Declination

by David Derrico

  FLYLEAF

  On the bridge of the Apocalypse, multihued status lights blinked their variegated chorus, tactical display consoles streamed data garnered from the enemy vessel, and the ship’s computer silently tended to a myriad of pre-programmed functions. The ship was seven short of its normal complement, leaving only one man—Daniel Atgard—but his attention was not concentrated on blinking lights or scrolling readouts. Daniel Atgard’s attention was, instead, focused rather intently on the viewscreen, which displayed an image that was, though from a decade ago, hauntingly familiar.

  Suddenly, the viewscreen changed, resolving to show the bridge of the alien ship. Every detail of the bridge was exactly as he remembered it: hovering light-beings clustered around indecipherable patterns of light, flickering and changing shape seemingly at will. In the center was a being more brilliant than the rest, and the Admiral was forced to squint in order to prevent the entire scene from merging into a single luminous blur.

  “Yes, Admiral Daniel Caesar Atgard,” came the being’s delayed response. “We do indeed remember you.”

  The words—or, more accurately, the thoughts—of the creature were not spoken aloud, but instead reverberated only in Daniel’s mind.

  “Good,” replied the Admiral, leaning forward in his command chair, uncomfortably aware that he was alone on the ship. “Then you remember what happened the last time you killed innocent people without provocation.”

  “Yes,” replied the being, in the same manner as before. “We do indeed remember what happened.”

  “Yet you destroy entire planets,” spat the Admiral, only peripherally aware that his emotions were threatening to overcome him. “And you come again to destroy another. Must we trade death for death? How many will be enough? How many humans do you have to kill before the ‘justice’ you claim you seek has been meted out?”

  The aliens appeared to ponder this for several moments, flickering in unison as they presumably discussed their response. Abruptly the flickering abated, and the light-being in the center seemed to float slightly closer as it spoke.

  “All of them,” it said.

  The viewscreen suddenly went black.

  * * * * *

  PRAISE FOR DECLINATION

  “I enjoyed my hours in Captain Mason’s company quite thoroughly. The Vr’amil’een make me hope to meet more Derrico-created alien species, his human characters have more depth here than in his first novel, and he brings his tale to a wrenchingly ironic (and surprising) conclusion. He offers a morality play transformed into high adventure and that’s a working definition of science fiction at its best.”

  - Nina M. Osier, eBook-Reviews.net

  * * * * *

  DECLINATION

  A Novel By David Derrico

  * * * * *

  DECLINATION

  Smashwords Edition

  Find paperback and other editions of Declination at:

  www.rightascension.com

  Copyright 2010 by David Derrico

  Cover art copyright 2010 by David Derrico

  Cover background image used courtesy of NASA and the Hubble Heritage Team at the Space Telescope Science Institute.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  v. 2.11S

  ISBN: 978-1-4486-8914-9 (print version)

  * * * * *

  ALSO BY DAVID DERRICO

  RIGHT ASCENSION,

  The Prequel to Declination

  * * * * *

  For my mother, Debra Derrico.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  16 Nov 3050

  The bridge seemed cold, Anastasia thought, though she distantly realized that it was probably just her nerves. The chair she sat in—the captain’s chair—felt uncomfortably new, and she could not help but fidget self-consciously. Though the memory-gel cushion had quickly adjusted to her form, it somehow lacked the comfort of her previous command chair, which had, through years of use, totally adapted to her. More importantly, she thought, she had totally adapted to it.

  Anastasia fought to suppress a shiver, something in the back of her mind preventing her from getting comfortable on her new ship. The hairs at the nape of her neck tingled, thankfully hidden from view by the long black locks that trailed down her back. She made a conscious effort to push her impending mission from her thoughts, with little success.

  Unconsciously, Captain Mason ran her slender fingers over the chair’s armrest controls. Just about every system aboard the magnificent ship could be controlled from there, though Anastasia certainly did not doubt the need for the vessel’s other seven crewmembers. After all, she remembered, she had been one of those crewmembers on a similar ship not so long ago.

  The Captain gazed at the ship’s familiar bridge and thought how things had seemingly come full circle. Yet, though she had sat in a chair just like this one on a ship almost exactly like this one many times, this time was undeniably different. Whereas, a decade ago, she had only sat in the chair as the ship’s First Officer, now the chair was rightfully hers. And, whereas, onboard the Apocalypse, she had served under the legendary Admiral Daniel Atgard, this time, this ship—this crew—was her responsibility, and hers alone.

  Anastasia inhaled deeply, her lungs not yet accustomed to the ship’s recycled air. Though oxygen, pressure, and humidity were all theoretically maintained at levels that precisely reproduced conditions on Earth, Anastasia had always felt that canned air had a funny smell. Scientists and technicians would swear that there was no noticeable difference between pure air and the manufactured variety, but Captain Mason could sense the tinny, artificial quality of shipborne air. She would soon get used to it, however. She always did, after a time.

  The Captain looked around, finding that the bridge layout was just as she had remembered it, and for a fleeting moment it seemed as if it was just yesterday that Captain Mason had spent most of her waking hours on just such a bridge. She looked to the First Officer’s chair to her right, and an unconscious smile found its way to her lips.

