Fifteen kilometers inland

The setting was beautiful. 

Fifteen kilometers from the outskirts of Mountain View was the tiny community of Rangely, a farming and ranching town of about two thousand.  And just outside of that community was the Rangely Retreat, a resort and vacation area still under construction in the timbered hills.  The main lodge was built on the edge of a thick stand of native broadleaf trees that resembled, somehow, giant gingkoes.  Facing a huge meadow of grasses and forbs, the lodge’s enormous porch was within rock-throwing distance of a burbling stream.  The air was filled with the twittering of several species of bat-winged, flying creatures that ran from sparrow to crow-sized; most of them hadn’t yet been named, but they added to the ambience of the setting nonetheless.

“The main lodge is pretty much finished,” Sergeant Kroger was explaining to the assembled delegates as Pritchard and Clomonastik climbed out of Pritchard’s personal skimmer.  “The guest cabins back there in the trees are a little rough, but we’re bringing in a few crews from Mountain View to make them as comfortable as possible.  The problem right now is power; the hookups from the main station in Mountain View aren’t finished yet, so we’re flying in a Torch to rig up power for the time being.”  In fact, the small portable fusion reactor was less than ten minutes away, sling-loaded under a retrieval droid.  “The area around the resort is secured by a company of Security troops.  So, for the time being, I’d ask you all to stay in the immediate area – you’ll be stopped by the troops if you go too far – and have a look around.  We should have power in a half-hour or so.”

The delegates began to fan out around the area, most of them heading inside the main lodge.  Mike Crider watched his son and Maria Gutierrez wander nonchalantly off towards the guest cabins before he went looking for Hector Gutierrez.

He found the Vice President talking with Bob Pritchard and Clomonastik III near a picnic table on the edge of the meadow a few meters from the stream.

“It’s past time,” Pritchard was saying as Mike walked up.  Clomonastik was nodding agreement.  The Director noticed Mike’s questioning look and answered before Mike could ask: “I’ve ordered Colonel Perkins arrested; he’s in custody and on his way to Detention One as we speak.  I figured that particular jig was up; no point in letting him pass any more information on.”

“Like the location of this place,” Hector Gutierrez added.

“Exactly.”

“So, what now?” Mike wanted to know.

“We’re about to wrap this thing up,” Pritchard replied.  “What have we got, two more votes?  Let’s get it done, printed, signed, and ‘phoned off to the other worlds for ratification.  What those people in orbit don’t know is that we’ve got a backup to the Skyhook hyperphone antenna.  I can have it back in operation in three days, with another day or two to repair some mechanical and structural damage.  Let’s get our Constitution voted up and sent out for ratification.”

“You’re in a bit of a hurry, Bob,” Hector Gutierrez noted, examining Pritchard closely. 

“Well,” Pritchard confessed, “I jumped the gun a little.  I just ordered the Grugell Commander to leave the Tarbos system, in the name of the Confederated Free Planets.”

Mike laughed.  “Well, what was his answer?”

“Basically, it was ‘make me,’” Pritchard replied.  “That’s in the works now.”

The Cachalot

“Incoming message from Tarbos Ground, Captain.”

Jan Benton released the buckle of the web belt that held her in her Bridge chair and floated to the Signals console.  “Well?” she demanded.  The Signals tech pointed at her screen.

“The hell…” Captain Benton was a fast reader.  Spinning in the zero-gee Bridge, she tossed herself back at her chair and began strapping in.  “All decks, secure for maneuvers,” she barked into her wand mike, her voice booming out across the ship.  “Navigation, get me trajectory back to Tarbos orbit, maximum sub-C speed.  No breaking into subspace this trip.  Helm, bring us about, one-eighty by zero.  Ahead full.”

“Coming about, Captain, Engineering answers ahead full.”

“Keep her under the Subspace transit,” Benton reminded the helmsman.  “Scanning, get that gadget on-line, I want a course track on that cloaked ship as soon as we’re in range.”

The K-101

Kadastrattik turned away from the smoking ruin of a body that still slumped on the deck in front of the Scanning station, his personal weapon still in his hand.  “Have this wreckage removed at once,” he snapped.  “And I will repeat my policy; failure on this ship is not tolerated!  If this fool had moved a millicycle faster, we’d have had the human’s Commander located, and this would be over!”

The Bridge crew was silent.  “Weapons!  Get me a target.  Any target.  A major population center will do nicely.”

