Starhold (3 page)

“Earth.”

Carr and Sanchez gaped at the Director for a few seconds. “Good Gods, why?” asked Carr finally. “There’s nothing at Earth.”

Tolbert smiled and brought the briefing display to life.

“Ah, so there IS something at Earth?” said Carr. “You have my attention, Director.”

“About five months ago, a Threnn miner strayed into the Sol system with an apparent mechanical problem. They collected this data and tight-beamed it to Rusalka Station.” The projector was flashing images above the briefing table and both operatives were now viewing the displays and flipping through their datatabs.

“Ten weeks after that, two Quest class robot probes we had dispatched finally arrived in Sol, jumping in system close to Earth. They sent back this data. You can see for yourself that there are ships and sats of unknown configuration. And there’s also this big thing they’re constructing out there,” the Director said pointing at a large shape floating beyond the Earth’s moon.

Etta Sanchez looked like a child that didn’t know which birthday present to open first. She was drinking in the data—Carr was drowning in it.

She motioned toward the holo display. “I’d wager more than one of those vessels are warships, Director.”

“You think these,” Carr gestured, “are weapon arrays?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it. And look at those drive signatures. What kind of propulsion are they using? Could that be some kind of Kojima Drive?”

After a few minutes of discussion about what they were or weren’t seeing in the probe data, Carr tried to bring the briefing back on track. “Director, any speculation on all of this from the science people over at the Centroplex?”

“For security purposes, only a handful of people have seen this information and they’re pretty much stumped. We certainly don’t think these are pirates or any kind of independents, and we’re equally certain it’s not the Gerrhans, or the Jangsu, or the Pontians, or any other Renaissance Sector government. We know a lot about what it isn’t, but not enough about what it is. That’s why you two are going there.”

Sanchez closed her eyes, then spoke as if she were about to personally ruin her own dream of a lifetime. “But surely sir, a military expedition, a task force would be more suited for this.”

“You’re right, and a task force is being sent. They’ll arrive after you two have had a chance to scout things out. What that military force does when they arrive in the Sol system will largely depend on the information you provide to them. We may be looking at a first contact situation here.”

The enormity of that statement took a few seconds for Carr and Sanchez to process. As they did, Director Tolbert pulled up a new image on the display. It was a representation of Earth, zeroed in on a continent once called Europe.

“You haven’t even seen the best part yet,” Tolbert said.

“There’s more?” Sanchez muttered.

Carr stood up and walked closer to the floating image of Earth. “That spot—there,” he pointed. “Is that a… settlement?”

“It is, indeed,” Tolbert nodded.

“How can that be?” asked Carr. “Earth is poisoned, ruined. It’s only been, what, three hundred years since the last humans left. The planet couldn’t have restored itself in that amount of time.”

“You’re correct and that’s another mystery. However, the probes indicate much of Earth’s biosphere has been revitalized. There’s clean air, fresh water, fertile soil, and that.” The Director pointed at the map display. “The data indicates a settlement along the Dordogne River in what used to be France, about seventy klicks upriver. We see one town with somewhere between fifteen to twenty thousand life signs.”

“Human life signs?” asked Sanchez.

The Director frowned. “Don’t know. Life signs for sure, but we’re not clear on specifics. Looks human, but the probes stopped transmitting before they could gather definitive data. It wasn’t a malfunction—both probes were destroyed.”

The room was silent. It was almost too much to take in. Tolbert had been working with the information for weeks and he was still astonished.

Carr broke the quiet. “You know, according to history, over ninety-nine percent of humanity died during the thirty years of the Diaspora. Only about eighteen million people made it off the planet to the eleven original settlement worlds. We assume as fact that the remaining pockets of people on Earth died off. What if some of them survived?”

“Even if some people on Earth survived,” voiced a skeptical Sanchez, “could they have advanced to this scientific level in only three hundred years?”

“I admit, it doesn’t sound plausible. I’m just thinking out loud.”

Tolbert cleared his throat. “This has all been hashed over by the experts and they’re in agreement. These aren’t post-Diaspora survivors—they’re outsiders.”

“Director, what about this gas miner, the
Theodora
?” Sanchez asked.

