Chapter 2
The name was difficult to get used to, and so the officer yet struggled with it. In his opinion (which few seemed to care about), naming conventions should hold, despite whatever political element was in power.
"Imperial Center," he sneered at the air in front of his desk with obvious contempt. The air said nothing back to him. He pressed the space on his terminal that subsequently sent the message to which he had recently been subjected to the nether-regions of cyberspace. What kind of moron had the time to waste on picking apart correspondence based on minutia like this?
He absently reached up to brush the dark-brown hair on his head, what there was of it. Much like the clone troopers with whom he had served during the Clone Wars, Lieutenant Colonel Merdon Voss kept his hair cropped so closely that he appeared nearly bald from a distance. The morning was young, and he was already in a sour mood. He was tempted to send a scathing reply to the idiot that had scolded him for the use of Coruscant in the place of Imperial Center, but he knew it would accomplish nothing constructive. Sighing softly, Voss opened the next message.
Voss was assigned to a section within Imperial Intelligence that was responsible for monitoring the Outer Rim, thus messages considered to be of intelligence value relating to that area of the Empire were parsed into his section's system. He was by no means the only lieutenant colonel within his section, and his assigned area fell within an area covering between the Perlemian trade route and the Baxel Sector. Usually, that meant monitoring the considerable activity within Hutt space. Their slimy paws were on just about everything.
This message concerned activity around Kessel, and specifically the area in vicinity to the Maw Cluster. The report detailed a small ship that had been spotted in the area and then disappeared. Well that was ridiculous; the report was missing a great deal of pertinent data. Voss was poised to reply, to demand more information from the station commander on Kessel, but then he stopped. He had heard of the officer before. Voss pulled up the commander's file.
Captain Jaktorz' record glowed upon the terminal. His image revealed him to be an older officer. Voss scrolled through the man's personnel data file. The captain had served over 20 years on active duty, stretching well back into the time of the old Republic, and he had apparently been one of the few non-coms to then seek and gain a commission, in what was then the the Republic. The record revealed multiple combat-related meritorious citations.
Voss lifted an eyebrow. The captain had apparently come under suspicion of lending aid and comfort to Jedi after they turned on their own clone troopers. The officer had been under the direct command of a Jedi general at the time, so that was unsurprising. According to the document in question, insufficient evidence had been uncovered to find him guilty, but his career had all but halted. He was apparently now just biding his time, so he could retire quietly into civilian life.
Voss grunted. Were it not for one politically dumb mistake, that captain would certainly outrank him by now, well on his way to becoming a flag officer. Instead, he had been placed on some remote rock in the galaxy's backwater to baby-sit a small crew of analysts. Even so, his record indicated a capable and knowledgeable officer who took initiative when necessary and executed assigned missions to standard. Voss activated another portion of his terminal and extended the microphone closer to his face.
"This is Captain Jaktorz, Kessel Monitoring Station."
"Lieutenant Colonel Voss here, captain, Coruscan …. err … Imperial Center."
"Yes sir, what can I do for you?"
"Regarding the report you transmitted recently, your station monitored a small ship in the vicinity of The Maw. I noticed you detected no hyperspace capability, or propulsion means of any kind on the vessel."
"That is correct, sir."
"Have you managed to conduct any further analysis since you transmitted the report?"
"All we have is a better description of the vessel's dimensions and power signature. I can transmit the updated information now if you would like."
"Please, and captain?"
"Sir."
"I would like your own thoughts on this too. We've not seen anything like this before, at least not within that area of space."
"Yes sir. I will include my own subjective analysis with the data."
"Thank you, captain."
"Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?"
"No, that should be sufficient."
Voss terminated the link and activated a different portion his terminal. He entered a complex query fitting the description of the ship in question. The results would not come quickly, for the Imperial databases were huge, and scanning them took a considerable amount of time. Nevertheless, he also knew that a message would detail the results of his query once information was discovered, or not. The Imperial presence in that area was relatively thin, so Voss felt it feasible to notify the local sector fleet just in case any other mystery ships decided to pop into space.
...
The mansion looming behind him was a replica. The original had been destroyed a very long time ago. Lighting in the area was plentiful, and it provided the illusion of a sunny day, though no sunlight made its way in here. Most of the time, the area was quiet. Today was no different. The figure of a man sat in a chair next to the mansion and stared at a far wall of rock. It was rock cut from the moon of Earth.
