Dark Space (2 page)

   Fleet Admiral Blackwell
looked to Cody doubtfully. “Intelligence believes that the Meltranians will be
using the Ogolo system as a staging ground for further forays into Unified
territory.” He then put emphasis to his next words. “However, no communications
been received from Ogolo in the last few days that would indicate enemy forces
have entered their system. Intelligence is working hard for us, Admiral Cody, and
you would be well advised to remember the facts and leave your
speculations
about their competence to others more highly qualified in those areas.”

   Vice Admiral Coralin,
always the diplomat, sensed the tension and began speaking. “As with all things
in this unfolding confrontation, Admiral Cody, nothing is certain until it is.
Hence, we will be dispatching a combined squadron in order to ascertain Ogolo’s
true
status, as well as to reinforce the Unified Marines already
stationed planetside.”

   Admiral Dar’an examined the
screen before speaking. “How long have the Marines been there?”

   “Almost three weeks,” Blackwell
answered. “The carrier
Rhea
dropped them off, then entered into high
orbit above the northern pole. She’s out there with only her small escorts,
which I don’t care much for. She’ll fall under the jurisdiction of the
relieving commander.”

   Apparently this was music
to the overweight admiral’s ears. Since the first day he was given overall tactical
command of his squadron of two hundred warships, it was widely known that Cody desired
to put them to action in a major engagement that would demonstrate to everyone
his often self-proclaimed command qualifications. With the pending retirement of
a handful of top brass at Sector Command HQ, it was rumored that some of the
replacements would be pulled directly from one of the six squadrons in the 2nd
Fleet. However, without winning a major accolade, Cody was just another name on
the bottom of a long list.

   “That’s fantastic news,
Coralin,” Cody beamed. “I can have the 11
^th
Squadron there in less
than three days. We’ll show those Meltranians that we won’t—”

   “Not so fast, Admiral
Cody,” Fleet Admiral Blackwell said, raising his hand to silence the stream of consciousness
that was sure to spew out of Cody’s mouth. “Allow Vice Admiral Coralin to
finish his briefing.”

   “Thank you, sir,” Coralin
offered to Blackwell with a curt nod. Hansen couldn’t tell exactly, but he was
almost positive that Coralin was more than happy to have Cody silenced by the
senior admiral. For his part, Hansen watched as Cody slinked back into his
chair and folded his hands somewhat defiantly in front of him, then shrugged
his head in the direction of Coralin.

   Pompous ass
. The thought rang in Hansen’s mind like a
church bell on Sunday morning.

   Vice Admiral Coralin
turned his attention back to the large display. “There is one final piece to
the Meltranians’ advancement. It is here,” he said, pointing his laser at a
small green-blue planet between Klef and the Ogolo systems. “This is Jevol. It’s
an agricultural center, chiefly responsible for growing many of the plants that
can be found in the arboretums of newly christened starships. They also produce
a great deal of the food consumed within the adjacent two sectors. Although
they are considered a neutral world, they have a pending application to join
the Unified Collaboration, not to mention several binding trade agreements with
the Unified government. Sector Command Intelligence believes that Jevol will be
the fallback strike point for the Meltranians, should Klef or Ogolo become
untenable.” Coralin’s yellow eyes bore straight at Cody. “This, Rear Admiral Cody,
is where you will take the 11
^th
Squadron.”

   Cody, barely attempting to
hide his discomfort, was beside himself. “Farmers?” he gasped in near-disgust.
“You want me to take an entire fleet of warships to protect
farmers
?”

   “No, Admiral,” Blackwell
said, leveling his eyes at Cody. “I want you to defend the lives and property
of peaceful civilians who should be treated as future Unified citizens. Is
there going to be a problem with that?”

   Whatever Darius Cody was
about to say, Hansen noted with satisfaction that the admiral simply swallowed
it and kept his mouth shut.
He may be a pompous ass, but at least he’s a
smart one.

   “No, sir. No problem at
all,” Cody managed to stammer out, finally.

   “Excellent,” Blackwell
said in elation, then looked to Coralin to continue handing out the remaining assignments.

