by Tori Harris
Operating now primarily from rote rather than conscious thought, he glanced quickly up to the ceiling where a stainless steel spray bar was sputtering to life. Hoping to reduce or eliminate any thermal evidence of their passing, the team had installed these rapid cooling units at various locations along their primary escape routes out of the building. The idea was a simple one: release a fine spray of liquid nitrogen — which instantly vaporized into super-cold gaseous nitrogen — to form a thermal barrier of sorts by rapidly cooling a relatively small volume of confined air. None of them had any idea if it would work, of course, but since both the equipment and the liquid nitrogen were readily available, they had figured it was worth a shot.
Creel scowled and shook his head, skeptical that anything short of divine intervention would allow him to escape the building, let alone the university grounds beyond, with his life. The only thing he knew for certain was that he was fully committed at this point. He had crossed a line, and there would be no going back. Still, even as bleak as his prospects seemed at the moment, he knew that the long, dark passage ahead offered by far his best chance. Getting safely away from this place also represented his one and only opportunity to assign some sort of meaning to his friends’ sacrifice. So, with a vague, distant hope that the gripping terror he felt at the moment would eventually be replaced by resignation, if not resolve, he stepped through the doorway, closed and locked it as quietly as possible behind him, and set off down the cinderblock-lined hallway at a dead run.
Like the purloined keyring jingling noisily on his belt, maintenance corridors such as this one were intended for use by the building’s custodial staff, not as a means of clandestine escape. Tonight, however, Creel hoped it would allow him to get far enough away — and quickly enough away — to save his own life, the priceless material in his leather bag, and the future of his once-proud homeworld.
Chapter 1
Earth, TFC Yucca Mountain Shipyard Facility
(30 minutes after unauthorized spacecraft entry)
Captain Hiroto Oshiro stood atop a maintenance catwalk peering down at the strangely familiar spacecraft now hovering silently just short of the landing platform beneath Berth 10. The “Grey ship” — perhaps an invalid assumption on his part, but this was the term that had immediately come to mind during his first, impromptu report to TFC Headquarters — had remained motionless now for nearly half an hour. As facility commander, his initial instinct had been to simply watch and wait, a course of action that had, thus far, been enthusiastically endorsed by Admiral Sexton and the growing number of participants on the conference comlink he had initiated. But the longer he waited, the more Oshiro wondered if he was missing something obvious. The only thing he knew with any degree of certainty at the moment was that taking any action that might be construed as even remotely hostile was a singularly bad idea.
“Still no transmissions from the ship?” he heard the Commander-in-Chief ask in his headset.
“No, sir. Nothing of any kind. In fact, we’re barely able to detect any emissions at all, not even from whatever type of power system and grav emitters they’re using. If we weren’t standing here looking at it, I think our facility AI could make a pretty good argument that it’s not really even here.”
“Humph,” Sexton grunted. “Well, let’s hope that’s nothing more than a sign of their intent to be polite guests now that they’ve invited themselves in. I assume we’ve tried all of our standard protocols for exchanging lexical data?”
“Yes, we have, sir.”
“Understood. Be advised that Chairwoman Kistler has called the Leadership Council into emergency session. I expect we’ll have them online with us at any moment.”
“I’m not surprised, sir, I … stand by one.”
“Yeah, I see it too.”
Since emerging from the facility’s entrance tunnel, the disk-shaped ship had been holding position in the area often referred to as the “roundhouse.” Although not a particularly good description of its actual shape, the term accurately described the only location within the shipyard proper that was wide enough to allow TFC vessels exceeding a kilometer in length to turn in place about their vertical axes prior to docking. Accordingly, the four berths immediately adjacent to the roundhouse were designed for these largest of ships. Unlike Fleet’s predominantly rectangular spacecraft, however, the Grey ship required no such alignment maneuvers.
As nearly everyone in the shipyard — along with a substantial number of TFC personnel at other facilities around the globe and scattered across many light years of space — watched transfixed, the craft slowly advanced once again. Just as the ship’s leading edge crossed the threshold of Berth 10, the landing platform rose to within approximately five meters of its ventral surface, apparently once again responding to the commands of its as yet unseen occupants.
The alien vessel was clearly in no hurry to complete its docking maneuver, perhaps sharing Captain Oshiro’s opinion that sudden, aggressive movements were inappropriate and even potentially dangerous under the circumstances. After nearly three minutes, which seemed to stretch into hours of interminable waiting, the ship finally ceased its forward movement, then paused briefly before extending an array of landing struts. Their smooth motion beneath the hull was accompanied by the unmistakable whine of electric motors, followed shortly thereafter by the same sorts of mechanical clunks and thuds associated with undercarriage operations aboard Fleet’s vessels. Strangely, these somewhat familiar sounds had been the first of any sort produced by the visitor. Moments later, the ship touched down lightly onto the concrete landing platform, immediately returning the shipyard to an eerie silence.
