Archangel One

by Evan Currie

  Emilia hissed, her lips curling in a mixture of disgust and anger. “You speak of heresy.”

  “Truth supplants all things, Your Majesty, even faith,” Helena said. “We would need to take biological samples to be sure, but at this point that isn’t truly what concerns me.”

  “What could possibly be more concerning than a clear affront to our place in the universe?” Emilia demanded, her tone having shifted to a low-burning anger.

  Helena didn’t flinch, as nearly every other person in the Empire might. If her old friend wanted her execution and was willing to order it, then there was nothing left for her anyway.

  “They’re, at the very least, an entirely lost colony. In that case, they would have to be Oathers who escaped the Empire without an archive core,” she said. “They’ve clearly not followed any technical development we might project from the archives. I stand by my assessment that they are likely a separate genus, however, no matter how Imperial they might appear at a glance. I would bet that once we acquire samples, we’ll discover that they aren’t human at all.”

  “Xeno.” Emilia spat the word.

  Helena gestured noncommittally. “In so much as one might be, I suppose. They clearly came from the same seed as Imperials, of course, as only the directed evolution of our seeding could explain the development we’ve seen.”

  Emilia turned away, glaring at her reflection in the mirrored image on the wall. “There hasn’t been a mock-human culture discovered since the Sundering. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t,” Helena admitted. “Not my field, but I suppose it’s not a surprise. Is that what the Oathers left over, then?”

  Emilia nodded slowly. “Those heretical filth refused to see how necessary it was to cleanse the universe of that mockery.”

  Helena nodded, pretending agreement. Personally, she didn’t feel as strongly about such matters as the empress, but then it wasn’t her responsibility to see to those issues. Her job was much simpler and didn’t require nearly the same conviction.

  “Well, whether they are or not,” she said, “they propose a particular problem for our operations because of their large degree of unknown and unpredictable assets and strategies. Getting appropriate intelligence will not be easy.”

  “If it were easy, I would not have summoned you, Helena. Can it be done?”

  “Anything can be done, Your Majesty. This case will simply take longer and be more expensive than average.”

  “Cost does not interest me. Time, however, is not so simply set aside.”

  “There is no option there,” Helena insisted. “Not until we identify and develop a countermeasure for that superweapon of theirs, at least, or figure out how they target it, perhaps. If we push them too hard, too quickly, they may torch the capital itself. We simply don’t know their capability at this time.”

  Emilia walked over to the balcony and looked out over the massive metropolis that was her capital city, the lights illuminating it against the falling night. Spires reached so far into the sky that they, like her personal balcony, required enhanced conditioning to provide breathable air. Far below, through wispy clouds, she could see the lights of the lower city wavering up through atmospheric distortion. Emilia leaned on the rail, hands tightening around the metal until her knuckles turned white as she thought about the raging column of fire striking down from nowhere as described in the reports.

  “As quickly as you can,” she said finally, looking back. “Swear that to me, my friend.”

  “I swear,” Helena said, getting to her feet and saluting formally. “I will push as hard as I dare.”

  “Good.” The empress looked back out to the city arrayed below her. “You may leave.”

  Helena didn’t speak. As much as she was willing to push her old friend more than most, she knew when it was time to do as told. She took two steps back, twisted on her heel, and strode out of the chambers.

  Emilia looked out on the city for a long time in silence.

  “Xeno filth and Xeno lovers,” she spat angrily after a long time. “We seem doomed to forever be plagued by them, Father.”

  An older man’s voice echoed in the room as a figure stepped out of the shadows across the space. “There comes an end to all things, Daughter. Even the evils that have plagued our people for all time are not immune to that universal truth.”

  Emilia nodded and turned around, smiling very slightly at the tall, broad-shouldered figure.

  “You look good today, Father.”

  “It is a good day,” he said. “We know what happened to our plans now, and we have a strategy to move our interests forward as they should.”

  She nodded. “The galaxy will be cleansed.”

  “And then the universe beyond.”

  Chapter 3

  NACS Odysseus, Earth Orbit

  The darkened halls of the ship at rest felt empty as Eric walked them in silence. Knowing that the ship did in fact have a ghost of sorts in the machine just added to the feeling, a sensation he reveled in rather than feared.

  He was making his way to the primary landing bay. The admiral’s shuttle had been on final approach a few moments earlier and should be through the lock cycle at about the time he arrived.

  From nowhere, one set of footsteps became two in a pattern that Eric was becoming used to.

  “She doesn’t like me,” Odysseus said as he marched one half step behind Eric’s own pace.

  “The admiral doesn’t much like me either, so I’m not sure what your point is.”

  “She respects you.”

  “Respect is earned,” Eric said. “At least in these circles. You’ll acquire it, in time. You’re just a . . .”

  He chuckled, pausing at the thought.

  “Midshipman?” Odysseus asked, picking the thought out of Eric’s mind. “I’m not familiar with that rank.”

  “We don’t use it any longer, but it’s as close to what you are as anything I can think of,” Eric said after a moment. “And admirals never respect midshipmen.”

