Chapter 4:
Defection
Deep within the heart of the contested Deneb system, the Neo-Terran Front was
preparing for a long, bloody siege.
The NTF forces had long since had their spies infiltrate all but the highest echelons
of the Galactic Terran-Vasudan Alliance, and were well aware that the Aquitaine, as well
as the Vasudan destroyer Psamtik, were headed for the Deneb system. Both the GTVA
and the rebellion had taken heavy casualties in the battle for the star, until finally it looked
as if the Neo-Terrans might win the battle. Of course, the Alliance Security Council was
no collection of fools, and had sent the two destroyers to the system to even the match.
As this news had reached the NTF communications net, and finally Admiral Aken
Bosch himself, he had ordered fighter and bomber wings throughout the system to be in a
state of constant readiness. He knew that it would be impossible to blockade the jump
node itself; the GTVA still held formidable forces in the system outskirts.
Yesterday, at 2134 galactic, the flag of the Neo-Terran Front had been risen on the
system's capital planet of Deneb. The GTVA news nets would not release that
information yet, of course. They knew the illusion of an invincible alliance had to be
maintained. Bugger the cost.
Naturally, however, the propaganda stations of the NTF would hardly admit to the
fact their rag-tag military fleet (composed primary of defected starships) would be grossly
outnumbered by two destroyers alone.
Bosch had pulled away his starfighters from non-essential locations such as cargo
depots to be additions to blockade duties. The depot where Jason McNeil resided was
very essential, though more so than Bosch would like to admit. Only the bombers had
been recalled from this depot, leaving behind a full complement of Hercs and Loki-class
scout fighters.
Jason McNeil lay back in his bunk bed. He was always on the lower half, Bosch
had insisted to him that even senior officers should not flaunt their privileged status to the
rest of the crew. Necessity, he claimed, must take precedence over vanity.
So this left Jason, commander of Admiral Bosch's personal, and top-secret, ETAK
project sharing his quarters with a base-ranking shuttle mechanic.
The irony of the situation had long since passed, simple frustration was settling
over him.
*Dammit, with the possible extinction of the Homo Sapiens at my fingertips, I
deserve a little quiet time!*
The bunk above him wasn't currently occupied. Jason had at least enough
influence in the depot to insure that his roommate's duty schedule was different than his.
But it still wasn't enough, they were together for several hours a day. By God, but that
man was as annoying as hell.
Jason clenched and unclenched his fists.
Normally, the view of a starfield floating outside his would relax him, like a nice
massage… but there was no starfield now. There hadn't been for over a year. Outside of
his sole porthole, there was only the dark, smooth and unyielding rock that disguised the
station from probing hostile sensors.
His eyes fluttered backwards as he reveled in the futility of it all. He… just didn't
get some of Bosch's whims. His fleet was being surrounded on all sides by the titanic
might of the GTVA, and the man was concerned about a species that hadn't shown its face
for over thirty-two years after its defeat.
The Shivans, for Christ's sake. The Shivans were gone. Vanished. He was
genuinely concerned for the Admiral's mental security, and would have voiced his fears by
now, if not for the constant threat of execution to traitors.
The NTF could desperately use the materials present at the depot elsewhere, he
knew. Perhaps attempting to blockade the jump node to Alliance systems. Perhaps
elsewhere. Unrest and riots were rampant in the Deneb system itself, and the occupying
Neo-Terran troopers were forced to resort to the extremities of violence to stop the mob's
rampage. The violence, in turn, sparked more anti-NTF riots. A vicious cycle.
The same thing had happened in the other NTF systems. Eventually, the citizens
would return to their houses in the complacency of fear. In truth, only a small minority of
NTF-controlled star systems actually supported the rebellion. The numbers would change,
Admiral Bosch had assured his paid reporters with his usual confidence.
Hostile alert alarms began blaring throughout the metallic halls and corridors.
Instinct kicked in, and Jason shot upwards, and ran out of the room. The corridors
were usually a dull metallic gray; now alarm lighting had given the silicon walls a bright
scarlet glow.
The command center of the asteroid field depot was startlingly similar to the CC of
a standard cruiser class warship. Two levels, the top smaller than the bottom and
separated by a short railing. Primary functions were handled in the top deck, while the
lower pit coordinated smaller, more technical details of station operations.
At the night shift, the CC had a skeleton staff present, and there was a quiet hustle
and bustle below. Only two people were present on the uppermost deck when Jason
stormed in: a crew ensign was busy at communications, while a Navy Lieutenant was
screaming at her console.
"Report!"
The Navy woman, Jay Breckenridge, continued desperately giving the sensors
commands as she spoke. "Thirty seconds ago, a subspace vortex opened, large enough
for a capital class cruiser to travel through. It had an alignment from the Sirius jump
node."
"Is it Admiral Bosch's carrier?" Jason asked. Bosch was due to arrive for an
inspection at some point this month. He hadn't specified when.
"Negative. Optics picked up a shadow emerging from the vortex terminus before
it closed, but after that… it just disappeared from sensors."
"What the hell do you mean, disappeared?" This was just all he needed right now.
