Massoud (Massoud Chronicles Book 1)

  “Officers and crew of the Science Fleet, it has been an honor to serve with you, both as scientists and soldiers. The time for enquiry is past. The time for action is here. We act now to protect our families,” and then in imitation of the Xenos' hail, he added: “Xedfoukib Fleet, this is Teloc of Denison. You have entered our space. Withdraw or be destroyed.”

  This grandiose statement was delivered with such gravity that not one human hearing it disbelieved the absolute truth of it.

  At one hundred and fifty percent normal range, Teloc’s ships deployed the swarm torpedoes and the flock of weapons swept out from the four ships, taking random routes, as they had been designed to do, to confuse enemy countermeasures. However, they were all following instructions to track down the engine exhaust of a specific ship hidden behind a Delta cruiser. They swept around the obstacle, aiming for the engine discharge and, although they did not precisely or simultaneously hit the target, hit it they did, and the selected ship careened with the loss of propulsion. Part of its engine casing ripped away and fortuitously hit the communications array. On the Sinbad, the surveillance officer calmly declared, “Enemy flagship identified with ninety eight percent confidence level.” The tactical images now identified the Delta Cruiser at the rear of the enemy formation as the target.

  Sung ordered a targeting adjustment, and the second wave released their only set of swarm torpedoes from a position just outside the weapon’s range of the enemy ship. The distance that the control signals had to travel was shorter than it had been for the first wave of training ships. As a result, the torpedoes hit with improved accuracy. The resultant failure of the enemy ship’s engines initiated a stuttering wave of explosions, implosions, and exfoliation of ship parts. The Sinbad’s surveillance officer was sharp, and quickly spotted a small transport leaving the crippled ship heading forward in the alien fleet and guessed it was carrying the enemy commander. Sung ordered her port ship, the one nearest the alien transport, to pursue and destroy. But the ship was run by trainees and the sudden change in objective was challenging. Their first ballistic missile fluffed off into open space. Then a maser achieved a sloppy hit, causing the targeted transport to spin out of control, before it was sliced by a large piece of debris from the disabled ship it was abandoning.

  In the interim, the Xenos had reacted to the little ships that had suddenly and inexplicably increased their weapons range. Three Gamma Class ships broke off from the main body of the invasion force and pursued the pitiable attack force. The attacking Alliance ships had retreated, knowing their weapons supply was depleted, and with the unhappy understanding that they could not outrun the larger enemy ships if they operated at speed. Sung’s four ships were to the rear in this pursuit. First one, and then a second, of her grouping blipped out of existence on the tactical display, while the Sinbad itself was buffeted by shielded hits.

  But there were other Training Fleet vessels on the displays. The retreat of the first and second wave of Class C ships brought them closer to their counterparts who had been left behind during the attack. These ships arced around so that they bore down on the engine exhaust of the Xeno Gamma Class ships. They deployed their own swarm torpedoes, and the Gamma ships rolled from their trajectory nursing major damage, one vessel hitting the other so that even an untargeted ship reeled. Like a pack of wild dogs taking down larger prey, the surviving Class C ships went in for the kill and fired their remaining weapons inventory, somewhat incoherently it must be admitted, into the three enemy ships.

  The failure of the Gamma ships to protect themselves from this attack was extraordinary. Perhaps the Xeno trait of focusing on their primary objective at the exclusion of all else—the pursuit of the first two waves in this case—was the reason for their failure to respond defensively. More likely, the crews of the Gamma ships were as inexperienced in battle as their opponents.

  The Training Fleet was now near disarmed and purposeless, but their return to Denison was blocked by a major battle raging between the Unified Fleet and the remaining Xeno forces. Teloc ordered his ships to regroup at a tolerably safe distance.

