At
Command headquarters, for the majority of the staff and regular support
personnel, it was an ordinary day helping those who sat in a large circle
wearing gold shoulder boards by running reports and coordinating various
actions with different branches of the fleet. Space was vast. There were hundreds of
ships out there manned by their crews, altogether numbering in the hundreds of
thousands, and more were in training at Highlight with the majority holding to
the expectation of being given an assignment among those who already have. The
fleet was growing in numbers, and the ships being built—some of them were newer
and fresher in design—needed valuable officers and on-board support personnel
to make sure the peace kept at all times. This much they all knew and
understood better than most who did not have that heavy of rank insignia on
their collar, or on their shoulders and cuff links. The antigravity lift opened at interjunction 1-Sierra-10, one of the top ten decks where the
senior-most-ranking Admiralty worked. A support staff member discretely rushed
the pad through twin doors sharing half of the fleet logo, then through a
twin-sliding-door security checkpoint where an approved palm print was required
to gain access. A tall white beam of light passed beneath her palm, the palm
reader flashed green as the locks to the doors clicked off and the doors hissed
open to the conference room where twenty Admirals were sitting around a shared
finely-polished oval-shaped table—
"—The
USSC Haleybird and the Mustang are in sector
one-three-two, we can divert them to those coordinates without compromising the
security on that section of the border. The Voyager, and
the Daedalus have better long-range-sensor capability and a
more sensitive communications array to supplement the listening posts in that
sector. . ." a female head looked up sharply near the far end of the head
of the table, "Yes, Lieutenant?"
She
stood primly straight-backed and held the PADD in front of her with both hands
like a letter, "New information has come through from the deep-space
asset, Admiral."
Admiral
Carrell reached out her hand to accept the PADD, "Thank you." she
said cordially, then nodded to excuse the staff member.
Her
thumbprint caused a brief series of acknowledging chirping sounds, then
numerous more signaled the screen was filling with paragraphs of text and data.
The
conversation around the rest of the table quieted down as attention fell on
Admiral Carrell. Her facial expression changed as she read through the data on
the PADD. . .
".
. . Problem, Admiral?" a four-star five seats closer to the
head of the far end of the table asked directly.
".
. .Our 'ghost story' has encountered some unexpected surprises
since getting underway. . . It would seem the Rotelans may be
suspicious of an incursion attempt. . . The ghost story encountered
a reconnaissance probe that was sniffing around for them. . . They
weren't detected, but they had a close call with the probe. They
managed to use a planet's atmosphere to destroy the probe before it got too
close. . . Their stealth system worked as expected—the probe
didn't get a clear reading on them—"
"—But now
that the probe is no longer sending data to back to the ship that originally
launched it—"
"—The
Rotelans are likely going to get more curious about what's coming across the
Neutral Zone. . ."
'Curious?'
Carrell thought skeptically,"For all any of us knows, there
could be a whole fleet of them lurking in wait out there. And
with their probe destroyed, they're likely to divert more ships to that general
region to try to catch whoever they suspect may have been responsible for that
probe's destruction. We can't divert any ships to the border without arousing
suspicion that could confirm what they undoubtedly suspect by now—" that
fact left a foul taste in the mouth, and a knot in the stomach—
"—So
what are you suggesting we do, Admiral?"
Admiral
Carrell looked around the table, ". . . The only thing we can do:
keep the fleet mobile and alert until we hear from our ghost story.
. ."
"Is
that your best suggestion?" the senior-ranking and heavily decorated
four-star one seat from the head of the table asked.
"All-things-considered—right
now—I think that's our only actionable suggestion at this
point."
The
senior-ranking four-star looked around table only to find unanimous straight
faces, with one exception.
"—Perhaps
we could deploy three smaller ships closer to a more distant
sector of our Neutral Zone border. Try to get their attention elsewhere to see
if we can get them to reveal at least the probable locations of their ships?
Get enough cloaked ships together and the tachyon emissions from their cloaking
technology would be more easily detectable. That would make tracking their
fleet movements easier."
"That's
still an awfully long ways away. Our listening posts would be our only
way of detecting anything, assuming there was anything to detect, and given the
distance, getting exact readings is unlikely."