"The cruiser vanished from our sensors. There's no trace of it on either
electromagnetic or radiation screenings, it doesn't register as an energy source, it doesn't
even show up on the infrared. Even old fashioned radio radar isn't giving us a signal."
"I thought that was impossible in this day and age."
"It is!" Breckenridge said, exasperated. "But we still know its there. Optics
report stars becoming temporarily invisible when the cruiser passes between us and them."
"Give me a rough estimate on its position then," Jason sat down anxiously nearby
the sensor station. He pointed to the Ensign Jargis, the communications officer. "You!
Get me a full battle-readiness alert, all crews man their stations. And while you're at it, try
and hail that damn ship out there."
"I've already tried the unknown sir, there's no response."
"Then launch all fighter wings."
The optimum time for an immediate sortie of defensive fighter wings was thirty
seconds. Jason had ensured before that the station was prepared to beat that number.
Within moments, the asteroid depot's hangar bays peeled open, spewing wing after wing
of Hercules Mk1s out into the abyss.
"Are they're sensors having any more luck then ours?"
"Negative."
Jason thrummed his fingers on the console. The first rule of command was to
always keep your subordinates busy, lest they grow lax in their duties. He turned around
to Breckenridge.
"Have you got that coordinates estimate yet?"
"No, sir," she said, then quickly explained before Jason could open his mouth
again. "I've determined the bearing of the unknown, but without a proper size determined,
I can't figure the distance."
She took a breath, as if bracing. "The only thing I can tell is that its headed
for us. The area of distortion is expanding."
---
One minute ago, Ensign First Class Esteban Hanly had been relaxing with his
squadron-mates in what had passed for the station's bar. In actuality, it was only an
unused storage compartment that had some wily officer had sent up with moonshining
stills, and an outrageous price. Now, struggling to fight the effects of the stiff alcohol, he
was barely maintaining a slipshod formation as they chased about an unknown, nearly
invisible hostile.
Ahead, the area of darkness continued growing larger. The other pilots had
already expressed their discomfort at the menace ahead, and Esteban couldn't help but to
agree. The thing ahead, it wasn't so much the absence of illumination; it seemed to suck in
all light.
His comm system buzzed. "Beta wing," Jargis was saying, "I need you four to fly
a loop around the unknown. We can use that data to formulate a size and speed
variables."
"No problem," Yidstie, Esteban's wing leader said. "Beta, form up on my wing,
diamond pattern. Arm missiles and ready your laser cannons, as this could get ugly."
The four Hercules peeled away from the main starfighter group, and headed
slightly to the port side of the unknown.
The only possible method Esteban had of determining his distance from the zone of
pitch black was the way it moved in his view. Compared to his speed, he estimated a size
approximately equal to a corvette-type configuration, with a distance from his craft of
about half a kilometer. That would place it about five klicks away from the station. There
was no sign of a response from it to the fighter's proximity.
"Pilots, can you shine your guidance beacons at the prow of that thing? An optical
scan could determine configuration, designation, and possibly intent."
"You heard the man, Beta wing," Yidstie said. "Close in."
It was standard on every fighter to have a guidance beam. It projected a nearly
solid shaft of light down, and was meant for nighttime planetary landings. It would,
however, work extremely well in a vacuum situation.
The starfighters converged together about an estimated three hundred meters from
the stern of the unknown event, and began working their way across the phenomenon to
the forward prow. Four beams of light emitted from the Hercs. Four beams of light
disintegrated fifty meters from their source.
"What the hell?" Yidstie irritably remarked. The cholera in his voice gave way to
fear. "Shit. Command, the cruiser isn't just running without exterior emissions. It's
deploying some kind of field to block all energy emissions."
"Pilots, pull out of there! We're registering an energy build-up in your vicinity!"
Yidstie's craft was vaporized, instantly transforming into an expanding array of fire
and metallic debris.
Hyped-up instincts immediately erased all the poisonous effects of the alcohol still
swirling in Esteban's system. He pulled quickly away, hitting full burners. "Mayday,
mayday!" he screamed into his transmitter. "Energize all defense platforms now,
command!"
The Hercules shuddered suddenly, as an intense and highly concentrated source of
electric power came dangerously close to hitting. There was no visible weaponry, but that
didn't make it any less existent. "Pilots, get clear of that damn thing!" he heard Jason
McNeil transmit personally.
Without waiting for further authorization, Esteban activated his craft's subspace
drive. Within two seconds, the event horizon of a subspace portal consumed the
Hercules. There was never any chance to see what happened to the rest of his squadron.
Over a thousand kilometers away, Esteban distractedly tried to work out a course
to the nearest NTF outpost that his fuel levels could reach.
---
Jason McNeil watched fearfully as the last of Beta wing was destroyed by the
hidden weapons of the corvette. "Shit. Shit. Pull the rest of our fighters back," he
ordered Jargis.
Jargis didn't hear him. He tapped away at his console's controls, an expression of
anxious foreboding falling across his face. "Jurgis!" Jason snapped.
"Sir! I'm receiving a hail from within the unknown disruption field!"
Whatever response Jason had formed died instantly in his mouth. Screw this all.
Who the hell would what to capture this shit-tip of an outpost.
His thoughts shifted uncomfortably to the ETAK project present within the depot.
Surely… no, of course not. The Shivans were vanished from the face of the cosmos.