Earth hung nearby in space, but it was a radioactive and dead planet, as it had been for centuries. Radioactivity had so increased over time that the last of humanity upon its surface now called another planet their home, and not even microbes survived on its surface. Indeed, most of humanity was not even aware of the existence of Earth.
The figure of a man seated and staring in silent contemplation was no man. He was a robot. But few would be able to discern the difference between him and any other man. Though he looked and often acted human, he lived by a different set of rules than those of humanity. R. Daneel Olivaw was bound by the dictates of the four robotic laws:
- A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
- A robot must obey any orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
- A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
Those were the original three laws of robotics, but Daneel was now also constrained by what was termed the Zeroth Law, which stated that a robot must not act only in the interest of individual humans, but of all of humanity. Those laws were ever present in his mind, and they limited his interference, though his capabilities were considerable.
Upon the moon habitat with Daneel were many others like him, but none of them as old as he. For twenty thousand years, Daneel had played the role of guardian for humanity. He had even served as first minister to the emperor during the last days of the Galactic Empire. He worked directly with Hari Seldon to help him develop Psychohistory, and subsequent generations of men had worked to advance both the Foundation and Second Foundations down the road to Second Empire. Seldon and the Galactic Empire were both dead.
Then came the Mule. Daneel was caught in a quandary. He could decide to directly assist in the overthrow of the Mule and reestablishment of the Foundations, but could he do so without bringing greater harm upon humanity? For his failings, the Mule had successfully reestablished a new galactic empire, albeit outside the bounds of Seldon's Plan. Indeed, even the Mule paid at least lip service to Seldon's Plan, announcing that he himself was the fulfillment of it.
Robots were dispatched throughout the galaxy, and Daneel was always in contact with them. No human being had bothered to come to Earth or its star system in a very long time, since information on its existence was incredibly sparse. What little information did exist about it was in the form of tales and legends ranging from super beings that destroyed any approaching ships to being the radioactive wasteland it was. Nobody but Daneel and his robots knew of the moon base, and they were its sole inhabitants. The robots worked to eliminate all traces of Earth from archives throughout the galaxy. From this one place, they could be free of direct human interference, working tirelessly to protect humanity from itself.
The Seldon Plan was disastrously off-track, and to him it seemed impossible to set to rights. However, recent reports had been unexpected. While Daneel was certainly forward-looking enough to envision other galaxies with life, he believed mankind to be possibly thousands of years away from developing a means of extragalactic travel. He had ignored the core of his own galaxy though. The Mule had not.
Daneel scanned reports on his hand-held terminal. Through this interface, he could send instructions and monitor progress reports from throughout the galaxy – this galaxy. One of his agents was en route to the stabilized wormhole the Mule had located. The ships available to him were not as advanced as those available to the Mule, but they were sufficiently capable vessels.
Daneel felt a sadness when he recalled learning of the dozens of scientists and technicians who had their lives cut short under the ministrations of the Mule. He had demonstrated his willingness to repeat the mental tactics that had once cut short the life of Ebling Mis. Worse, the men who were now dead had literally worked themselves to death under the powerful influence of the Mule. Daneel was relatively certain his people would not be detected, and it was imperative they get through that wormhole.
...
A solitary man strode purposefully toward the imposing heights of the palace. The area about the palace was devoid of personnel, but then it always was. The man he was summoned to meet had no need of guards. In the back of his mind was a silent memory that loomed, just always just out of reach. He had not always been loyal to the Mule. He knew that, but he could not determine why. Disloyalty was now all but inconceivable. The Mule had spoken to him once about it, explaining to him that he had been converted. The term held no negative connotations for him – it seemed necessary, just, and right. A faint memory of severe anger and hate toward the man to whom he now swore fealty was now only a faded nightmare, like a dark shadow within a dark mirror.
He saw the door ahead that lead to the chambers of the Mule. He knew the Mule was aware of his presence and had been for some time. General Han Pritcher entered the room. The Mule was standing at one of the long windows, gazing outward. Pritcher stopped and waited.
"I read your report."
"Sir," replied Pritcher.
One of the practices the Mule had held consistent was his title of First Citizen, along with the honorific of Sir. He took no more grandiose title for himself, even now that his domain was no less than that of the emperors of the old Galactic Empire. Unlike the emperors of old, the Mule did not cut a dashing figure. His lanky and too-long limbs, short torso and long nose, and soft brown eyes cut a non-threatening appearance.
"My senior military staff gave me their recommendation," said the Mule as he remained gazing out the window. He turned to face Pritcher, "But you already know what it is."