  “If you say so.” Odysseus seemed to pout slightly under his Grecian helmet.

  “Don’t pout!” Eric snapped. “It’s unbecoming.”

  “Yes sir!” The entity straightened his stance, his expression becoming neutral as they reached the entrance to the shuttle bay.

  Terran shuttles hadn’t changed much since after the war, Eric thought as they watched the admiral’s personal transport get pulled into position and locked away.

  It was a massive delta-wing shuttle that had a lifting body design and big aero-spike engines that gave it a distinct profile. They were hardly the most efficient or effective drive mechanism available anymore, but for close-range transport, the performance difference current models offered was insignificant and the cost was considerably cheaper, since the shuttles had already been commissioned.

  The smaller Priminae transports certainly had their uses, of course, being faster and more efficient.

  Maybe I’m getting old, but give me the sense of presence of a shuttle over one of those small flying boxes.

  Eric laughed internally.

  In all likelihood, he supposed he was in fact getting old. He missed his fighter, he liked the way things were done in the past, and he didn’t much care for the future he saw unfolding. Of course, he didn’t have to like any of it. He just had to make sure that what did come their way wasn’t able to destroy what humanity had built and would continue to build.

  A simple job, but it suited him.

  The shuttle’s belly hatch hissed as pressure stabilized, and then began to open. Admiral Gracen was already moving as soon as the craft cleared enough space, casually dropping to the deck without waiting for her befuddled aides. Eric smiled as they scrambled to catch up to the stern woman who was already walking in his direction.

  “Admiral,” he said as he saluted.

  “As you were, Commodore,” Gracen said as she marched up to and then past him. “Walk with me.”

  Eric then f
ound himself being the one scrambling to catch up, though he hoped that he managed to pull it off a little more smoothly than the admiral’s aides.

  “In a hurry, Admiral?” he asked as he fell into step beside her.

  “After a fashion,” Gracen replied. “Are you familiar with the Star Forge?”

  “Of course, ma’am,” Eric said. “I read the brief before it came online.”

  “Good. I’m sure you’re aware that we’re building new Odysseus Class vessels,” she went on, pausing only to catch his nod before she continued. “I’ve also been working on several pet projects as the facility winds up.”

  That didn’t shock Eric, knowing what he did about the admiral. Gracen was a workaholic and had a near-obsessive drive to push Earth’s defenses forward. He could hardly blame her for it. Any officer worth their oxygen had at least a little of that in their blood after the Drasin invasion.

  All he had to do was look down on some of the scars that could still be seen from orbit to fire up his emotions, drive away any sense or need for sleep, and set him to working on some new idea or another. Unlike the admiral, however, Eric knew that he tended to work better under immediate pressure.

  Give him an enemy to fight, and he’d start pulling rabbits out of his ass like a magician on the Vegas strip. The admiral worked better when she had time to think, to plan. In his personal opinion, it was what made the two of them effective when working on a problem together. Given that the admiral consistently deployed him to hot spots she was tasked with, Eric was confident that she felt much the same.

  “One of those pet projects is a resurrection of Project Double A,” Gracen said.

  Eric faltered a step, eyes widening as he snapped his head over to look at her. “I’m surprised you didn’t inform me sooner.”

  “We’re giving the project the green light for full production.”

  “A lot sooner,” Eric growled. “With all due respect, Admiral, what the hell?”

  “You had more important things to take care of,” Gracen said without pausing in her walk, again forcing Eric to scramble a bit to catch up. “Not the least of which was needing time off once you completed your after-action report on the last mission.”

  “I would have thought that I could have provided useful input all the same. I did help design the previous project,” Eric said, unable to keep from letting a little testiness creep into his voice.

  “And we used your project requirements as the baseline going in,” Gracen said, unconcerned. “I wanted an outside view on the project, however, so I left it to Lieutenant Chans.”

  “Milla? She’s an . . . unusual choice.” Eric felt like he was being pushed off-balance intentionally and refocused his mind, trying to figure out what he was being set up for. “Weapon specialist for the Priminae, true, but not the first to come to mind for this sort of project.”

  “She also worked on their transport systems in her early career,” Gracen said. “Plus I gave her some of our best aeronautical engineers. A short while ago, I turned over the prototypes to Commanders Black and Michaels for final proofing. They passed.”

  “You have my attention,” Eric admitted. “Since you’re informing me about it now, I assume there’s something I can bring to the table?”

  “You know tactics and strategies for independent long-range fighter combat better than anyone alive,” Gracen said. “These new craft are going to vastly extend those capabilities, and we’re going to need a new doctrine.”

  “Mission profile?”

  “Long-range extended reconnaissance,” she answered instantly, “with an emphasis on plausible deniability.”

  Eric looked sharply over at her, gesturing ahead. “My office is just this way. Technical specifications?”

  Gracen produced a small crystal holographic chip, the sort used to transport ultrasecure intelligence when one couldn’t trust transmission methods.

  “I don’t need to tell you to secure that, I hope.”

  Eric snorted as he accepted the holo-chip. “Not if I’m reading you right. You’re talking Q-Ships, not fighters.”