Nobody could want that. At least not bad enough to give away their possession of
strategic new technologies.
Could they?
His crew was looking expectantly at him, waiting for an order.
"Pull it up," he said, rolling his chair over to the communications system.
The central monitor on Jargis's console lit up, displaying the face of a calm and
collected Terran male. The background of the screen was plastered in hot white metal,
with a double railing just behind the seat of the enemy commander. The only audio output
so far was a slight chattering of voices, similar to Jason's own CC.
The commander (Jason assumed that was who he was) was dressed in a slightly
out-of-date GTVA pilot's uniform. This more than anything set Jason on the edge; as far
as recent intelligence reports had indicated, neither the Vasudans or the Terran Alliance
had this kind of technology. However, despite the uniform, there was nothing obsolete in
the very modern pistol holstered to the man's belt.
"What do you want?" Jason asked through half-clenched teeth.
There was no hesitation in the commander's reply. "What we all want,
Commander McNeil." How did he know Jason's name? The man smiled. "To bring
down the tyranny of the Galactic Terran Vasudan Alliance!"
This, too say the least, was unexpected. "E-Excuse me?" Jason stammered in
incredulity.
The man's smile widened, showing yellow, unhealthy teeth. "I, as Captain and
representative of this starship, apply for acceptance to join the ranks of the Neo-Terran
Front."
"You killed one of my fighter wings, you cold-hearted bastard, and now you
pretend to be our friends? What the fuck is your problem?"
"A flaw in my vessel's automatic defense systems. Your fighters got too close,
Commander McNeil. However, now that the flaw had been brought to my attention, you
may rest assured that your starfighters will not be fired upon again."
"You pompous-"
"Commander, may I remind you of this corvette's firepower and abilities. I am
perfectly willing to place all of this completely at your disposal. An offer you cannot
logically pass over."
Jason grimaced. Damn, but that infuriating man was right. "Submit your identity
traits, or my depot will open fire on your vessel," he demanded.
The other commander merely laughed at the threat. But, finally a second monitor
was lit with display schematics of a corvette-sized vessel, heavily armed. Jason sighed.
The Neo-Terran Front desperately need those technologies. But there had to be
some reason behind this… some ulterior motive. There was no doubt.
"Remove your cloaking field now."
The man nodded and made a hand signal to some person not visible on the screen.
"Commander!" Jay Breckenridge said suddenly. Jason looked down at the man trying and
failing to appear menacing before rushing over to the sensor station. On Breckenridge's
own monitor, optical sensors were displaying a large starship were the dark distortion field
used to rest. It was the exact same as the schematics still rotating on Jargis's console. A
single rectangular hull surrounded on two sides by a folding array of nodes that split at an
angle in their center. On the side of the hull, the name Siren's Call was proudly displayed
in bold letters.
Jason walked calmly back to the communications console, trying not to let his
nervousness show. "What about your uniform?" he asked. "GTVA standard."
"Not quite," the man answered back. "It's a bit behind the times, I'm afraid. I
apologize, McNeil, this was the only thing wearable that I had taken with me. I myself
used to be a pilot for the Terran Alliance during the Great War. You could say that I'm a
defector, although I never swore fealty at any time to the new Alliance between the
Terrans and those cursed Vasudans."
Jason waited, skeptical. *Not that there's a damn thing I can do about it if he's
lying*, he thought.
"If you don't believe me, you can check your records for an exact facial feature
match, with an aging anticipation program running. My name is Douglas Remmington,
I'm sure your system will confirm that. I was listed as killed in action during the Great
War, but that turned out to be nothing more than an unfortunate error."
Jason sighed, grudgingly. If this man did want to take over his depot, he doubtless
could have done it without lying like this. "Okay, Captain Remmington, prepare for
docking at my station. From there your ship will be boarded, and we can meet
personally."
Remmington smiled again, knowingly. "I'm afraid not, Commander. You'll use it
as an excuse to hold me as a prisoner. I therefore must modify my terms for pledging my
ship to the NTF armada. I must remain in the captaincy, and my crew in their positions.
Under no circumstances will anybody but myself pilot this vessel." He paused. "Why
don't you come onboard, and meet with me, Jason?"
Jason reluctantly agreed, and closed communications channels, then turned to face
his two present command staff. "Jargis, I want you to send out a tight-beam signal to the
Sirius system and Admiral Bosch informing him of our current position. Breckenridge, I
will hold my promise and meet with Captain Remmington. However, if the worst comes
to worst, I want you to be prepared to activate this station's self-destruct measures. To
hell with the ETAK project, I'm sure Bosch wouldn't like to see it in enemy hands."
---
"By God, but this is as boring as hell."
"I know what you mean. But we still have to get it done."
"I know that, damn it, but it still… that doesn't make it any less annoying."
"Shut up. Let's see who we have here. Our first candidate is Cadet Red Jefferson.
He was present during the asteroid maneuver disaster, and his simulation scores have been
good."
"Okay. I see several openings in the 53rd Hammerheads squadron."
"Ah yes, the mop-up squadron. Dump him in there."
"Gotcha."
"Next… George Hadley. Moderate scores in sims, nothing extraordinary, but a
solid pilot."