"Yes sir."
"Do you concur with their assessment?"
"It seems reasonable."
"That isn't what I asked."
"No sir, I do not."
"What would you recommend, Pritcher?"
"We need to conduct reconnaissance, sir."
"What of detection by those on the other side?"
"I'm counting on it, sir."
The Mule raised his eyebrows, and he probed lightly into his general's mind. Ah yes, that might well work, but then how would the natives of that other galaxy react?
"I see, Pritcher. Fascinating. My advisors also report that the one ship we sent through was most likely detected."
"Yes sir."
"What of readings from them?"
"Minimal. We did detect what was likely a sensor beam of some sort."
"Then they are aware of the wormhole?"
"I don't think they were, sir. The readings we did manage to take indicated the area was awash in a mass of energies, produced by what appeared to be a number of closely spaced black holes. Frankly, I am surprised we detected anything at all, much less the sensor beam in question."
"That concentration of black holes could prove a challenge for our ships equipped with gravitic drives."
"Yes sir, but most of our newer ships have nuclear engines as well."
"I don't want any ships with gravitic drives going through that wormhole, Pritcher."
"Yes sir."
"Execute your plan."
"Yes sir."
...
Martin was in a good mood today. For years he had made a good living as a trader, transporting wares across the galaxy, and over the years he had done well for himself. It mattered little to him what political hack was in charge of the galaxy, so long as he could make good credits. When he was younger, he recalled the Foundation being the dominant government in the galaxy, and it was from them that he garnered the most goods for trade.
Success allowed Martin to afford better ships over time, and his vessels had state-of-the-art equipment aboard. Not that he could obtain the new gravitic ships, but those were mostly military anyway. In fact, he knew of no non-military ships that used the mysterious gravitic drive, nor could any of his considerable contacts even tell him what the things really were. Perhaps they were just a myth.
His ships were armed, but only lightly so, since they were designed to fight off only bandits and pirates. They were roomy enough to carry a great many wares, and they had a decent fuel capacity. Overall, they were more than capable of fulfilling their function, and his crews were well trained and well compensated. Martin walked up to the captain.
"Captain Beck, are we nearly there?"
"Sir, we will arrive in approximately fifteen minutes."
Martin gazed through the forward view ports. They were not windows, but were instead displays, but they were intended to provide the same view that windows would have done. Martin thought of them as windows. For the time being, they showed nothing.
The government of the First Citizen had provided permission for him to be the first civilian fleet to enter this strange new galaxy. Martin rubbed his hands together quickly. He was both nervous and excited. He envisioned a giant new customer base, all clamoring for his wares. Of course, they would have a completely different system for monetary payment, but certainly they would have their own fine wares with which to offer trade, and those would necessarily prove to be exotic and exciting in his own galaxy. His seven-ship fleet would bring much to the table for trade. With the new money he would bring in, he would be able to significantly upgrade his trading fleet.
"We've reentered normal space," said the captain.
The view outside now included a considerable fleet of military ships, ranging in size from small craft to giant vessels of war over three kilometers in length. Martin also spotted several fixed installations under construction next to what had to be the wormhole. Were those trading posts?
"Civilian fleet, we are monitoring your approach. Maintain your course for the coordinates provided, and do not veer off course," announced a cold voice over the communications system. Martin had no intention of doing otherwise.
The fleet of ships maneuvered slowly toward the wormhole, and Martin eyed his captain nervously. From what he had been led to believe, the military had already been on the other side of that thing, so he assumed they had already established relations with whoever was there. Even so, he had ordered greetings programmed in Galactic Stanadard to be transmitted on multiple frequencies as soon as his fleet came in contact with the folks over there.
"Our communication systems are in order?"
"Yes sir."
He gazed into the "windows" as the vortex of the wormhole grew larger. He could almost feel the multiple guns on the military ships tracking him, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. As the ship in the lead of his fleet drew toward the threshold of the vortex, it suddenly vanished.
"Is it safe?" cried Martin, knowing instinctively that the question was already moot. The captain turned to stare at him with a blank expression. Martin then felt time seem to slow, and the captain's face appeared to elongate. He was saying something in reply, but it looked to be in slow motion, and he heard nothing. Just as soon as it started, it was over, and Martin found himself gazing at unfamiliar stars.
"… told us it was, sir."
"Come again?"
"I said, the military told us the wormhole was safe, and here we are. I'm reading an unidentified ship ahead."
"Send the message."
"It's already transmitting, sir."
...
