by Nick Webb
But why?
Gritting his teeth, he reached inward, trying to find the source of his rage. He’d felt it moments before, as he was suggesting that they find allies. He’d barely been able to look at the Captain, much less speak to him.
And Po, too, though the intensity of the feeling was less. But it was still there. He felt like smothering her. That voice. That high, piercing, annoying-as-hell voice. It sounded just like his mother’s.
“Ben? You alright?” Po was right next to him, staring down with what to him seemed angry, interrogating eyes, blood-shot and sunken, her face contorted into a nightmarish visage of malice. His own eyes widened and he blinked, drawing a few quick breaths. He looked back at her and she appeared normal. Tired, but normal.
What the hell was that? Was he hallucinating?
“Fine, Po. Just fine.”
She put a hand on his shoulder, and he instinctually shrugged it off.
“Are you sure?” she asked, tentatively.
“I said I’m fine.” He scanned his board, looking for an excuse to get her off his back. “Looks like some of those blasts compromised hull integrity in a few areas of the forward section.”
“Yes,” she glanced at his board and nodded her agreement. “So they did. Hull repair droids should have it handled, though.”
“True, but we should send someone down there to make sure the damage doesn’t spread before they get there.”
Jake’s voice sounded out across the bridge. “I’ll stop by the forward engineering crew station and let them know. I need to head down to deck twelve anyway.” He sprang up and walked to the door. Ben’s eyes followed him, and once again he felt his eyes drilling into Jake’s back like lasers. Realizing his teeth were hurting, he unclenched his jaw.
YOU WILL HURT THOSE CLOSEST TO YOU.
His head snapped back, as if the words were yelled into his ear by a hoarse, crazed voice.
“Ben? Honestly, I’m worried about you,” Po was now crouched next to his chair, mumbling so that only he could hear. “We can handle things up here. Why don’t you get back down to your quarters and rest. You’ve been through a lot the past little while….”
“I’m fine. Thank you, Commander.”
His tone was curt, but not rude. He tried to make it sound as business-like as possible, and it had the desired effect. Po stood up and straightened her uniform. “Very well, Commander.”
He punched in a few commands into his console, bringing up security officer duty rotations and ordnance loading crew schedules. Something, anything to occupy his mind.
Was he going insane? Like that broken man sitting in the corner of his quarters just down the hall from his own?
Was he really supposed to hurt those closest to him? He caught himself. Supposed to? What the hell was wrong with him? He meant to think: were those last words from the master a command, or a statement of fact?
Neither, he decided.
Just the ravings of a lunatic.
***
Sergeant Tomaga glanced over his shoulder. The two Terran marines still stood at attention in front of the entrance to the entertainment deck—one of the burly men stifled a yawn with a closed fist.
The Phoenix had ceased rumbling and groaning under whatever new assault Mercer had gotten the ship into, and Tomaga was well into planning his move. He respected Mercer and knew the man had bent over backwards to maintain the uneasy peace aboard the ship. But with Ling’s murder he also knew that he had to act. His men depended on him to act.
He returned his glance to the two soldiers he’d been talking to in low whispers. He’d rather talk to them in private to make their plans, but that would look more suspicious than just conversing with them out in the open. The best diversion is normalcy and complacency.
“Fung? What say you?” Tomaga sized up his deputy, a twenty-something man from New Kyoto. He’d presented his thoughts, but he needed to know whether he had the support of his men.
“It’s risky, sir. I know Ling didn’t deserve death, but frankly, sir, he was asking for something to happen to him, what with him wandering the ship against Mercer’s direct orders.”
Tomaga frowned. “So you disapprove of my proposition?”
“No, sir, I do not. You are correct. Something must be done. Otherwise we’ll all end up like Ling, one by one.” Fung turned to his companion, a young woman, perhaps a few years younger, from New Mumbai. “Corporal Kapoor?”
