COMMANDER
Chapter 10

I was in my Gen5 ABS, essentially a person-sized spaceship with armor, weapons, shielding, and life support, sitting inside an AV, the AV sitting inside an armored Landing Craft. My assignment was to monitor a section of the asteroid field for anomalies. Busy work, most of us thought, a show of activity for the benefit of the Shaquaree. With both sides having the same number of ships and crew and weapons, the same number of officers and diplomats, with all the time and care we had taken to set up the perfect site and conditions for a safe diplomatic meeting over the course of many months, what could go wrong?

I noticed what seemed to be an energy reading from a particular asteroid which was different from the normal background radiations. I popped a camera/sensor drone to investigate. After all, asteroids are dead, inert objects with the only possibility of energy readings being in the radiations from certain incorporated natural elements such as uranium. But the spike I saw had been electromagnetic, definitely not naturally occurring in an asteroid.

Immediately, comms traffic demanded to know what fool had fired a weapon. The Shaquaree had seen the drone pop and declared they interpreted it as a weapon signature. Shaquaree ships immediately began to assume a combat posture. Human ships remained where they were, hoping to mollify the sudden tension with a non-hostile reaction.

Just as orders were blazing into the LC to demand my instant arrest, relief of duty, and return to the frigate, I caught another EM energy spike, a big one. Then, I watched the drone camera display in horror as the asteroid I targeted began to get closer in the vidscreen. The drone passed close to the asteroid and circled it. On the backside, hidden from view and tucked up nearly into contact with the asteroid, was a large missile platform which was being revealed as some sort of stealth or camo shielding was dropping. Probably to allow the missiles to fire.

My hand was reaching for the comm general alarm when the platform burst to life and about a hundred missiles punched away into space within about one-point-one heartbeats. All around the human fleet asteroids as close as ten kilometers and as far away as fifty thousand kilometers were belching missiles. My finger was on the comm button and I was yelling myself hoarse with warning on the general channel but no one could hear me. Every ship was trying to transmit at once.

Some officer ordered the LC shields to maximum and told the pilot to make for the Rontar at best possible speed. We were hit almost immediately. It was a nuke, and despite the shielding, the LC was hammered into splinters. The shielding saved most of us from the radiation wave but the sheer force of the blast compression and heat waves could not be fully stopped. Only one of the AVs inside survived. The one I was in was holed, and I could see only two other suits moving. The three of us managed to clamber out of the ravaged AV shell and into the mass chaos of drifting debris.

I could hear nothing except bedlam on my suit comms. I signaled to the other two suits by sign language to join me. Together, we would try to make it to the nearest operational AV or LC and then back to the frigate. We had just attached our magnetic boots and safety lines to the exterior of an operational AV when we saw a massively huge and bright explosion and our visors automatically darkened to nearly black opaque. The planetoid where the diplomats were to meet had just exploded. The whole planetoid!

In the darkness of space even dreadnoughts, for all their size, were hard to see as anything but pinpricks of reflected light. Protocol stated all Fleet ships corvette class and up in open space maintain a minimum separation of a thousand kilometers, unless in battle formations, to avoid any potential collisions. We could see the bright flashes of explosions all around us, everywhere, as bursts of bright light in all the colors of the prism. Debris of all sizes filled local space with speeding projectiles moving in every direction. The AV powered up and began maneuvering toward the Rontar, its stout shielding protecting us and amplifying our ABS shields. We were nearly there when the frigate was hit by at least two missiles.

Her massive shields saved her from annihilation. There must have been hundreds of missiles tracking inbound on the Rontar for any at all to get through the anti-missile fire from the PDP batteries. We could see her fore and aft plasma cannon firing, and twice the big twin 50TW lasers in stern pods fired. Then we were there and the shields would flicker for a moment as we passed the cohesion barrier.

From where I was strapped to the hull of the AV, I could see a streak coming right at us through my HUD. I knew it was an enemy fighter, as its power signature was distinct from any missile. In an instant, I knew it would arrive at the same time as we passed through the shield barrier. If it did, it would be inside the shields with us and could attack at will. After the sucker punch they had just given us, no way was I going to let this asshole get to the Rontar . . . no fucking way!

I unhooked and leaped, pushing off of the AV in a vector which I hoped might intersect the path of the fighter. There was no way to time anything with trajectory computations, it was all happening too fast. I leaped and pulled my power lance, flicking it on as I extended it and swung as hard as I could in desperation.

I was fifty or sixty meters from the AV and probably at least a klick out from the ship when the power blade struck the fighter and sliced through it on an angle. Pure luck, of course, that I managed to hit it to begin with, and even more luck it didn’t explode instantly. When I cut it, sparks flew and gases burst forth to be ignited by the sparks. I was tumbling end over end from the impact of cutting through the fighter, and the inertial mass of the fighter continued to carry it away from me. Only a moment later it did explode.

