by Trevor Wyatt
“We have already voted on granting you the power to declare war on the Sonali people,” he says, pausing for a few seconds and continues, “And the Terran Council unanimously agrees to go to war.”
Then all eyes fall on me. For a brief moment, I am confused whether I have actually heard the Speaker. But it’s only a few moment before I turn to address the Terran Council and the media bots that are hovering about. The signal is being boosted through the Edoris Space Station and being broadcasted past what used to be called the Anderson Nebula but we are renaming the Mariner Nebula. It’s going into what we believe to be Sonali space. I hope it reaches their home world.
I make it short and precise.
“For the brazen, unprovoked, and unapologetic destruction of Terran Union Starship The Mariner, as well as an entire Terran fleet when they came in peace, I, President Joshua Harmon of the Terran Union hereby, with approval from the Terran Council, invoke Article X1 of the Constitution and declare war on the race that we have been able to name the Sonali Combine.
“I hereby order the Terran Armada to galvanize all its arms and divisions towards a war to bring the Sonali to their knees. I order the Armada to also fast track all its weapons manufacturing and testing process. I hereby order all corporations to begin immediate research and development into improving Terran Union Ships to withstand the Sonali war machine. Finally, I appeal to all citizens of Terran Union to remain calm during these times.
“God help us all.”
One more year. That’s all it would have taken.
The entire Council stands and applauds. They’re yelling and screaming for blood.
The Speaker comes and clasps my hands. For the first time this man looks genuinely pleased with me.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
The universe has a strange sense of humor I think.
The kind that will most likely lead to the death of us.
2
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 pitch
ed 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.”
He walked over to where I sat at the table. “I have an open billet for Science Officer aboard the Celestia. I can't promise you exotic vacations and haute cuisine. But I can promise you that you'll never be bored. Interested?”
I stood up and smiled. I couldn't help myself. “Very much, sir.” was all I could manage.
“Good. Very good. I'm going to ram your request for transfer through. I'll speak to your C.O. and forward it through to Armada Central.” He looked down at some papers on the table, then back at me.
“Go to your quarters and start packing, Lieutenant. Say your good-byes and all that. I'll see you on board the Celestia at 0800 hours tomorrow.”
“Yes, Sir. Will report as ordered.” I saluted, turned, and walked toward the door.
“Oh, and Lieutenant,” he said.
I turned back and he said, “Good to have you aboard.” And winked.
“Good to be aboard, Sir,” I said, and left. I was on top of the world.
And that brought me back to the present.
Corson is speaking. “... almost out of the Oort, then. Good. Before we engage FTL and proceed to our destination, I want to call the fleet to a temporary halt. It's a long haul ahead, and I want to conduct a weapons test before we're underway. We're not likely to get a better opportunity.”
He looks at his First Off
icer. “Drake, contact each captain of all the ships. Give them a heads up.”
He then turns to me. “Sheila, find me a target. There's a lot of floating rock out here. It shouldn't take long.”
I nod. “How big do you want it, Captain?”
Corson laughs. “‘Captain’? Come on, Sheila. This is liberty hall in here. We don't stand on ceremony. You can spit on the deck and call the cat a bastard.”
Drake and I laugh along with him. “Okay, Corson,” I say. “How large a hunk of rock do you want me to find?”
“Ceres-size will do it. That would be about as big as Texas. Lots of target area.”
“Got it.” I look down at my notes, then at Drake. “Anything else before we break?”
Corson shakes his head and stands. “No, I think that should do it for now. Let's get back to work.”
Back on the CNC and at my station, I start scanning for suitable targets in the debris field. The Oort is ancient, dating from the formation of the solar system when our sun first ignited and flung untold tons of matter outward in all directions. And there are billions of rocks out here to choose from. All shapes and sizes, slowly spinning in dark, lonely isolation.
The ship is running sub-light, using our nucleonic drive. We can theoretically reach .75 C using nucleonic, but we're down to a virtual crawl, scanning, weighing, searching.
Amongst the debris, I find something that seems promising. I zoom in long-range. It looks perfect.
I take a tablet over to the Captain. “Sir,” I say.
He looks up. “You have something, Commander?”
I hand him the tablet. “I think so, sir. It's the right size, and it's not too far from our present position.”
He studies the tablet. “How far, then?” He's interested.