"Better
than sitting around waiting for a big-enough sensor blip. Besides, our
ghost story could use a few lesser-guarded door to get through when they're at
that point. They would see about as much as we would be able to from this
distance, and it's the move that would be least-likely to make them any more
suspicious."
"He's
got a point." a two-star said near the center of the table.
The
room became silent for several seconds. The four-star near the head of the
table leaned on his right elbow and held his clenched fist near his mouth,
highlighting his large gold academy graduation ring, ". . . Do have any
new information from our sources on the inside?" he asked
darkly, directly.
Heads
around the table only turned.
"—Okay,
I'll pass long the recommendation to the president. That will be all for now.
Thank you, Admiralty. This meeting is adjourned." A subtle dinging sound
rang in the room for three seconds as the door locks clicked off
simultaneously.
The
crowd of flag officers stood up and gradually walked out of the room through
the main set of twin double-doors. The three-star was among the first to leave,
stepping aside a few feet outside of the doorway. "Admiral DuCannon,"
he carefully called out to another of the two-stars. He stopped and stepped
toward the three-star instead of continuing to walk in the opposite direction,
undoubtedly to the antigravity lift to head down to the mess hall for lunch. The rest
of the Admiralty continued as they were, exchanging subtle chatter about
this-or-that, nothing pertaining to anything classified, such as what was
discussed over the last three hours. The senior-ranking security checkpoint
eyed the screens monitoring the adjoining corridors and computer networks as
the Admiralty walked out. Armed guards in the adjoining corridors held their
particle rifles with both hands at the two o'clock position with blank faces as
though assuming a security breach could happen at any moment, and were ready to
act just that quickly and precisely.
"Yes,
Sir," DuCannon acknowledged. The three-star made direct, candid eye
contact with him.
"Have
we heard anything from our. .neighbors?"
DuCannon
gasped as he skimmed through his thoughts. .and then curled his lower lip and
gradually turned his head, almost mumbling, "No. Nothing, since
we found out about what's going on on the other far side of
the neutral zone."
"—Are
you suspicious?. . ." he began to whisper. "The president will
want to know what the popular conjectures and conclusions are after this
morning's briefing. You know how he is."
DuCannon
nodded. Duh! He kept to himself. The last thing any president
wanted to do was to order a fleet action, he knew from years of serving in the
Office of the Admiralty, because a fleet action was one of the most
provocative, which can serve as the rough equivalent of tossing a large stone
at a bee's nest and expecting them not to follow their deeply-embedded
instincts centered on swarming, and their ability to sting. But sometimes
provocative action can send a message that a torpedo might speak too
loudly, and the military tone of voice right now would say more—and more
effectively—than a flood of anti-matter detonations in deep space. Ordering
small groups of ships into different areas of space for various reasons. The
last time a fleet action was ordered, it served as the line of defense when a
cube big enough to cast a shadow over the moon was paying humanity a malevolent
visit. Malevolent, he mentally smirked, would have been a generous
break. Before that, it was because outpost after outpost were disappearing. One
or two managed to call for help, albeit in futility, and he knew why—he nodded.
"Do
you think we have reason to believe the Klegishnans might get involved in
this?"
"—I
think they might have some interest in what's going on behind
the Rotelans' border. An asset like what they're building represents an attempt
to radically shift the balance of power in the entire region."
For an instant, what he was about to say registered as common sense, but he felt
compelled to say it anyway, albeit nearly at a whisper, "even one
ship with the ability to cloak so excellently," and then his gut
sank, "whether or not that excellence translated to fire-while-cloaked or
not. . ." he gasped hesitantly, in his own mind going over the point he
knew he was making, "who wouldn't want to have that kind of technology
in their possession?"
That
was a good point, the three-star silently recognized, but knew that much
already, and was glad he wasn't the only one who recognized what the situation
meant.
"All-the-same,
I think they would respect the alliance, even if they did somehow
manage to acquire the technology. But I wonder how good their
intelligence-gathering efforts have been. . .
.
. .Also a good point, the three-star nodded.
"The
question that no one's been able to answer at this point is whether or not
anyone else knows what we know, or more."