My suit shielding and armor saved my life, along with the sheer good fortune that whatever piece hit me did so at relatively slow speed compared to my spinning and tumbling. Otherwise, the helmet and everything inside it would simply have ceased to exist as anything but quickly cooling plasma. They told me later the pilot of the AV stopped and centered on my suit, now spinning crazily away from the ship, and fired a grappling line at me. The AI in the AV made a good shot and attached the line to me, then pulled me in close as they landed the AV in the undamaged hangar pad. My suit had instantly compensated for the cracked helmet by flooding it with gel-skin, which hardened into a seal against the cold, airless vacuum of space, and they were able to get me to the hospital.

The doctor and the AI surgical unit had to cut the helmet away from my crushed face, peeling it away in layers like an onion so they could get to the man underneath.

According to Lt. Cmdr. Dotes and the captain, the dreadnought Excalibur survived the explosion of the planetoid and made a fight of it. The Rontar was hurt but not incapacitated and made a run to join the Excalibur. Both other frigates were down, one a drifting hulk and one a ball of brightly burning plasma. Both battleships were holed yet fighting valiantly. The Excalibur had taken out one of the alien ships, and, joined by the Rontar, they took out two more in rapid succession.

Suddenly, in multiple flashes of bright violet light, over a dozen battleship-class alien ships popped into being mere kilometers away. Within seconds, seemingly thousands of missiles and too many energy beams to count were cutting through space toward the human forces. As our two remaining battleships died in mighty flashes, the admiral of the Fleet aboard the Excalibur screamed orders into the comms for all Fleet ships to retreat with emergency T-jump instantly. The Rontar’s AI initiated the transition control just as the Excalibur, all one million mass tons, exploded like a gigantic bomb.

The Rontar was so close the waves of light, heat, radiation, and over-pressure were on her nearly simultaneously, and at the instant of transition.

A pre-programmed jump, we should have transitioned into the Hylea system of our own time reality. Again, this was protocol for any emergency retreat action. Each ship would transition to wildly divergent systems with no known sentient life, alone, then by process of at least three more transitions in whatever timeframe they could manage, make their way back to the pre-set rendezvous system. The after-action report prepared by the AI was clear, factual, and detailed. And heartbreaking.

All human ships at the point of encounter had been destroyed save the Rontar. The frigate had suffered severe damage to nearly all systems and was effectively crippled, barely able to see via extremely limited sensors and unable to move even via gravity manipulation upon emergence from Transition. Had any threat, alien or asteroid or anything else, been waiting for us on re-entry, we almost surely would have perished, as well.

Eight of ten hangar bays were damaged and useless, half of the heavy and light fighters were damaged or gone, all Wasp fighters were damaged beyond repair when their hangar bay took a direct hit from a large, high explosive missile. Both Marine Landing Craft were lost, along with all but five of the AV craft. Of the five surviving AV, all but one were severely damaged.

All twenty PDP batteries were down from the loss of power generators. The Grafnal and laser cannons were all severely damaged. Of the plasma cannons, ten fore and ten aft, only three were in working condition. Three of the five fabricator units were down completely and one was running at only sixty percent capacity. Of the crew aboard, 306 had been killed . . . 135 Navy and 171 Space Marine.

Can anyone not understand how we hate, and fear, the Shaquaree?

The AI postulated the entire diplomatic mission had been a hoax by the aliens, meant to draw in the most experienced and highest ranking military and diplomatic personnel of the humans. Since they had prepared the ambush for such complete annihilation, it was likely the alien ships and personnel involved had been sacrifice, used as bait to draw in the foolish humans. Missile fire tracking of the initial salvo from the asteroid belt revealed nearly as many missiles targeted and hit the alien ships as had hit the human ships. More missiles hit us simply because we were closer to their launch points and were therefore faster and easier to target-lock.

Obviously, the aliens had opted for only semi-smart missiles which auto-targeted any selectable combination of EM, engine, and power emissions, but without the capability to recognize friend/foe signatures, which would have given away their plan. The drawback of smart missiles is that they send out ranging sensor signals and FF query signals. This means a good ship defense AI can spot and track them from the instant of launch—much easier to defend. The Shaquaree took no chances with their ambush and used the dumber missiles to ensure their surprise was as complete as possible.

Despite the report and hypothesis of the AI, human beings have a tendency to focus their hurt and pain onto the nearest likely target in the form of anger and blame. In this case, it was me. The clan flag officers and other lieutenants had been scattered throughout the LCs which had been wiped out, leaving me, the one who popped the drone to begin with, as the highest-ranking officer in what was left of the clan.

The first day, after I woke up in hospital with Doc Hazel working over me, the hatred and anger from the Navy crew was a palpable, living thing which battered and hammered at me. I almost gave in. I almost bought their package of blame and shame as I absorbed the sitreps from both Navy and Marine postings. As an officer I had access to the proper AI directories of each AI. Then the drugs began wearing off and the pain set in, pain like I had never known, had never known could exist. Even with the nanos mitigating their tiny little asses off, I had still needed the pain tabs from the doctor. Without them I was overwhelmed, and couldn’t even think straight. Just existing in my world of agony was nearly too much to bear.