  “Q-Ships with teeth, but yes,” Gracen confirmed. “Standard air and space superiority fighters are extremely limited in application. We’re keeping the Vorpals for the moment. Oh, and the Odysseus will get a few squadrons to augment your force projection capability, but we need the black version of what the Archangels were on Earth. The scales involved mean enhancing their capacities significantly.”

  Eric fell silent as they entered his office, immediately crossing to his desk so he could examine the specs on the chip, his mind running a light-year per second.

  Q-Ships, under various names, had a long history in naval warfare and military intelligence. The name itself sourced to the Second World War, when various factions would refit merchant vessels for different tasks—sometimes for combat, often for spying, or for some other special service need.

  They weren’t particularly good in a fight, traditionally, because most were barely refit with whatever weapons could be bolted to the decks, but in recent years, Eric had heard that wasn’t always the case. Purpose-built special service vessels had been used in several wars since, up to and including the Block War, by all sides of the conflicts.

  In the right hands, tasked with the right job, a lot could be accomplished with such a vessel.

  Eric looked over the files, getting a feel for the new generation of Archangel as his brain tried to catch up with what the admiral was proposing.

  “Q-Ships are subtle as a rule. These aren’t . . .”

  “They aren’t a match for any profile in our forces, or the Priminae’s either.”

  Eric nodded as he examined the files. “True enough. Third faction?”

  “That’s the plan, Eric.”

  The new-generation fighters were massively larger than the original Archangel fighters, which had been retrofitted from air superiority airframes in a rush to take advantage of the newly acquired counter-mass technology stolen from China. They hadn’t had time, back then, to really capitalize on the capabilities the technology offered, so he had made the call to take a bunch of surplus Raptor airframes out of an Airforce boneyard and turn them into something viable.

  What he was looking at here was a completely different animal.

  “These are more like cutters than fighters,” he said, examining the mass and designs. “Or maybe PT boats.”

  Gracen shrugged. “Different environment, different specifications. They can outmaneuver your generation Archangel, outrace even the Odysseus in both acceleration and top end, and pack enough firepower to make a Rogue think twice about engaging them.”

  “I can see that,” Eric admitted. “Not saying it’s a bad design. I like what I’m seeing, just having trouble parsing it with the idea of these being a new-generation Archangel. You’re thinking a long-term mission, largely independent of NACOM?”

  “That’s correct, yes.”

  “Age-of-sail rules, then,” Eric mumbled. “Privateers, though a little more official. They’ll be out of contact for long periods. Even with FTL comms you’re not going to be able to maintain the sort of command structure we’re used to. That means giving the commander of the unit a lot of leeway in their orders and authority.”

  Gracen nodded. “That was my expectation.”

  “Who’s on tap for the job?” Eric asked, delving deeper into the fighter specs as he did.

  “Michaels.”

  Eric looked up, staring at her seriously for a moment before he shook his head. “You’re stealing my chief helmsman, and I’m assuming my tactical officer too?”

  “Don’t feel too bad. We’re also raiding the other ships,” she told him with a slight smile.

  “Yeah, the other ships under my command, so that’s not making me feel better.” Eric laughed openly now. “I’m assuming these are NICS equipped, then?”

  “Next generation, far more efficient interface.”

  “Damn. I’m jealous.”

 
And he was. The sort of mission profile she was talking about—flying under a false flag, answering to your own authority, and spending months or possibly even years away from official contact—was something no one had done in hundreds of years.

  It was an assignment that would take a certain sort of personality to do, or want to do, but for that type it was a dream assignment. Some thrived in the chain of command; for some, however, freedom called to their blood. It had been a long time since the sort of freedom the admiral was talking about had truly been available to explore.

  “It’s going to take a lot of work to write up a rough doctrine,” he said seriously. “But I’ll get it done. Just remember, the nature of the beast is going to mean that a lot of it will be rewritten on the fly in the field. You’re talking about sending people out into unknowns that we can’t even guess at.”

  “I know,” Gracen acknowledged. “But a framework will help.”

  Eric nodded. “I’ll get it done.”

  Star Forge Alpha

  Milla groaned slightly as she pulled herself out of the cramped access port to the power conduits that fed the primary systems in Commander Michaels’ fighter, irritated with herself and Steph in equal portion.

  How is it even possible for him to have stressed those particular conduits?

  She understood that the point of the test flights was to do just that, if it were possible, but she couldn’t work out how it was possible in the first place.

  “I swear, that man generates a field of entropy aimed directly at any machine he operates,” she grumbled as she brushed grease and dust off her hands as best she could before rubbing her palms on the thighs of her work suit.

  “That’s pilots for you.”

  Milla squeaked as she jumped, pivoting around to see Commander Black leaning against the deactivated wall of the cockpit.

  “Please do not do that.” Milla breathed as she clutched at her chest, her heart racing. “Odysseus was quite bad enough. I do not need real people doing the same to me.”

  Alexandra Black raised her eyebrow. “I’ve heard about Odysseus, of course, but never met . . . him?”