“No sign of it. Missing and presumed destroyed,” said Tolbert in a solemn voice. “The cover story is a hyperspace accident.

“You two are to proceed to Rusalka, where you will pick up a prototype stealth scout vessel called
Kestrel
. It’s small, but has long-range capabilities.
Kestrel’s
a two-person ship and Sanchez will pilot. It’s equipped with the most advanced stealth systems ever created. From Rusalka, hyperdrive to Sol, reconnoiter, and land on Earth. Learn as much as you can about who these people are and what they’re doing, and then rendezvous with Task Force Nineteen, which will follow you by about a week.”

Tolbert dimmed the holograph. “I never thought I’d be dispatching operatives to Earth. Obviously, I don’t have to tell you how much is riding on this. Find out as much as you can, as fast as you can, then get back up into space and report to TF Nineteen. That’s it, and good luck.”

Carr and Sanchez got up to depart and Tolbert seemed to remember something. “Frank,” the Director called out. “Frank, how’s Shannon doing?”

Carr shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of resignation and Tolbert nodded back. Sanchez got the feeling she had witnessed a terribly private moment pass between the two men and knew to say nothing.

As they dealt with James in the outer office, Sanchez suggested that they go over the briefing information contained on the datatabs.

“Good idea, Ms. Sanchez,” Carr said in a distinctively patronizing tone. “Let’s go next door to the lounge where we can work comfortably.”

As they left Tolbert’s office, Carr took Sanchez by the arm and steered her to the right and down the hall. “Where are we going?” she protested. “The lounge is back there, isn’t it?”

“Forget the lounge. Let’s go across the street to Bismarck’s. I need a drink.”

Sanchez made an uncomfortable face. “I don’t drink in the afternoon.”

“Well, this would be an excellent time to start.”

* * * *

“Another, sir?” asked the server.

“Sure, and another of whatever the lady’s having.”

Across from Yancey House and down the block, Bismarck’s was an appealing watering hole set on the corner of Uhlen and Feldmark. The establishment had been ‘the’ spot several years ago, but its star had fallen in recent times. Following their meeting with Director Tolbert, Carr and Sanchez migrated there to examine the mission files in greater detail.

It was an inviting bar, the interior accentuated by real wood trim, something becoming rarer by the year on Sarissa. Along the walls were tastefully placed paintings and some small side tables with porcelain pieces. The bar itself stretched across the length of the wall to the entering patron’s right, booths to the left with tables in between. Sanchez felt it was all tastefully done, with one exception. An extremely large and badly executed oil portrait hung over the center of the bar depicting a cream colored Great Dane. Frank Carr explained that the dog was indeed the one and only “Bismarck,” the owner’s beloved and dearly departed hound.

“It’s either the worst painting ever, or the ugliest dog ever,” observed Sanchez.

During the first half-hour of their meeting, Sanchez dug right into the briefing materials, prattling on about technical details and other particulars that Carr seemed only marginally interested in. He fidgeted and repeatedly looked at his mobile to check the time.

“Why didn’t we just stay at Yancey House and do this?” Sanchez asked as the server set down her second cup of La Paz. “Isn’t taking briefing pads outside of headquarters a bit, well—unorthodox?”

“Not for me,” replied Carr as he threw back the last gulp of Old Oakfield, then received another from the server. “James knew where we were going as soon as we left the office, he’s just given up trying to stop me.”

Carr looked across the table and grinned at her. It was the first time she’d seen him look genuinely pleased. “That smile suits you, Mr. Carr. You ought to use it more often.”

“I used to, but you know, things happen.” An uncomfortable pause fell across the table. “How’s your coffee?”

Sanchez relaxed a notch. “It’s good. Actually, it's very good. I’d say this La Paz blend comes from the southern continent of Quijano. It’s a little more bitter than what we grow in the north.” She suddenly felt self-conscious. “Sorry. I know two things really well—flying and coffee. I grew up on my father’s coffee plantation.”

“With a childhood surrounded by coffee, I’m surprised you’re not sick of the stuff,” Carr mused. “So that explains your vast knowledge of coffee. How did you become a pilot?”

