Atlantia Series 3: Aggressor Read online

  Valiant’s systems began malfunctioning as the barrage of high-energy particles began breaching her hull plating.

  ‘We’re getting too close!’ Stefan insisted.

  ‘Stand by,’ Ishira said as she prepared to reverse course under maximum thrust.

  It was Erin’s voice that broke through her concentration.

  ‘Mummy, they’re gone!’

  Ishira glanced down at the rear view monitor and was shocked to see the Veng’en cruiser falling far behind, a silvery speck now that was already slowing hard as Ishira checked the tactical display.

  ‘They’re turning around,’ Stefan said in amazement.

  Ishira slammed Valiant’s manoeuvering thrusters into full power and hauled back on her control column. The freighter gradually flipped over and her engines, still at maximum thrust, directed their energy in the opposite direction as Ishira reversed course. The deceleration once again thrust her back into her seat as she stared at the tactical display.

  ‘They’re not just turning around,’ she said, ‘they’re running away.’

  The display flickered and distorted and then blinked out as the tremendous energies around the ship interfered with her instruments. Valiant slowed gradually to a stop amid the boiling veils of solar ejecta and then began accelerating back the way she had come. Stefan unstrapped himself from his seat and peered out into the swirling gas clouds. His experienced old eye tracked the diaphanous veils and detected something that Ishira had not.

  ‘There’s something out there,’ he whispered.

  Ishira squinted through the viewing panel. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  A silence descended in the cockpit as the freighter began to accelerate away from the flaring star, the thick veils of gas billowing past outside and shimmering with irridescent colour as though alive. Ishira changed course to avoid the Veng’en cruiser’s flightpath.

  ‘Temperature’s decreasing,’ Ishira reported as she scanned the instruments. ‘The hull’s holding up and the Veng’en are still fleeing. I’ll set a course to stay inside the stellar veil, maybe we can sneak out without being noticed.’

  Stefan peered out into the turbulent vista. ‘I don’t like this. Why did they pull back so suddenly?’

  ‘Maybe they’ve just given up, got bigger fish to fry.’

  Stefan shook his head.

  ‘The Veng’en don’t run away from anything and…’

  Erin’s scream pierced the air as something vast loomed from the gas clouds, a blackness as deep as all eternity. Ishira did not have the chance to even react with the controls when the darkness enveloped the ship and the brilliant nebula surrounding them vanished from sight.

  Ishira barely had time to think about the cold dread filling her belly when she felt herself losing consciousness as the cockpit lights around her began blinking out one after the other. Beside her, Erin slumped in her seat. Ishira reached out for her daughter but it was already too late.

  As absolute darkness consumed her Ishira felt her hand fall across Erin’s shoulders as a fearsome chill enveloped the ship to a noise that reminded Ishira of thin ice cracking, and then she passed out.

  ***

  II

  The sunlight burned brightly on Ethera, the sea a sparkling blue and the sound of children’s laughter filling the air to compete with the cries of grandiose four-winged seabirds wheeling gracefully against a hard blue sky. Grandsons, grand-daughters, nephews, nieces, brothers and sisters. A vivid memory in motion, so close and yet so far, never to be seen again.

  Captain Idris Sansin leaned back in the tired leather chair that he had brought with him from Ethera to his final command and stared at the image on the wall of his quarters. One of several dozen arrayed around him, they only moved when he looked at them, sensors embedded within the images detecting the direction of his gaze. The memories of times long past drew his eye away from the cabin’s dull grey walls and bulky fittings, the hallmark of a military command, and transported him back to happier times. A bitter-sweet melancholy enveloped him in its sombre embrace, reminding him that even when times were good he had rarely been there to enjoy them, too busy on deployments with the Colonial Fleet. He himself appeared in none of the moving images, separated from his family then as now.