  “Captain?”

  Anastasia blinked to find that she had been staring curiously at Commander Victor Zeeman. The Commander was middle-aged, his kindly face topped with a short crop of graying hair. He returned the Captain’s gaze with an inquiring look of his own.

  “Sorry, Commander,” she replied, “I was just reminiscing for a moment.”

  Victor smiled, chuckling lightly. “The Apocalypse, eh?”

  The Captain nodded, clearing her mind and bringing her full attention back to the present. “That was some ship.”

  “And some crew,” the Commander replied. “You all seemed to do pretty well for yourselves after the Apocalypse was retired.”

  Lieutenant Matthews, seated at the pilot’s console in the front of the bridge, turned to the two officers and added, “I guess the least they could do was promote everyone after that Lucani Ibron thing, right, Captain?”

  Anastasia’s eyebrows arched upward. That Lucani Ibron thing. “Well, if you wanted to get yourself promoted, the best way to do it was to get yourself on Admiral Atgard’s crew.”

  Commander Zeeman looked to her and smiled. “If you were good enough to get on his crew,” he replied, “you were good enough to get yourself promoted anyway.”

  Anastasia smiled, but said nothing. She didn’t really know which theory was right.

  . . . . .

  The transport shuddered violently, and the restraining harnesses were the only things that kept the soldiers in the back of the vehicle from being tossed around the cabin like toys. The transport was filled with its normal complement�
��12 soldiers—and space aboard the vessel was tight. Though he was sweating beneath his combat gear, Dex barely even noticed that the cabin temperature—not unusually—had reached 35 degrees Celsius.

  There was a new force acting upon the dropshuttle now, and the jostling quickly became more intense. The retros had fired, and the vessel was slowing itself rapidly before it impacted the hard desert floor several thousand meters below.

  An orange light over the exit hatch lit up, and Commander Rutcliffe braced himself for the impending impact. The dropshuttle slammed into the ground, stirring up a plume of red dirt that could be seen through the cabin’s two wide, slitted viewports. Almost instantly, the light over the door flashed green, and the restraining harnesses broke away. The hatch slammed open, and it only took a few moments for the dozen Commandos to file out of the ship.

  Dropping into a combat stance beside his men, Dex reached behind him and pulled his MX-18 repeater rifle from its holster, training it on the mountains to his left. He quickly surveyed their drop zone, a barren, red expanse of dirt almost completely ringed by a short mountain range. Several outcroppings of rock dotted the plain, but, all in all, it was one of the most disadvantaged fighting positions he had ever had the pleasure of landing in.

  “Team two,” he called, his gruff voice audible over the slowly fading resonance of the dropship’s spent thrusters, “get to that outcropping and watch the mountains to the east. Team three, use the dropship for cover and watch their flanks. Team one, you’re with me.”

  Without waiting for a response, Dex sprang to his feet and raced to a series of rock outcroppings to his left. The heavy footfalls of three of his men followed him, and, predictably, just before they reached the safety of the rocks, the mountains opened up in a deluge of laser fire.

  Dex dove to the ground, sliding along the loose upper layer of dirt and rolling into a crouch at the base of one of the rock formations. He hid his body behind the boulder, sliding his rifle into a crevice in the barrier, and opened fire on the mountain range.

  The rest of his team was also returning fire, but, with the cover provided by the mountains, he knew their shots were mostly ineffectual. The enemy had entrenched themselves in the mountains, and they were firing upon his men from two separate protected positions. Dex quickly surveyed the terrain between him and the mountains and ducked back behind the rock. “Zip,” he yelled, his muscles coiled, “follow me!”

  Dex tossed the smoke grenade a half-second before he sprang to his feet, and it quickly exploded into a thick ball of concealing white smoke. He waited just an instant before rushing into the cloud, watching as the attackers’ fire tracked toward the billowing gas. As soon as it had, the remaining two members of his team sprang up from behind their concealed positions, laying down a heavy pattern of covering fire. The attackers’ fire thinned out, and Dex and Zip raced through the cloud and toward the mountains, still nearly fifty meters away. The smoke cloud was beginning to dissipate, and Dex cocked the bottom barrel of his assault rifle. A concussion grenade locked into the firing chamber, and Dex fired it at the attackers’ position in the mountains before him. He and Zip ran out of the cloud just in time to see the explosion rock the mountainside.

  Dex did not slow as he reached the base of the mountain, instead leaping into it and grabbing hold of a thin ledge above him. He quickly slung his rifle over his shoulder and reached up with his free hand, pulling himself even higher along the rock wall. In a few seconds, he had reached a more substantial ledge, and he hauled himself over.

  Zip quickly followed him up, and from his new vantage point Dex could finally see his attackers. They were Turians, all right, and their russet hides provided near-perfect camouflage against the rock face. Dex’s keen eyes, however, scanned the area in front of him, making out several of the attackers’ hiding spots.

  Switching his rifle to sniper mode, Dex lifted the weapon to his chin and fired several quick but well-aimed bursts. Each shot was accompanied by an anguished grunt as its target was hit, and several of the dead Turians tumbled all the way to the ravine floor below.