Not for the first time this morning, Captain Oshiro wished the alien ship had chosen another location — any other location — for their rather dramatic introduction to Terran Fleet Command. Why haven’t they communicated? Were they somehow just preoccupied during the approach and landing? he wondered, then immediately dismissed the idea as highly unlikely.
“I’m starting to wonder if there’s even anyone aboard,” Sexton observed over the comlink. “Maybe it’s just an ASV of some sort.”
Oshiro jumped involuntarily at the renewed sound of Sexton’s voice and couldn’t help but chuckle at his own response to the odd sense of tension permeating the huge facility. “Could be, sir, but I don’t think so. I can’t really explain why, but it just doesn’t feel that way to me, standing here looking at this thing.”
“Hmm. Well, in the absence of any hard information, I’d say we should trust your gut for now. What do you think they’re up to?”
“Pure speculation, Admiral, but I’d say they must be waiting for something. But until they decide to respond, all I know to do is continue following our standard, first contact protocols.”
Oshiro turned at the sound of footsteps, accepting a tablet computer offered by an approaching ensign. With a nod of thanks to the young officer, he glanced quickly through the environmental survey and threat assessment just completed with the help of the facility AI.
“Lisbeth Kistler here,” the Chairwoman of TFC’s Leadership Council announced as she joined the conference call from the group’s meeting chamber. “I apologize for the interruption and don’t want our participation to become a distraction, but could someone give us a brief update on the situation?”
“Of course, ma’am,” Oshiro replied, then paused to enter a quick series of commands on the tablet, notifying the facility AI that he required its assistance to create an impromptu video presentation over the comlink. A series of green arrows appeared on the screen to direct his attention to the camera best positioned to capture a view of both his position and the alien spacecraft below.
“Good morning everyone,” he began, knowing that introductions were unnecessary.
Such an overwhelming display of micromanagement from TFC Headquarters would have been unwelcome, to say the least, under normal circumstances. Today, however, Oshiro was more than happy to oblige the council’s request to
participate — perhaps not relieving him of responsibility for dealing with the situation, but at least providing some much needed “top cover” in case things went sideways from here.
“As I’m sure you’re all aware by now,” he continued, noting on his tablet that the video feed was smoothly transitioning from a view of his position on the catwalk to one of the Grey ship below, “the alien craft you see entered the Yucca Mountain Shipyard Facility just over half an hour ago. Although we do not believe our facility AI has been compromised, the ship was somehow able to interface directly with a number of key subsystems. For lack of a better description, this allowed it to simply bypass nearly all of our security and access control protocols.”
“It literally just opened the doors on its own and came right in?” an unidentified male voice from the Leadership Council asked, incredulous.
“I apologize, sir, I couldn’t see who asked the question,” Oshiro replied, “but, yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. Now, as tempted as we all might be to liken this feat to some run-of-the-mill security breach, it’s important to keep in mind that our three primary shipyards are protected by the most sophisticated physical and cyber security measures ever devised.”
“So, clearly, we are dealing with highly advanced intelligence of some sort,” Kistler said, shooting a look at the representative from the European Union to indicate she had no intention of allowing the conference to devolve into a debate on the efficacy of TFC security measures.
“That’s putting it mildly, ma’am,” Vice Admiral Tonya White, Chief of Naval Intelligence, chimed in for the first time from Admiral Sexton’s office. “Anyone capable of compromising the access controls at Yucca — and apparently in real-time — would have little difficulty gaining access to any facility and/or computer system on this planet.”
“That goes for secure communications as well, does it not?” Admiral Sexton asked.
White paused momentarily to consider the question, then continued slowly, as if carefully choosing her words. “In a manner of speaking, it’s all just different degrees of the same thing, if you take my meaning. If sufficient computing power is employed against it, no system is truly secure.”
“So they could be listening to us right now,” Kistler said, thinking aloud.
“Yes, ma’am,” White replied, “or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that we can’t rule out that possibility.”
“Alright, I don’t want us to go too far down this rabbit hole for now. My immediate — albeit perhaps uninformed — reaction on the subject is that if they are truly that much more advanced than we are, there’s not much point worrying about their intentions.”
“Since they can clearly do pretty much whatever they like,” Sexton said, finishing her thought.
“Precisely. Sorry for the interruption, Captain Oshiro, please continue.”
“Yes, ma’am. The alien ship proceeded down the entrance tunnel and emerged into the roundhouse area of the shipyard, then paused for approximately fifteen minutes before entering Berth 10. As was the case with the facility entrance doors, the berth’s mooring systems responded to commands from the alien ship, allowing it to raise the landing platform and touch down approximately … three minutes ago.”
“And we have been attempting to communicate the entire time?”