This much he doubted, "There doesn't seem to be any indication of that
much at this time, but you and I both know that part of this job—"
The
three-star continued nodding, folding his arms and briefly tuning out what the
DuCannon was saying to mull over what points he had made, then continued
listening—
"The
borders have been quiet for days before we found out what was going on, and the
new activity seems to be routine security patrols. I take that on
face-value."
The
three-star nodded agreement and continued listening. "I think Admiral
Carroll had some good points over the last two months, and was right to suggest
what action she did, given what information we got from our sources."
This
statement was met with more nodding.
"I
think we might. . ." the two-star looked around as a
precaution. The senior-ranking security officer was focused on going over
whatever he was seeing on his monitors, behaving as though he had completely
tuned both them out amid his observations.
DuCannon
leaned toward the three-star. "I think a fleet action may be inevitable,
especially if Carrell's suggestion encounters significant resistance."
He was suddenly concerned whether or not he had just crossed a line by even so
much as alluding to what he knew he was talking about. His
face started to feel like it was gradually starting to burn. DuCannon knew the
three-star knew what he was talking about since they were both a part of the
close and limited circle of those senior-ranking officers who did—
—More
nodding, and then he took a deep breath as though to signify the fact of his
sharing what he didn't need words to recognize was a mutual opinion of the
ugliness of the possibly looming situation. The risk of this quaint military
venture would outweigh any hope of profit, because any potential buyer would
immediately recognize the merchandise was hot—in terms of how
likely one would be to be killed in one's sleep, if one was fortunate, before
the technology would be allowed to leave the manufacturer's custody, so the
Ferengi wouldn't be likely to make an attempt to steal it for profit. The Orion
Pirates might try to acquire it—no, they wouldn't. They're
cunning, even deadly dangerous, but they would more than likely
recognize they'd be heading into what was essentially a death trap because
they're more about intimidation and brute force, something the Rotelans would
be more than ready for, and probably would be anticipating and would be happy
to counter with a few high-powered disrupter pulses to virtually erase even
a small group of their toughest ships. Well, they could probably put up a fight
for a little while, at least, but a fleet of warbirds versus even their
toughest ships would still probably be futile, so the three-star reasoned they
would bow-out and stay defensive. Not that they would have to worry, they're
not quite a major intergalactic power, plus they don't have anything of any
real value the Rotelans would be interested in. They're too proud to even think
of doing business with them. The other alien races that crossed his mind as
possibly being interested in this kind of technology didn't seem likely because
they were—in his assessment—too proud to so much as bother with making an
attempt, and were more concerned with their own military prowess versus the
balance of power in the bigger picture of things, whether or not they knew
about what was going on. And their ships don't have much in the way of stealth
technology, at least, mainly because they don't think they need to be stealthy
because they believe they present too big and too intimidating a target—and
they're probably right, at least in their own minds. But still. . .
".
. .Alright," he nodded slyly, "I'll pass along your opinion
and comments to the president on the matter." The three-star walked to
another set of double doors behind him, while DuCannon continued walking in the
same direction, and the same place, as the rest of the Office had.
The
next order of business would be to convene with the president in the
president's office, along with other senior officers from other branches of the
military. Some branches' tactics favored boots-on-the-ground as part of any
military operation, while others, like himself, preferred a sharply-targeted
directed particle energy shot to a Translight core—or quantum singularity matrix,
provided fire needed to be exchanged at all. Even in such a
respectable military job position as he was in, and his experience with giving
such an order, or giving or passing along such an order, he didn't
strictly favor that idea, but recognized with equal conviction
that such action was at times required. He allowed for the fact that that order
might become necessary, but that's why Galileo was launched,
as an earnest attempt to minimize that likelihood as much as realistically
could be expected, or asked of anyone. The threat isn't the
Rotelans. The threat is what the Rotelansare manufacturing. DuCannon was
right, he admitted to himself, maybe a fleet action will be required
to keep the peace and the balance of power, as it were. As much as they didn't
want to have to deploy groups of ships, large or small, to anywhere in
particular, his gut told him—if anything—that might have to do what they need
to make sure their borders stay secure. The Rotelan would undoubtedly already
be aware of that, and already be taking that step in anticipation of what
action he realized he was decidedly going to recommend the president take in
the next hour or so. He was confident the Galileo could get
through, undetected by the Rotelans, get the prize and then
get out with little—if any—or no incident. It's what might happen if they're
caught, with or without the phase cloaking device in-hand, that made his
stomach churn.