Then, several things happened. The reports from the AIs were distributed to all personnel, and blame and anger toward me faded abruptly to be retargeted at the Shaquaree. All except the captain and a handful of others, that is. Afterward came the realization I was next in command. I was to be the leader of the whole clan. My job! My responsibility!

Suddenly, the captain was pinning me as the commander with an “I just ate a whole fucking lemon” look on his face. A sea of trooper faces were staring at me, devoid of feeling, empty of hope, just . . . existing.

A surge of righteous anger rose up in me to push back the pain, to quell the agony. What was left I would use as a goad to push myself further and harder. Those faces out there, those troopers out there, they deserved better than this! In an instant, I made up my mind to take this job and to do it in a better way than had been done before. I had a lot of ideas when I was a lieutenant, and heard a lot of bitching and other ideas when I was a sergeant. Yes, I could do this. I would do this . . . for them.

I rose from my desk at 2230 and headed for my rack.

At 0630 I commed the office to let them know I was at the hospital to have a couple of tests run, as Doc Hazel wanted to check nervous and muscular response times since the new nanos had had plenty of time to finish upgrading my physical system. She would compare the new test results against the baseline on file with earlier records.

The results she read astonished her. It seems both tests showed about thirty-five percent above baseline, which meant I was over a third quicker than I had been, both in thought and action. Damn! That was impressive. She wanted to take more tests and readings on my brainwave patterns, but I needed to get back to the office and prepare for the briefing on the bridge, so I begged off and promised to reschedule.

At 1000, as was becoming the norm, the lieutenants and I entered the captain’s Ready Room.

“We should be in position behind the third planet in about sixteen hours,” Lewellyn said to begin his briefing. “We’ve had some interesting interceptions on the comm traffic from both the planet and the Shaquaree ship. XO?”

“Thank you, sir,” responded Lt. Commander Dotes. “Interesting is a good word for what we have received from the planet. It seems they are now aware of the Shaquaree ship approaching them. They have comms traffic running from one continent to the other three informing them of the ship and the expected time to orbit. Their predicted time is accurate to within an hour according to our projections.”

“So, this means they must have at least some telescope activity watching their skies and their system,” I said.

Cmdr. Dotes shook his head with a derisive expression, and said, “If their observations are based on telescopic readings, they must have very good telescopes and an excellent understanding of astrogation mathematics to take into account braking to orbital speeds. If they could do it, it would also put them further up in the technology usage scale. If they could estimate the size and mass of the ship accurately, if they could estimate the capabilities of the engines, if they could estimate the G-forces the inhabitants of the ship might be able to withstand, if they could estimate whether or not the ship has IDAG, and if they even comprehend the possibility of IDAG.” Dotes then leaned forward to say, “That is a lot of very large ‘ifs,’ gentlemen.”

“What do you mean, Cmdr. Dotes?” asked Lt. Jenkins.

“I mean the mass of the ship, the engines, and the G-force capability of the aliens are complete unknowns to the people of the planet if we are assuming this is the first visit of the Shaquaree to this system. Without the right sensor instrumentation, there is no way for the planet to identify any of those or a thousand other variables with any accuracy at all. Yet they did.”

“So you are thinking this may be only one of perhaps several visits to this system by the Shaquaree, correct?” I asked. Dotes raised his eyebrows in a “maybe” fashion so I continued, “You are suggesting maybe the planet was able to gain enough measurements from earlier visits to apply their learning to this visit, or, maybe even the humanoids on the planet and the Shaquaree have met before and have had dealings with each other?”

Dotes licked his lips and flicked a glance at the captain. “I really don’t see how it could possibly be otherwise. As well, there are signals from the Shaquaree that this is not their first visit here. We are getting little leakage of internal comms traffic from the ship as they are buttoned up tight and well shielded. Normally, though, a ship entering a new system will stop at the fringe and take as many sensor readings as they can to see what’s there. These guys didn’t do this. They transitioned in and immediately made course for the planet. Yet, there is nothing of solid proof from the humans they have any previous experience with this phenomenon. They sound surprised and somewhat alarmed by the appearance of the ship.”

“Is it just the government heads who know about the ship?” asked Dr. Annsbury.

“No,” the captain responded. “They have broadcast the news of the ship on their television news programs. The knowledge is planet wide by this time.”

“Do we know what the reaction has been? Is there panic or sudden military maneuvering or anything like that?” the doctor pressed on.

“None we can detect. None at all,” Dotes answered. “The only thing we have noticed is a series of recent spikes in some of our sensors. Unusual readings in subatomic activity which don’t make much sense right now.”

I faced the captain. “What is your plan, Captain Lewellyn?”

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