“When I was growing up on Quijano, there was a space force base near our plantation. I used to go out into the fields and just watch the shuttles coming and going. It was mesmerizing. I decided I wanted to do more than farm coffee for the rest of my life. I wanted to see what those shuttle pilots were seeing, up there,” she made a gesture pointing upward. “My Uncle Leo suggested that I apply to Space Force Flight School when I was old enough and so I did. Graduated second in my class.” She took another sip. “Uncle Leo was a pilot in his day too. My family must have the flying gene.”

Sanchez seemed to become self-conscious and stopped talking, which left an uncomfortable silence at the table.

“Look, Ms. Sanchez. Sorry if I’ve come off as a little rude. I’m sure you’re an excellent pilot and also a very good operative, but I really do have to emphasize that I’ve worked alone on almost every mission I’ve ever conducted for the OMI, so this teamwork thing is going to take me some getting used to.”

“How long have you worked for the Office?”

“Six years. And you?”

She cleared her throat and looked uncomfortable. “Well, I’ve been a space force pilot for four years, but I only transferred to OMI a short time ago.”

“How short?” he asked, sounding out the words for emphasis.

“Six, um, months,” Sanchez replied awkwardly. “Actually, this is my first official mission.”

Carr stared at her a moment, then looked blankly into the air as if deciding how to react. As he started to speak, a plump man approached the booth.

“Frank! How are you, my friend?” the gentleman asked, while offering a handshake. Erich Hessler was the owner of Bismarck’s. Overweight and walking with a cane, he had a gregarious manner. Sanchez was relieved that he intruded on what could have been a nasty moment. Carr introduced her and the two men chatted.

“Erich, my offer if still good for that Gellhaus vase,” Carr said, motioning toward a beautiful ceramic container located near the bar.

“Frank, Frank, my good friend. You know that piece has been in my family for three-hundred fifty years. It was made on Earth, before the Diaspora of Humankind! I just couldn’t part with it, at least not for the price you’ve offered in the past. Now, if you want to increase your offer, I might possibly be willing to put family history aside.”

Carr leaned back in his seat. “Oh well, I tried.”

Hessler said his goodbyes and moved on to another set of patrons.

“So, you’re interested in stuff like that? Antiques. Do you collect?” asked Sanchez, anxious to change the subject away from her OMI experience, or lack thereof.

“I dabble.”

“So you must enjoy art and history,” she said.

“No, my clients enjoy art and history, and I enjoy making money. Recently, however, I’ve had to sell off some of my collection,” Carr sipped his bourbon and motioned toward the Gellhaus vase. “That old thief wants way too much for that piece. Every time I’m in here, that vase has been in his family twenty more years than the last time. Also, I’m sure it was probably produced on Tezrina, maybe about eighty years ago. It sure as hell wasn’t produced on Earth.”

Sanchez got an excited look on her face at the mention of the original Blue Planet.

“Speaking of Earth, just think of it, Carr. In a little over a standard month from now, you and I will actually be standing on planet Earth.”

Carr started to respond, but decided to change the subject. “Well… You’ll take the datatabs back to James, won’t you? I’m heading back to Boutwell. Meet you aboard the Arisugawa Starport day after tomorrow at zero nine-hundred hours.”

Sanchez looked stunned. “Wait, we haven’t even begun to go over possible landing sites. What about the sensor protocols? You can’t leave yet, there’s too much work to do,” she protested.

“I’m sure you and James will plot out an excellent program. The first rule of good intelligence work is division of labor,” he said, rising to put on his jacket. “But given our rather tight timetable, there are certain people back home I must visit and arrangements I have to make if I’m to be offworld for months. See you in two days on Arisugawa.” He turned his back on her and fled out the front door.

Sanchez sat alone in the booth fuming at her new so-called teammate’s unprofessional behavior. She had anticipated some resistance to working with a newly minted operative, but his general behavior was so… irresponsible. This man was supposed to be some hotshot agent and it was like dealing with an adolescent boy. The nerve of him!

Her indignation was interrupted by a voice. “Lieutenant Commander Sanchez?” asked the stranger standing beside the table. “May I have a moment of your time? My name is Mumphrey.”

