Episode 40: Valiant Ones
Nova, with Penny's help, settled back into bed. Her traction rig was still in pieces, since Hanson, in his delusional state earlier, had pulled it apart.
Bahn, back in his corner with Silesia, showed no indication he was any different from a large house plant.
The door hissed open, and Hanson stepped in, eyes averted.
"Get back outside," Penny said. "Your psych evaluation is in five minutes. I don't want to see you in here until you're cleared."
Nova laid a hand on Penny's arm. "We've been out of the Gate corridor for a while. It's okay."
"I don't think this is a good idea," Penny said, and though she stayed right beside Nova, she didn't tell Hanson to leave again.
Hanson's eyes darted to Bahn as he approached the foot of the bed. "That thing isn't going to put me in another cocoon, is it?"
Bahn's leaves rustled, though Nova wasn't sure if it was in irritation or amusement.
"Only if he has to," she said, keeping her tone neutral.
"What did you want, Hanson?" Penny said, arms crossed. "We're going to have casualties from other ships any time now."
Hanson met Nova's eyes. "I apologize for what happened before. I… was out of my head."
"Would you and Dr. Sane have made everyone leave Argo if Bahn hadn't stopped you?" Nova said.
Hanson nodded. "We were convinced the starflies were back. The horrors we all saw when we were stuck in comas… There are still crew who won't talk about it."
Nova remembered the nightmares she'd had while under the starflies' influence. "I can't say I blame you for not wanting to experience that again."
"It doesn't excuse what we did—tried to do. We took oaths to do no harm, and we almost broke those oaths because we gave in to fear." He stood straighter. "At least for my part, it won't happen again." Without waiting for a response, he left the room.
"How's Dr. Sane faring after everything?" Nova asked Penny.
The other woman shook her head. "Probably in his quarters, halfway through a bottle of sake by now. He'll be ready for incoming though. He always is. Reports say we're due to receive at least twenty officers and enlisted from the Tavas. Enemy ships got it. We could use help. I wish you were ready to be out of bed."
A faint whoosh of air from the corner caught Nova's cheek and brushed her hair into her face. "That could be arranged," Bahn said. "If you have a way to carry me with you."
Penny started and took a step away from the Jeshurunians. "Sorry. Even knowing you both can talk, it takes getting used to."
Nova eyed the sizeable container of dirt that housed Bahn's roots.
"We have a couple old-model wheelchairs," Penny said, now standing on the other side of Nova's bed. "They have a basket mounted on the back—for oxygen tanks and other medical equipment."
"But that planter is far too large—" Nova began.
"Can you make do with less dirt?" said Penny.
"As long as I do not need to do anything strenuous," Bahn said. "Feats such as the one your friend enabled me to accomplish on Telezart require ample space for roots to spread and absorb energy from the soil. Leaves may also be used to draw power from the sun. Though Telezart was dead, and its sun clouded over, enough life remained within the ground to sustain and fuel me when we fought the Cometines. Securing the door and briefly trapping both your Hanson and Dr. Sane took much of my resources, but I have enough reserves to hold a leg in place and aid in navigation."
"I'll get a chair." Penny disappeared through the door and was back moments later with a wheelchair that looked like it had been around when Nova's grandmother was a little girl. Penny lined the basket on the back with a clean pillowcase to keep any soil from escaping during the transplanting process.
"Let's get you into the chair first," Penny said as she moved Nova's traction rig aside with far more care than Hanson had.
Nova's leg ached as Penny helped her from the bed to the wheelchair. Once she was settled, Peny tucked a blanket around her legs and handed her a jacket with an EDF patch on both shoulders. Gratefully, she put it on and zipped it all the way up to keep out the medbay's ever-present cold. She still had thick socks on, so at least her feet weren't freezing.
Once Nova was in place, Penny, after a brief hesitation, said to Bahn, "W-would you… Can you… How do you want to do this?"
"Bring the chair closer, and I will perform the transplant myself," Bahn replied.
Penny steered Nova into the corner between the bed and the Jeshurunians.
Nova gripped the wheels to keep the chair in place. "I've got it."
Penny stepped away, keeping several feet between herself and the plant creatures.
From Bahn's torso formed a large scoop, which he used to transfer some of his soil into the wheelchair's basket. When he had enough to dig his roots into, he stretched first one root, then several out of his planter and toward the partially filled basket.
A comfortable weight settled at Nova's back as Bahn slipped into his temporary home.
Bahn reached for his old planter and scooped more dirt from it into the basket.
"Please," a soft voice whispered, "take some of my soil." Silesia waved her single, tiny leaf. "I have not used nearly so much of my resources as Bahn. Give me some of his in exchange, and I will be just as well."
Silence fell between Bahn and Silesia, then with a quiet rustle of his leaves, Bahn relented.
"Provide her with a sunlamp, if you have one," Bahn said.
"What about you? We could get you a lamp too, if you like." Nova shifted her bad leg a half inch, so the metal arm rest support didn't dig into her thigh. "Hydroponics should have several we can use."
"That would be ideal," Bahn said.
When the transplant was complete, Bahn formed his limbs around the wheelchair. Two branches morphed into three-fingered hands, one for each wheel. A third limb grew into a U-shaped brace beneath Nova's casted leg, providing support. A complex web of roots gripped her ankle and added tension similar to the traction rig.
She would have to be careful not to run into anything with her straightened leg, but if Bahn kept an eye on that for her, it would be much easier than doing everything alone.
"We are ready," Bahn said.
Penny checked her comm. "That's good, because the first wave of casualties just boarded. They'll be here in a couple minutes. Once we have a break, I'll send someone to Hydroponics for those lamps." Penny narrowed the gap between herself and Nova but maintained several steps' distance. "We need to get out there."
Nova reached for the chair wheels, only to have her hands meet viny fingers.
"I did not mean to overstep. Would you prefer to maintain full navigational control?" Bahn said.
Just the thought of having to move the chair manually for more than a few minutes made her hands and arms ache. "No. You're welcome to it."
"Simply indicate where you wish to go, and I shall take you," Bahn said.
Penny stepped through the door and into the medbay's intake and emergency treatment area. Nova followed. The crew who'd been stationed in here were all gone. Probably either discharged or had their comms set to monitor their vitals and then moved to quarters to make space.
Keeping her here when so many others weren't permitted to stay felt wrong. She especially didn't want to monopolize a private room if someone else needed it more. Once this was over, she'd talk with Dr. Sane about moving back to quarters.
Feria sped past Andromeda. Argo's rocket anchor was still soundly embedded in her bow.
Singer was still out here. She hadn't met the other woman but twice, both times at one of Buddy's social gatherings. The call sign was a bit of an inside joke. Singer was quiet, but she loved to dance. Feria prayed she'd dance again one day—hopefully soon.
The radio crackled. "Tiger Two, what's your status?" It was Peter.
"All good, Tiger Lead. Just dropped Buddy off. Heading out to look for Singer. How much time we have?"
"Not enough," came the reply.
Feria checked her limited radar. Peter's response was far too accurate. Already the first of the remaining EDF ships was past the coordinates where Argo had picked up Andromeda.