"What about the Raptors? Did his bombing sims perform well?"
"Better than average, actually."
"Okay, the Raptors it is. Have fun piloting buckets, 'fella." Laughter.
"This is unusual. A piloting instructor, Janice Fargo, is applying for readmission
into the fighter corps."
"Really? If I remember, you have to be a pretty fair pilot to be assigned a teaching
role."
"Correct."
"Let's assign her to the 107th Ravens. They're a good unit, they'll make good use
of her skills."
"Next on the roster there's Richard McKnight. Abnormally high sim scores…"
"Holy shit. I haven't ever seen scores that high! Look, his instructor's
recommended him for wing command straight out of school."
"You haven't seen scores that high because you've only been working this duty for
six months now."
"Yeah, I know. But it's like McKnight has already been through the training
program before."
"Whatever. Let's give him command of his wing, but in the 53rd Hammerheads."
"Mop-up squadron?
"Yeah. He'll cope, I bet. Next, there's Jason Bruner…"
---
For Richard McKnight and the rest of the Cadets, that training simulation had been
their last. As Fargo had promised the low performers were summarily dismissed from the
fighter pilot program, but encouraged to reapply to the GTVA military for a Naval
commission or soldiering tour.
Richard never got another chance to talk with his fellow Cadets. By the time the
simulation pods snapped open, he was already being ushered out and reassigned to new
quarters on the GTD Aquitaine. He only caught one last glimpse of everybody, including
a shaken George Hadley and a neutral-looking Red Jefferson before the lift doors were
silently closed.
Richard couldn't understand Jefferson. When he had talked to him after the
asteroid field blunder, Red had seemed eager to begin a blackmailing campaign. But in the
dogfight, he hadn't given away Richard's plot of detonating a bomb amidst the encroaching
starfighter fleet. Red could have ruined it all right there, without any effort. Instead, his
Serapis had pulled silently and gently away from the main engagement, resigning the
others to their deaths.
It hadn't taken him long to find his shared quarters onboard the Aquitaine. All
rooms were clearly marked, and the desk-jockeys of the floor had been quite happy to give
out final room assignments. His bunk looked exactly as he had anticipated it to. There
were four beds in the room, but none of the other occupants were present when Richard
arrived. Standard onboard Terran-design capital ships for low-ranking personnel. For
efficiency's sake, this small undecorated five meter square space would have to house eight
crewers. Four would sleep at a time, then as soon as the shift siren sounded, those four
would return to their duties and the other four would be allowed entrance to the room.
To cope with the lack of decent solitude or privacy, many of the officers would
look to other means of recreation to sustain their egos and hone their personalities.
Gambling was the most popular past-time onboard the Aquitaine, as many underpaid grunt
workers sought to increase their compensation by removing it from the hands of others.
Drinking had been outlawed by the GTVA Policies Council, so naturally illegal stills
abounded in spite of the enormous threats facing those who got caught. Anyone found to
be drinking any form of alcohol would have a severe reprimand entered in their records,
curtailing any current hopes of promotion. For those who actually produced the alcohol,
they were subject to court-martials (the only exception being those people defined as
"indispensable" by the courts).
For the majority of the Aquitaine's crew of 10,000, however, the regulations were
obeyed. Richard was fortunate enough to count himself among their ranks. Gambling,
though, had not been outlawed so Richard enjoyed more than his fair share of it on the
night he was first assigned to his quarters. He had stayed up late after losing a good
portion of his current pay, and had finally broke even. The lack of sleep was more readily
apparent on his features when his comm system buzzed at exactly 0500.
Richard groaned, and rolled over on his mattress. His bunkmates started to stir.
After reporting back to the living quarters deck, he had not had a chance to be introduced
to them. His hand reached out slowly, and tapped the dimly glowing control that would
play the waiting message.
"To all new pilots onboard the GTD Aquitaine, I would like to welcome you," a
gruff voice said loudly enough to wake his groggy bunkmates. "… to the finest ship that
the Galactic Terran-Vasudan Alliance has to offer. You join an elite crew numbering over
ten thousand, as we patrol the vastness of space seeking peace for tomorrow, and glory
for today!" the voice mindlessly recited the motto of the GTVA 3rd Fleet.
"As some of you may be aware, we have had to push your training schedules
slightly faster than normal due to the insurrection in the central systems. You doubtless
know by now of the ambitions of the Neo-Terran Front, and the threat they serve the peace
that exists today. They must be stopped at any cost, and as thus, Rear Admiral Julius
Petrarch, the commander of this mighty vessel, has authorized the immediate deployment of
all combat-capable flight wings once we reach the contested Deneb system."
"Among those groups now being readied to sortie are the pilots and crew of the
107th Ravens, the 34th Hellcats, the 53rd Hammerheads, the 242nd Suicide Kings, and
the 67th Cyclones. This message should be reaching those pilots and those pilots only,
who are to report to their briefing rooms."
---
And that's all, folks. Unless people start really bugging me to, I don't think this
one's ever going to get finished. If, however, on the off-chance one of you would like
to continue this adaptation, gimme an e-mail, and I'll send you some of the notes I have
on the plotline and characters.
