Darkness: Book One of the Oortian Wars

by Iain Richmond

  “This is definitely going to leave a mark.” He pressed harder against the wall of the Infinity Path, trying to fly.

  “I’m a goddamn space-falcon,” he whispered and moved his arms up and down. He paused, grumbled “what the hell,” and lifted his right leg and moved it in unison with his arms. Seventy-five percent space-falcon and twenty-five percent land manatee, he adjusted his wings, with the intent of skimming over Pluto. “All of this room, and just one space-falcon to enjoy—"

  “Captain Falco?” A dour man’s reflection appeared. “Could you please stop… whatever it is you are doing.”

  The space-falcon sadly turned to look and immediately recognized the face from the docking bay’s welcome station. “Assistant Director Lipinski?” Falco extended a hand.

  “Director Lipinski.” He shook Falco’s hand. “I have replaced Director Al Urduni who is en route to the Mars Station.”

  “Well then, congratulations is also in order.” Falco shifted in the silence that followed.

  “Yes,” Lipinski eyes tightened into slits, “Yes, indeed. Our official meeting is tomorrow morning 0900, Captain. Until then, enjoy your down time.”

  “I’ll do that, Director…” Falco trailed off as the willowy man with far too much intensity was already on the move.

  “It’s a damn fine evening,” Falco growled with added grit, turned back toward the view of Pluto and gently flapped his arms while making a slight screeching sound. The space-falcon will fly again he thought, swinging the duffel back over his shoulder and continuing his march. It had been a long time since his last meeting with Pema Tenzin and that one had been memorable.

  Falco glanced at the wall monitor that had scanned him as he approached. "FIFTY-EIGHT METERS, CAPTAIN FALCO. HATCH NUMBER ONE THREE EIGHT."

  The Luna and Mars stations were quiet, unobtrusive and uncomfortable in every possible way imaginable. So far, Station Pluto tracked, talked and observed everything. All Falco had to do was walk by a monitor, speak his destination and the constantly scanning units that were positioned throughout the station would let him know how far and in what direction he should be traveling. Annoying as hell, but better than the LINK and at least Falco had the option of not initiating the process.

  Butterflies brushed his ribcage while Falco stood in front of hatch one three eight. ‘CHUB-CLUB’ was painted on the smooth, steel door. He noticed the large leather sandals perfectly positioned to the right of the hatch. The bastard is trying to psych me out, he was sure; there is no way in hell that Sherpa wears a size fourteen sandal. “It has been far too long, my friend,” he offered to the monstrous sandals as he punched the hatch release.

  Falco entered the biggest gym he had ever seen off planet. There were three regulation size grav-rings on his right, each encased with authentic ropes to keep the beasts in the cage. There was a rowdy commotion going on around the furthest ring, loud voices shouting at a rotund man holding a Data Pad and impassioned souls holding up various combinations of fingers. Falco ignored the chaos and continued his assessment.

  To his left was a twenty-five by twenty-five meter open space bordered by the latest generation of resistance gear. Cardio machines that resembled carbon body suits far more advanced than the one he strapped on in the Anam Cara, stood waiting for users in a perfect line.

  “Outstanding!” he stated. “A perfect place to return the favor of a proper ass-kicking on a dear friend!”

  Falco sensed an imposing figure approaching from behind. He straightened his back, stretching and flexing as he did so. Without turning to face the man that was now looming behind him, Falco asked, “So, Azim, what are the odds?”

  A deep and spirited laugh rumbled. “Three to one. Best odds you’ve faced yet, Falco.” None of his officers called him captain when off duty and he would have it no other way.

  Azim Shar’ran pointed him towards the changing room. Falco slowed his pace, shot a glance out of the corner of his eye toward the mob in the corner that was still placing their bets, a stoic brick of a figure at their center. “How’s the Lion of Tibet?”

  Azim looked towards the corner. “Hmm, let’s just say you better have your A-game. Pema looks like he’s taken advantage of a real gym for the past five years.”

  “We’ll see.” Falco picked up his pace and entered the changing room.