"Tiger Fourteen, Blazer, you're Singer's wingman. Where did you lose her?" Feria said.
"She got hit by a rogue enemy fighter. We were coming around for another pass through the Cometines' formation, but we didn't even get turned around before they were on us. I think we were… around here." Blazer sent a set of coordinates to the rest of the Tigers.
"Roger that, Blazer. Headed your way." Feria pushed her plane to its limit as EDF ships continued to withdraw. She reached the coordinates before the other Tigers. Blazer was already searching.
She has to be out here. Feria checked her instruments. Singer would look like a speck of space debris on sensors. The computer might not even pick her up if Wildstar was right about the distress beacon's signal being jammed. Please, God, let us find her in time.
Other Tigers trickled in after scanning nearby areas. At least enemy fighters were largely ignoring them for now. They were more intent on the fleeing capital ships, but that wouldn't last.
The final two ships in Gideon's remaining fleet were almost past Andromeda's pickup point. The Tigers would have to vacate the area soon, Singer or no.
What if her ejector seat sent her careening away from the combat zone?
"Blazer, have you checked over… here?" Feria sent him the coordinates.
"Headed that way now."
Only one ship had yet to escape the area. Cometine forces' attention was about to be all on them.
"Make it fast," Peter said over the radio.
"Yes, sir." Blazer sped into the unsearched area, and Feria followed as backup.
Together, Feria and Blazer made concentric circles, sweeping for anything unusual.
Only empty space.
"Last ship is away," Peter said. "Time to catch up to the fleet." He paused. "No one wants to leave her behind, but we have to—"
"I've got her!" Blazer's yell smothered Peter's voice. "Repeat, I found Singer. Going in for the tether."
Feria's radar tagged a dozen enemy planes. "Incoming. Blazer, secure that tether and get out of there."
"Almost—got it!" Blazer said. "I have her." He came about, heading toward Feria.
A storm of light sliced past her cockpit.
"Blazer!"
"You can't have her, alien scum," Blazer bellowed at the incoming Cometine planes.
Feria intercepted three fighters before they could take another shot at Tiger Fourteen. "Time to punch it."
"But Singer—"
"The ejector seats and flight suits are built to handle this. We have to get back to the fleet, or we're all dead," said Feria.
Blazer shot after her, headed for the rest of their squadrons. Singer's ejector seat deployed a limited shield bubble around her, keeping away debris and excess radiation she was exposed to. At least for a while. The tether retracted, bringing the unconscious pilot into place just astern of Blazer's cockpit and above his port wing. If Blazer had a moment to stop, he could have untangled her from the ejector seat and pulled her into his fighter.
But there was no time.
The other Tigers formed up around Singer and Blazer, creating a shield.
"More incoming," Peter said.
"I've got 'em." Hardy's drawl came over the radio before he shot down two bogeys. "Shinohara, let's give these boys a good ole' fashioned Earth welcome."
Hardy and Shinohara peeled off from the main formation along with two other pairs. They shot down enemy after enemy, leaving few targets for the rest of the Tigers to field.
They were gaining on Argo and the fleet. All they had to do was get Singer and Blazer to the hangar, and everything would be all right. The medical team would meet them there, just like they had minutes ago when Feria brought in Buddy.
"Got a swarm headed this way," Hardy said. "Radar's pinging over a hundred and fifty." He cursed. "Comin' in hot too."
Peter cut in. "Tiger Two, Tiger Fourteen, get Singer home. We'll keep them off your six."
Feria's stomach dropped. One hundred and fifty Cometine fighters against their little band? She didn't want to leave Peter behind. Didn't want to leave any of them behind. Even the Luna II transplants, like Blazer and Singer, had become like family these past months, and letting family throw themselves into danger didn't sit well with her. But those were orders, and she respected Peter's judgment, even if it stripped her nerves raw.
She let out a harsh laugh. Feria Noble, following orders. She'd defied several and come out the better for it. Even saved the whole crew once because of it. But now wasn't the time to play hero.
Blazer pushed ahead, Singer still anchored to the side of his Tiger. The ejector seat's shield bubble wouldn't last forever, but it would get them back to Argo.
They zipped through what remained of a Cometine ship. Shreds of metal and too many bodies whipped past Feria's cockpit. Seeing the enemy like this made her chest ache. What made them decide to attack Earth? The Gamilons had been looking for a new planet—a haven for their people—but the Cometines had a home, resources, protection. Why target such a distant world?
Birthright.
The word came to her quietly and unbidden, and with it flowed a strong sense of purpose and a need for conquest. Images flashed through her mind. A slicing knife. Blood. An incessant chant that made the hair on her arms prickle. The screams of infants. The flaring heat of unbridled flame.
But above all this loomed the burning lust for… power.
Feria shuddered, breaking the stream of thoughts. This was like the odd knowing she'd experienced before—the sense of Bahn and Silesia's presence—but it was more intense, louder, fuller.
The reek of sweat and synth-fiber assaulted her. She reached for her visor to pop it open, just for a few seconds of clearer air.
"—bogeys. Repeat. Tiger Two, Tiger Fourteen. Four bogeys on your six!" Hardy's voice crackled over the radio.
"Roger that. Keep going, Blazer." Feria shook her fogged brain clear, then rolled to starboard and looped to face the enemy.
The rest of the two squadrons were falling back a little at a time. They'd taken out an unprecedented number of enemy fighters, but there were too many, and fuel reserves had to be running low.
Feria nicked one enemy's curved wing and shot off another's tail. The last two planes darted behind her. With no wingman to watch her back, she'd have to get out of this herself. At least they were after her and not Singer and Blazer.
They approached another debris field. This one from a destroyed EDF ship. An Andromeda-class cruiser. It was broken into thirds, bow, midship, and stern, all floating slowly apart, destined to drift endlessly until caught in a gravity field and flung into a star or planet.
She tried not to look as she passed lifeless bodies and sheered bulkheads. Had any of them escaped?
Some.
Again, the single word came softer than a whisper, and with it came the sight of men and women—battered, but alive—being ferried into Argo's medbay alongside wounded crew.
The images gave her comfort.
Alarms blared as the Cometines pursuing her got a target lock.
Feria dove behind a destroyed gun turret, avoiding the first wave of enemy fire. "You won't get me that easily."
She wove through the destroyed ship, dodging the Cometine planes, looking for a chance to trap them.
Low fuel.
She had enough to make it back to the ship, but she couldn't take any more detours.
Ahead, a narrow gash in the wreck's midsection afforded a shortcut through the debris. Sensors said there was nothing blocking the other side, but if she miscalculated, even by a tiny margin, she'd sheer off her wings.
The enemy fighters were quicker, but she was smaller.
She pushed her Tiger toward the opening.
Both enemies stayed on her tail.
The gash surged toward her. As she slipped through it, she resisted the urge to hold her breath.
In half a second, it was over.
Feria's plane shot into the black, unscathed.
But the Cometine right on her six slammed into the bulkhead, exploding on impact. Her second pursuer was quick enough to avoid his fellow's fate. Instead of trying to follow her directly, he skimmed the wreck's outer hull, granting her precious seconds.