  The Atlantia’s hull hummed softly around him, the huge frigate’s mass-drive in full flow and propelling the vessel at super-luminal velocity across the cosmos. A small data screen embedded in the wall over his desk displayed data on velocity, bearing and crucial status updates such as fuel-remaining, fighter-wing readiness and ordnance available. Position, also a key issue, was only ever calculated based on the frigate’s last-known location: travelling at velocities beyond that of light stripped away all visual information from around the ship, meaning that no vessel actually knew for sure if the course they had laid out prior to leaping would result in them reaching their destination until the mass-drive was disengaged. That said, no vessel had been more than a couple of plantary diameters off course in decades…

  Idris stood from his chair and crossed the cabin, examining the images more closely, listening to the sounds of the past and trying to let them carry him away, however briefly, from the cold comfort of his command.

  Since fleeing Ethera some two and a half years ago, free time had become a scarce commodity aboard the Atlantia. Over a thousand personnel were crammed aboard the former prison ship, many of them civilians housed in the sanctuary, a natural-gravity chamber in the heart of the ship filled with forested hills and idyllic valleys that provided a respite from the ship’s cramped corridors. Two fighter-wings, several hundred marines and numerous drones, Corsair bombers and all of their combined crews and maintenance teams completed the nightmare of logistics involved in just keeping Atlantia functional.

  Only during super-luminal cruise was the ship’s compliment stood-down, a brief respite and a preparation for whatever lay ahead when the Atlantia emerged into conventional travel. Yet even in the absence of normal combat operations there was little rest for a captain, especially the last one alive.

  Idris glanced down at his desk. A single sheet of slim, clear plastic glowed with administrative tasks that flashed for his attention, a new one added to the list every few minutes. Requests for repairs, promotions, demotions, shortages of materials alerts regarding fuel, food and water, training clearances for the Marines to practice boarding and defending the ship, concerned officers watching over the increasingly restless and fearful civilians in the sanctuary who were being kept in the dark about their destination and disliked everything that they were being forced to endure. Sick-bay was short of medicines, maintenance short of manpower and the Marines short of NCO’s and officers to help shoulder the burden of General Bra’hiv’s command.

  Idris looked up at a steel mirror bolted to one wall. His reflection stared back at him, grey hair and tired eyes, his back still straight and his shoudlers broad but his posture gradually folding beneath the weight of his duties and the fatigue of his years.

  A spent force.

  Idris would have laid down on his bunk for respite but embedded into the ceiling above it was another data screen identical to the one on his desk, there to update the captain of a military vessel during every single waking hour, minute and second. In time of combat patrols it had been known for some captains to develop the ability to literally sleep with one eye open, certain threatening patterns in the data displays such as flashing red alerts waking them up at a moment’s notice, ready for immediate action.

  He perched instead on the corner of his desk and pinched the corners of his eyes between finger and thumb. He was deep in thought when a soft, insistent beep infiltrated the privacy of his misery.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said in reply to the beep. The intercom opened a channel and a voice carried through the cabin.

  ‘Cap’n to the bridge.’

  ‘On my way.’

  Idris inhaled a deep breath and then walked out of his cabin, the door opening automatically.


  The corridor outside bustled with ensigns and officers, all of whom immediately froze and saluted.

  ‘As you were,’ Idris snapped as he saluted sharply and strode a few cubits down the corridor to where it opened out onto the bridge entrance and the elevator banks.

  He strode toward the bridge doors, the two marine sentries posted there snapping to attention as he passed by and the doors opened.

  The Atlantia’s bridge was circular in design, mirroring an observation platform above it that allowed a panoramic view of the surrounding cosmos, and was accessed by two flights of stairs flanking the bridge. Arrayed around the edges were various command stations covering all aspects of normal operations, and in the centre was the captain’s chair flanked by that of his Executive Officer, Mikhain, and that of the Commander of the Air Group, Andaim Ry’ere. Both men stood to attention; Mikhain the older, shorter and stockier of the two, a veteran of many Colonial fleet actions, and Andaim the image of youth but already an old head on young shoulders, a fighter pilot by training and now commander of the Atlantia’s compliment of twenty eight Raython fighter-interceptors and three Corsair bombers.

  ‘At ease,’ Idris said to them. ‘Status?’