She frowned, mirroring Tomaga. As the only woman in the 51st brigade, she’d tried to tread the line between fitting in and holding her own, and to that end she aspired to leadership, staying close to Tomaga and working to make herself of value to him. “I’m with you one hundred percent, sir. I think we can take the ship if we’re careful in the planning. As long as we can take the bridge, assure that engineering is either held or locked down, and hold a few of the senior officers hostage, we might stand a chance. But Mercer won’t take it lying down.”
Tomaga shook his head slowly. “No, Kapoor, he won’t. He may have put off the fight with us at the beginning, but with his back to the wall he won’t put it off again.” He looked his colleagues in the eyes. “If we do this, we commit. And if we commit, we have to be prepared to do what it takes. Mercer may have to die. Or at the least, bound, gagged, and thrown into the brig with half our men in front guarding it. He may be new at his captaincy, but his people are loyal to him. He’s brought them through five separate battle, by my count, in the space of less than three weeks.”
Fung nodded. “He is formidable, yes. His people follow him. A true leader.”
Several other 51st brigade soldiers jeered at a movie showing in one of the entertainment suites off the main deck area. Tomaga listened to their raucous banter and wondered if it was worth it. How many might die?
But if he didn’t act, how many more of them would die at the hands of an unknown assassin? Throats crushed in the middle of the night?
“Are they ready?”
Fung crossed his arms. “We’ll be ready, sir.” He looked at Kapoor, who nodded her agreement. “At your command, to the end of the world.”
CHAPTER FOUR
WILLOW TRACED THE CURLY GREEN-black vine with a finger, following the intricate path it took along her forearm weaving in and out of trees and branches. A living, ever-present reminder of the utter splendor of her planet that was. Her beloved Belen.
Not that she’d ever been there. Nothing left to see.
She glanced up at the viewscreen wrapping around the front of the bridge and watched the clouds whip past. The white clouds of the azure blue sky of Oberon. Another world settled by Earth. Just another rock teeming with oxygen-producing cyanobacteria, waiting to be settled and planted and tilled. A blank slate waiting to be painted upon by people fleeing Earth seeking a better life, or searching for solitude or escape from their crimes, or wanting freedom of religion—for all these reasons and more the colonists had spread out from Old Earth.
Except Oberon was just another world. Just another rock with the bare essentials of life, and it showed in the vista spread out below them, which she watched on the screen. Most of the continents were bare and bland. Only around the cities was there green. Forests and grassy plains and farmland—all transplanted there by the settlers.
Not like her beloved Belen—not that she’d ever set foot there herself. Her mother had told her stories of the wildlife. The original life, unsullied and undiscovered by any save the Belenites themselves, who came seeking to subdue a world on the fringe of civilization, but having arrived at that place of bounty, were instead conquered by its beauty and majesty. Animals, insects, birds, fish—all more varied and different than any they’d ever seen. All somehow integrated together such that each living thing felt each other.
The Belenites didn’t realize that at first, of course. There were only whisperings—feelings and faint voices barely perceived by the first settlers. Not until just before the planet had been destroyed by the Empire did they finally integ
rate into the planet itself.
The planet was alive. That was the great secret. Each living thing, each bacterium, each cell, each tree was connected into the greater whole. Not subsumed into a greater consciousness, not cogs on some faceless living machine, but connected nonetheless, and her people had finally unlocked the secret to connect themselves to it. To commune with their planet, with its trees, with its birds, even with its blood-thirsty insects, and of course, with themselves.
Of all the planets humans had settled, of all the worlds they’d come across in the 600 years they’d travelled the stars, only Belen had any life more complex than the basic cyanobacteria found everywhere else. It was perfect. Innocent. Virginal. So they named it Belen—Bethlehem, in English. Their Zion. Their Eden. Their paradise.
And the Empire destroyed it. With no warning and less mercy, they bombed it into oblivion. No reason given, other than claiming that the Belenites were rebelling against Corsican rule, disrupting the peace of the Pax Humana, and thus needed to be made examples of.
“Ensign Ayala, any signs of armed ships in the vicinity? Any Vikorhov ships?” asked Commander Po from the captain’s chair.