She pulled back just in time to let the remaining Cometine race past her. With skill born of hours in the cockpit, Feria whipped behind the enemy and landed a direct hit to its engines and fuel system. It exploded, sending a shower of metal bits across her bow.
Relief was all too short-lived.
"Two, Fourteen, six more headed your way," Peter called. "Others are coming. We can't—They're slipping through the cracks!"
If only they had a capital ship to dock in. She'd even take a cargo tub—something to shield them from the enemy and lay down cover fire.
But they were alone, and the enemy was advancing fast.
One eye on her limping fuel gauge, Feria sped toward Blazer. She had to get back, protect him and Singer. She was all they had for the moment. It was her job to make sure they made it home safely.
"They're on me! I can't shake them!" Blazer cried.
The Cometines raced toward the lone Tiger and ejected pilot.
"I'm on my way. Evade as long as you can," Feria said.
"Two, I'm jettisoning Singer. Pick her up. I'll draw them off."
"No, Blazer. I'm too far away. I won't get there in—"
"Jettisoning now."
Singer's ejector seat zipped away from Tiger Fourteen.
Enemy planes swept into the gap between Feria and Blazer.
She wasn't going to reach them in time.
"Hold on, Fourteen," Shinohara said over the radio. "We're coming for you."
Cometine planes swarmed Tiger Fourteen, but several broke formation and sped after Singer.
"No. No! Stay away from her, you pigs!" Blazer's screams ripped through the radio. "Shoot at me! Shoot at—"
Static.
"We…" Shinohara began. "We lost Blazer."
A beat of quiet punctuated his words before Hardy added, "Singer too."
Explosions bloomed around Feria as her fellow Tigers landed hits to enemy planes.
Her grip on the controls slacked.
Singer and Blazer. Both gone. She hadn't been enough to protect them.
Her vision blurred, and tears slipped down her cheeks.
In her heart, she knew they wouldn't be the last casualties.
She prayed she was wrong.
"Get back to Argo," Peter ordered. "Now. Everyone. Before the rest of the wave catches us."
Tigers shot past. Feria's usual wingman, Osamu in Tiger Four, took up position just astern on her port side.
"I've got your six, Two."
Feria said nothing as she put on speed and raced back to Argo with the remaining Tigers.
Dyre followed Invidia through the network of passages concealed in Gatlantis' walls. Gairen had told him about this route only recently, and thus far, Sabera had no knowledge of it.
Darkness filled the space, broken only by occasional slats of light from rooms they passed. For Gairen, darkness was no hindrance. For Dyre, it was disorienting. Even Invidia's quiet footsteps were uneven as he and she slipped past a noble's unoccupied quarters.
According to the map—which he didn't dare consult just now—Zordar's quarters lay almost directly ahead.
Invidia's plan to sway her father was flimsy—nonsensical in places. Her constant shifting of priorities made Dyre's head swim. But a slim chance of saving Gairen from Sabera was better than none. If he bowed to the prime minister's demands, he would lose Gairen. Perhaps not immediately, but Sabera wouldn't suffer Gairen to live long should she gain power. Not to mention what Gairen would do if he discovered Dyre had given into Sabera's demands.
When they reached the panel hiding the entrance to Zordar's private rooms, both Dyre and Invidia stopped to listen for signs the prince was in his quarters. Light filtered through the micro-mesh grate, allowing dim illumination into the passageway.
Invidia tapped the spot just behind her ear and used her comm implant to scan her father's rooms.
She shook her head and pointed further down the hidden corridor.
Dyre opened a map of Gatlantis. An audience chamber—one of eight in this sector—was within several minutes' walk. This one was where Zordar heard nobles' complaints. The other seven were reserved for lower-ranking Cometines. Many of those chambers Zordar hadn't visited in decades, and Dyre often wondered why the prince continued listening to the nobles' whining at all. He suspected it had become more an entertainment source than a means of placating Gatlantis' citizens.
Even before they'd reached the grate leading to the audience chamber, Zordar's voice broke into the passageway. "The lot of you are sniveling cowards." Disgust dripped from his words.
Dyre crept past Invidia and peered through the grate. A small anteroom concealed their intended exit from Zordar and anyone else inside the audience chamber, but they would have to enter silently.
Instead of trusting this particular step to the princess, he gripped both sides of the grate and eased it open, pausing when Zordar or the nobles stopped speaking.
By the time he and Invidia were out of the hidden passage and had resealed it, Zordar's laugh boomed through the audience chamber.
Dyre dared peek through the archway leading out of the anteroom.
A man wearing rich robes and the sigil of a mid-tier noble cowered before Zordar.
"Don't you know we stand on Origin's doorstep?" said the prince. "In mere days your petty troubles will mean less than nothing. Get out, all of you. You bore me."
The man Zordar had been addressing bowed low and backed away from the prince instead of facing the door. This show of respect was likely meant to appease, but all it did was solicit a snort of disdain.
Other nobles followed the first's example, bowing low and making sure to never turn their back as they exited.
Dyre and Invidia waited until the last noble was gone and the audience chamber door shut.
Thick silence filled the room until Zordar rose from his chair and, with slow, uneven steps, headed for a second exit, this one on the other side of the room from where Dyre and Invidia waited. General Beale, who apparently had stood near Zordar throughout the proceedings, followed him, looking pleased with himself.
Dyre had never liked Beale. He was the worst kind of fool—ingratiating, and dangerously ignorant.
When Zordar was far enough away that he wouldn't catch them in periphery, Invidia stepped out of the ante room and took a dozen silent steps toward the prince. Dyre followed.
"There is one other matter you ought to hear, Father," Invidia said.
Beale whirled, but Zordar didn't even turn to look.
"Invidia," the prince said. "What takes you from the war council?"
The princess' eyes darted to Beale, likely weighing the wisdom of speaking in front of him.
"Father, I…" Reluctance colored her voice.
"Speak or leave. I've other things to see to."
Invidia's jaw tightened, her gaze still periodically on Beale. "Sabera is not as trustworthy as you believe."
Beale had never been particularly good at maintaining stoicism, and surprise peaked his brows. It wasn't clear whether his response was due to Invidia's accusation or if he was naïve enough to think Sabera non duplicitous. Dyre suspected the man's rise to General status was more because of his pliability than any true skill. He hadn't contributed to tactical planning, and Sabera treated him as a glorified messenger. But he had a voice—one Sabera happily used whenever advantageous.
"You've expressed this opinion before," Zordar said. "Secrets are expected aboard Gatlantis. Any daughter of mine ought to know that." He resumed heading for the door.
"No, Father." The firmness in Invidia's voice stopped Zordar, and this time, he faced her. Displeasure clamped his lips into a hard line, and he stared her down.
In that moment, Dyre reconsidered the wisdom of this. If Invidia kindled Zordar's wrath, none of them would be spared. At least with Sabera, he had hope of besting her in a physical altercation. But not Zordar. Even with the prince's still-healing leg, the man would crush him.
Invidia flinched. Any resolve she'd once harbored seemed to melt beneath the prince's withering gaze.
"Since you are so confident in your superior knowledge, tell me, what is the status of our fleets?" said Zordar.
"I—I believe they're in place."