“Tying into the Scanning console now, Commander,” the Weapons officer answered in a querulous voice.  “Commander, the center of the city below seems to have a marketplace, or at least some center of activity.  Scans show heavy traffic in that sector.  I am currently tracking vehicle and foot traffic.  Number One anti-proton projector is locked.”

“Very good.  Weapons, hold on that target.  I will allow them two cycles to think.  When that time is up, we shall see if we can raise that fool Pritchard again.”

The Rangely Retreat

The buzzing of his personal comm-link shouldn’t have startled Bob Pritchard, but he was.  He pulled the tiny gray card from his shirt pocket and tapped the blue oval on the front to activate it.  “This is Pritchard,” he answered.

“Director,” a disembodied voice came from the card, “This is Central Signals.  I’ve got a call in that alien language.  We weren’t sure what to do about it, so we’re prepared to forward it to you, sir.”

“Go ahead,” Pritchard answered, throwing a glance at Clomonastik.  A stream of chittering Grugell came from the comm-link.

“It’s Kadastrattik,” Clomonastik answered.  “Director, keep your transmission short; speak to him for no more than a minute or he will trace you. He’s demanding that the Convention disband, or he’ll destroy Mountain View.”

Pritchard thought very hard about that.  “Any chance he’s bluffing?”

“Virtually none, Director.”

“Neither am I,” Pritchard replied.  He switched the comm-link to another channel, and spoke a code into the tiny mike.  “How far out is the Cachalot?”

“Six minutes, Director,” came the reply.

Pritchard switched back to the first channel.  “This is your last chance, Commander.  Decloak and leave my system now.”  Beside him, Clomonastik translated into chattering Grugell; as soon as he finished, Pritchard killed the signal.

“Let’s see what happens,” he said.  “In about five and a half minutes, we’ll know.”

The K-101

Kadastrattik listened to the hiss of static for a moment before turning to his Weapons officer.  “Very well, Director, it seems we must do this the hard way.  SubLieutenant, you may fire when ready.”

“By your command.”

In space, the faint green glow appeared again, brightened, turned into a spear of anti-protons that lanced for the surface of Tarbos.

Downtown Mountain View

In the middle of downtown Mountain View was the Main Street Mall, a pedestrian-only avenue lined with shops, cafeterias, and lounges.  On a weekday afternoon, in a Company town, it was mercifully an hour before the end-of-workday shopping rush.  There were only a few hundred people in the Mall when the anti-proton bolt arrived, smashing through the Synergy Bar & Grille and exploding outward into the street.  Four employees and sixteen patrons of the Synergy were incinerated instantly, and five others badly burned from the heat flare from the searing conversion of elementary particles.  Nine people walking on the Mall were burned, and one killed by flying debris.  As the roar of the explosion settled, panic set in, and customers and employees alike began to run from the area.

Overhead, another bolt of emerald lightning shot down, obliterating the OWME Mercantile Furniture & Appliances branch and killing sixteen people.  Twenty-eight more were badly injured.

The K-101

“Cease fire, SubLieutenant,” Kadastrattik ordered.  “Find another target.  Find another concentration of humans.”

“Scanning now, Commander.  There is something…”

“Something?  What do you mean, something?”

“There is a concentration of humans here, Commander,” the Weapons officer said, pointing at a blue fleck on the display, “outside of their main city.  There is a small settlement here,” he pointed again, “And then this concentration of human readings here, just a few kilos away.  There’s nothing else in the area.”

“That’s it, Kadastrattik. That’s where their gathering is – I’d wager a year’s wine ration on it.  Target that concentration, make ready to fire!”

“By your command – locking number one anti-proton projector now.”

The Cachalot

“There he is, Captain.  One hundred sixteen kilometers out and closing.”

The Cachalot had been decelerating hard for a minute and ten seconds, slowing from the run in to scan for the alien warship.  Janice Benton was at the Navigation station in a single bound.  A faint green track showed on the screen, off the freighter’s port bow.

“All right, we’ve got him.  Now let’s see if we can make this work.”  She turned to the Helm.  “OK, all ahead flank, come left to one-sixteen degrees, negative ten.  All decks prepare for evasive maneuvers.” 

“Captain, all decks report secured for evasive maneuvering.  Engineering answers ahead flank, coming about to new course one-sixteen by neg ten.”

“Very well.  Navigation, plot an intercept course, feed adjustments to Helm as necessary.”

“Adjusting now, Captain.”