Willow ran a few sweeps of the ships in the area—only a handful of merchant cruisers in the process of landing or taking off, and a few dozen ships docked at the massive tower in the center of the sprawling metropolis below. Dezreel City. Capital of Oberon.
“No, sir. Looks clear. Most of those ships do have armaments, but they’re minimal, sir. Nothing that could even prick us.”
Po nodded. “Good. We’ve had enough surprises for the day, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, sir.” Willow glanced back up at the viewscreen and watched the enormous spaceport tower come into view. At first glance it appeared to be just an uncommonly tall skyscraper, but upon further inspection the building was covered with landing platforms and retractable umbilicals that could attach to the docking ports of larger ships that would then float near the tower under gravitic-lock. But they’d almost definitely never received a ship as large as the Phoenix, not only because they were so far situated in the Void, but the fact remained that the Phoenix, along with her eight erstwhile companions, was simply one of the largest, most powerful ships ever built.
“Take us to the top, Ensign,” said Po to Ensign Roshenko, who dutifully laid in the coordinates for the docking umbilical at the top of the spaceport.
Willow continued tracing the vine on her forearm, finally ending in the straight, jagged edge of a sword pointing down to her wrists—the last tattoo she’d ever received.
Her gift from The Red, her brethren. The secret society she had joined not three years ago. She smiled at the sight of the wicked looking sword etched into her forearm—a symbol not only of her power as a member of The Red, but of the revenge they would have on the Empire.
Galba. Seducing Galba was the first step. She had him wrapped around her finger now, she was sure. Not only had she finally managed to convince him to give her his Senatorial access codes—the one that would give her access to any Imperial database anywhere in the Thousand Worlds, but she’d also learned of the existence of the conspiracy—the one that had culminated in the destruction of their sister ships at Liberty Station.
He’d never spoken aloud of it, of course. But she knew. He couldn’t hide anything from her.
Nothing.
***
“Commodore Zuleiman? Engineering reports full power restored, sir.”
The Commodore nodded his acknowledgement and approval. Typical Vikorhov efficiency. He’d ordered his crew two hours ago to have the repairs completed and the ship ready to move in three. They were always so eager to demonstrate their proficiency. Especially after Zuleiman had made an example of the aft gunnery crew. An execution always seemed to provide the rest of the crew the motivation they needed.
“Excellent.” He stood up from his chair—throne would be a more apt word, as the seat in the center of the bridge was raised up on a three-tiered dais such that he hovered and presided over all the activity in the command center. He was the focus. The head. The master of his ship. “Make the shift back to Rastra,” he said, referring to the gas giant closest to Vikorhov, which served as the main gravitic entry point to the Vikorhov system given the unstable chromosphere of their sun.
“Glory be yours, Commodore,” said the navigation officer, in the standard Vikorhov acknowledgement.
Zuleiman stepped down to the second tier of his central dais and watched the screen before him on the first tier of the platform. An undulating wave made the stars around them begin to shimmer, and within a second the entire field of view had been replaced by the gas giant Rastra. Blue and orange clouds swirled far below them. In orbit he could see the Vikorhov space station that served as the base of operations for the Black Fleet—the Vikorhov Federation’s crown jewel. Of which his vessel was the glorious flagship.
“Dock at Gaugran Station and commence refuel and resupply.” Zuleiman stepped back up to the third tier and swiveled his chair to sit back down. “And get me Prime Magisterial Volck on the comm.” He had to report the arrival of the rogue vessel from Old Earth. The Vikorhov high command would want to know about it. They might even order a mission to attempt a capture. Such a ship would be a glorious addition to the Black Fleet. They might once and for all be able to conquer the entire sector of the Void. Finally bring into subjugation the last few holdouts—Florence, Asgard, and the juiciest prize of them all, Oberon.
“Sir, detecting a massive gravitic signature,” came a voice from the tactical station.
“Where? What is it? Is it the Terran ship?” He glanced at his screen, searching the backdrop of stars for a ship.