"You believe? Let us see just how much substance your beliefs have." Zordar snapped his fingers.
A series of holopanels, spanning the wall behind Dyre and Invidia, came to life.
"Where is Gorse's fleet?" Zordar faced the tactical map, arms crossed.
Invidia bowed her head, eyes shut, as if to stave off her father's compounding wrath. "It's gone. Desslok destroyed—"
"Desslok?" Zordar fumed. "What possessed that fool, Gorse, to go anywhere near the Gamilons? And why did none of you inform me of this?" His voice deepened with rage. "When was Gorse's fleet destroyed?"
Beale shrank away from Zordar, and Invidia kept her gaze averted.
"Nearly twelve hours past, my prince," Dyre supplied as meekly as was appropriate.
"You!" Zordar's fiery gaze lighted on Beale. "You arrived hours ago. What excuse do you have for telling me nothing of losing a full half of our advance fleet and one of my generals?"
"I—we—it was—I thought—" Beale stumbled through partial sentences, never stringing together more than two words.
"Enough!" Zordar rumbled. "Worse than useless," he spat before drawing the sidearm he always carried. He put an energy bolt between Beale's terror-glazed eyes.
The general's body didn't move for an eternal half second.
Then Beale crashed to the floor.
He didn't rise.
Zordar's attention returned to the tactical map as he activated his comm. "Sabera," he bellowed, "come to my audience chamber immediately."
Mere minutes later, the prime minister slipped through the door. When she saw Beale's corpse, she paused, but once she noticed Dyre and Invidia, hatred transformed her posture from subservience to superiority. "Yes, my prince?"
"Why has no one told me of Gorse's foolishness?"
"I…" Sabera wisely resumed a more submissive stance. "I believed the other fleets fully capable of acting without Gorse's aid. They've proven effective thus far. It stands to reason that will not change. If your daughter—" she threw a hot glare at Invidia "—believed something amiss, she should have discussed her concerns with me instead of bothering—"
"Belief. Reason." Zordar curled one hand into a fist. "The Warbringer requires might and cunning, not blind faith and interminable battles of intellect. It's clear you're both cowards, each unwilling—or unable—to eliminate the other. The two of you have drawn out this stalemate long enough."
The prince's gaze settled on Invidia. "You believe I have no knowledge of your attempt on Sabera's life."
Dyre's blood froze, but he kept his fear hidden behind an unconcerned countenance.
Zordar went on. "You came here, ostensibly, to give me information, even though your true aim was to undermine my trust in Sabera. But your timing was poor, Invidia. Instead of keeping watch over the fleets, you ignored your duty to Gatlantis and the Empire in favor of pursuing your personal squabble with my prime minister. Because you were foolish, you have interfered with my plans to take Origin, and that is unacceptable."
Before Dyre could blink, Zordar closed the gap between himself and Invidia. A resounding clap filled the room.
The princess wilted to the floor, hand to her face in a futile effort to cover the broad patch of red spreading across her cheek. Already, her face and eye swelled from the blow. Dyre would be surprised if Zordar hadn't cracked her jaw.
"Sabera." The prince's attention fixed on the other woman. "You're even more a fool than she is." He tipped his head to indicate Invidia. "As my daughter says, I've given you too much freedom." In half a moment, the prince's hand closed around Sabera's throat, and he lifted her a hand's breadth above the floor. "Invidia showed enough discernment to come to me with a perceived danger. You have been haughty enough to believe there is no danger. Our Gamilon friend spoke well when he said never to underestimate the enemy. And you have done just that."
Sabera grabbed Zordar's hand, trying to pry it free, but she couldn't loosen a single finger. She choked for air and writhed, trying in vain to get free.
If the prince killed Sabera, it would simplify everything. With her dead by Zordar's hand, no one would question it, and both he and Gairen would be free of Sabera's threats.
But to Dyre's dismay, the prince's grip loosened.
When Zordar released Sabera, her heeled boots hit the floor. She wobbled, then collapsed onto the cold metal plates, coughing and grasping her bruised throat.
Zordar faced Invidia. "Both of you are a disgrace to the empire. Since neither of you is able to competently oversee the reclamation of Origin, I will do it myself." He turned his back and left the audience chamber. His slight limp made his footsteps uneven, but they still carried the strength of a man none would dare to challenge.
Invidia scrambled to her feet, glaring at Sabera. She circled the prime minister twice, a sneer on her swollen, reddened face. Zordar might have struck her and berated, but he'd come quite close to ending Sabera. Whatever favor he'd once held for his prime minister mistress was nearly spent, and both women knew it.
Hatred burned in Sabera's eyes as she glared up at Invidia between hacking coughs.
With a self-satisfied, though lopsided, smirk, Invidia turned her back to Sabera and headed for the same exit her father had just taken.
Beale's corpse remained where it had fallen, eyes wide in death. The sanitation crew would remove it when next they made rounds.
As Dyre followed Invidia into the hall outside, Sabera still lay in a choking heap, periodically staring at the floor with too-wide eyes. The tactical map flickered on the wall behind her.
Once the EDF fleet had put several of Saturn's moons between them and the Cometines, Derek met with all surviving captains via video conference in the operations room. Sandor stood nearby, as did Conroy, Dash, and Vasquez.
The floor video panel displayed a map of the Saturn area, complete with enemy ship placements as well as all surviving EDF ships. To one side, a list of fallen ships, displayed in red, marked the trail of blood their enemies had already carved on their way to Earth. At the top of the list was their most recent loss, Captain Yasuda.
Holographic feeds from the other remaining capital ships hung in the air. Gideon aboard Andromeda, Ozaki aboard the Enceladus Defense Fleet flagship Hyperion, Tani aboard Aldebaran, Tomiyama aboard Antares, Yamanami, who'd stepped in to command the captainless Apollo Norm, and Achilles' captain, whose video feed was dark due to battle damage—all these plus Argo made seven. Thankfully they also had the Enceladus dreadnoughts, but that still made for far too few against far too many.
Derek checked the sensors' estimate of the Cometine forces. The Black Tigers had downed several enemy fighters, but that still left more than two thousand hostile targets.
"Wildstar," Gideon said, "we're more than glad the Star Force arrived in time to facilitate Andromeda's temporary retreat. My crew is working to complete vital repairs as soon as possible. I just received a report that they'll be done within the hour, so we don't have time to waste on pleasantries. The enemy must not take Saturn-space."
Everyone present nodded thanks to Derek then quickly agreed with Gideon's assessment.
The old captain continued. "The enemy has us sorely outnumbered. You've encountered them multiple times. What do you know about their weapons capabilities?"
Sandor stepped forward. "Captain, we've seen this enemy use a prime weapon every bit as deadly. On the journey home from Iscandar."
"Oh?" Gideon's brows knit.
"They called it—at least by our best translation—Firestorm. Only a handful of the ships we're facing now have that capability, but rest assured, if we survive this onslaught, another wave will come, and we will encounter Firestorm," Sandor said.
"Then we must be all the more decisive in our attack—wipe out this advance fleet," said Gideon. "Let them see what just a few of the EDF's finest can accomplish."
Yamanami spoke. "With such skewed numbers, we must strike quickly and with everything we have."