Beneath them, the deepening thrummm of the star drive increased in pitch as the huge cargo hull accelerated.

“Helm, come right three degrees,” the Navigation officer advised.

“Coming right three.”

The Navigation display showed the faint green track coming in closer, closer.

“Helm, hold on the source of that track,” Captain Benton ordered.  “See how it’s flattening out?  When we get within two hundred meters, angle us so the starboard edge of the cargo disk intercepts the leading edge of this trace.  Give me about ten meters of overlap.  Understand?”

“Captain, you’re ordering a ramming.”

“That’s right.”  Benton looked down at the track again.  “All ahead emergency.”

“Ahead emergency, aye.  Engine room answers ahead emergency, Captain.  Six minutes to subspace transit.  Ninety-eight seconds to impact on current course.”

“Stay on that course, Helm.”

Beneath the deck the engine sound deepened to a dull roar.

The Rangely Retreat

“Let’s get everyone into the main lodge,” Bob Pritchard called out.  “Let’s all get inside.  We’ve still got business to take care of, everyone.”

In the stress of the moment, Pritchard forgot that he had laid his comm-link on the picnic table; in the stress of the moment, he didn’t notice Clomonastik III casually wandering past the table and picking it up.

The K-101

Kadastrattik looked up as the Signals officer called out.  “Incoming signal from the surface, Commander.”

“Weapons officer, hold your fire.  Put it through to my headset,” Kadastrattik ordered.  He pulled a slim silver headset from the arm of his command chair, and placed the earpieces on his head.

“This is the Commander Kadastrattik,” he answered the messaging tone.  “Is this Director Pritchard again?”  His eyes widened in shock as a familiar voice answered, speaking not in the human’s language but in his own.

“It is not Director Pritchard, Commander.  You know who this is, do you not?”

Kadastrattik’s voice dripped with contempt when he finally answered.  “I do.  This would be the traitor and renegade Clomonastik III, yes?”

“Yes.  Commander, I presume you are still scanning the planet’s surface?”

“You know that we are, renegade,” Kadastrattik snapped.  “You are all too aware of Imperial Navy policy while in orbit above a possibly hostile planet.  And what interesting things we are scanning, renegade!  Gatherings of humans far outside the city – almost as though they were hiding!  Hiding what, I wonder?”

“Yes, I am aware of Imperial policy, Kadastrattik, and your strict adherence to it does you no credit now.  You were always a shallow thinker; you were so when you served as my inferior, and I’m gratified to see you have not changed.”

“What?  What do you mean?”

“Tell me something, my rigidly ambitious one-time inferior.  You fancy yourself a student of Grugell history, yes?  Yes, of course you do, how well I remember the boring lectures you would deliver after several servings of wine.  Tell me what happened to the conspirators involved in the Night of Seven Blades.”

“They were captured and executed,” Kadastrattik answered, remembering the history all too well.  He waved a hand at the Tactical station.  The officer at that post was already at work tracing the transmission’s source.

“And you’ve attempted to retrace the steps of those conspirators, have you not?  Perhaps not against the Emperor, no, but against several of your contemporaries and, indeed, a former Commander.  It seems only fitting, then, that the fate of those conspirators be retraced as well.”

“Speak plainly, renegade,” Kadastrattik barked.  “What is it you want?”

“Only to ensure that, before you die, you know who it was that told them how to find you,” Clomonastik lied.  “A final joke to play on my would-be assassin.  You are tracing this transmission, yes?  It will avail you nothing.  You are still my inferior, Kadastrattik, in so many ways.”  Clomonastik cut off the transmission.

“What?”  The signal died in Kadastrattik’s ears.  He snapped to his feet, turning to the Tactical station.  “Tactical officer, stand down on your surface scan, give me a global scan of the area immediately!  Weapons, lock that target and fire at once!”

The Cachalot

“Captain, energy emissions from the source of that track.”

“It’s a scanning beam,” Benton guessed.  “Too late.  We’ve got him.”

“Forty seconds to impact, Captain.”

Benton pulled herself back to her bridge chair and fasted her emergency safety harness.  Around her, the rest of the Bridge crew followed suit. 

“Thirty seconds.”

Benton grabbed the wand mike off the arm of her Bridge chair, pressing the PAGE stud.  “All hands, brace for collision.  All hands, brace for collision.”  She shouted to the Signals station, “Sound the collision alarm.”

“Fifteen seconds.  Captain, there’s something happening on the visual channel.” 