“Unknown, sir. They’re arriving at the long-range transfer point.” The young officer looked up, his brow creased with concern. “It’s as if they know about the grav beacon. Sir, it’s a Corsican Empire ship!”
Zuleiman jumped back out of his seat. “What in blazes are they doing out here?”
He watched his screen as the vast ship grew from a tiny white dot near the northern pole of Rastra into a massive Corsican Empire capital ship. Due to the remoteness of the Void, and the difficulty in effecting gravitic shifts into the sector from anywhere on the outside, the Empire had largely ignored them, deeming the Void a lawless region, unworthy of Imperial influence.
But now they were here.
“The ship is hailing us, sir,” said the comm officer.
Zuleiman scowled. “Visual?”
“No, sir. Audio only.”
He leaned forward to his console and activated his comm. “Patch it through, midshipman.”
The comm light indicated the channel was open, and he began. “Corsican Empire vessel, this is Commodore Zuleiman of the Vikorhov Federation ship Volga, flagship of the Black Fleet. To whom to I owe the honor?”
Silence. Then, after twenty seconds or so, a voice. A Corsican accent. Not the high patrician accent of the politicians, senators, and wannabe military commanders. This was less distinct. More expressive and ponderous. And somehow, deadlier.
“This is Admiral Trajan of the NPQR Caligula. Greetings, Commodore, how very pleasant to meet you. I assume you command your so-called Black Fleet?”
Zuleiman gave the console an evil glare. So called? He already disliked the Imperial Commander. “That is correct, Admiral. And may I ask why you are here? We are not accustomed to seeing Corsican warships in orbit around our worlds.”
The voice chuckled. “Relax, Commodore. This is not an invasion. Rather, it is a diplomatic mission. I bring the warmest greetings of the Emperor himself. We’re all friends here, Commodore.”
Not likely. “You speak of diplomacy, Admiral Trajan, and yet you arrive in a great warship. Tell me, of what kind of diplomacy do you speak?”
“Kind?” Again, Trajan chuckled, “There is only one kind of diplomacy, Commodore. It is the diplomacy in which we both can provide what the other wants.”
Zuleiman’s tone softe
ned. “That sounds like commerce to me. I can do commerce. And what exactly is it that you want?”
“Rather let us start with what I want. I am looking for a ship. Perhaps you’ve seen it? A warship. Even larger and more powerful than the Caligula. It was stolen several weeks ago, and I want it back, with the crew intact. Tell me, have you by any chance seen it?”
The ship. The mysterious warship that had just destroyed a handful of their own most advanced Black Fleet ships ever constructed. Stolen, eh? Perhaps it could be stolen again. That could be just the thing to win advancement to the Supreme Magisterial Command. “I see quite a few ships pass through this sector, Admiral.”
“Is that so? Even with the sector virtually inaccessible by outsiders? Yes, Commodore, don’t act surprised that I knew how to come here. I know of the gravitic beacon your world sends out. You’ll find the Empire knows about a great many things that you think secret. Like, for example, your temporal shielding.”
Blast. That was one of the most heavily guarded state secrets. Only a select few knew of the existence of the technology of which he was the custodian as Commodore of the Black Fleet. “How did you….” He paused. “But no matter. Yes, Admiral, I have seen your rogue ship. And I may have an idea as to its current location. But for this information, what exactly do you think I need?”
“Simple, Commodore,” Admiral Trajan said with what Zuleiman guessed was a sunny smile. “The Vikorhov Federation wants what the Empire wants. Order. Law abiding citizens. Safety. Obedience. Freedom to conduct business. And as I understand it, you face similar problems as we do, albeit on a smaller scale. There are worlds in this sector that refuse to yield to your authority, chief among them being Oberon. Am I correct?”
Zuleiman nodded slowly, even as he remembered the Admiral couldn’t see him. “Yes. And you propose to deliver Oberon into our hands?” He said it with sarcasm, and let a wry grin spread over his face.