"My defense fleet stands ready to do whatever we must, even if that means sacrificing Enceladus," Ozaki said. His severe jaw, thin nose, and gray beard emphasized a deep frown and resolve-hardened eyes.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Gideon said. But they all knew this was going to cost them dearly. "Over eighty percent of our fighters are gone. What's the status of yours, Wildstar?"
Derek glanced at Conroy. "We… lost several during the retrieval of Andromeda, but we have a nearly full hangar, and all are ready and able to fight."
Gideon's mouth hardened into a line at the mention of casualties, but they would honor those sacrifices later, once this was over. "We'll split into two groups. Captains Yamanami, Tani, and Tomiyama will remain with me. The rest will go with you, Captain Wildstar, and we'll split the remaining dreadnoughts evenly. Those with Andromeda will hit the enemy fleet head on, drawing their attention toward us—" The floor map shifted to illustrate Gideon's words. "—while Argo, Hyperion, and Achilles break through their flank, splitting them in two. This is highly dangerous with so few ships, but it could be the only chance we have at taking out a fleet so much larger than our own."
"We've surprised them once," Derek said. "Doing it again will be ten times harder."
"Maybe," Gideon conceded, "but we have few other options, and time is running out."
He was right. Hitting the Cometines head on with their entire force was suicide. Taking time to arrange a series of covert attacks, while safer in the short term, would take too long and give enemy reinforcements time to arrive. This was their best hope. He just prayed Gideon—and everyone else—would survive it.
Mark helped an injured officer to an open gurney. The man's right arm hung uselessly at his side, and a head wound had bathed his collar and sleeve in blood. Everywhere Mark turned, men and women held bandages to faces, arms, legs, and torsos.
Sane, Hanson, Acre, and several other medbay staff helped each one as quickly as they could, stabilizing critical patients before tending to less serious injuries.
Nova, in the strangest wheelchair he'd ever seen, zipped around the medbay just as quickly as someone with two sound legs. The plant riding in the basket behind her steered the chair with stunning speed and accuracy. If Mark hadn't known about the Jeshurunians, the sight might have startled him. More than a few patients gave Nova and her companion curious—or even terrified—looks.
The man Mark was helping winced as he sat on the gurney. With his good hand, he gripped his injured arm. "Think it's dislocated," he said through clenched teeth.
Mark checked the arm just as Hanson had shown him. He made sure the man's dangling wrist had a pulse. Good and strong. "It'll hurt until we get it back into place, but it'll be all right." He turned his attention to the head wound. Messy but shallow. "I'm going to put this on your good arm." He tied a green triage band around the man's bicep. "We'll get to you as soon as we take care of the critically wounded."
The man—a navigator by the one intact patch on his uniform sleeve—grimaced but nodded. "Keep everyone you can alive."
"We will," Mark said. "I'll give you something for the pain. It isn't much, but it might take the edge off."
The man nodded.
Mark ripped open a dermal patch of topical analgesic and carefully adhered it to the man's bad arm. It was a pitiful solution, but it would have to do for now. "You have your comm?"
The man nodded. "Left pocket."
Mark pulled it out and set the device to monitor the man's vitals. "This will let us know if you get worse or need help." He clipped the comm to the man's belt to keep it close but out of the way.
They had more incoming. An hour ago, when the first person had staggered through the medbay door, Mark had thought his heart would hammer out of his chest. Flashes of Telezart vanishing into a ball of energy filled his mind. He kept wondering what had happened to Trelaina in those moments. Had she experienced pain? Fear? She'd been so kind to them—helped them in ways they'd thought impossible—only to die in the wake of the white comet, even as she tried to stop it. But then to see that same comet survive the blast that had killed Trelaina… There was no justice in it. None. So, what made him so sure Argo and her crew would come out of this alive? What made him think they could make it through if someone with Trelaina's incredible abilities couldn't?
"Venture." Hanson's voice snapped Mark back. "Pressure dressing. Now!"
Mark quickly retrieved what Hanson needed and helped staunch the blood seeping from a woman's chest. No matter what, they had to survive this. There had been too many sacrifices to get them this far. Several gurneys held black-tagged, sheet-covered bodies. He would do everything in his power to make sure no one else joined the ranks of the dead.
Sabera's dim reflection stared up at her from the floor panels of Zordar's audience chamber. Boiling hate filled her likeness' indistinct eyes.
Beale's body, not yet stiff, twitched. The man's head slumped to one side, sending his empty eyes toward her. He had been a good pawn. It was a shame to lose him so soon.
But worse was Zordar's vanishing faith in her. How easily he'd shoved her aside, as if she'd never meant anything at all. His indifference had always been what she hated most about him. When he'd sacrificed Mil twelve years ago, watching as his own flesh and blood burned in the Warbringer's fire hadn't drawn a single tear from him. If anything, he'd looked on with anticipation.
And she'd hated him for it.
Her fingers curled into a fist. She beat the polished metal floor until her hand ached, and a bruise spread across the abused area.
Zordar's reign would end. Now. Invidia had tried and failed. Not that Sabera was surprised. She could commend the girl for the attempt, but when it mattered most, the little princess had let her best opportunity pass.
When Sabera took Gatlantis' throne, neither Zordar nor his pitiful daughter would experience one ounce of mercy. They would meet their rightful fates, but they would suffer first. For as long as Sabera wished them to. And, in light of Dyre's choice to ignore her instructions, he would join them.
She would journey to Origin's deepest sea alongside a high priest and speak the Quickening Oath. If Gairen would comply, she'd take him. If not, she'd do away with him and use an interim appointment. Either way, she would bring her son back. Then he and she would seize the throne and rule Gatlantis side by side. With Origin's power under their control, none would stand in their way. Their soldiers would fall in battle, but Sabera would resurrect them all, creating a never-ending wave of might and glory such as the universe had never seen.
Beale's corpse twitched again, as if trying in vain to return from the dead.
"Perhaps I'll bring you back too. Eventually," she said. "But my son comes first."
Sabera reclaimed her feet and left the audience chamber. The prince might not be willing to give her credence anymore. No matter. Soon, she would step foot on Origin. Then it would be Zordar who'd be irrelevant.
Nova finished tending a young woman's amputation site. What had been left of her hand was unsavable, so Dr. Sane had removed the rest, affording her much better odds of a fully functional cybernetic replacement.
Several other wounded from the Tavas were missing limbs, hands, or feet. Multiple explosions throughout the now-destroyed ship had left even more with severe burns. At least with a lost hand or arm, the recovery process, though difficult, was manageable. With burns…
A middle-aged man with angry, puckered skin across his chest and neck screamed when Penny touched him to administer a pain injection.
Nova looked away. Even after a few years as a nurse at Central Hospital, her heart cracked a little every time someone cried out like that. Especially when there was nothing she could do to help them.
The medbay door hissed open, and Feria staggered in, helmetless. Red ringed her eyes, and jet-black bangs stuck out of a sagging ponytail. She sat down hard in one of the few empty chairs near the door.
Sane, Hanson, and Penny were attending the last of the critical patients.
"Bahn, I need to talk to Feria. Something's not right," Nova said, voice low enough to keep anyone else from hearing her.