  ‘Super-luminal cruise stable,’ Mikhain replied briskly, ‘all systems fully operational but we’re increasingly low on fuel and supplies. We’ll need to drop out of super-luminal within a few hours now, captain.’

  ‘CAG?’ Idris asked.

  ‘All fighters fully operational, all crews rested and ready for duty sir,’ Andaim replied. ‘Two Raythons ready for immediate defensive launch when we drop out of super-luminal. We’re planning to reduce training sorties to conserve what fuel we do have.’

  Idris nodded, and as he looked at his chair he saw another data-sheet identical to the ones in his cabin, half a dozen more tasks now blinking for his attention. He managed to conceal his irritation as he picked the sheet up and dutifully studied it for a moment.

  ‘Civilian unrest?’ he uttered as he read one of the notifications.

  ‘Some of the natives are a bit unhappy down in the garden,’ Mikhain replied with scarcely concealed distaste and using a slang name for the sanctuary that suggested nothing but rest for the civilians within. ‘We’re getting complaints about the working hours down there, managing the solar farms.’

  ‘They’d rather we all starve to death?’

  ‘There are a few vocal members clamouring for a say in what’s happening with the Atlantia. Since Counsellor Dhalere died, they haven’t got anybody to speak for them.’

  Idris sighed and nodded. Dhalere had been infected by the Word and had died as a result, her bloodstream infested with countless tiny machines controlling her every movement, her every action. The Legion. By the time her affliction was realised it was too late and the resulting fight for control of Atlantia had almost ended their battle for survival once and for all.

  ‘There are rumours,’ Andaim added. ‘They’ve heard we’re pursuing a Veng’en ship and they’re not happy about that. Having a Veng’en living down there in the sanctuary doesn’t help much.’

  ‘It’ll do their zenophobia good,’ Idris replied. ‘And military matters are not their concern.’

  ‘We can’t keep them in the dark forever,’ Mikhain pressed. ‘I don’t like it, but right now I reckon keeping them informed of the situation might keep them contained. The last thing we need on our hands right now is an insurrection aboard ship.’

  The Veng’en, a war-like race, had fought many long wars with humanity over the centuries, but the devastating effects of the Word’s destruction of mankind had overflowed into their own territories and now they sought out humans and murdered them wherever they could be found. In a near-fatal encounter, the crew of the Atlantia had managed to form a tenuous bond with the crew of a Veng’en cruiser and now, in the hopes of forming a stronger alliance with the Veng’en at large, Idris had ordered the Atlantia to follow the Veng’en home at a safe distance. It was an unpopular decision and Idris knew it, but he had a slight advantage in having a Veng’en ally aboard, Kordaz, who had seen through prejudice and realised that, no matter what had gone before, Idris Sansin and his crew sought to right the wrongs of the past and destroy the Word, whatever it took.

  ‘The people cannot rise against us,’ Idris replied, ‘because even if they did they would have nowhere new to run, nothing new that they could bring to the table.’

  ‘A lot of people don’t always think before they act,’ Mikhain replied with a tight smile. ‘That’s our job.’

  Idris nodded.

  ‘Okay, increase the sentries around the sanctuary but do it quietly,’ he replied. ‘I don’t want the people thinking we’re deploying martial law. Send a few of General Bra’hiv’s Marines to act as eyes and ears down there and let us know what’s going on?’

  ‘Captain?’ Idris turned to see the ship’s communications officer, Lael, gesture to the main display panel. ‘The Veng’en cruiser has dropped out of super-luminal and her course has changed.’

  ‘Already?’ Mikhain asked. ‘We’re nowhere near their homeworld, Wraiythe.’

  Idris turned to look at the main viewing panel. Entirely black during super-luminal cruise, overlaid on that featureless canvass was a limited stream of information drawn from the gravitational trail of the Veng’en cruiser they were tailing. The mass-drives that powered large vessels such as Atlantia at super-luminal velocity left a wake in space-time, much like a sailing ship through water. The subtle frequencies of the wake revealed information about the craft that had left it: velocity, heading and hull mass. The captain’s experienced eyes scanned the data, seeking information about when the cruiser had ceased super-luminal flight, usually revealed by a “back-wash” in the frequency of the wake as the craft’s deceleration produced a new signal that radiated back down its path of flight at an equal velocity.