"Sir," said one of the junior officers in the pit of the 1600-meter Imperial Star Destroyer, "we are registering seven of them."
"Armament?"
"Unknown, sir. They appear to be beam weapons of some kind, but I cannot determine their range or yield."
"Can you tell me whether or not they are active?"
"Yes sir. They appear inactive right now. Nor does it appear that the ships have shields, but perhaps they just are powered down right now."
"Understood. Maintain an active firing solution. Have you seen anything like that before?"
"No sir. They look like scaled-down versions of Mon Calamari cruise liners to me, but we have nothing that matches them on the database. They do somewhat fit the report of the one ship that appeared and then vanished in the vicinity a short time ago, though those ships are considerably larger. We are receiving a transmission."
"Put it on speaker."
Aboard the Imperial Star Destroyer Ash, a voice in an unknown language filled the air. Several crewmen looked about in puzzlement. The captain wrinkled his brow.
"They are not speaking Basic, sir," said the deck officer unnecessarily.
"Very observant; bring me the protocol droid."
The deck officer signaled a nearby crewman, who left the bridge. The strange ships continued transmitting gibberish.
"Cut it off," said the captain to the communications officer. The gibberish ceased. He studied the ships through the viewing plates on the bridge. They were an odd assortment of vessels, none of them the same size.
"Sir, we completed a preliminary scan of those ships," said an officer who had just alighted from one of the bridge pits.
"What did you find?"
"They all appear to be using some form of nuclear fusion engine, and the vessels possess shield projectors, though they are at the moment inactive. They are armed, and the weapon systems are comprised of low-yield energy beams. Their own scanning equipment is rudimentary in comparison to our own. Our assessment is that the combined firepower of those ships would pose no threat to this ship."
"Interesting. That doesn't quite fit with what was reported from the first contact in this area. What hyperdrive systems are aboard the ships?"
"Our scans have been unable to determine that, sir."
"I want to learn more about them. Transmit a message that they are to stand down and prepare for boarding. Tractor one of the closer ships into our main hangar."
"Sir, based on the language they were transmitting, they may not understand our intent."
"If the ship we select resists capture, neutralize it. Do the same with any others that attempt to either interfere or escape. Prepare a boarding team"
"Yes sir."
...
"Sir, our ship is being pulled toward that alien ship!" shouted the captain of the lead ship over the communications system, "We can't break free! Should we power up weapons?"
Martin was aghast and unable to speak. He watched in horror as his lead ship moved toward the giant arrowhead-shaped alien ship, though its engines were clearly not active. What was this all about? Were they not receiving his messages of greeting? He didn't know what to do.
"Do not activate your weapons or shields," barked Captain Beck into the intercom, gently pushing his employer aside.
"But they are pulling us toward them with, uh, I don't know how!"
"Let them. From what I can see, we have no way to resist them, and we are too close to those black holes to make a hyperspace jump. Even if we could, we don't know anything about this galaxy or have any star charts for it."
Captain Beck glanced at his console. He knew the other ship captains were rocked by events, and he himself was just barely maintaining his composure. He watched as one of the contacts indicating one of the trail ships began to turn in order to reenter the wormhole.
"Do not attempt to turn around or go anywhere. Stay in formation!" shouted Captain Beck into his console, "We don't know what that ship will..."
Bright blue bolts flashed from the large alien ship and lanced to the rear of Beck's vessel. They slammed into the ship that was attempting to make for the wormhole. As blue lightening danced about the ship's hull, its internal systems sputtered and died, and inertia continued to carry it forward in a lopsided drift, away from the other ships.
"For Seldon's sake!" shouted Captain Beck, "I said do not break formation! Power down all engines, and keep your weapon systems inactive. Do not make any more moves to provoke them."
Martin's face was pale, and he appeared to be on the verge of going into shock. He was clearly out of his element. Martin had dealt with space pirates before, but these were no mere pirates. Beck signaled to one of his crewmen and motioned toward Martin. The crewman gently led Martin off the bridge. Beck had been a crewman within the Foundation Navy during the conquest of the Mule, so he was somewhat more accustomed to the reality of combat situations. He relied upon that experience now to seize and retain command and control of the small trader fleet.
Beck watched through the view plates as the lead ship was pulled into a large underbelly hangar on the alien ship. He checked his console, and he saw that message of greeting was still being broadcast in a continuous loop. He decided to mute the shrill transmissions emanating from the hapless ship within that invisible but irresistible grip. Hearing that over loudspeaker would do his crew no good.