   “Admiral Hansen, you will
take the 7
^th
Squadron to the Ogolo system. Once you’ve secured the
area and made contact with the 92
^nd
Unified Marines, form a
defensive perimeter around the system. You may use your best judgment with
respect to how you deploy the Kafaran and Rugorian units under your command. I
believe Commodore Savath’s skills in that area will be invaluable. You will
then contact us once those objectives are complete.”

   Salus nodded with
satisfaction, in full agreement that the Kafaran commander’s wisdom in matters
against the Meltranians could prove exceptionally helpful. “Yes, sir.”

   Coralin then looked to
Dar’an. “Admiral, you will take the 9
^th
Squadron to Klef under my
indirect command.”

   Dar’an raised a curious
eyebrow. “Your
indirect
command, sir?”

   “Yes. All our forces will
depart in twelve hours, where I will be in overall command. The Elek system is
thirteen light-years from here. Once we jump to that point, operational command
of the squadrons will fall to their respective commanders and the fleet will
subdivide. I’ll be transferring my flag to the carrier
Franklin,
remaining
with the 9
^th
as the overall tactical coordinator.” He then scanned
each of the men’s faces. “A specially coded communications link will be
provided to each of you shortly, which will allow all of you to maintain an
open frequency directly to the
Franklin
and, thus, to one another.”

   Fleet Admiral Blackwell,
still seated, spoke up from the left side of Coralin. “Are there any questions,
gentleman?” Save for the labored breathing of Darius Cody, the room was silent.
“Good. Then Godspeed to you and your fleets.”

   “We depart in exactly
twelve hours,” Coralin finished. With that, Blackwell and Coralin stood and
left the room, with Admiral Dar’an on their heels. Hansen stood, but was
stopped by Cody’s firm grip on his forearm as he neared the door.

   “A piece of advice, Hansen.
From an old acquaintance.”

   Salus looked to the open
doorway that was beckoning him, but his hopes for a quick escape were blocked when
the overweight admiral stepped into his path.
At least Cody didn’t try to
dignify whatever working relationship we have as friendship.
Shrugging away
from the admiral’s hand, Salus gave him a curious stare.
“Yes?”

   “If I were you, I’d
position those Kafarans right where they belong,” Cody said, then chuckled menacingly.

   “And where’s that,
Admiral?”

   Cody’s head rolled from
side to side, followed by a shrug. “Well, I hear they make a great shield.”

   “Is that a fact?”

   “Better to keep our forces
back, and let more …
experienced
races take the hits. Am I right?”

   “You run your people the
way you like, Darius. Don’t presume to tell me how to run mine.”

   Cody reeled in mock
surprise. “Don’t tell me for a cold minute that you actually believe the
Kafarans are here to help us.”

   Hansen nodded. “They’re in
this as deep as we are, maybe more so.”

   “If you believe that, Salus,
I’ve got a used planet I could sell you on the cheap.”

   “I’ll believe what I
like.” Hansen turned to leave, but was stopped when another hand grasped his
shoulder and spun him back in the direction of Cody.

   “Listen to me, Hansen. If
everything goes as planned, you’ll be taking orders from
me
in the near
future, not that tired old man or that three-armed excuse for a strategist.
Best you remember that.”

   Salus pulled away and
quickly grabbed two handfuls of Cody’s dress jacket, pushing the bulkier man against
the conference room wall with a thud. “Remember? What I
remember
is a
bully, someone who’s used to pushing people around to get his way. You’ll get
no such groveling from me, Cody. And if I find that you have
in any way
endangered the people or cultures we’ve sworn to protect and help, I’ll have
you in front of a JAG court so fast your head will spin.”

   Cody’s fat face turned
into a threatening grin. “It doesn’t have to be that way, Hansen. You know,
it’s good to have friends in powerful positions, but far worse if they’re your
enemies.”

   Salus, his heart racing,
released Cody’s uniform with a push. “You have your orders, Admiral. See that
you follow them.” He then turned and let the briefing room doors close behind
him.

   Cody straightened his
uniform, his eyes burning into the spot where Hansen had stood. “I will, Admiral,”
he hissed. “You bet your
ass
I will.”