The instant she said it, Bahn steered the wheelchair toward the door.
When they reached Feria, the other woman looked up with tear-glazed eyes. "I couldn't save them," she whispered. "They were so close, but I couldn't—" She burst into a racked sob, face in her hands. "We tried," she choked out. "We tried so hard to bring Singer home, but—" Another sob cut her off. "—they killed her. She was helpless, and they murdered her." Feria gripped the chair with one hand.
Nova hadn't had time to check the report on the Black Tigers' rescue mission. She'd hoped it was successful, since they hadn't seen many injured pilots come through.
Her friend's distress pulled Nova's chest tight. She leaned over the wheelchair's arm rest and pulled Feria into a hug. "I'm so sorry." Every few seconds, the other woman's sobs shook them both, and tears sprang to Nova's eyes.
There was nothing anyone could do for the dead except pay respects and remember them well. Nova hadn't known the pilots Feria mourned. But once this was over, and Earth was safe, she would read their names at Heroes' Hill, and she would never forget them.
Not two hours had passed since the conference with Gideon and the other captains. Knowing there was no time for anything except action, every ship had followed Captain Gideon's direction.
Derek checked and rechecked the status of the ships Gideon had sent with him. Hyperion remained to port and Achilles to starboard. A contingent of several Dreadnought-class ships escorted each of the larger vessels.
Reports still pinged his comm as a few stragglers from damaged or destroyed ships filtered into Argo's hangar. Those who needed medical assistance were ferried to the medbay, and the rest housed in crew quarters. He'd rather have sent them back to Earth on a designated ship, but there was no time for that. With all the survivors spread out across the remaining ships, he prayed their rescues wouldn't be in vain.
The air on the bridge thickened with tension as they approached the pre-programmed coordinates. Vasquez gripped the helm with enough force to crush glass. Dash stared hard at a series of weapon status indicators—all green for now. Homer pushed his headset to one ear so hard he'd probably have a headache soon. At radar, Watts tapped short fingernails on the outside lip of her chair. The rhythmic tapping somehow made the tension less ominous. Sandor sat in eerie silence, evaluating eyes flickering from person to person then back to his console screen. Eager fidgeted, not staying in the same position for more than a few seconds. Even Orion seemed affected by the enormity of what was about to happen. The old engineer scrolled through engine logs, opening one, reading for half a minute, then closing it and finding another.
A notice from Navigation flashed onto Derek's screen.
They'd arrived.
All they lacked was Gideon's signal to engage.
Watts stopped tapping her chair.
Silence stretched until it nearly swallowed them all.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Everything rested on them and the few other surviving EDF ships. Gideon's report said they'd gathered everything space-worthy to make a stand here at Saturn. If they failed, there was no one else to stand between Earth and the enemy.
So many had already fallen… If they fell in battle, the Cometine horde would go unchecked. Everyone back home was depending on them to be an unbreakable shield.
"Message from Andromeda," Homer said, patching the text through to Derek's console.
One word filled the screen. "Go."
They had to give this their all. There was no other option.
"Vasquez, take us in," Derek said.
The helmsman sent Argo surging toward the Cometines' position. It would take a minute before they dropped into enemy sensor range, but once the Cometines saw them, they'd lose whatever small element of surprise they had.
"Dash, as soon as they're in range, target the nearest enemy capitol ship."
"Yes sir." Dash's quick response held no indication of the obstinate volatility he'd displayed only twenty-four hours ago. He seemed his old self. Derek hoped that would remain the case.
"Entering enemy sensor range in five, four, three." Sandor counted down to zero.
"They'll see us any second," Derek said. "Vasquez, get us into the middle of their formation. They won't be able to hit us without shooting down each other."
The helmsman pushed the engines hard.
As they bowled past a Karakrum-class ship, Dash blew a hole straight through their engine. The ship exploded, splitting the hull in two. Half surged into unoccupied space. The other half careened into another ship, throwing it off-course just as it was about to fire. Its barrage shot off-course. Instead of impaling an EDF dreadnought, the blast raked another Cometine ship.
"Fire at will," Derek said.
Radar and Sensors showed a dwindling number of nearby enemies as Dash's team destroyed ship after ship. Hyperion skirted the enemy's rear, and Achilles barreled up from beneath, spearing the Cometines' formation with continuous rounds of fire.
In minutes, they'd broken the enemy's ranks in half, pulling fire away from Gideon and his ships.
Andromeda, Aldebaran, Antares, and Apollo Norm descended on the forward section of the Cometine fleet. Their dreadnoughts circled them, defending each one's assigned capital ship from swarms of fighters. Some were the familiar Scorpion-class, but multiple other types—all listed on the side of Derek's screen—peppered the EDF ships from every side.
As the Cometines' numbers dwindled, a feeble hope rose in Derek's heart. They might just make it through this. They could regroup before the White Comet arrived—because it would arrive—repair more ships, give Earth a weak but fighting chance.
The comet's searing white eye bored into his memory. That night he'd first seen it in Sandor's lab, before they'd left Earth… Even then, it had seemed to reach out with the burning need to destroy and devour. He would not let it take his home, the people he considered family.
"We're routing them," Watts announced. "Only four capitol ships left, including the flagship."
The tense air clogging the bridge thinned as anxiety melted into hope.
Derek checked radar on his console just as one of the remaining enemy ships exploded. A second vanished, shot down by Andromeda. Apollo Norm damaged a third, and Achilles destroyed it with a follow-up barrage.
Along with several dozen fighters—which now had no available berth to repair or refuel—a lone radar contact remained. The enemy flagship.
"Sandor, get us a video feed of that ship," Derek said.
Seconds later, the flagship appeared on the large screen above the line of viewports at the front of the bridge. The other EDF ships clustered around the enemy survivor.
Derek signaled Vasquez to hang back.
"Incoming message from the enemy," Homer said. "It's on broadband."
"Patch it through," Derek said.
The face of a middle-aged man with hardened features filled the screen. Smoke surrounded him, and his drab green skin and dark gray hair framed deep-set, narrow eyes, one of which was swollen almost shut. Thick eyebrows bled into sideburns. A deep cut above one eye spilled bright red blood down his cheek. When he spoke, bloody spittle flecked his blue and gold uniform, and a translation appeared along the bottom of the screen.
"You think you've won, Originals." He coughed, only to send more patches of red spewing onto his uniform. "But this fight is not over. I am defeated, but so are you." The man struggled to free his belted sidearm from its holster. Each attempt was weaker than the last, but finally, he succeeded.
Derek expected him to shoot the communications terminal in a show of defiance.
Instead, the man pressed the barrel to his own head. "For the glory of the Empire!" With great effort, he pulled the trigger.
Homer cut the feed almost instantly, but they couldn't completely avoid the grizzly display. The dead man's empty eyes stared into the screen for an instant before he slumped out of view.
"Power surge, coming from the enemy flagship," Sandor said. "It's going to self-destruct."
"Vasquez, full reverse!" said Derek.
Moments after the helmsman sent Argo jolting backward, the Cometine ship exploded. Deadly shrapnel pierced every vessel in close proximity. Pieces of the enemy ship shredded multiple dreadnoughts and crippled both Hyperion and Antares.