Aaen
doubted—seriously doubted—that announcement, and reminded himself, and
silently the rest of the crew, that the announcement only pertained to the
planet's deathly atmosphere. Gasping heavily, he was confident he could have
landed the shuttle if he had to but that was besides the point right now, he
silent told himself. He directed his attention immediately to the 'contact'—or
whatever else Jonathan had announced the sensors had detected. The navigational
data looked just as it should for the moment—the impulse engines were online
and putting out just enough thrust to keep them from having to repeat what they
just went through, and the heat levels were barely noticeable. For now, they
were in a stable low-orbit. That was fine by him for the moment. It was harder
to ignore the heavy gasps of relieved panic from his left and from behind him.
Understandably, it wasn't everyday this kind of thing happened, and for good
reason. But it was still a tactically-sound decision. But what about
that sensor contact? he kept asking himself, turning around with a
seriously determined look on his face.
Aaen
started breathing heavier from anticipation, "Please tell me you have
more on whatever it was you picked up earlier?. . . Is it still
there?"
".
. .Yeah. It's still there. It's at long-range, though, at our one
o'clock, almost at our two o'clock. I can't tell what it is."
Maxon
stood up long enough to take another look at Jonathan's screen, then returned
to her chair and faced forward, brushing her hands over her face and through
her hair as though attempting to express or relieve stress. "Commander,
maintain our heading, and make sure we're at full impulse."
Aaen
checked his computer. Most of the order had already been carried out. Aaen
started to silently guess in the back of his mind as to when Jonathan was going
to announce—
"We're
moving away from the planet, captain—"
Even
better, Aaen
thought. But the question of whether or not there was someone else out there
monitoring them—or, worse, tracking them—kept scoring this
thoughts, even more than where that freakin' cloaking device is at right now .
. . or whether or not they were too late. A flash of thoughts burned in the
back of his head as to what they would have to do on-the-fly if its
manufacturer suddenly became ahead of schedule. This thought quickly turned
into an abrupt burning sensation in his face and perfectly along the curvature
of his spine—
"The
sensor contact is maintaining position—" his tone abruptly changed, "it's
gone!"
Aaen
snapped, "What?"
"It's gone!"
How
the heck did it just—! "What do you mean, 'it's gone!'"
"As-in, it
just dropped off the radar!—" his head snapped, "Sensors, I
mean!"
Jonathan
was starting to sweat. Aaen and Maxon shared a determined, concerned look. Aaen
leaned toward Maxon.
"If
that's a ship, then its big enough for us to detect at long-range and is
generating that kind of an energy signature, it could be one of theirs."
he offered sharply, trying to hide the nervous hesitation swelling in his
chest. "We need to treat carefully, and get out of the neutral zone as
soon as we can."
Jonathan
eyed his screen briefly, and then announced, "The planet's not on our
sensors anymore."
Aaen
figured as much, given the lack of the slightly-dizzying general free-fall
pull-back sensation on his person. The impulse engine heat levels were still
well below 20%—in his judgment they were fine for the moment, so he kept to
himself. The stars were looking as beautiful as ever. He felt his mind buzz as
a suggestion blinked into the top of his head. "We should do a scan
directed at our one o'clock, see if anything registers. . ."
(1) "—If
that's a ship, they could detect our scanning beam," Jensen
interjected. And they might not! Aaen silently countered.
"—That's what you're here for," Aaen reminded. Part of him
felt excited to see the Galileo's weapons in action, and another
part of him check-mated the former point with the possibility that weapons fire
of any kind on their part could only complicate the mission that much
more. Who knows where that freakin' cloaking technology was at this point, and
that was their mission objective, not weapons testing for what is supposed to
remain a ghost story. He clenched his fists of his side of the desk mount—
"There
it is! Staying at our one o'clock!"
"I
need to know if it's Rotelan or not! If they're out here we
need to tell Command." she said sharply.
"I'll
run a scan."