Tristan Palmgren -- charpalm@mediaone.net
Defection
Deep within the heart of the contested Deneb system, the Neo-Terran Front was
preparing for a long, bloody siege.
The NTF forces had long since had their spies infiltrate all but the highest echelons
of the Galactic Terran-Vasudan Alliance, and were well aware that the Aquitaine, as well
as the Vasudan destroyer Psamtik, were headed for the Deneb system. Both the GTVA
and the rebellion had taken heavy casualties in the battle for the star, until finally it looked
as if the Neo-Terrans might win the battle. Of course, the Alliance Security Council was
no collection of fools, and had sent the two destroyers to the system to even the match.
As this news had reached the NTF communications net, and finally Admiral Aken
Bosch himself, he had ordered fighter and bomber wings throughout the system to be in a
state of constant readiness. He knew that it would be impossible to blockade the jump
node itself; the GTVA still held formidable forces in the system outskirts.
Yesterday, at 2134 galactic, the flag of the Neo-Terran Front had been risen on the
system's capital planet of Deneb. The GTVA news nets would not release that
information yet, of course. They knew the illusion of an invincible alliance had to be
maintained. Bugger the cost.
Naturally, however, the propaganda stations of the NTF would hardly admit to the
fact their rag-tag military fleet (composed primary of defected starships) would be grossly
outnumbered by two destroyers alone.
Bosch had pulled away his starfighters from non-essential locations such as cargo
depots to be additions to blockade duties. The depot where Jason McNeil resided was
very essential, though more so than Bosch would like to admit. Only the bombers had
been recalled from this depot, leaving behind a full complement of Hercs and Loki-class
scout fighters.
Jason McNeil lay back in his bunk bed. He was always on the lower half, Bosch
had insisted to him that even senior officers should not flaunt their privileged status to the
rest of the crew. Necessity, he claimed, must take precedence over vanity.
So this left Jason, commander of Admiral Bosch's personal, and top-secret, ETAK
project sharing his quarters with a base-ranking shuttle mechanic.
The irony of the situation had long since passed, simple frustration was settling
over him.
*Dammit, with the possible extinction of the Homo Sapiens at my fingertips, I
deserve a little quiet time!*
The bunk above him wasn't currently occupied. Jason had at least enough
influence in the depot to insure that his roommate's duty schedule was different than his.
But it still wasn't enough, they were together for several hours a day. By God, but that
man was as annoying as hell.
Jason clenched and unclenched his fists.
Normally, the view of a starfield floating outside his would relax him, like a nice
massage… but there was no starfield now. There hadn't been for over a year. Outside of
his sole porthole, there was only the dark, smooth and unyielding rock that disguised the
station from probing hostile sensors.
His eyes fluttered backwards as he reveled in the futility of it all. He… just didn't
get some of Bosch's whims. His fleet was being surrounded on all sides by the titanic
might of the GTVA, and the man was concerned about a species that hadn't shown its face
for over thirty-two years after its defeat.
The Shivans, for Christ's sake. The Shivans were gone. Vanished. He was
genuinely concerned for the Admiral's mental security, and would have voiced his fears by
now, if not for the constant threat of execution to traitors.
The NTF could desperately use the materials present at the depot elsewhere, he
knew. Perhaps attempting to blockade the jump node to Alliance systems. Perhaps
elsewhere. Unrest and riots were rampant in the Deneb system itself, and the occupying
Neo-Terran troopers were forced to resort to the extremities of violence to stop the mob's
rampage. The violence, in turn, sparked more anti-NTF riots. A vicious cycle.
The same thing had happened in the other NTF systems. Eventually, the citizens
would return to their houses in the complacency of fear. In truth, only a small minority of
NTF-controlled star systems actually supported the rebellion. The numbers would change,
Admiral Bosch had assured his paid reporters with his usual confidence.
Hostile alert alarms began blaring throughout the metallic halls and corridors.
Instinct kicked in, and Jason shot upwards, and ran out of the room. The corridors
were usually a dull metallic gray; now alarm lighting had given the silicon walls a bright
scarlet glow.
The command center of the asteroid field depot was startlingly similar to the CC of
a standard cruiser class warship. Two levels, the top smaller than the bottom and
separated by a short railing. Primary functions were handled in the top deck, while the
lower pit coordinated smaller, more technical details of station operations.
At the night shift, the CC had a skeleton staff present, and there was a quiet hustle
and bustle below. Only two people were present on the uppermost deck when Jason
stormed in: a crew ensign was busy at communications, while a Navy Lieutenant was
screaming at her console.
"Report!"
The Navy woman, Jay Breckenridge, continued desperately giving the sensors
commands as she spoke. "Thirty seconds ago, a subspace vortex opened, large enough
for a capital class cruiser to travel through. It had an alignment from the Sirius jump
node."
"Is it Admiral Bosch's carrier?" Jason asked. Bosch was due to arrive for an
inspection at some point this month. He hadn't specified when.
"Negative. Optics picked up a shadow emerging from the vortex terminus before
it closed, but after that… it just disappeared from sensors."
"What the hell do you mean, disappeared?" This was just all he needed right now.
"The cruiser vanished from our sensors. There's no trace of it on either
electromagnetic or radiation screenings, it doesn't register as an energy source, it doesn't
even show up on the infrared. Even old fashioned radio radar isn't giving us a signal."