Aldebaran listed, her engines smoking.
Andromeda and Apollo Norm limped away.
Achilles exploded into a cloud of dust and debris.
By the time Invidia stepped into the war room, her father stood between holograms of generals Bleak and Nasca.
"The Originals are converging on Manic's fleet," Bleak said. "He has them outnumbered. They will fall quickly, and—"
"Silence!" Zordar commanded, gaze fixed on the tactical map displayed on the floor screen.
Invidia pulled her straight black hair over her swollen eye and the bruise now covering her cheek. Her father thought she was weak, ineffective. She would prove him wrong.
Dyre followed her silently. She adopted the space next to Bleak's hologram, and Dyre stood to her other side.
Her father gave no indication he noticed their arrival. His focus lingered on the map as the Original forces plowed into Manic's fleet from multiple directions, wiping out ship after ship until only the flagship remained. Moments later, even that disappeared, replaced by a glaring red message: "Telemetry lost."
Invidia ground her teeth. Perhaps her father's concerns had been well founded. Gorse was supposed to have reinforced Manic. Without him, they'd now lost both halves of the advance forces. But how had a mere handful of Original ships obliterated a Gatlantean war fleet?
Without data from Manic's ships, they wouldn't be able to track the Originals' movements. They needed another ship in the area.
One of the enemy vessels disappeared. Four more moved off, leaving two. Someone was still transmitting data. Either one of Manic's ships survived, or…
Invidia clandestinely opened a channel to Morta. When the young man's face appeared, she mentally transcribed and sent a message.
Morta read it quickly. "Yes, Princess. I am near the Original fleet that just destroyed Manic. As you commanded, I've prepared to release the virus, not only to the ship called Argo, but every other Original ship in the vicinity."
Unaware of Invidia's invisible discourse with Morta, Zordar said, "Prepare to warp. We will smash the Originals' defenses once and for all." His voice boomed louder with each word until thundering echoes filled the room, and Invidia wanted to cover her ears.
The warp countdown appeared above them, slowly winding toward zero.
Invidia sent one more message to Morta. When Gatlantis arrives in Original space, do it. According to Deun, Argo was already infected with the Dark One virus, but a second infusion wouldn't hurt. What she wouldn't give to see the Original forces trying to correct one system failure after another, all without a single clue as to the cause. She would ensure they were all dead, leaving the way to Origin clear.
Morta's hologram bowed to Invidia and disappeared.
Scarcely half an hour from now, they would be in Origin's solar system, ready to strike—to reclaim the land of their birthright. And, to Invidia's personal delight, the ship Desslok had been obsessed with hunting down would be nothing more than a cloud of debris, floating through the cosmos. She would have her revenge, and then, she would stand with her father as he wrested control of Origin from what remained of their cowering populace. Now that Sabera had fallen out of favor, Invidia's ascension to the throne would be far easier.
Her bruised face didn't seem so consequential now. Let her father think her incompetent. His opinion of her had varied widely as of late. As long as she got what she wanted, nothing else mattered.
Only one nagging thought kept her ill at ease. The Diviner was still curiously absent. Perhaps she was finally and truly dead, destroyed when Gatlantis overcame her attack less than a week ago. Surely, if she lived, she would have interfered by now.
Perhaps the Diviner's time, just like Sabera's, had finally come to an end, making way for Invidia and all her lofty ambitions.
"Damage report," Derek said.
"The other ships took the brunt of it, and our shield caught the rest," Sandor said.
Derek checked his comm for casualties. None. "Hail Andromeda."
Gideon's face appeared on the video panel. "Wildstar. What's your status?"
"The blast didn't reach us," Derek replied.
"That's something at least," the old captain muttered. "Come alongside Aldebaran and pull her to Enceladus. Her crew is working to repair the engine, but it doesn't look promising. Hyperion, Antares, and Apollo Norm will make for the rendezvous point under their own power, and Andromeda will follow. We have to be ready when the next wave comes."
"Aye sir," Derek said before Gideon ended the call.
What would the next wave be? More ships? Or the comet itself?
In his mind's eye, the giant flaming comet, emerging from the boiling mass of energy Trelaina had bombarded it with, was all too clear. The thing had been horribly scarred. Trelaina's attack had slowed it, but not even an onslaught of such magnitude had fully stopped it. If they faced the comet next…
Derek's gloves grew uncomfortably damp. He pulled them off long enough to wipe excess sweat on his pantlegs.
Vasquez steered the ship into position near Aldebaran. Just as they'd done with Andromeda, they used the rocket anchor to secure the wounded ship, then headed for their destination. They'd need to dock Aldebaran in the moon's orbital repair facility.
"How long before we reach Enceladus?" Derek said.
"At our current speed, almost twenty minutes," Vasquez replied.
Derek turned on the ship-wide comm. "All crews, stand down battle stations, but remain alert. This isn't over."
With Vasquez at the helm and Sandor watching the bridge, Derek retreated to the captain's cabin for a moment of silence.
The cabin looked the same as it always had, but Derek wished Captain Avatar were here. So many questions tumbled through Derek's mind, many about the upcoming battle, others about Nova, Mark, the survivors taking refuge aboard Argo, even the Space Marines.
The journey to and from Iscandar had been peril-ridden, but this cat-and-mouse game with the White Comet and its forces was something altogether different—and far more deadly. At least with the quest to retrieve the Cosmo DNA, they'd had a few constants. They'd known—most of the time, at least—that Queen Starsha was their ally. They'd known there was a set amount of time to accomplish their goal. They'd also known the Gamilons wanted to take Earth for themselves.
With the White Comet, they'd had none of those advantages. Trelaina hadn't lived long enough to help them more than once. They had no idea how quickly the comet could make repairs or how fast it could travel. And, instead of looking for a new home, the people aboard this comet thirsted for bloody conquest. If Desslok had been unreasonable, this comet was even more so. Its goal was power, and an appetite that fierce was impossible to sate.
Captain Avatar's desk chair, latched to the underside of the small writing desk, called to Derek.
He took the seat.
The desk's top drawer was cracked open just a bit. He must not have closed it all the way when he'd gone through its contents yesterday. He tried to shut it, but the drawer hung on something, so he pulled it open. Captain Avatar's Bible and journal were still there. He'd forgotten to take them back to his cabin. Instead of leaving them in the drawer again, he carefully set them atop the desk and wrestled the drawer out of its old-fashioned metal tracks. The instant he pulled the drawer free, there was a papery clunk.
Using his comm light, Derek peered into the empty slot. Nothing. His quarry must have slipped behind the next drawer down.
He pulled out drawer two, then drawer three. And there it was. A thick envelope, now lying flat on the floor. He reached into the open space, straining to grasp the envelope, which lay stubbornly shy of his fingertips. To add to his reach, he ducked his head inside the open space where drawer three was supposed to sit.
In triumph, he pulled out the envelope, careful not to knock his head on the bracing that separated the drawer slots.
Still on his knees in front of the desk, Derek examined the envelope. Its corners were soft, blunted from time spent in a drawer, but the flap had been used so often that the crease was worn through in two spots.