What
if it's a cloaked ship? Aaen wondered. What if it's not Rotelan? If it's a ship, and it's tracking us, then we'll be able
to find out if it follows us. Could that be any more common sense? he
asked himself, wondering why neither Maxon or Jonathan so much as hinted at
that possibility. . .
".
. .It's getting closer!"
The
announcement made Aaen feel like someone put on brass knuckles and punched him
in the chest with them. His breathing became heavier—
"How
far are we from the Rotelanborder?" Maxon asked Jonathan.
".
. .About twenty minutes at maximum translight from
our current position, provided we don't change
course."
"Nothing
new from Command, yet, captain," Mason announced.
Aaen
reasoned the lack of new orders meant there hasn't been a change in the part of
the border where they were to breach. His thoughts kept coming back around to
the sensor contact—
Jonathan
became wide-eyed, and his behavior screamed he was in a moderate state of
anxious panic, "It's even closer, now! About
two-hundred-thousand-kilomters!. . ."
C'mon,
man! Aaen
impatiently faced forward, "Captain, I think it's safe to conclude there's
another ship out there," The big question, in Aaen's mind, still
lingered. . .
"—Wait,
it's gone again!"
"Is
it heading directly for us?"
".
. .The last time it appeared, course estimation suggested it's course
is almost perfectly perpendicular to ours. I'd say, whatever it is, it's either
detected us or—hold on!—" he looked closely at his screen as another
sensor alert sounded, "—Another contact, and it's pinging at about the
same level!"
—Shhoot! Aaen
thought, glaring wide-eyed at the viewscreen.
"—The
new contact is at our eleven o'clock moving to our ten o'clock! The first
contact is—" another sensor alert, "back!—and still at our two
o'clock," he looked at Maxon with a sharp, alarmed look, "and
closing!. . ."
Maxon
took a deep breath and then said, ". . .Jensen, on my mark—charge
cannons,"
Jensen
sat upright in his seat in anticipation and directly said, "Standing
by,"
"First
contact is now at one-hundred-twenty-thousand-kilomters, on a perpendicular
course. Second contact is now at our nine o'clock on a parallel course! We're
getting dangerously close to both contacts!"
Another
sensor alert.
Aaen
snapped.
"—We've
got a third contact!"
YOU'VE
GOTTA BE KIDDING ME! Aaen thought.
"WHERE?"
"Seven
o'clock!—HOLY COW! They're all HUGE! They're all closing!"
—SHHHOOT! Aaen
thought, struggling not to yell.
Mason
planted her face low in her palms. (2)
"We're
still at full impulse, captain! I strongly advise against
using thrusters!" Aaen declared sharply.
"All
the sensor contacts are now BARELY outside of minimum detection range!"
"We
so much as sneeze in the wrong direction and we're
screwed—" Aaen interjected.
"Stand
fast, Commander," Maxon commanded sharply.
Let's
see how long that order holds up if we get caught!
".
. . Sensor scan suggests the contacts may be Rotelan!"
Aaen
mumbled something under his breath in early panic.
"Hold
on, Commander—oh jeez that's close!" (3)
"Where
are they? Do we need to change course?" Aaen asked
sharply, his hands on the controls. He hadn't been this antsy since year five—
—The
look on Maxon's face spoke volumes. . . Aaen's gut told him to just forget
this and punch the translight engines up to translight nine and BUG
OUT! He hovered over the command and waited in anticipation for
the order to come through. He sensed he and she were thinking the same thing. .
.
(4) . . .One of
the contacts' is changing course. . . . The first contact's turning towards us!
It's at our five o'clock! The second contact. . .is getting closer to the
planet's atmosphere!. . . The third contact is turning toward the first
contact!. . . They're both just outside our maximum
detection range . . . . and are increasing speed!
"They're
probably picking up on our impulse wake! That, or they're passing over
us, or beneath us!—"
Jensen
snapped, "There's still time to charge weapons, captain,"
"But
they're behind us," Aaen interjected, "Captain, translight nine?" his hands inched closer to the controls—
Maxon
snapped, looking at Jonathan. The look on Jonathan's face gave Aaen confidence
in Maxon's next order might be. . .
*****
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