  From this point onwards, the crews of the Class C ships could only watch the gut-churning action, knowing that nothing but the Unified Fleet stood between the population of Denison and genocide. Massoud, like everyone else on the bridge of the Sinbad, moved her eyes back and forth from the exterior view screen to the tactical display. Nothing else mattered. She held her body rigidly still, mesmerized as she was by the fight for her solar system, so much so that the muscles at the base of her neck became a knotted mess. She opened up her stance and stretched, but within minutes she was back to her posture of attentive tension. The stress was unendurable, all the more so because she was relegated to the role of passive observer.

  Ships were lost on both sides of the battle, but the Xeno attack was less coordinated than the Alliance defense. It was as if two or three variants of a battle plan were being followed by the leaderless invaders.

  It was a jolt to hear Teloc’s command to pick up escape pod survivors. He, at least, was looking to the bigger picture. The action had shifted to a route aligned with the wormhole, in front of which the remaining enemy vessels were massing in apparent retreat, leaving the original battle site, and thereby allowing the rescue of Alliance survivors.

  The Unified Fleet pursued the retreating Xenos mercilessly, but a small number of enemy vessels successfully exited human-controlled space via the wormhole. For the first time, Massoud considered the Alliance Fleet defenders at the other end of the wormhole, who had likely been obliterated prior to the Xeno entry into Denison space. The Unified Fleet wisely did not pursue the invaders through the wormhole. There was no way to know what would greet them on the other side. Probes were sent through. After sufficient time had passed for telemetry to be received, a contingent from the Unified Fleet progressed through the wormhole, to take up station at the wormhole entrance. Massoud later learned that the enemy had confidently brought its entire massed forces through the gateway to human-controlled space, leaving the entry point unguarded.

  With adrenaline sapping, the crew of the Sinbad, and likely every other Alliance ship left in Denison space, wilted at their stations. Massoud checked her systems in a desultory way. What she saw triggered her heartrate to spike. She had not been tracking the depleted weapons systems during the battle; her mind had dismissed them entirely since they were irrelevant once deployed. Now, however, a status report caught her eye, posted automatically by the repair systems. There had been a propellant leak that could not be remotely controlled due to inoperable valves. The repair team had successfully shut down the system manually, but there had been a fatality.

  Lt. Lee, a climatologist and quite out of his element, had done what was necessary to prevent poisoning of an entire deck of the ship. Massoud, who had dispassionately borne the death of countless comrades, many of her academic colleagues, and of two admirals who were personally known to her, felt a physical pressure on her chest, a tightening and squeezing, when she discovered the fate of the unassuming Lt. Lee. She was standing at his station. She had displaced him. Her choice to supervise him during the war games, to be on this bridge, had indirectly resulted in his death. She slumped into the stool behind her station, pale and faint, but she was not alone in this reaction. Around her, others looked spent and distressed by the swath death had cut through their beloved science fleet and the people who served in it.

  Captain Sung exuded an air of strength. The expression in her eyes showed that she was as feeling an officer as anyone on the bridge, but by some force of will she injected backbone into those around her. She gave direction, once again reminding her inexperienced crew of their duties, the primary one being to secure the ship’s systems and make ready for flight. She was a bastion against the effects of grief and dismay. Massoud recovered from her shock and followed the captain’s example, but there was little for her to do on the bridge except reset systems and review status reports.

  Vice
Admiral Lightfoot had only been in the sector a few days prior to the invasion and had not had an opportunity to convince Biash of the merit of changing the fleet’s location. He believed that Biash’s decision to maintain the fleet near the planet had been unwise. Now he was temporarily the senior officer in the sector, and he quickly revised Biash’s orders and re-stationed the surviving Alliance vessels at an intercept location close to the wormhole.

  The Training Fleet, or at least the skeletal remnants of that ad-hoc force, hovered nearby. Since the Class C ships had only sufficient supplies for a few more days in space, they were designated to receive the escape pod survivors and the seriously wounded to transport those personnel to the planet. This permitted the surviving Unified Fleet ships to remain on station. One by one, the fully loaded Class C ships departed for Denison. Teloc’s and Sung’s ships were among the last to leave.

