by Trevor Wyatt
“Computer shows about 77 tangos on site, ma’am,” Lieutenant Shultz says in the mission-wide channel.
“Roger that, Hammer,” I say. “We proceed as planned. Once we neutralize the exterior tangos, I want you to remain behind to secure the facility while Bullet and I take the rest of the team inside.”
“Copy that, ma’am,” Lieutenant Shultz replies.
Guns come up by the time we’re in range, and we let hell loose. Tangos fall all around the one story complex. There are small explosions as drums carrying explosive ores are hit. At the very last minute, we pull our parachutes, landing with a heavy thud, a jerk, and then rising up to full height, still shooting.
Then the alarms go off.
“Let’s go!” I yell. I tap a red button on my chest that causes the EVA to crack and fall away from my body. I bring my rifle back up and aim at the open door. Five other Marines form around me and we enter the facility. Clinically, we spread out and kill every Sonali soldier in the building.
The last is the main control center. There are four Sonali techs. Three have weapons trained on the door. The blasts misses me by whiskers as I dive for the nearest workstation. They don’t get any other shot as I cut them down with a wide spray of my gun.
The fourth reaches for the gun of his fallen comrade. Instead of shooting him, I bound for him and kick the weapon out of his hand.
“Don’t even think about that!” I roar, my gun pointed at his head.
He flinches and retracts his hand.
I approach him, stopping at about six yards to him. I look around. Aside from the three dead operators, the control room is abandoned. The several workstations are still running, but unstaffed.
“Power has been shut down, ma’am,” one of the Marine says. “And we’ve apprehended the base commander in his private chambers.”
“Roger that,” I say. “Hammer, come in.”
“Go ahead, ma’am,” he replies.
“Send word to the ship,” I say. “We have control of the command center. Let them send in the Cavalry so we can take back the planet.”
I sense his smile when he speaks, “Copy that, ma’am.”
“Why do you spare me?” the Sonali asks. His voice is like a grating sound. I can feel hatred, anger, and bitterness from it. It almost makes me want to back down.
I don’t reply to him.
“Commander Grayson, come in,” the Vice Admiral says.
“Here, sir,” I reply.
“Good work,” he says. “The assault force is already en route. They’ll be landing in less than three minutes. We’ll need to come up with a call sign for you, though.”
“Roger that, sir,” I say with a smile.
I hear the sound before it hits. It’s a space-to-Earth missile that strikes the control center. There’s a great explosion and I’m thrown aside by the concussion. I struggle to hold on to my gun and aim, but I’m having difficulty hearing and staying awake. The Sonali recovers fast and runs away into the mist of dust particles.
I try to get up to pursue but I’m hit hard by the concussion. One of the marines helps me out of the building before it collapses in rubbles.
I see that the assault team has already landed. They’ve broken into teams as per my instructions and are now spreading throughout the area. The afternoon air is filled with the sound of explosions and firefights.
“What the heck happened?” I ask, now outside and in the air.
Up ahead, I can see a small Sonali frigate fleeing the planet. It’s the Sonali I didn’t shoot. Why I spared his life is still a mystery to me.
“The Sonali supply ship dropped out of FTL without warning,” Lieutenant Shultz says. “I guess they wanted to destroy whatever secret information they had in the control center’s computers. Our ship and the Terran vessel that came into the system chased the ship away.”
I nod. Gripping my weapon, I say, “Come on, let’s wrap up here.”
By nightfall, the planet colony is back under Terran control. All Sonali were killed in action—except one.
Back in the shuttle, on our way to the ship that’s now in orbit along with another vessel named The Phantom, Lieutenant Silver says, “Commander, have you thought of a call sign?”
I shake my head.
“Commander Grayson,” says Lieutenant Shultz as though tasting the words in his mouth. “Co Mander…Coma.”
There’s a rigid silence as everyone looks at me.
Coma. Sounds very badass.
Coma. That’s what Terran enemies will be in when they come face to face with the Operations Commander of Division 51.
I smile. “Coma,” I say. “I like it.”
The Marines cheer.
The Celestia
A Terran-Sonali War Story: The Beginning
First Engagement
Corson
The CNC is quiet as the ship traverses the Oort Cloud. There are the usual ambient sounds associated with people working: hums and pings of digital equipment, low conversations between personnel, the occasional soft whoosh of the CNC access doorway opening and closing. All personnel are doing their jobs quietly and efficiently. But the overall feeling is one of suppressed tension. Excitement is a part of that, as is low-level fear and uneasiness. And of course, the looming unknown.
It's all to be expected, though, when one is heading into a possible confrontation. Especially a confrontation with an enemy who has already shown itself to be potentially hostile. An enemy that is also and most definitely alien.
First Contact. That's what this is all about. That's where the unknown has finally come crashing headlong into our reality.