  7

  Station Pluto, CHUB-CLUB

  the Lion and the Falcon

  “Ian! Save me a seat!” Azim hollered, but could barely see the Scotsman through the throng of Tibetans pushing into the benches around the ring. He felt like a giant, a full twenty-five centimeters taller than all but Ian and Sierra. Sierra Holts was calm in motion. She stood out in a way that reminded Azim of his father. The strongest one in the village has nothing to prove.

  Holts had a quiet confidence, the kind that was earned. Her lean frame, flawless coffee complexion represented the best of Brazil. But her perfectly shaved head covered in black tattoos was a remnant of her Northeastern Brazil heritage, a place that Azim knew all too well and remained one of Earth’s most dangerous independent territories.

  Ian stood up off his front row seat, Sierra by his side, “What are ya waiting fer, ya warrior slug? Go place ar bet and come git yer seat before I sell it!” Ian’s highlander accent always took over as soon as he left the Anam Cara’s pilot seat.

  Azim gave him the usual nod and strode up to the parting mass and looked at the stout man holding wads of paper currency. Cash was the only form of exchange accepted in grav-matches.

  Azim held up both hands to the man, showing ten fingers and handed him a stack of bills. “Azim. Ten thousand Kuai on the Fighting Falcon.” Watching the sweaty hands writing down the information, satisfied, he began working his way through the rows of benches towards his seat up front.

  Ian tapped Sierra on the shoulder and together they tried to make a bit more room for Azim’s large frame.

  “Did you bet it all?” Ian whispered into his ear. Azim turned and nodded, his left eyebrow raised high, creating a less than confidant expression.

  The old grav-fighting champion of the now Scottish Kingdom released a heavy sigh. “Family is all we have.”

  “A sad and possibly expensive truth, my brother.” Azim looked up to the raised ring and waited for the fight to begin between Pema Tenzin, the Lion of Tibet and Jack Falco, the Fighting Falcon.

  The crowd sprang to its feet, cheering for their heroes who entered the ring through their separate changing areas. Onlookers were eager for the chance to make a profit. Warm air moved throughout the gym, carrying the pungent, sweetly sour aroma of potent Tenzin Chang and the spice of hardworking bodies.

  Sierra put a mug at her feet and passed the others along the line. For a moment, Azim held the mug under his chin, took a deep breath to get the aromas and passed the mug on, whispering, “Praise be to Allah.”

  Sierra gingerly raised the mug and pulled it towards her face, smelling and testing the foreign, high-octane scent. A slight shrug and she tossed back her head and chugged half the contents without even a grimace. The legend grows, Azim thought as he and Ian exchanged approving glances.

  The ‘bookie’ was also the announcer and the announcer was the referee for the match. He waddled past the cheering crowd and climbed the three stairs that led from the seating area to the ring. Standing on the lower rope with one foot, he pushed the center rope up with a chubby fist and shot through the opening with a surprising burst of speed. Once in the center he reached above his head and held up a small, gray-worn object that had seen far too much time in a tight pocket.

  Sierra shifted her weight and produced a similar object of a newer design, glanced at Azim and Ian. “Translator, boys.”

  Azim knew the traditions of the proud Tibetans and their language was the foundation. They would speak the ancient tongue of their motherland anywhere they could. Watching for other translators to appear he realized the majority of the crowd was Tibetan. “Looks like Falco is the away-team,” he comment
ed.

  A hush fell over the clamoring mass and the two gladiators met in the center of the ring and stood there. The stout announcer droned on for ages.

  Their last match was over a decade ago in Rome. Azim recalled thinking the Fighting Falcon looked like he lost every round. The match ended with Falco on his back and unconscious as the referee reached six. Somehow his captain had stirred and gotten up by ten and the fight had ended with Falco surviving and stumbling around the ring holding his arms up in mock victory. The judges gave the fight to Falco in a crowd-stunning decision… and the myth grew.

  Falco stood a full head taller than Pema, but the Tibetan outweighed him by at least ten kilos and little was fat on that block of a frame.

  “Finally,” Azim said, as the jowly finale escaped the announcer’s lips.