"I thought that was impossible in this day and age."
"It is!" Breckenridge said, exasperated. "But we still know its there. Optics
report stars becoming temporarily invisible when the cruiser passes between us and them."
"Give me a rough estimate on its position then," Jason sat down anxiously nearby
the sensor station. He pointed to the Ensign Jargis, the communications officer. "You!
Get me a full battle-readiness alert, all crews man their stations. And while you're at it, try
and hail that damn ship out there."
"I've already tried the unknown sir, there's no response."
"Then launch all fighter wings."
The optimum time for an immediate sortie of defensive fighter wings was thirty
seconds. Jason had ensured before that the station was prepared to beat that number.
Within moments, the asteroid depot's hangar bays peeled open, spewing wing after wing
of Hercules Mk1s out into the abyss.
"Are they're sensors having any more luck then ours?"
"Negative."
Jason thrummed his fingers on the console. The first rule of command was to
always keep your subordinates busy, lest they grow lax in their duties. He turned around
to Breckenridge.
"Have you got that coordinates estimate yet?"
"No, sir," she said, then quickly explained before Jason could open his mouth
again. "I've determined the bearing of the unknown, but without a proper size determined,
I can't figure the distance."
She took a breath, as if bracing. "The only thing I can tell is that its headed
for us. The area of distortion is expanding."
---
One minute ago, Ensign First Class Esteban Hanly had been relaxing with his
squadron-mates in what had passed for the station's bar. In actuality, it was only an
unused storage compartment that had some wily officer had sent up with moonshining
stills, and an outrageous price. Now, struggling to fight the effects of the stiff alcohol, he
was barely maintaining a slipshod formation as they chased about an unknown, nearly
invisible hostile.
Ahead, the area of darkness continued growing larger. The other pilots had
already expressed their discomfort at the menace ahead, and Esteban couldn't help but to
agree. The thing ahead, it wasn't so much the absence of illumination; it seemed to suck in
all light.
His comm system buzzed. "Beta wing," Jargis was saying, "I need you four to fly
a loop around the unknown. We can use that data to formulate a size and speed
variables."
"No problem," Yidstie, Esteban's wing leader said. "Beta, form up on my wing,
diamond pattern. Arm missiles and ready your laser cannons, as this could get ugly."
The four Hercules peeled away from the main starfighter group, and headed
slightly to the port side of the unknown.
The only possible method Esteban had of determining his distance from the zone of
pitch black was the way it moved in his view. Compared to his speed, he estimated a size
approximately equal to a corvette-type configuration, with a distance from his craft of
about half a kilometer. That would place it about five klicks away from the station. There
was no sign of a response from it to the fighter's proximity.
"Pilots, can you shine your guidance beacons at the prow of that thing? An optical
scan could determine configuration, designation, and possibly intent."
"You heard the man, Beta wing," Yidstie said. "Close in."
It was standard on every fighter to have a guidance beam. It projected a nearly
solid shaft of light down, and was meant for nighttime planetary landings. It would,
however, work extremely well in a vacuum situation.
The starfighters converged together about an estimated three hundred meters from
the stern of the unknown event, and began working their way across the phenomenon to
the forward prow. Four beams of light emitted from the Hercs. Four beams of light
disintegrated fifty meters from their source.
"What the hell?" Yidstie irritably remarked. The cholera in his voice gave way to
fear. "Shit. Command, the cruiser isn't just running without exterior emissions. It's
deploying some kind of field to block all energy emissions."
"Pilots, pull out of there! We're registering an energy build-up in your vicinity!"
Yidstie's craft was vaporized, instantly transforming into an expanding array of fire
and metallic debris.
Hyped-up instincts immediately erased all the poisonous effects of the alcohol still
swirling in Esteban's system. He pulled quickly away, hitting full burners. "Mayday,
mayday!" he screamed into his transmitter. "Energize all defense platforms now,
command!"
The Hercules shuddered suddenly, as an intense and highly concentrated source of
electric power came dangerously close to hitting. There was no visible weaponry, but that
didn't make it any less existent. "Pilots, get clear of that damn thing!" he heard Jason
McNeil transmit personally.
Without waiting for further authorization, Esteban activated his craft's subspace
drive. Within two seconds, the event horizon of a subspace portal consumed the
Hercules. There was never any chance to see what happened to the rest of his squadron.
Over a thousand kilometers away, Esteban distractedly tried to work out a course
to the nearest NTF outpost that his fuel levels could reach.
---
Jason McNeil watched fearfully as the last of Beta wing was destroyed by the
hidden weapons of the corvette. "Shit. Shit. Pull the rest of our fighters back," he
ordered Jargis.
Jargis didn't hear him. He tapped away at his console's controls, an expression of
anxious foreboding falling across his face. "Jurgis!" Jason snapped.
"Sir! I'm receiving a hail from within the unknown disruption field!"
Whatever response Jason had formed died instantly in his mouth. Screw this all.
Who the hell would what to capture this shit-tip of an outpost.
His thoughts shifted uncomfortably to the ETAK project present within the depot.
Surely… no, of course not. The Shivans were vanished from the face of the cosmos.