“Nothing makes a man more aware of his capabilities
and of his limitations than those moments where he must push aside all the
familiar defenses of ego and vanity, and accept by staring—with the fear that
is normal to a man in combat—into the face of Death.”

-Major Robert Johnson, United States Air Force

Old Earth Calendar, 1946

   The primary hangar bay of the
Duchess of York
was
a bustle of activity. The immense compartment, nearly six hundred feet long and
flooded with the soft white light from the distant overhead, was a manmade
cavity of the latest design. The port and starboard sides were lined with
alcoves full of Maelstrom fighters waiting to launch, each pointed at a
forty-five degree angle to the centerline of the ship toward the large inner
doors that protected the bay from the vacuum of space. Currently there were
fifty such fighters readying for launch, their respective maintenance crews
giving each craft one final check, with another twenty fighters being pulled
from storage in a nearly identical hangar directly below the main deck. In the
center of the hangar were four large elevators, outlined with stripes of
alternating black and yellow bands, being pushed to their limits to retrieve
craft from the hangar below.

   Commander Shawn Kestrel exited from the lift that
led directly to the hangar from the pilots’ briefing room two decks above. Upon
his arrival, the commanding officer of 535
^th
Interceptor Squadron
was nearly toppled over by an ensign rushing to one of the waiting fighters, a
stylus in one hand and a personal communicator in the other. The junior
officer, one whom Kestrel had seen briefly in passing, was shouting something
obscure into the communicator. As Shawn trained his ear in the proper
direction, he could clearly discern the ensign emphasizing that “if Skull Six
isn’t ready to launch in the next sixty seconds there’ll be hell to pay
tonight, and both you and your immediate supervisor will go down to see the old
man together.” Not noticing him until the final moment, the ensign smoothly
sidestepped the commander before the imminent collision, offering a quick “excuse
me, sir” and a salute as the younger man quickly carried on with fighter
preparations without missing so much as a step. Shawn, momentarily frozen in
his tracks, could only watch as the young man angrily stuffed the comm unit
into his pocket and then began pointing and shouting something unintelligible
at the enlisted man who was straddling the top of the black- and red-tipped Red
Skull fighter number six.

   The fighters themselves, sleek and beautiful, were
the envy of any pilot worth his salt. At the front end of the craft was an
ample pair of windows that were contoured to the front of the hull, which was
just wide enough for the single crewman it took to pilot the nimble craft. At
the tapered aft end of the ship, jutting out on either side, were wide wing
structures that fanned out and forward, giving the craft better handling during
atmospheric flight; they were also used to house the small laser batteries for
the craft, not to mention the multiple missile hard points underneath. At the
rear were the powerful thrusters, capable of propelling the vessel at
incredible speeds both in and out of the atmosphere. All the vessel’s thrust
during tight combat came from the fusion-powered engines built into the back of
the craft, themselves accounting for nearly three-quarters of the fighter’s
overall weight. In the last few months, the older Seminole fighters had finally
been phased out in favor of these new ones, a move that Shawn had approved.
With ten squadrons now manning the awesome craft, he hoped it would be enough
to hold off the Meltranians—who seemed as though they were becoming better
shots by the day.

   As Shawn approached his craft, with its large black
“1” painted on the two large stabilizers at the craft’s stern, the crew chief
exited the small hatch on the port side after just finishing his preflight
check.

   Trent Maddox rubbed his sweaty hands on his dark
green coveralls as he holstered a chrome micro-spanner in his breast pocket.
“She’s all ready for you, boss. Everything checks out one hundred percent.”

   “Thanks,” Shawn offered with a smile and a brief
handshake. “Did you get that little … what did you call it?”

   “A shimmy.”

   “Right. That shimmy … did you get it worked out?”

   Trent nodded, then patted the side of the fuselage.
“Just a minor miscalibration in the inertial negators. Nothing to worry about,”
he said as he lovingly patted the fighter.

   “If McAllister sees you do that, she’ll have your
head.”