  On the third day after the battle, Teloc was summoned to a holo-conference with Lightfoot. He was surprised, and gratified, to find Captain Sung already present in the vice admiral’s virtual conference room. The vice admiral joined them momentarily.

  “Captain Teloc, Captain Sung, I apologize for not meeting with you earlier. I gave priority to stabilizing our remaining defenses. I’m sure you understand. However, I didn’t want you to return to Denison without taking the opportunity to express my thanks to the personnel of the Training Fleet for their remarkable efforts during the recent battle.” The two captains bowed politely. “There was no expectation of effective action by your fleet, but you destroyed the enemy flagship, plus a number of other enemy vessels, and revealed key tactical data that proved critical in D-SUF’s actions. As you know, D-SUF and the enemy fleet were almost evenly matched, and the battle could have gone in either direction, but your actions tipped the balance in our favor.” The admiral paused, regarding them appreciatively. “It is quite possible we owe you our lives, and the lives of every adult and child on Denison. Thank you, both.

  “It’s distressing that so many good people were lost. Admiral Biash and Rear Admiral Williams were personally known to me, and although we often disagreed and were sometimes in conflict, I admired them. I admire them even more now. There was something of true nobility in their last actions.” At this, the admiral looked down and became silent. All three officers contemplated the losses for several moments, before Lightfoot redirected their thoughts.

  “You must forgive me. I normally review an officer’s service record prior to meeting for the first time, but I have not had the opportunity to review either of yours. However, I have reviewed the recordings of the Training Fleet’s actions in battle and it’s clear you are both exemplary officers. Being able to bring out the best in inexperienced crews is a rare talent.” Lightfoot’s face darkened a little as he turned towards Teloc. “However, there was one thing that did strike me as odd. Your first conversation with this Lt. Massoud was...peculiar.”

  Sung interjected with an explanation. “Our crews were preparing farewell messages to their loved ones. Captain Teloc and Lt. Massoud are married.”

  “Ah, that explains it,” responded Lightfoot, but the explanation did not satisfy him. Lightfoot was married to his work. In his heart, he could not fathom why a career officer would choose to be married in any other way.

  “So,” he continued, addressing Teloc, “is that why you contacted Lt. Massoud for a tactical analysis?”

  “In part,” answered Teloc. “I have worked with Massoud for some years and understand that her thinking is not always conformist. She has a flexibility of intellect that can be useful. More significantly, she has spent many months studying the tactical capabilities of the Xenos and I knew that she, and the other weapons officers she consulted with, had developed some innovative ideas.”

  “Isn’t that the role of the Tactical Staff? Is this Massoud on that staff?”

  “No. She is a junior instructor at the academy. The Tactical Staff never considered how Class C ships could be utilized militarily, since those vessels were to be decommissioned. However, I happened to know that Massoud had given great thought to the matter. Hence, I contacted her when I needed advice on our weapons capabilities. It is fortunate that I knew of her expertise in this area. Our personal relationship made me aware of this.”

  Lightfoot’s disapproval of marriage in general was only dwarfed by his disapproval of intra-fleet marriage in particular. He feared the perception of nepotism. He could not tolerate one spouse being in the chain of command of another, even when it accidentally occurred, as it recently had in the case of Capt. Teloc and Lt. Massoud. Despite this, he was now obliged to be appreciative of a circumstance which he normally considered to be detrimental to his beloved fleet. It was an instance in which the exception obliterated the rule—and did so in a spectacular fashion. Regardless of his personal opinions, Lightfoot decided to be magnanimous.

  “Given Lt. Massoud’s contribution perhaps we should invite her to this conference. She is on your ship, Sung. Isn’t she?”

  Sung nodded and placed a hand to her earpiece while delivering an order to her ship. Within a few moments, Massoud’s image appeared between those of the two captains, straightening her uniform in anticipation of meeting a senior officer. When she realized she had joined the meeting, she bowed smartly to the vice admiral, just before her eyes strayed to, and then glued onto, the image of Teloc. Her first words should have been ones of greeting to the admiral, instead she exhaled in relief:

  “Teloc, you’re here too. It’s so good to see you. Are you alright?”