Nobody could want that. At least not bad enough to give away their possession of
strategic new technologies.
Could they?
His crew was looking expectantly at him, waiting for an order.
"Pull it up," he said, rolling his chair over to the communications system.
The central monitor on Jargis's console lit up, displaying the face of a calm and
collected Terran male. The background of the screen was plastered in hot white metal,
with a double railing just behind the seat of the enemy commander. The only audio output
so far was a slight chattering of voices, similar to Jason's own CC.
The commander (Jason assumed that was who he was) was dressed in a slightly
out-of-date GTVA pilot's uniform. This more than anything set Jason on the edge; as far
as recent intelligence reports had indicated, neither the Vasudans or the Terran Alliance
had this kind of technology. However, despite the uniform, there was nothing obsolete in
the very modern pistol holstered to the man's belt.
"What do you want?" Jason asked through half-clenched teeth.
There was no hesitation in the commander's reply. "What we all want,
Commander McNeil." How did he know Jason's name? The man smiled. "To bring
down the tyranny of the Galactic Terran Vasudan Alliance!"
This, too say the least, was unexpected. "E-Excuse me?" Jason stammered in
incredulity.
The man's smile widened, showing yellow, unhealthy teeth. "I, as Captain and
representative of this starship, apply for acceptance to join the ranks of the Neo-Terran
Front."
"You killed one of my fighter wings, you cold-hearted bastard, and now you
pretend to be our friends? What the fuck is your problem?"
"A flaw in my vessel's automatic defense systems. Your fighters got too close,
Commander McNeil. However, now that the flaw had been brought to my attention, you
may rest assured that your starfighters will not be fired upon again."
"You pompous-"
"Commander, may I remind you of this corvette's firepower and abilities. I am
perfectly willing to place all of this completely at your disposal. An offer you cannot
logically pass over."
Jason grimaced. Damn, but that infuriating man was right. "Submit your identity
traits, or my depot will open fire on your vessel," he demanded.
The other commander merely laughed at the threat. But, finally a second monitor
was lit with display schematics of a corvette-sized vessel, heavily armed. Jason sighed.
The Neo-Terran Front desperately need those technologies. But there had to be
some reason behind this… some ulterior motive. There was no doubt.
"Remove your cloaking field now."
The man nodded and made a hand signal to some person not visible on the screen.
"Commander!" Jay Breckenridge said suddenly. Jason looked down at the man trying and
failing to appear menacing before rushing over to the sensor station. On Breckenridge's
own monitor, optical sensors were displaying a large starship were the dark distortion field
used to rest. It was the exact same as the schematics still rotating on Jargis's console. A
single rectangular hull surrounded on two sides by a folding array of nodes that split at an
angle in their center. On the side of the hull, the name Siren's Call was proudly displayed
in bold letters.
Jason walked calmly back to the communications console, trying not to let his
nervousness show. "What about your uniform?" he asked. "GTVA standard."
"Not quite," the man answered back. "It's a bit behind the times, I'm afraid. I
apologize, McNeil, this was the only thing wearable that I had taken with me. I myself
used to be a pilot for the Terran Alliance during the Great War. You could say that I'm a
defector, although I never swore fealty at any time to the new Alliance between the
Terrans and those cursed Vasudans."
Jason waited, skeptical. *Not that there's a damn thing I can do about it if he's
lying*, he thought.
"If you don't believe me, you can check your records for an exact facial feature
match, with an aging anticipation program running. My name is Douglas Remmington,
I'm sure your system will confirm that. I was listed as killed in action during the Great
War, but that turned out to be nothing more than an unfortunate error."
Jason sighed, grudgingly. If this man did want to take over his depot, he doubtless
could have done it without lying like this. "Okay, Captain Remmington, prepare for
docking at my station. From there your ship will be boarded, and we can meet
personally."
Remmington smiled again, knowingly. "I'm afraid not, Commander. You'll use it
as an excuse to hold me as a prisoner. I therefore must modify my terms for pledging my
ship to the NTF armada. I must remain in the captaincy, and my crew in their positions.
Under no circumstances will anybody but myself pilot this vessel." He paused. "Why
don't you come onboard, and meet with me, Jason?"
Jason reluctantly agreed, and closed communications channels, then turned to face
his two present command staff. "Jargis, I want you to send out a tight-beam signal to the
Sirius system and Admiral Bosch informing him of our current position. Breckenridge, I
will hold my promise and meet with Captain Remmington. However, if the worst comes
to worst, I want you to be prepared to activate this station's self-destruct measures. To
hell with the ETAK project, I'm sure Bosch wouldn't like to see it in enemy hands."
---
"By God, but this is as boring as hell."
"I know what you mean. But we still have to get it done."
"I know that, damn it, but it still… that doesn't make it any less annoying."
"Shut up. Let's see who we have here. Our first candidate is Cadet Red Jefferson.
He was present during the asteroid maneuver disaster, and his simulation scores have been
good."
"Okay. I see several openings in the 53rd Hammerheads squadron."
"Ah yes, the mop-up squadron. Dump him in there."
"Gotcha."
"Next… George Hadley. Moderate scores in sims, nothing extraordinary, but a
solid pilot."