In almost a century of star flight, the Terran Union has spread across dozens of light years, exploring, colonizing, and developing. We're living on 198 worlds at present, and we've encountered untold puzzles, startling revelations, and a healthy respect for the cosmos we inhabit. It's best summed up, I think, in an old pronouncement: “The universe is not only stranger than we imagine—it is stranger than we can imagine.” That quote is attributed to several 20th century scientists, including Eddington, Haldane and others, in various versions. I've always found it fascinating that people in a pre-interstellar society were so prescient.
Given all that we had discovered and learned, there was one area that remained tantalizingly and mysteriously vacant. The eternal question “Are We Alone?” was unanswered. Given the Drake equation positing thousands, if not millions, of galactic populations, the Fermi Paradox still loomed; namely, where the hell is everybody?
It was a damned good question. We've been on hundreds of worlds, surveyed even more, and the only life we've discovered has been land-based and sea-based analogs of Terran animal and vegetable forms. And nothing remotely resembling sentience, nothing self-aware. So, even though old Fermi raised a good point, nobody had any answers.
Until six months ago. When a Terran research vessel operating in uncharted space was about to enter a nebula, named after someone named Anderson, to collect scientific data. Specifically, they wanted to investigate a neutron star at the nebula's center. It was an unrivaled opportunity to find out more about the second densest object known to human science.
Communications between the ship, the TUS Mariner, and our nearest base had been proceeding normally. Then communication ceased abruptly. Repeated attempts to establish contact failed. When personnel on the base became frantic enough, they contacted the Terran Union. Which, in turn, alerted the Terran Armada.
The Terran Armada High Command, after reviewing what little data there was, decided that sending a military vessel to investigate was a good idea. The TUS Mariner was a long way from home—and help, as they were only lightly armed, and no one had any idea what might have happened.
The TUS Mariner could have developed technical problems with its communication arrays. They could have interacted with debris in or near the nebula. Some heretofore unknown cosmic phenomenon could be in play. A handful of possibilities existed.
No
one really believed alien contact was responsible, although the theory was put on the table. If aliens hadn't contacted us by now, chances are they hadn't done so out in the Anderson Nebula.
But there were still too many unknowns. And it was felt that an Armada starship was the best solution to try and solve the puzzle. Heavily armed, commanded by seasoned military personnel and augmented by an elite scientific staff, the TUS Seeker was sent to investigate, commanded by Captain Jeryl Montgomery. Better to go with weapons and not need them, than to need weapons and not have them.
When the TUS Seeker arrived at the scene, they discovered the TUS Mariner, dead in space. Lifeless. No answers as to why. Then Captain Montgomery's First Officer, Ashley Gavin, discovered that the TUS Mariner had been destroyed. By weaponry of an unknown type never before encountered by humans.
This changed everything, but more proof was needed. As the TUS Seeker was about to investigate further, that proof arrived.
In the form of a ship of unknown origin. In the form of a vessel far larger than the TUS Seeker. In the form of an alien intelligence.
I can only imagine what went on in Jeryl Montgomery's mind at that moment. A First Contact situation. A Terran ship destroyed, its crew dead. And an alien warship looming dead ahead and in first place for the Who Destroyed The Mariner Award.
I've read Captain Jeryl Montgomery's account of what happened next. I've read it a dozen times. From what I can ascertain, he acted in the highest accord and traditions of the Terran Armada.
The TUS Seeker was hailed by the alien ship. After communications were established, we learned that the aliens were called the Sonali, members of the Sonali Combine, a confederation similar to our own Terran Union. The Sonali are tall, bipedal humanoids with blue-tinged skin. That they are intelligent is obvious. So is the fact that they are on a technological level at least equivalent to our own.
The legate of the Sonali vessel inquired of Captain Montgomery what his purpose was, basically asking what the hell he was doing there. Jeryl responded by explaining the destruction of the TUS Mariner and his attempt to determine what had happened. I'm sure that he must have suspected that he was speaking to the entity responsible. Perhaps the Sonali sensed Jeryl's suspicions, but offered to help in the investigation.
Jeryl politely but firmly answered that the investigation was in the hands of the Terran Union, and no outside help was needed.
Things escalated from there.
The Sonali captain stated that Jeryl was intruding in Sonali space, and that the Terrans had two choices: accompany the Sonali ship to their home world for ambassadorial protocols, or leave Sonali space. His final caveat was that if the TUS Seeker did neither, it would be destroyed, with all hands aboard.
Captain Montgomery's situation was indescribable. The last thing he wanted was to turn First Contact into a pitched battle. Open hostilities with the first and only alien civilization we had encountered? There had to be a better answer. But professional etiquette had failed. The Sonali ship far outsized and outgunned the TUS Seeker. And the Sonali captain's ultimatum was final.
Without another word, the captain of the Terran Armada ship TUS Seeker turned about and headed home.
I can feel what Jeryl probably felt; the anger, the rage at having been treated like a child and told to go back to his room or he'd get spanked. The wish that the first contact with an interstellar alien species had gone any other way than the way it had. The fervent hope that he and that Sonali captain could meet once again in the future, and that he, Jeryl, could kick his blue alien ass.