2: Clash

Union heavy cruiser Tempest

Hyperspace

“Mr. Knox, this could be a turning point in the battle and we’re only going to get one shot at this,” said Captain Charles “Chaz” Pettigrew as he examined the tactical situation.

His executive office, Commander Parker Knox, felt the weight of his captain’s eyes upon him. Pettigrew was right—a false step here could be disastrous. “What do you think, Captain?” he asked viewing the field of combat.

“Your call, Commander,” Pettigrew answered in a measured tone, attempting to hide his own tension.

Knox reached out to grasp his silver elephant, moving it to an adjacent empty square and pulling the gold horse forward. Making his remaining three steps, the young executive officer sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. His look of satisfaction was fleeting however, as he noticed the smug expressions on the faces of Commander Uschi Mullenhoff and Lieutenant Peng Huang. Pettigrew had remained composed, but Knox knew he had somehow messed up. Reexamining the game board, he quickly spotted his error: gold had a rabbit on the sixth rank. He needed to block that and failed to do so. Unless a miracle happened, Mullenhoff and Huang were very shortly going to win this match. In addition, Knox arrived at one other conclusion: a game of fourhanded Arimaa was complicated enough, without the added pressure of having your commanding officer as your partner.

“Thanks, Commander,” Mullenhoff gloated. “I’ve waited a long time to beat the captain at Arimaa and I couldn’t have done it without you.” The blonde-haired woman reached for a piece to make her next step when a chime came over the shipwide address system.

“Captain to the bridge,” summoned a voice.

Mullenhoff froze, with her arm extended over the playing board, winching as the captain spoke. “Terribly bad timing, but duty calls. So sorry we didn’t get to finish the game. Commander, Lieutenant,” the captain nodded to his opponents as he quickly made for the wardroom hatchway. “XO, you’re with me.”

Tempest’s
Chief Engineer Mullenhoff remained frozen for a moment after the departure of Pettigrew and Knox, and then looked over at Huang. “I both love and despise that man,” she said.

As per SUSF etiquette, the captain didn’t usually spend much time in the officer’s wardroom, but he had been invited by Knox and Mullenhoff for this game. Chaz Pettigrew did a lot of things other captains didn’t do, and was known to be something of an eccentric in space force circles. At the same time, his reputation as an effective tactician had been well established in the People’s Rebellion and his officers loved to test their commanding officer’s tactical skills on the Arimaa board.

Parker Knox shifted uncomfortably in the turbolift as he and Pettigrew made their way to the bridge. “Sorry about that move, Captain. I should have noticed that rabbit,” he said.

“It was just a game, Park, but learn from your mistakes. You tend to get bogged down in the details of the battle and forget about the big picture,” Pettigrew replied, trying to set his exec’s mind at ease. “Besides, we pulled off the best move of the match.”

“We did?”

“Yes. We escaped Commander Mullenhoff’s wrath. She’s probably still sitting there, fuming at the board,” he joked as the lift doors opened.

“Captain on the bridge” a computer voice announced as the tall black man strode off the turbolift and moved to the command chair. He had a handsome, rectangular face and an attractive smile, which he used more often than most commanding officers might. Chaz Pettigrew had been captain of the heavy cruiser
Tempest
for almost a standard year. Most of the crew felt he was a strong but fair CO, and he had worked hard to keep the
Tempest
one of the finest warships in the Union fleet.

“What’s the good word, Commander?” asked Pettigrew, addressing the officer of the deck, Taylin Adams, as she handed him a datatab with the ship’s status on it. The
Tempest
bridge crew continued about their duties, but several of them snuck a look the captain’s way to gauge his reaction to the news.

“Receiving a distress signal from our outpost on planet Uritski in the Luoyang system, sir,” Adams reported. “They’re under attack by a single vessel of unknown silhouette and origin. The station is reporting that their two garrison frigates have both taken severe damage.”

Pettigrew finished scanning the datatab before he responded. “How long for us to arrive at Uritski under full speed, Ms. Adams?”

“Approximately two hours forty-five minutes standard, sir. We are relatively close to the Luoyang system now and most probably the closest Union warship.”