"What about the Raptors? Did his bombing sims perform well?"
"Better than average, actually."
"Okay, the Raptors it is. Have fun piloting buckets, 'fella." Laughter.
"This is unusual. A piloting instructor, Janice Fargo, is applying for readmission
into the fighter corps."
"Really? If I remember, you have to be a pretty fair pilot to be assigned a teaching
role."
"Correct."
"Let's assign her to the 107th Ravens. They're a good unit, they'll make good use
of her skills."
"Next on the roster there's Richard McKnight. Abnormally high sim scores…"
"Holy shit. I haven't ever seen scores that high! Look, his instructor's
recommended him for wing command straight out of school."
"You haven't seen scores that high because you've only been working this duty for
six months now."
"Yeah, I know. But it's like McKnight has already been through the training
program before."
"Whatever. Let's give him command of his wing, but in the 53rd Hammerheads."
"Mop-up squadron?
"Yeah. He'll cope, I bet. Next, there's Jason Bruner…"
---
For Richard McKnight and the rest of the Cadets, that training simulation had been
their last. As Fargo had promised the low performers were summarily dismissed from the
fighter pilot program, but encouraged to reapply to the GTVA military for a Naval
commission or soldiering tour.
Richard never got another chance to talk with his fellow Cadets. By the time the
simulation pods snapped open, he was already being ushered out and reassigned to new
quarters on the GTD Aquitaine. He only caught one last glimpse of everybody, including
a shaken George Hadley and a neutral-looking Red Jefferson before the lift doors were
silently closed.
Richard couldn't understand Jefferson. When he had talked to him after the
asteroid field blunder, Red had seemed eager to begin a blackmailing campaign. But in the
dogfight, he hadn't given away Richard's plot of detonating a bomb amidst the encroaching
starfighter fleet. Red could have ruined it all right there, without any effort. Instead, his
Serapis had pulled silently and gently away from the main engagement, resigning the
others to their deaths.
It hadn't taken him long to find his shared quarters onboard the Aquitaine. All
rooms were clearly marked, and the desk-jockeys of the floor had been quite happy to give
out final room assignments. His bunk looked exactly as he had anticipated it to. There
were four beds in the room, but none of the other occupants were present when Richard
arrived. Standard onboard Terran-design capital ships for low-ranking personnel. For
efficiency's sake, this small undecorated five meter square space would have to house eight
crewers. Four would sleep at a time, then as soon as the shift siren sounded, those four
would return to their duties and the other four would be allowed entrance to the room.
To cope with the lack of decent solitude or privacy, many of the officers would
look to other means of recreation to sustain their egos and hone their personalities.
Gambling was the most popular past-time onboard the Aquitaine, as many underpaid grunt
workers sought to increase their compensation by removing it from the hands of others.
Drinking had been outlawed by the GTVA Policies Council, so naturally illegal stills
abounded in spite of the enormous threats facing those who got caught. Anyone found to
be drinking any form of alcohol would have a severe reprimand entered in their records,
curtailing any current hopes of promotion. For those who actually produced the alcohol,
they were subject to court-martials (the only exception being those people defined as
"indispensable" by the courts).
For the majority of the Aquitaine's crew of 10,000, however, the regulations were
obeyed. Richard was fortunate enough to count himself among their ranks. Gambling,
though, had not been outlawed so Richard enjoyed more than his fair share of it on the
night he was first assigned to his quarters. He had stayed up late after losing a good
portion of his current pay, and had finally broke even. The lack of sleep was more readily
apparent on his features when his comm system buzzed at exactly 0500.
Richard groaned, and rolled over on his mattress. His bunkmates started to stir.
After reporting back to the living quarters deck, he had not had a chance to be introduced
to them. His hand reached out slowly, and tapped the dimly glowing control that would
play the waiting message.
"To all new pilots onboard the GTD Aquitaine, I would like to welcome you," a
gruff voice said loudly enough to wake his groggy bunkmates. "… to the finest ship that
the Galactic Terran-Vasudan Alliance has to offer. You join an elite crew numbering over
ten thousand, as we patrol the vastness of space seeking peace for tomorrow, and glory
for today!" the voice mindlessly recited the motto of the GTVA 3rd Fleet.
"As some of you may be aware, we have had to push your training schedules
slightly faster than normal due to the insurrection in the central systems. You doubtless
know by now of the ambitions of the Neo-Terran Front, and the threat they serve the peace
that exists today. They must be stopped at any cost, and as thus, Rear Admiral Julius
Petrarch, the commander of this mighty vessel, has authorized the immediate deployment of
all combat-capable flight wings once we reach the contested Deneb system."
"Among those groups now being readied to sortie are the pilots and crew of the
107th Ravens, the 34th Hellcats, the 53rd Hammerheads, the 242nd Suicide Kings, and
the 67th Cyclones. This message should be reaching those pilots and those pilots only,
who are to report to their briefing rooms."
---
And that's all, folks. Unless people start really bugging me to, I don't think this
one's ever going to get finished. If, however, on the off-chance one of you would like
to continue this adaptation, gimme an e-mail, and I'll send you some of the notes I have
on the plotline and characters.
Tristan Palmgren -- charpalm@mediaone.net