  He tossed his translator to a man in the first row, who dodged it as if fear of having to put one of his two mugs of Tenzin Chang down to catch the antiquated projectile was too much to ask. Once again, the crowd ooed and ahhed at the speed of the chubby jack-of-all-trades. He peeled off his sweat-stained silk shirt, flung the zest-infused garment into the crowd with a huge toothy grin and again stood before the fighters in a tight gray tank top that was apparently white at some prior point in its existence.

  “Touch gloves, head to your corners and come out fighting when you hear the bell,” he said in perfect English. Both fighters had already been forced apart by the mass of the man’s belly. Pema stretched out his thick arms, hovering just above the referee’s round appendage. Falco reached out and slammed his gloved fists on top of the Tibetan’s.

  Azim knew the fighting switch was now flipped and the men were friends no longer as each one sauntered towards their opposite corners. He remained fixed on Falco as he reached his corner, grabbed the ropes, lowered his head and began whispering to himself. The man was almost two meters tall with long, lean muscles and broad shoulders. Azim leaned toward Ian, “Looks like the Anam Cara’s training suit did its job. Falco looks ready.”

  “Training suits in closets for five years keeps you in shape, but they don’t punch you in the face.” Ian shrugged. “We’ll see how ready he is after the first round.”

  The bell rang and the Tibetan Lion stormed towards the charging Fighting Falcon.

  2 hours later, Station Pluto

  Chub-Club

  Jack Falco and Pema Tenzin sat alone on a bench outside the ring. The crowd was gone and Azim and Ian had left with the same amount of cash they came in with. Sierra Holts had lingered. Once Falco and Pema had answered a rather intensive round of Holts’s interrogative questioning, she had reluctantly accepted that the men were bruised but not broken and left.

  In a haze of exhaustion, Falco finally pushed out a sentence. “It is good to see you again.”

  Pema grimaced as he responded; “Only fitting that after so many years, we end in a draw.”

  “Home field advantage,” Falco laughed, coughed, “you and I both know three Tibetan judges are honor bound—”

  “Yes, Falco.” Pema rolled his eyes and reached out a hand for Falco to shake. “You may have pulled out the later rounds. This makes us even for the Rome fight.”

  Falco rolled back, laughing then, grabbed his ribs. “A decade ago! Rome was close, but I pulled it out by the skin of my teeth.”

  A vast smile broke across Pema’s face. “I knocked you down fifteen times…” Pema paused and joined Falco’s laughter. “Fifteen times!”

  “But not in the same round.” Falco became dead serious and pointed at Pema, “And that is why I won.”

  “Agreed,” Pema said. “Never leave it to the judges.”

  “What about Ensign Holts?” Pema enquired after a short silence, raising a heavily scarred eyebrow.

  “Just wanted to make sure we were good. Alive without any negative long-term effects.” Falco liked the way she lingered after the fight.

  Pema shook his head. “If you say so. Almost five years on a long haul and you and Holts—”

  “Nope. Kept us on opposite hiber-sleep rotations. Anam Cara is a small boat, no secrets.” Falco wanted more, but the guilt still felt heavy so he did not pursue the obvious interest on both sides.

  “Falco,” Pema laid a tired hand on his shoulder, “I am so sorry about Luciana, about Ziza.”

  “Thank you, Pema. And I am sorry for your parents… brothers…” Falco trailed off and was reminded why talking about the dead was of no use after the terror attack. The list of loved ones lost was endless and everyone had one.

  The hatch slid open. Falco and Pema fell silent and calmly watched young marines pour through the opening dressed in their combat utility uniforms. Finally, a lantern-jawed woman appeared and the hatch slid closed. They moved with precision toward the bench where Falco and Pema were sitting.

  Falco caught the glint of the gold oak leaves on her collar and rose to attention. Pema quickly followed. Saluting was discontinued years ago as it simply put any watching enemy crosshairs on those in charge, but standing at attention was not.

  “Captain Falco of the Anam Cara?” asked the officer.

  “Yes, Major.”

  “You and your officers are needed at once in the Pluto Room. Your scouting mission has been moved up twenty-four hours. R&R is cancelled until further notice.”