All of which is why my crew and I, along with the triad of ships I command and 10 more Terran Union starships, are headed back to those same coordinates in Sonali space. Our directives are clear: determine what had happened to the TUS Mariner; open a dialogue with the Sonali, if possible and if given the opportunity; be prepared to defend ourselves in the event of hostilities; and do not initiate said hostilities unless deemed absolutely necessary for self-defense and self-preservation.
I intend to accomplish our directives to the best of my ability. I have every faith in my crews, my ships, and our resolve. So, Sonali or no Sonali, we're heading into the lion's den. And I privately hope that the lions are in the mood for a bit of a scrap, because I'm more than ready to give one to them. Is that arrogance? Perhaps. But I'm reminded of a quote by Grand Admiral Howard Flynn, Chief of Staff of the Terran Armada. He once said, in response to being called arrogant: “It's quite all right to be arrogant, if you have something worthy of honest arrogance.”
I couldn't agree more. We'll see what happens.
But first, we're almost through the Oort, and it's about time for some target practice.
Sheila
I'm in the Captain's office with him and First Officer Drake Prescott. We're going over procedures and itineraries together, seated around a small table. Mahogany, actually, all the way from Earth. It's an informal setting and no one is insisting on formality or hierarchical superiority. We're relaxed and there's a communal feeling of equality.
Every once in a while, Corson glances over at me and raises an eyebrow, then looks away. I smile. I know that he's silently sending a question along the lines of 'Everything okay?' or something similar.
I think back to the beginning, to when and where we first met.
He interviewed me for the Science Officer billet aboard his ship a little over two years ago. I was on another ship patrolling the sectors along the Outer Colonies and, frankly, it was a whole lot of boring followed by a whole lot of more boring, with no end in sight. I had finally had enough and put in a request for transfer. With, I'd hoped, a chance to land somewhere where something actually happened.
Captain Gibraltar spoke with me at length shortly after that. He had been coming back off-tour on his way to Earth and had been interested enough by my resume to stop and take some time for me. I was impressed. He was evidently sincere about wanting qualified people, and wanted to meet them in person. And he was definitely interested when he learned I was a graduate of the Rhine Research Center in North Carolina on Earth.
“I only know about the Rhine from what I read on the OmniNet and from what I've heard,” he said. “Could you tell me a little more about it?”
I was only too happy to do so. “There's very little of worth about the Rhine on the ONet, Sir,” I answered. “We study parapsychology. I mean, study it. Contrary to what the lay populace thinks, it's a scientific investigation of interactions between living organisms and their external environment. Some of those interactions seem to transcend the known physical laws of nature. We're interested in those. Parapsychology can be described as a component of the broader study of consciousness and the mind.”
He nodded. “What are some of the areas that you concentrate on?”
“We delve into five main areas, Captain. Telepathy, precognition, clairvoyance, psychokinesis, and survival studies.”
“Survival studies?” He looked puzzled. And curious.
I smiled. “Basically, it's the study of human consciousness, and an examination of whether that consciousness can survive the physical form.”
He looked at me. “You're talking about, what, out-of-body states, ghosts, apparitions…?”
“Actually, Sir, it's a study trying to determine whether the mind can survive without the body. If it can, that would be a useful thing to try and emulate.”
He thought about that and looked away. “Yes, it would,” he said. “Especially in a fight.”
“So,” he said, turning back to me. “Can you employ any of these techniques yourself? Are they of any help in the real world?” He was quietly intense now. I could sense his intelligence, which was of a high order. And his inner strength, his toughness of spirit. Not to mention his utter devotion to his belief system. All in all, he was quite a formidable presence.
I answered as honestly as I could. I knew it would seem like bragging. It often did, to people who were unfamiliar with the Rhine and its aims and goals.
I cleared my throat, and replied. “Sir, I'm a highly qualified science officer. I've worked hard to get to where I am, and I believe my record speaks for itself. I'm very good at what I do. I think you know that, or you wouldn't be here now.” I paused. “And I have an edge you should know about.”
He said nothing. His eyes were fixed on mine. Waiting. Expectant.
I took a breath. “I have a high Esper rating,” I said. “That means some of my senses are far above those of untrained people. I can sense emotion in others quite easily, and in depth. I have some telepathic capability, limited but still useful. I can 'see', if that's the right word, a little ways into future probabilities. That lets me prepare for situations that haven't quite happened yet. To use your words, an especially good trait to have in a fight.”
I waved my hand around the office. “In other words, Captain, I believe I can be of value. To you, to your crew, to the Union, and to the Armada.”
Captain Gibraltar continued looking at me for a few moments. I could feel wheels turning in his mind. Then he got up and walked over to one of the view screens set in the bulkhead. He stood and stared out at the inky, star-flecked panorama of space.
“I'm looking for some good people,” he said. He turned and looked at me. “People like you. I have a hunch that something big is coming. I don't pretend to know what that is. It's just a feeling. You're probably familiar with that.” He grinned, then sobered. “I want to be prepared for it. And I need the best people to do that.”