  ‘It pulled out a few hours ago,’ he said. ‘Where is she now?’

  Lael glanced down at her instruments as she replied.

  ‘The estimated coordinates suggest she’s in the Chiron system.’

  Idris looked at Andaim, who spoke for the first time.

  ‘Chiron’s an outlying world,’ he said, ‘right out beyond the frontier of human exploration. Not much there because the system’s parent star is dying and consuming the inner, habitable planets.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Mikhain said as he examined a display console. ‘Five planets, three of them gas giants, two smaller terrestrial worlds. One of the smaller planets has likely already succumbed to the parent star, the other won’t be far behind.’ The XO frowned as he scrolled down his screen. ‘Unexplored mostly, but the system’s on colonial records as being a brigand lair.’

  Idris raised an eyebrow. ‘Criminals?’

  ‘The system’s so far from Ethera and the local group of planets that it was apparently used by anybody fleeing justice as a haven,’ Andaim said. ‘Chiron’s planets are rich in minerals, but the distance was too great for merchant vessels to make much profit from trade routes and the dying star flares violently enough to dissuade pilots from heading there.’

  ‘Except those who don’t wish to be found,’ Idris murmured. ‘But why would the Veng’en stop there?’

  ‘Maybe they’re low on supplies too,’ Mikhain hazarded.

  ‘Or maybe they’ve realised we’re following them,’ Andaim countered. ‘We can’t be sure they’ll offer any quarter. They still don’t trust us.’

  Idris stared at the data on the screen as he weighed the pros and cons of the Atlantia’s predicament, and then he made his decision.

  ‘We too are running low on supplies. Prepare the fighter screen for launch and bring us out of super-luminal on the edge of the system. If any unlicensed armed craft approach us without making contact first, blow them to hell.’

  ***

  III

  ‘They’re not going to like this.’

  Lieutenant C’rairn strode down a corridor toward the sanctuary, f
lanked by two non-commisioned officers and trailed by a dozen armed Marines of Bravo Company. Civilian contractors and petty officers leaped out of their way and pressed their backs to the walls to let the heavily armed troops through, their boots rumbling against the deck plating.

  ‘Ain’t for them to choose what they like.’

  To C’rairn’s right walked Qayin, a six-foot-five giant of a man with alternating gold and blue locks that hung to his shoulders in tight braids and flickering bioluminescent tattoos that glowed like rivers of magma against his bitumous skin. Recently promoted to the rank of sergeant in the wake of the battle against the Veng’en cruiser, he bore his shoulder insignia with the same brash disinterest as the facial tattoos signifying gang-kills on the mean streets of Ethera. The Mark of Qayin. Like all of Bravo Company’s Marines, Qayin was a former convict who had once been a prisoner aboard Atlantia Five, the high-security wing towed behind Atlantia years’ before. Now, those former murderers, gang-bangers and drug-dealers made up one half of Atlantia’s infantry defence. The other half consisted of Alpha Company, made up of career Colonial Marines and led by General Bra’hiv.

  As the Marines reached the sanctuary deck, more civilians watched them with suspicious expressions as they passed.

  ‘They’re afraid,’ the lieutenant observed under his breath, ‘of us.’

  ‘They’re supposed to be,’ Qayin replied. ‘You don’t get control without discipline.’

  ‘You don’t get help without respect.’

  ‘Respect has many forms,’ Qayin grinned tightly, his massive hands cradling a plasma-rifle as he looked down at C’rairn. ‘Don’t much matter if it’s love or fear.’

  C’rairn did not reply as they halted at the entrance.

  The sanctuary was a cylindrical sub-hull buried deep inside Atlantia that rotated to provide a natural gravity, rather than the quasi-gravity created by the powerful magnetic plating beneath Atlantia’s decks that pulled down on the iron inserts fitted to the crew’s uniforms.