“That is correct. Per our standard, first contact protocols, the facility AI has been attempting to establish communications since the craft first arrived. Thus far, there has been no response. I should also point out that right before you joined the conference, I received an initial environmental and threat assessment report. I haven’t had the opportunity to read it in detail, of course, but the summary looks like all good news. We have detected no radiation or biological contamination of any kind thus far. We also haven’t noted the electronic signatures of any known weapon systems, although I suppose that’s not surprising given how little we know about this species.”
“And by ‘this species,’ you’re referring to the so-called ‘Greys,’ correct?”
“We have no way of knowing for sure, ma’am. But based on the configuration of the ship and comparisons with certain … relics in TFC’s possession, the facility AI indicates a greater than eighty-seven percent probability that that’s exactly who we’re dealing with.”
“Thank you, Captain Oshiro. With any luck, they will get around to answering us shortly. Otherwise, we may have to send you down there with a pipe wrench to bang on the hull.”
“The environment here at the shipyard is a little … tense at the moment, ma’am. If they don’t respond soon, I’ll be happy to volunteer to do that, just to break the silence.”
TFS Fugitive, Sol System
(2.3x105 km from Earth)
Less than forty-five minutes after departing the outskirts of the Legara system, TFS Fugitive reached her designated arrival point with a muted flash of grayish-white light. Just as it had on the outbound leg of its journey, the small ship had traversed the intervening twelve hundred and fifty light years — nearly twelve quadrillion kilometers — as if it were little more than a short errand to the other side of town, once again safely returning her crew to the vicinity of their own homeworld.
“Third and final C-Jump complete, Captain,” Ensign Fisher reported. “All systems in the green with the exception of the main gun. The ship remains at General Quarters for combat operations, Condition 1. C-Jump range now 9.3 light years and increasing rapidly. Low-observable systems remain online with three one minutes remaining at current power levels. Sublight engines online, we are free to maneuver.”
“Thank you, Ensign,” Prescott replied. “I want us to maintain line of sight with the Yucca Mountain Shipyard at all times, but I’m not comfortable taking the ship down into the planet’s gravity well to an elliptical geosynchronous orbit until we have a better idea what’s going on. Any obstacles that might prevent us from station keeping at this range?”
“No, sir. Well … none that we can’t dodge, anyway.”
“Good, let’s do it.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Tactical?”
“Nothing unexpected so far, Captain,” Lieutenant Lau said with a flurry of keystrokes as he struggled to take in the massive amount of data being presented on his console. “All eleven ships currently assigned to the Home Fleet are accounted for. Argus is showing no other Fleet vessels within five three light years of our current position, but it looks like Admiral Patterson’s ten-ship task force is en route from Sajeth Collective space. Assuming they continue executing one-hundred-light-year C-Jumps with thirty minutes of dwell time between each, they should arrive in less than three hours.”
“Understood, thank you. I’m guessing we’ll hear from the admiral shortly.”
“Captain, the Guardian is asking to speak with you again,” Lieutenant Dubashi reported from the Comm/Nav console.
“I’m not surprised, but he’ll have to wait just a moment. See if you can get us an update from someone on site at Yucca Mountain. In addition, I suspect Captain Oshiro’s people will have a vidcon in progress with TFC Headquarters. Fleet Control obviously knows we have arrived, but the participants on that call will most likely be too preoccupied to patch us in. Please see what you can do to get us an invite.”
“Aye, sir, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Thank you. In the meantime, I guess you can go ahead and put the Guardian through.”
Seconds later, the familiar chime indicating an active “GCS-comm” connection had been established sounded from the overhead speakers.
“Prescott here,” he said without preamble. “What’s on your mind, Griffin.”
“Captain, as I indicated earlier, we must treat the arrival of this alien vessel as hostile until proven otherwise. It is imperative that I be released from your ship’s hangar bay so that I may assist you in dealing with this situation, as required.”
Prescott had assumed Griffin might make such a request — if not a demand — as soon as
they returned to Earth. Until now, however, he had not had a spare moment to consider the repercussions of allowing the Guardian Cultivation System free reign to react to the alien ship. Upon further reflection, he realized that keeping the GCS sequestered within the confines of TFS Fugitive’s cargo bay for as long as possible had a number of potential advantages. In particular, it provided Fleet with the opportunity to deal with an already fluid and unpredictable situation without the added complication of “third party” interference. The only real question was how willing the Guardian would be to comply with his wishes and remain aboard. Clearly, the GCS was fully capable of making its exit at any time — with or without the Fugitive remaining in one piece.
“I appreciate your sense of urgency, Griffin. But thus far, the ship has given us no indication of hostile intent. We are in the process of assessing the situation and coordinating with Fleet personnel on the surface. For the moment, I would like to ask you to remain here with us. Releasing you —”
“Captain, I must insist that you open your cargo bay door and allow me to exit —”
“You absolutely may not insist,” Prescott counter-interrupted in what he hoped the GCS would recognize as an authoritative, but not insulting, tone. “You are a guest aboard this ship — my ship — and from the time you agreed to assist with our mission to Legara, you became a de facto member of my crew.”