  “Yes, Major.” Falco looked at the marines standing around him. A long, silent moment followed. “Ah, we know where the Pluto Room is, Major.”

  “Good. Then be on your way, Captain.” She waited.

  Falco reached down and grabbed his duffle bag. “Great work, Chief. Was a pleasure seeing you again.” Falco place a hand on his shoulder.

  “Likewise, Captain Falco.” Pema slowly headed toward the locker room while Falco gingerly walked behind his escort toward the hatch.

  “Be careful, Captain, and may you find fair winds and following seas.”

  Falco stopped and turned back toward the locker room. “Save me a jug of that brew of yours.” They exchanged a nod. “Back in a week and I’ll need a drink.”

  Falco left the CHUB-CLUB wondering why in hell an escort of marines and a major were sent for a captain on R&R for the first time since the Mars shoebox. Then he remembered the aftermath of that five-day furlough. If that’s what they were expecting, he thought, they should have sent more marines.

  8

  Station Pluto, Hanger Four

  the Mission

  Falco sat in his captain’s chair. His hand continued to work the swollen area around his jaw, then dropped to his bruised ribcage. The Anam Cara felt smaller and the slight swelling around his right eye wasn’t helping. Hangar Four was intimate. Just big enough for two smaller boats or one Cyclone Class patrol vessel. The Chinese 10th fleet took up the majority of the exterior grav-moorings. No matter, interior hangers were closer to the officers’ lounge. Falco turned toward the pilot seat, “Lieutenant Wallace, get me an open-COM to the crew.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Wallace kept his eyes on the controls in the bow of the Anam Cara as he continued working down his pre-launch checklist. Without missing a beat, “COM is live when you are ready, sir.”

  Falco cleared his throat, tapped the green key on his data pad, “Crew of the Anam Cara, at 0700 we will disembark Station Pluto, chart a course toward the Oort Cloud and begin our official mission to scout the surrounding area for mass debris clearing and potential mining sites.” And a wayward planet named Nemesis, he thought. Just like Pluto’s nonconformist orbit. Shit gets weird out here, it was that simple.

  Falco audibly groaned as he shifted in his seat, leaving the COM on, “The Anam Cara will feel crowded for a while until we all get used to a full crew on two rotations. No more hiber-sleep, people – now the Rocket Sardine will live up to her nickname.” He watched Lieutenant Wallace wince.

  He moved, winced and again reached for his side, “Once on our way, we have twenty-four hours before we arrive at the beginning of our search vector and will start compiling data. I expect a tight ship;
every station will run a full diagnostic. Any issues, I want them addressed immediately. This is what we came for.” Falco paused. “And welcome to deep space, this mission will take us further than any human being has ever traveled from Earth. Harness up. As soon as we are beyond the Station Pluto safety zone and on step, the grav system will kick in and it’s business as usual.”

  Falco hit the COM button. The bridge of the Anam Cara was running smoothly. The gentle glow from dialed-down holo-displays and data pads felt warm and inviting. The crew had taken the reduction of their much-earned R&R better than Falco expected. They were young, green and full of adventure, but that would fade with time and the oblivion that welcomed them from all sides.

  He brushed at each of his shoulders, the charcoal-gray captain’s uniform looking crisp, yet soft under his rough fingers. “Release the docking clamps and bring us out, Lieutenant Wallace.”

  A magnetic hum vibrated through the antiquated steel hull of the Anam Cara and stopped with a clanking crack.

  “She’s free, Captain. Initiating bow thruster burn,” Lieutenant Wallace stated with an easy calm. “Hangar hatch is open.”

  Falco felt the waves of adventure rolling towards him once again. The Anam Cara gently pushed out from Station Pluto and he found his officers looking his direction while Lieutenant Wallace piloted the boat away from Hangar Four, engaged the starboard thrusters and began to turn the Anam Cara toward its planned course.

  Tradition was everything in the Navy, Falco knew. His three officers waited for his latest test that was always given before leaving safe harbor for the next great unknown. Falco tightened his harness and readied his master thespian that lay just below the surface.

  “The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.” Let us see who can find the poet within the artist, Falco considered and waited for the answer.