The captain did some mental calculations. “The time stamp on this message from Uritski Station is ten forty-seven standard. That means by the time we get there, they will have been under attack for how long? About six hours?”

Knox had initially reported to his bridge station, but had wandered back over to the captain and Adams. “Gods, by the time we get there, there won’t be any station left.”

“I’m afraid you may be right, Mr. Knox, but I hope you’re wrong. Helm, adjust course for Uritski, full speed. Ms. Adams, apprise Central Command of the situation and send a message to Rusalka Station informing them that our arrival will be delayed. Notify all departments we will be going to General Quarters in approximately two hours thirty-five minutes.” The captain tapped his comm badge. “Ms. Mullenhoff?”

A moment passed before a voice responded. “Mullenhoff here.”

“Commander, you and Mr. Huang wouldn’t by any chance still be in the wardroom, would you?”

“We are, sir.”

“And the Arimaa board wouldn’t by any chance still have our game intact, would it?”

“As it happens, Captain, the board’s just as you left it.”

“Good,” Pettigrew grinned over at Knox, who clearly did not like the direction this was going. “Mr. Knox and I will be down to finish our game. Afterwards, I need to speak to you about something. Pettigrew out.”

Knox was resigned to his fate. The captain appeared amused and slapped his executive officer on the shoulder. “It’s the best and worst thing about space travel, Mr. Knox,” Pettigrew consoled him. “One has so much time between anything actually happening. Now, let’s go see Commander Mullenhoff and take our medicine.”

* * *

One standard hour later, the captain returned to the bridge. He and Knox had taken their Arimaa loss in stride and Pettigrew had addressed an issue with Mullenhoff regarding what might happen upon arrival in the Luoyang system. He spent the next ninety minutes on the bridge reading while addressing a variety of small issues brought to his attention by the crew. He was a model figure in his dark blue uniform, with its epaulets of four gold stripes stitched into each shoulder. Pettigrew could have stayed in his stateroom doing ‘paperwork’ in the lead up to Uritski, but he hoped to be a calming influence on the bridge.

The
Tempest
had not been in a full-fledged battle during his tenure as commanding officer. There had been a few skirmishes with pirates, but nothing major. He was sure there would be jitters among the crew, especially having to wait through more than two hours of uncertainty.

“What are you reading, sir?” Parker Knox asked, breaking Pettigrew’s concentration. The captain had been staring at his bookpad, but in his mind, he had been mentally fighting the ninth or tenth possible scenario of the upcoming battle.

“Oh, Commander—yes, it’s a book written by a man named F. Scott Fitzgerald called
Tender is the Night
. Do you know it?” Pettigrew was a prolific reader and the only person Knox knew who read books from antiquity.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. Sir, we’re coming up on ten minutes to translation into the Luoyang system and you asked to be informed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Knox. Bring us to General Quarters.”

The Sarissan Union was comprised of six colonized worlds in six different star systems: Sarissa in the Artemis system, Arethusa in the Sequoya system, Quijano in the Zavijava system, and Odessa, Tezrina and Rusalka in the Rousseau, Bonaventure, and Hybrias systems respectively. In addition, the Union claimed one more planet onto which they were attempting to place a colony—Uritski. Because such an early settlement like this had a very small population, it was not granted full colonial status, instead being officially designated as an outpost.

Tempest
dropped out of hyperspace about 750,000 kilometers from Uritski Station. Captain Pettigrew wanted enough distance to get the lay of the land before making any decisions—or being shot at. The cylindrical Class I station, a Bernal sphere, hung in orbit above the small desert world. It was designed to house up to three thousand people at a time if needed, as the world-building terraformers struggled to prepare the surface of Uritski for habitation. A civilian facility, Uritski Station had some limited armaments to stave off any would-be pirate activity, but the station wasn’t meant to hold off a full-scale military assault on its own.

“Report,” Pettigrew commanded as the crew brushed off the effects of translating from hyperspace into realspace. It hit different people in different ways, but it always hit, causing dizziness, nausea, headaches—something. The effects passed quickly in some people and Pettigrew was usually lucky in that regard.

“Translation complete. Ship secured, all stations report green,” Knox said as he clung to his console off to the captain’s right, fighting away the last of his vertigo.