   Trent scowled at Shawn, then leaned in to nuzzle
the fighter. “He doesn’t understand what we have, dear. Pay no attention to the
primitive.”

   “Get off my fighter, you freak.” Shawn laughed as
he slapped Trent on the shoulder. “Say, where is Clarissa, anyway?”

   “She’s got bridge duty,” Trent said, then held his
hand to the side of the fighter. “That’s given us a lot of alone time, hasn’t
it, my pet?”

   “Stop talking like that. You’re creeping me out.”

   Trent’s eyes shifted to Shawn. “Well, if you hadn’t
completely
wrecked
our last ship, I wouldn’t have had to find a new
object for my affections.”

   “I wrecked—!” Shawn began, but was silenced when
Trent rushed to him and put a finger to his lips.

   “Shhh. She’ll hear you,” he said, then inclined his
head toward the fighter.

   Shawn pushed Trent’s hand away. “We’ll talk about
this later.” Halfway up the ladder to the cockpit, Shawn was stopped by the
sound of a woman calling his name. Looking over his shoulder, he could see
Melissa Graves quickly approaching. Tossing his helmet onto the pilot’s seat,
Shawn stepped down from the craft just as she neared. She seemed to be out of
breath.

   “Hey there, what’s the rush?” he asked.

   Winded, she took several quick breaths before
speaking. “I just … wanted to see you off, that’s all.”

   Shawn brushed a lock of auburn hair away from her
eyes. “You haven’t been down here in weeks.”

   Holding her hands up, she smiled brightly. “Well … I’m
here now.”

   “I can see that.”

   “So, are you going to give me a kiss for good
luck?” she asked, slowly stepping closer to him.

   Placing his arms around her waist, he looked down
into her green eyes. “I thought I was the one who needed the luck.”

   “I seem to recall being your date for that little
impromptu celebration on Melinius IV last week.”

   Shawn remembered both the evening and Melissa’s
choice of attire very well. “That was a hard-won victory. We deserved that
party.”

  Melissa reached up and straightened Shawn’s air
supply hose. “And you got to go with me, which makes you pretty lucky.”

   “But that was last week. This is now.”

   “A date with me is worth two weeks of luck on your
part, Mister Kestrel. Besides, I’m the one always sitting here, waiting for you
to come back. It’s nerve-wracking.”

   The voice of the
Duchess
’s flight control
officer boomed through the hangar’s PA system. “All pilots, stand by for
launch. Repeat: all pilots stand by for launch. Enemy vessels in sectors 3, 7,
8, and 10.”

   Pulling Shawn down by his collar, Melissa kissed
him passionately.

   “I’d say that was you kissing
me
for luck,”
he said.

   “It was worth it,” she replied with satisfaction,
then nestled her head into his chest. “I love you.”

   Shawn stroked the back of her head, then placed a
gentle kiss on the crown of her head. “I love you, too.”

   Releasing him, Melissa stepped back slowly. “I’m
not going to say it.”

  
Be careful.
He didn’t want her to say it
either. They both knew he would do everything he could to get back to her in
one piece. “Good.”

   Stepping up and into the cockpit, Shawn slipped on
his helmet and strapped himself in. Flipping a series of switches, he brought
the fighter’s voice activation system online. “And how are we doing this morning?”

   “All systems are operating at one hundred percent
efficiency, Commander,” the synthesized female voice responded. While the voice
was similar in tone to that of his beloved
Sylvia’s Delight
, there was
still something a little off. Trent had been tinkering with it in an attempt to
make the fighter feel more like home. To a large extent it had worked, while in
others—ones harder to measure—it made Shawn miss his Hypervarion Mark-IV even
more.

   “Initiate engine startup sequence and charge all
weapons.”

   Shawn felt the familiar hum of the engines as the
power core came online. On the monitor before him, he watched as each of the
Maelstrom’s weapons systems went from yellow to green to signify their status.
After all systems were checked, there was a perfunctory
beep
from the
computer. “Engine’s at station keeping, and all weapons have been charged,” it
said, paused, then huskily added, “dear.”

   A smile crept across the commander’s face, and when
he looked out below, he saw Trent mimicking the gesture. Shawn gave his friend
a thumbs-up, which was followed by Trent returning it.