Captain Benton switched her personal Bridge chair flip-up viewer to the forward scanner’s visual channel.  Out there in space, growing closer rapidly, a faint green glow was appearing out of nowhere, growing rapidly brighter.

The rumble of the engine was still increasing in pitch. 

The K-101

“Commander, enemy ship approaching at high speed!”

Kadastrattik shouted, “Turn hard right, drives ahead full!  Weapons, power down!” 

They’d been caught looking the wrong way.   Kadastrattik looked at the Tactical readout display on his personal viewer, noting the huge shape of the human cargo ship racing in at them from behind.  The K-101 responded quickly to its helm, but it was plain to see that they were too late…

“Sound the impact alarm!”

The Cachalot

“Captain, the track is changing aspect.  Track source is turning, I have a bearing change, they are turning to starboard.  Won’t do them any good, Captain.  We’ll clip them with the edge of the cargo disk, just like you planned.”

“Five seconds.  Four.  Three.  Two.  One.  IMPACT!”

The ship gave a mighty lurch and spun to the side.  Hooting alarms began to sound, and a calm synthetic voice intoned, “HULL BREACH ON CARGO DISK, DECKS THREE AND FOUR, SECTIONS FOUR, FIVE, AND SIX.”

“Seal off those sections!” Benton barked.  “All stop!  Bring us around to face that ship, Helm.  Stand by on navigation thrusters.”

“All stop.  Coming left to one-zero-nine pos three.  Standing by on navigation thrusters.”

“Are those damaged sections sealed off?”

“Already done, Captain.  Damage control systems have activated,” the Signals tech reported.

“Get me a forward scanner on the main screen!”

The main viewer sparkled with interference, but gradually resolved.  At the lower edge of the display, Tarbos rotated serenely, but at the upper, a silver orb with two slender arms wallowed in space, trailing a sparkling cloud of gas from a serious hull breach.  As they watched, one of the yellow drive pods disintegrated in a spray of bright metal and sparks. 

“There they are, Captain,” the Navigator pointed out.

“No shit,” Benton answered.  “See if you can raise them on ship-to-ship.  And get me a damage report!”

The Rangely Retreat

Clomonastik III came striding into the lodge, an odd grin on his face.  He handed Bob Pritchard his comm-link card.  “You left this on that table, Director,” he said with a strange, smug tone.  “I believe you have a call.  I heard it beeping.”

Pritchard took the card and tapped the contact.  “Director Pritchard.”

“Director, this is Tarbos Ground.  We have monitored a collision in orbit.  High-resolution radar is showing the Cachalot and an unknown ship, sir.  The unknown just appeared.”

“You don’t say,” Pritchard smiled.  “What’s happening now?”

“Sir, it looks like the smaller ship – the unknown – is badly damaged.  It seems to be out of control.  Sir, is that the ship that fired on the Skyhook and downtown?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Director, it looks a lot like the cargo ship rammed the unknown deliberately.”

“Yes, that’s right.  They did.”

“Good.”

The Cachalot

“No reply to ship-to-ship, Captain.”

Janice Benton wasn’t too surprised.  Still…  “Keep trying.  Let’s close on them a little.  We should be able to use one of our landing shuttles to render assistance, if…” A flash of light from the main viewer cut her sentence short. 

“All hands brace for impact!” she shouted, watching as the blast front from the Grugell ship’s thermonuclear self-destruct mechanism raced towards them. 

The Cachalot rang again, and again the damage-control alarms hooted, but their distance – and the attenuated shock front from the explosion in the vacuum of space – saved them from major damage.

“That had to be a scuttling charge, Captain.”  Benton looked up to see First Officer Gillian Furst floating through the Bridge hatchway.  “Damage parties are shoring up shock damage on the port side of the cargo disk.  Chief Wilson says forty-eight hours, and he’ll have the damage secured enough to return to Earth.”  Furst’s face was blackened with soot, her uniform blouse torn, but she looked unhurt.

“I didn’t think they’d blow themselves up,” Benton replied.

“I guess they had something to hide,” Furst snorted.

“Ma’am,” the Scanning console operator called.  “I’ve got five small objects on radar – they look like escape pods of some kind.”

“Get a landing shuttle out there,” Benton ordered, “and pick ‘em up.  And Signals?  Get me the Director.” “Working on it, Captain.”

To see more of Animal’s writing, visit his page at Crimson Dragon Publishing or Amazon.