Taylin Adams spoke up from her station, located in front of the captain’s chair. “Picket drones away. Sensors constructing visuals of Uritski Station. On viewer.” A 3D viewscreen popped into sight at the front of the bridge and what it showed was not encouraging.

Parading in front of Uritski Station as if it were taunting any onlookers was an unidentified vessel. Whereas
Tempest
and other Union warships were oriented horizontal to the elliptic plane of a star system, this vessel seemed to adopt a vertical orientation—it was ‘tall,’ while
Tempest
was ‘wide.’ The unidentified ship was about the same size of
Tempest
, and from top to bottom, its silhouette looked like a crescent moon. As it passed back and forth in front of the station, the ship periodically discharged what looked like some sort of energy beam. Farther out from the station were two separate clusters of floating debris, the remains of the two frigates assigned to protect the outpost.

Pettigrew waited for data to be collected and analyzed. “Ensign Davis,” he turned to the communications officer. “Make challenge on that ship. Order them to stand down.” He knew that probably wasn’t going to happen, but he wanted to play it by the regs, at least for now.

“Captain,” Commander Knox reported. “No other hostiles in the system. Several civilian ships are outbound, but none of them appears to have been attacked. They’re all just running away.”

“Have either of the settlements on the planet’s surface been hit, Mr. Knox?”

“Negative, sir. No evidence the station has been boarded either.”

Taylin Adams took a deep breath and spun in her chair to face Pettigrew. “Captain, preliminary report on Bandit Alpha. Origin unknown. Configuration is unfamiliar and many elements of this vessel do not conform to any known spaceship technology. They’re running some sort of sensor block that we’ve been unable to penetrate—so far. Engine type unknown. Crew compliment unknown. Hull composition…”

“Ms. Adams,” interrupted Knox, “is there anything you can tell the Captain that we actually DO know?”

“Yes, sir,” she responded, shooting Knox an icy glance. Most of the crew understood that there was no love lost between Knox and Adams. Some felt Knox was threatened by her competence and many felt she should have gotten the position of XO when it became available four months ago. “We DO know that the unidentified ship has a mass tonnage roughly equivalent to
Tempest
. We’re also reasonably sure those energy weapon’s they’re firing at the station are some type of particle beams. All of the station’s weapons have been destroyed, but the station itself has sustained only minor damage.”

“Yeah, that’s odd to me,” Pettigrew commented as he rose and walked closer to Knox and Adams. “Look at those two frigates, both of them totally destroyed. But there’s Uritski Station, which has been under attack for how long, around six standard hours now? Roughed up, but essentially still in one piece. How does a Class One space station survive for six hours, when two armed frigates were blown apart long ago?” Pettigrew pointed at Knox as if he were a professor in a classroom demanding a student answer his question.

“Trap?” replied Knox tentatively.

“Trap,” said Adams without hesitation.

“Trap,” agreed their captain. “They could have destroyed that station a hundred times over, but they haven’t. And another thing—I’ll bet anything they could be jamming the station’s distress call, but they’re not. No, they wanted a warship to play with.”

“And here we are,” mumbled Knox.

Pettigrew sat back down in the captain’s chair and pondered for a second before calling Chief Engineer Mullenhoff. “Commander, that idea we talked about earlier, is it ready to go?”

“Yes, sir. We’ll do what we can to produce the effect you requested. I think it will be convincing.”

“Good,” said Pettigrew. “Coordinate with the helm and take your cue from that station. Pettigrew out.”

Parker Knox had been in on the planning for this maneuver, so he knew what was coming. Taylin Adams and the other bridge staff stared expectantly at their CO.

“Ms. Nyondo,” the captain addressed the lieutenant at the helm. “I want you to access the engineering library and prepare to execute pre-programmed flight maneuver Uritski Able. Here’s what we’re doing everyone: when Lieutenant Nyondo executes this program, the computers will fire up the engines to a full burn, as if we just can’t wait to get at the enemy. We’ll go charging toward them at top speed and then the engines will cut off abruptly, simulating an engine crash. When that happens, engineering will start venting the appropriate gases to convince our friends out there that we have indeed blown out our I-drives.”