  “Quite clearly, I am so,” responded Teloc calmly. He retained his wife’s attention, prompting the admiral to clear his throat. Massoud apologized and determinedly paid due notice to the senior officer in the room. He fixed her with a stern reprimanding look. It was one he frequently used to overawe junior personnel, but Massoud accepted his iciness composedly. The admiral may have been an imposing figure, taller than average and broadly built, but Massoud had long since learnt to ignore the superficial traits of dominance. She could not have functioned in her job otherwise.

  Lightfoot had intended to be benevolent during this interview, but he was annoyed. Initially he had been displeased to owe his victory to science fleet officers. Now, in addition to that, he discovered Massoud and Teloc represented all that was improper with the fleet’s tolerance of marriage within the ranks. Every few seconds, the pretty little officer would glance sideways in her husband’s direction, her distraction a form of disrespect to the admiral. It chaffed to think Lightfoot’s fleet owed its success to such unprofessional spacefarers. The admiral had always demanded nothing but the highest level of professionalism from the Class A officers he had commanded. He could respect Class B crews because they had constantly faced danger, but the C Fleet had been persistently amateurish. Their training and demeanor had always been sloppy. While Teloc’s bearing countered those notions, Massoud’s confirmed them.

  “Lt. Massoud,” Lightfoot said, somewhat testily, “I understand that you came up with the idea for extending the range of the swarm torpedoes. That was quite ingenious.” He marveled that he had the self-discipline to make this generous statement without croaking.

  “I can’t accept praise for that idea; it was not mine alone,” explained Massoud. “I just modified an idea that had popped up during informal meetings with my fellow weapons officers. It was really a group effort. We knew headquarters believed Class C ships had no tactical use. We thought differently and developed ideas about how they could be utilized. Their weapons can be effective. Also, Cantrell engines are fundamentally oversized for Class C ships but, when they are installed, the ships can be speedy and maneuverable and quite useful, as you saw three days ago.”

  The admiral enquired with minute interest into the conclusions of the lunchtime meetings Massoud had referenced. She propounded the key concepts that had been developed and refined by her colleagues. The information was sensibly and logically presented, with an efficiency that the admiral appreciated
. She was fully focused on the topic and the admiral favorably revised his initial opinion of her as she made her informal presentation. Once finished, however, she returned to giving her husband fawning looks. The rapid change in her behavior had the admiral wondering if she was mentally stable. No healthy woman could so readily oscillate between being a professional killer and a besotted girl.

  “Thank you, Massoud,” he said in a constrained manner. “You may have me revising my opinion of Class C vessels. There may be a use for them in the Unified Fleet. I will think about it.

  “There is one other matter I would like to clarify, if possible. You all knew Admiral Biash better than I. Don’t get me wrong; I think the man is a hero. But I cannot understand why he sacrificed himself in the first attack. It goes against logic. The senior officer should have remained to command his fleet. That is what duty dictates. It’s conventional wisdom. Why did he do otherwise?”

  Sung shrugged, but Teloc shifted slightly, just enough to bring a query to Massoud’s eyes. It was her reaction that the admiral noted.

  “Well, Capt. Teloc. What do you know?”

  “It was a confidential matter.”

  “The man’s dead. There’s no expectation of privacy.”

  “Perhaps not, but out of respect...”

  “Nothing will be said beyond this room,” the vice admiral assured him.

  Teloc took a moment to frame his response. “Admiral Biash had very recently been diagnosed with a degenerative condition known as Alzheimer’s disease. It impaired his cognitive functions. I believe he understood that he was not the best person to lead the Training Fleet because of this. Nonetheless, he seemed willing to sacrifice himself—as an example to those who would likely have to make the same sacrifice.”