Carefully, Derek reached into the envelope and withdrew two pieces of paper. One had been creased into fourths and the other folded in half. The quartered paper was a child's drawing, done with blue and green crayons. A stick figure family stood in a circle, holding hands. In the middle of their circle was a crudely drawn planet Earth. In the corner, scrawled in a child's unsteady hand were the words, "To Daddy. Love Jenny."
Adam Avatar had briefly mentioned someone named Jennifer once. One of the photos Avatar kept was of himself, Adam, and a young woman who must've been Jennifer, Adam's sister.
Derek tucked the treasured drawing back into the envelope and opened the other paper. A letter. Its edges were frayed and missing tiny pieces. The handwriting flowed across the page in graceful lines. He'd not seen writing like this often, so much of it was difficult to read. The pieces he deciphered were filled with love. At the bottom of the letter sat the signature, "With all my heart, Leona. Is. 43:2."
Derek had never heard Captain Avatar or Adam speak of a Leona, but by the wear on this letter, it had been read many times.
He recognized the abbreviation and numbers beneath Leona's name. Setting the letter and envelope on the desk, Derek stood and reclaimed the chair. He opened the old captain's Bible and searched the table of contents until he found the only section that started with the letter I. Even with a page number, it took the better part of a minute to find it. Leafing through books wasn't something he'd ever done much of.
When he found the referenced portion, he read it silently. "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee."
He backed up to the previous sentence and re-read the section. God had said this. And though He was speaking to someone else in the text, the words poured over Derek, as if they'd been written specifically for him in this moment. I will be with thee… they shall not overflow thee… thou shalt not be burned.
According to his comm, they'd be at Enceladus in less than fifteen minutes.
Derek left the Bible open on the desk while he reset the drawers and tucked the envelope back in place—this time, making sure it wouldn't wind up on the floor again.
Only ten minutes left. He should get back to the bridge.
But the Bible's open pages called him back. His eyes caught on a sentence a bit further down the page from where he had been reading. "I, even I, am the LORD; and beside me there is no saviour." He kept reading, paging from one chapter to the next until Enceladus filled the viewport and Argo slowed. They sailed past the orbital repair dock and stopped.
As Derek shut the book and put it back in its drawer, the ship maneuvered into position to release Aldebaran.
His comm pinged to let him know the rocket anchor had successfully retracted.
I will be with thee… The words rose in his mind. It was just like what happened right before the Cometine fleet had plowed through Desslok's ships, allowing Argo to escape through the Gate.
I will be with thee. They shall not overflow thee.
Derek's comm wailed an emergency alarm.
He raced back to the bridge. "Report!"
"Warp signatures astern. Too many to count. One is gigantic, and a second is off the charts!" Watts said.
A fleet of ships—so dense it looked to the naked eye like a set of planetary rings—dropped out of hyperspace. In the center of the fleet was a ship so large it was half the size of Enceladus.
And behind them all loomed the great White Comet.
I will be with thee…
"Urgent message from Captain Gideon," Homer said. "The video won't play. Something's bogging down the signal. The backup transcript reads, 'Retreat immediately. All warp-capable ships, make for Ganymede.'"
Derek heard the unspoken death sentence. Aldebaran couldn't run. And there wasn't time to evacuate the Enceladus base or the orbital facility. But Gideon was right. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to sting. "Orion, give us all the power you can. Vasquez, all ahead, full. Watts and Eager, calculate a warp trajectory, and do it fast."
"Enemy fleet closing," Watts said. "They'll be on us in under three minutes."
"How long until we have that warp vector?"
"Forty seconds."
They could make it.
Vasquez pushed the ship hard. They rocketed away from Enceladus.
Only half a minute until the warp calculations completed.
Each second seemed longer than the last as the Cometine forces closed.
The White Comet swallowed Enceladus, nearly colliding with Saturn. The comet's overshield sucked in debris from the obliterated moon, leaving no trace of Aldebaran, the EDF base, or any of the men and women whose lives it had just snuffed out.
They had to outpace the Cometines for five more seconds. Radar said Andromeda, Antares, Apollo Norm, and Hyperion were just behind Argo, and they were on-pace to make it out of the area ahead of the oncoming horde.
"We've got a warp vector," Watts announced.
"Vasquez," said Derek.
"Aye, sir," The helmsman raced through the pre-warp check before Derek could complete the order.
A ship-wide alert went out to every comm aboard ship. To make Jupiter-space, they'd maintain warp for about sixty seconds. Hopefully those who didn't tolerate warps well would come through with little more than a bad case of nausea.
"Warp in three, two, one."
On zero, the world blurred.
Derek shut his eyes against the insane mess of images and colors as he concentrated on counting through the minute-long ordeal. When he made it to seven, Argo lurched out of warp.
"Status," Derek said.
"We haven't even passed Phoebe's orbit," said Eager.
"What happened, Vasquez?" Derek said.
"I did everything right, Captain," Vasquez replied. "I'm sure of it."
"Orion?" Derek faced the old engineer.
"The engine's working, Wildstar," Orion said. "But she's refusing to hold warp speed."
"It wasn't any of you," Sandor said, voice grim. "The virus escaped containment. It's running amok through the ship's computer. That must have been why Gideon's last message wouldn't come through. Until this virus is re-captured or destroyed, ship functions will be unreliable."
"What about auxiliary systems?" Derek said.
Sandor opened a report. The screen flickered, and pieces of the text morphed into an indecipherable jumble. He frowned hard at the display. "Compromised."
Derek joined Sandor at the science station. "How long has it been outside quarantine?"
"No way to tell. Could have been seconds or days."
"You tracked it down once. Can't you do it again?" They didn't have time for this. The White Comet was coming for them—for Earth. If Argo refused to function, they'd have to evacuate. And evacuees would be even more vulnerable to the White Comet. Small ships—armed or not—heading for Earth would never stand a chance against the numberless forces pursuing them.
"I can't guarantee anything, Wildstar," Sandor said. "I can't even tell you if the hangar doors will open. I'll take Royster and the rest of the science team. We'll work as quickly as we can. Rowland can take my post for now." The XO notified the young man via comm message. It took four tries to get the message to send. "It's attacking everything." Sandor eyed the air vents. "Be prepared for life support failure, electrical fires, spontaneous activation of weapons, shields. We might even drop into warp without warning."
"Everyone, get into your EVA suits," Derek said. Even as he stepped into his, he wished he'd had the chance to run it through the sanitizer. It still reeked of sweat from the last time he'd put it on less than twenty-four hours ago.
As Sandor handed his station over to Lt. Rowland, every screen on the bridge turned to green and white static, then flickered in and out. The bridge crew got glimpses of their computers every three or four seconds, but those glimpses told them scant little.
Not only were they stranded; they were deaf and blind. Their allies were too few. And the White Comet was not only on their doorstep but more than able to annihilate them with a single blow.
If Sandor couldn't eradicate Deun's virus, their only hope would be that Andromeda and the other three ships, though damaged, could withstand the Comet fortress.
Episode 40 Notes:
The title for this episode was taken from Isaiah 33:7
Behold, their valiant ones shall cry without: the ambassadors of peace shall weep bitterly.