   “Ripper one-zero-one,” the voice of the ship’s flight
control and operations officer, Commander Weberity, came through the headset
embedded in Shawn’s helmet. “Ready for launch?”

   “As ready as I'll ever be.”

   “Excellent. Stand by for final launch sequence.”

   The computer momentarily took control of Shawn’s
fighter, maneuvering it toward the now-open launch bay doors.  Looking out to
his left, Shawn noted Rylani Saltori’s Red Skull fighter was likewise poised to
launch.

   “You still owe me a drink, Hammer,” Shawn said,
catching the attention of the Red Skulls’ commanding officer by using his call sign.

   Saltori’s olive-skinned face looked across the bay
to Shawn and grinned. “I’ll take care of that as soon as we’re out of
debriefing.”

   “Looking forward to it. Hopefully the Meltranians
will tuck tail and run just like last time.”

   “I hope so, Shawn,” Saltori said, his voice
sounding almost distant. “I’m getting too old for this.”

   “Scuttlebutt has it that you’re up for carrier wing
commander,” Shawn said with a note of pride.

   “Yeah,” Saltori responded coolly, “I’ve heard the
same rumors.”

   “There, you see? You’ll be stuck behind a desk in
no time.”

   Saltori laughed. “At this point I could use the
rest. Besides, the only thing I’ll have to fire is my pen when I make those
checkmarks declining your own promotion.”

   Shawn smirked. “Something tells me that little
encounter is a long way off.”

   “Gentleman,” Commander Weberity’s voice echoed.
“Link up with your respective squadrons at vector one-sigma once you’re clear
of the carrier.”

   “Roger,” Shawn replied, then heard Saltori give the
same confirmation. “Good hunting, old man.”

   Saltori smiled, then offered Shawn a relaxed
salute. “You too.”

   Shawn reached and switched on the navigational
computers with a single throw of two toggles, allowing the fighter’s systems to
enter their final diagnostic mode before flight. As soon as the computer
reported that all systems were green, he reached to his right and pressed a red
blinking button to indicate that the magnetic restraints had been disengaged,
and that he was standing by to launch. “Computer, patch me through to the rest
of the squadron.”

   A beep sounded. “Channel open,
dear
.”

  
“Rippers,
this is Commander Kestrel.”

   “Go ahead,” Lieutenant Commander Roslyn Brunel’s
calm voice came back. “We’re all ready for the big speech, sir.”

   “I’ll keep this short, people. You all got the same
briefing I did, so I’m not going to reinvent the wheel and tell you what job we
have to do or how to do it. Once I’ve cleared the hangar, I want everyone in
the squadron to form up on my wing into a trailing-V formation. The rest of the
squadrons will arrange themselves on their prearranged vectors accordingly and
wait for the order to attack. Hopefully the Meltranians aren’t expecting a
forward assault from fighters, so we may just have the advantage here. Stay
tight, but be on the alert for anything. Everyone switch to coded frequency
Alpha-6 and confirm.”

   A small screen folded out from the side of the
control panel on Shawn’s right. On it were a series of outlines that indicated
the status of each of the six fighters in his squadron. When each of the lights
had changed from yellow to green, Shawn nodded. “Flight Control Officer, Ripper
One is ready to depart.”

   “Roger that, Commander,” Weberity replied.

   A moment later, the white lights of the hangar bay
changed to a dim red glow. As the last of the maintenance crew evacuated the area,
a yellow light above the open launch doors began to spin on its axis. A series
of red lights on Kestrel’s control panel turned from yellow to blue, then the
large inner doors of the hangar bay slowly began to seal themselves behind his
fighter. As soon as they were sealed, the outer door—about fifty yards
away—opened quickly. Shawn reached up and retracted the landing pads, allowing
the fighter to hover free of the deck. In the space beyond the open doors,
Shawn watched a Kafaran destroyer move down on its z-axis as it made way for
the fighters that were about to launch. When the destroyer was fully cleared,
Shawn’s fighter rocketed from the
Duchess of York
.