideration, he opted for another olive.

  “You can eat later, Henry,” McCormack said. “Finish, so I can get some work done.”

  The Supply Officer nodded in understanding. He dropped his eyes, and lowered his voice, bringing his audience nearer. “Two hundred-twenty placed in genetic modification tanks. The tanks filled with a gel compound created from a formula found in the Martian files. Supplements, and exotic chemical compounds pumped into the last of the volunteers. Finally, lasers, and electrical pulses fired energy into the vats of soup. They were supposed to remain in those tanks for twenty-four hours.”

  Henry sat back, his sad face, and drooping shoulders foreshadowing the painful twist to the story.

  “For twenty-hours everything preceded according to plan. Then, one-by-one, people began to die. They simply stopped breathing.

  “Of the two hundred-twenty volunteers who entered tanks, twelve survived. Those twelve emerged with the special attributes everyone hoped for, but with no statistical commonalities to prove why they survived, while others did not.”

  “Statistical commonalities?” The question came from a private who had slowly worked herself to the front of the group. From her wide eyes, and pinched expression, this may have been the first time she heard the complete tale of the Space Rangers Project.

  “No two survivors had anything in common to explain why they had lived, while two hundred-eight equals died. Seven males, and five females. Eight white, three black, and one asian. Two US, two Canadian, two Brits, one Spanish, one French, one Russian, one Ethiopian, one Japanese, one Israeli.”

  Henry looked the private eye-to-eye, holding her with his dark gaze. The story told, Henry explained the conditions which followed.

  “No one could say why twelve lived, and the others died. The risks verses rewards proved too high to continue. The UEC ended the program. Twelve people were insufficient to create a Space Ranger force.”

  “If not Space Rangers, what?” the private asked.

  “They were incredibly gifted, and extremely valuable. They were also going to live an exceedingly long time. They were the first, and to this day, the only exo-metahumans.

  “Survivors could select any service they wished to join. They could attach with any military, police, or para-military group aligned with the UEC.

  “Or opt for civilian life. But they had to remain in service to the UEC, who guaranteed they received support, income, and access to medical, and psychological services when, and if, needed.

  “As another condition, they would not be allowed to serve in any military branch at the rank of General, or Admiral. They had a rank ceiling. Finally, because the survivors faced extended lives, and would remain physically young, they could switch disciplines, or even affiliations, with approval. If the UEC was not going to have a Space Ranger Corps, it would have the best trained military special operators on Earth.”

  Smith let his last words settle. He stood quickly; the action startled his little audience. “Gotta go. Work calls. Lt. McCormack, thanks for the cake.”

  They watched him exit the employee entrance, and turned, as one, to look at the swinging door leading to the Officers’ Lounge. Imagining the room beyond, and the special group within. McCormack allowed a moment of reflection, before ordering her staff back to business.

  In the Officers’ Club on MSD, at two tables pushed together, sat nine of the original twelve Space Ranger Grads. The three absent were dead. Two KIA in separate missions on Earth, and one suicide.

  Present from the crew of the PT-109, Captain Daniel “Coop” Cooper (US), Captain Elena “Elie” Casalobos (SPN), Colonel Anton Gregory (RUS), Colonel Rachelle Paré (CAN), Colonel Senait “Sindy” Kebede (ETH), and Dr. Hiroshi “Hiro” Kimura (JPN).

  Representing SFPT-99, the Franklin Delano Roosevelt, were Captain Samuel “Sam” Harrington (UK), and Colonel Noa Tal (ISR).

  EMS2’s latest Chief of Security, Colonel Benedict “Benny” Claflin (UK), completed the nine.

  Ship’s Counselor, Genna Bouvier, avatar, occupied a tenth chair. Coop invited Genna to the meeting because, as an engineered human, she had much in common with the re-engineered grads of the Space Ranger Project. For that same reason, Adele, the Roosevelt’s avatar, made number eleven.

  Cooper stood, and raised his glass. “To those missing, but never forgotten." The others stood, and all, but Genna, and Adele, said in unison “Boorah,” then downed their drink of choice.

  Once reseated, Cooper continued, “We haven’t been together as a group in over twenty years.”

  “Closer to twenty-five,” Anton corrected.

  “Twenty-five,” Cooper amended. “I asked Fleet A
dmiral Patterson to contact each of you with an offer to complete what we started thirty years ago. The chance to go into space, and make a difference.

  “My thanks to Elie, Anton, Rachelle, Sindy, and Hiro for joining me aboard the 109.

  “My congratulations to Benny for accepting the Chief of Security position on EMS2. I understand it will soon include security for MSD, and Mars as well. Benny will help develop the final line of defense, should the Zenge get through the rest of us. To Benny!”

  A chorus of ‘BooRah’ from everyone, but Anton, the Fleet Marine, who called ‘HooRah.’ Genna joined in this time, having no idea what BooRah or HooRah meant. Experiencing Scotch whiskey for the first time in her short life. The effect . . . warming. Adele, not yet the confidence to shout along with the others, but the whiskey did have a calming effect.

  “Please recognize Noa Tal, the new Chief Pilot for the 99.”

  “BooRah,” louder, and drinks downed quicker. Adele joined the BooRah, and giggled as she sat down.

  Noa, a strikingly pretty Jewish woman with light olive skin, and curly black hair, raised her glass, and responded. “My thanks to Captain Cooper for recommending me to the Admiral." She turned, and faced Elie, seated alongside Coop. “My thanks to Captain Casalobos, for turning the job down to fly off into the galaxy.”

  “Finally, we give sincere congratulations to Sam Harrington. Formerly British Royal Air Force, then UEC Air Force, and now assigned as Captain of the Franklin Delano Roosevelt.”

  The loudest “HooRah” of the night, joined by all, and appreciated by the other officers present around the lounge.

  Harrington, a ruddy-faced Brit with short brown hair, and bright blue eyes, turned to face Genna, seated on the same side of the table. “My special thanks to Genna Bouvier for kicking Captain Black’s arse off the command chair of the 109, and out of consideration for the 99. And to Anton,” a nod to the Russian, “for hauling her skinny arse off the bridge.”