  As if he could sense the imminent counterattack, Dex ducked behind the curving mountain face just as a smattering of laser fire descended on his position. Commander Rutcliffe peered back toward his men on the ground, and could see that they had taken advantage of the distraction, making a concerted attack on the remaining enemy position. Team three had used the distraction to move to an outcropping only a hundred meters from the enemies, and Dex could hear the muffled thumps of several concussion grenades.

  By the time the smoke from the grenades had cleared, the enemy fire had completely abated. Dex scanned the mountainside one last time and thumbed his nanocomputer’s comlink. “Rutcliffe to Control,” he reported. “Position secure.”

  . . . . .

  It took six rings of the door chime before the door slid open, and immediately Alexis knew that when she entered, she would find Ryan hunched over his workbench, no doubt tinkering with the project that had consumed him for the better part of the last year.

  Alexis walked into the room, and, predictably, Ryan was sitting in the corner, his rapt attention focused on a tiny device in his hands. While technically in his mid-forties, Ryan Taylor’s curiosity and penchant for gadgets and pranks more befit a man half his age.

  “You busy?” she asked cheerfully.

  “Never too busy for you, dear,” he replied, looking up at her for the first time. He flashed a smile, and then, turning back to his work, he added, “It’s almost done, you know.”

  “It’s about time,” she joked, taking a few short steps toward him and craning her neck in an attempt to see just what it was Ryan had been working on so secretively for so long. As if he could sense her curiosity, the corner of Ryan’s lip curled upward as he worked.

  “You’ll find out what it is soon enough, ‘Lexi,” he said, snapping a component into place and picking up a small instrument from a random pile before him. “Soon enough.”

  “Like when?” she asked impatiently, fingering a strand of her flame-red hair.

  Ryan passed the instrument over the device and set them both down on the table. “I’d say in about 15 seconds,” he said, clapping his hands together.

  “It’s done?” asked Alexis, rushing over to him. “Can I see?”

  “Sure,” he said, picking up the device and rising from his seat. “Sit over there and enjoy the show.”

  Alexis obliged, sitting in a chair across from him and quickly folding her hands in her lap. Ryan took the device, which seemed to be a standard personal nanocomputer, and strapped it to his wrist. There was an almost inaudible hum, and Alexis thought she saw Ryan momentarily wince in pain just before a broad smile covered his face.

  “Check this out,” he said.

  Ryan extended his arm outward, and suddenly the nanocomputer’s holo-vid projector flared to life, projecting a three-dimensional image of their ship, the Brigadier, into the air between them.

  “How in the—”

  “You see, I’ve modified this encee to accept direct neural inputs,” Ryan explained. “I can now control it by simply—”

  As he spoke, the projection wavered, flashing on and off before disappearing entirely. As it did, a bright spark shot out from the nanocomputer on Ryan’s wrist, searing a patch of his dark skin.

  “Ow!”

  “Are you okay?” Alexis asked, rising from her seat.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he grumbled. “I guess it still needs a bit of work.”

  “Hey,” Alexis said, walking over to him and placing her hand on his shoulder, “that was pretty cool, Ryan. Really amazing, actually. And I’m sure you’ll have it perfected in no time.”

  Ryan sighed disconsolately. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I have faith in you,” Alexis said, looking into his eyes. She suppressed a chuckle. “Just so long as you don’t want to test your next prototype on me.”

  Ryan looked at her sternly, but he could not help but laugh.


  . . . . .

  The alert board was lit up with about two dozen different red lights, and, frankly, Zach was getting more than a little annoyed at the computer’s incessant, droning warnings.

  “Starboard shields down,” it chirped. “Inertial dampeners failing. Engines exceeding recommended limits.”

  With a flick of his wrist, Zach hit the mute switch and silenced the computer’s nagging.

  Turning his attention back to the battle raging around him, Commander Wallace looped his fighter into a tight upward circle, and, when the stars had finished their gyrations, his targeting sights were locked on the ship that had been pursuing him. A few bursts of his wing-mounted Gatling lasers, and the fighter flashed into a ball of debris.

  A laser impact rocked the side of his ship and Zach peripherally noticed that a few more warning lights had flashed to life on his console. He was glad he had muted the computer.

  “Damn,” he called into the intercom, turning to look at the ship that had fired at him. It was an older model Zach had encountered several times before, and Zach remembered with a smile the vulnerable points of the aging ship. “This is getting old. Who wants to make a run at that Corvette?”

  “I’m with you, Wolfpack Commander,” chimed a voice from over the intercom. “Let’s take that bastard out.”

  “Alright, Raven,” Zach replied. “Form on my wing.”

  Raven obliged his order, and both fighters headed toward the larger Corvette, which seemed to erupt in an even thicker hailstorm of laser fire as they approached. Jerking his ship under the Corvette’s nose, Zach flew by the larger vessel at high speed, concentrating several shots in the area of the ship’s armoured shield generators. Following close behind him, Raven poured several bright lances of her own into the area, finishing off the barrage with a well-aimed missile shot.