Boy, I’ve found myself one first-class bitch here, Conrad thought. He had been gathered to the meeting room off of the bridge of the Darkhammer. Dominar Kane and this Admiral Calhoon were sitting at opposite ends of the table, engaged in a heated debate about the status of each in their new alliance. Conrad stood in a corner, gazing blankly out a window, cradling his bandaged and burnt arm, and staring at the Umojan shipyards, and the Macbeth’s devastated hulk, still attached to the spidery tow craft.
“There is no way I will become your servant!” Kane was fuming, “I came here to get the recognition I deserve. How much recognition does the second in command of a rebel fleet get?”
Calhoon was silent, fingering a small glass-bladed knife. Both of them were utterly oblivious to their silent companion.
Kane growled, and abruptly rose. As he paced the room, Calhoon launched into yet another tirade. How could he expect to come out of nowhere and take over her fleet, where did Kane get the gall, and such.
Conrad could care less. Something was about to happen. He knew it. Someone was out there… watching him. His wounded hand throbbed with anticipation.
His daydream was suddenly shattered by Kane’s emotional explosion. “Where in the hell do you come off—”
“Would you two shut up!” Conrad yelled, his voice echoing vaguely. “For crying out loud! I was starting forget why I don’t like Terrans!” He spun to face the room, and was rewarded by throbbing pain as the blood pounded through the stitched wounds in his head. With great effort, he brought himself under control. “And you,” he said, pointing to Kane, “You do realize that the reward for killing her second in command is having your very own puppet in the Dominion Senate, don’t you?”
This seemed only to enrage Kane further, “For Christ’s sake--—”
“Don’t throw your god in my face, Dominar. I got enough of that from the Protoss to last me a lifetime. And in case it hasn’t occurred to you, fame is defined by the reward on your head out here. My reward is a governor’s seat. You’re a bigger traitor than I am! I guarantee that you will be the most famous criminal in the sector.”
Kane finally settled down, and retook his seat. “But that doesn’t change a thing! I will not take orders from anyone!”
Calhoon’s face was turning red, but Conrad spoke first, “Then command your own fleet, and the Admiral can worry about hers. The last thing anybody needs is an army without an established power structure.”
Calhoon stood, confronting Conrad. “Where do you come off barging into my ship—my ship, mind you— and start deciding the chain of command?”
Conrad didn’t flinch, he knew that was exactly what Calhoon wanted, “Because you two children don’t seem to decide who gets to be master of the sandbox on your own.” He paused, waiting for Calhoon’s response. When none was forthcoming, he asked, “Are the arrangements satisfactory for you?”
Calhoon gritted her teeth. It was clear as vacuum that she wanted to be in control of Kane’s forces, but she grudgingly replied, “Perfectly.”
“Well then, I think I’ll go look in on my ship,” he turned back to the Admiral, and added with a mocking smile, “My ship.”
“And I’ll return to the Gentry to see if Domes has tracked us here yet,” Kane said, brushing past Conrad.
Conrad followed him out onto the bridge, when Calhoon called him back, “Conrad, come here a minute.”
He returned to the meeting room, with Captain King following him. Conrad noticed Calhoon wink at King, and was immediately suspicious.
“As thanks for your… help just now,” Calhoon said, “I’m going to make you the general of our ground forces.” King stifled a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Conrad said, frowning. Why should entering an army as a general be a laughing matter?
Calhoon scowled at King, but continued unruffled, “Don’t mind him. He isn’t right,” she said, tapping her head. “Joe, why don’t you go introduce General Conrad to his army?”
“Come this way, Gen’ral,” King said, struggling to control himself.
***
He knew he had stepped on Admiral Calhoon’s toes during that meeting. Any doubt had been erased when King had confessed that Calhoon had taken only her fleet when she split with Duran, no ground forces to speak of. There were several badly damaged vehicles in the cargo hauler, but none of the officers were trained in their use.
But Conrad still had his ship. He had exploited his new rank to send several off-duty crewmen out into the Umojan Shipyards to recruit a crew. The repairs were coming along smoothly, and the dockmaster assured Conrad that the Discovery II, as he insisted on calling the Macbeth, would not be spaceworthy for a few weeks or so. Discovery series ships were inherently faulty, and most of the ship would have to be overhauled or replaced.
Conrad was on his bridge now, examining the glass display case set in a pedestal beside the clamshell doors, and considering his new allies. Kane was a new face. He knew the name, but if he knew the man, he would never have bothered with Mengsk. Alia Calhoon, however, was very familiar. When Conrad had worked for Duran, her relationship with Duran had been common barracks discussion. Calhoon argued with almost everyone in the fleet, except Duran. The only dispute between the two commanders was the day that Duran allied with the UED. Calhoon took off with a dozen or so ships, in the general direction of Tau Sara.
The com beeped. The forward screen was removed for upgrade, but audio worked fine. Conrad had no business monitoring the communications, but it was a hobby he had mastered in his days in the Ward, and still practiced when the opportunity presented itself.
The call was from a very concerned Kane. “Admiral. I have a team searching the Dominion Network,” he said, “There’s bad news.”
Conrad stood still his eyebrow raised, as Calhoon’s voice replied, “What is it?”
“Mengsk has disappeared. General Domes has taken control of the Dominion.” Kane said. “That isn’t the bad news, though.” There was a long pause. A thousand scenarios flashed into Conrad’s head. Domes was coming to Umoja for revenge; Domes had some new weapon; the Zerg were getting bored, and had attacked something… But his fears were eclipsed. “He has declared martial law over the entire sector, and has begun to reopen the Confederate Suppression Arsenal.”
The CSA had once been called the Hammer of God. Over five thousand missiles, hidden on asteroid bases, moons, and deep-space platforms throughout the Koprulu sector. Nobody knew just how many of the missiles remained. Most of the CSA was based on Tarsonis itself. But just one of these missiles could devastate a continent. They had only been used twice: Once as an experimental mining technique in the asteroid belts near Char, and once against Korhal.
Nobody had to spell out the implications.
Conrad paced the bridge of the Darkhammer. He had been called in to “supervise,” the so called “missile patrols” which constantly swept the system. Kane and Calhoon were plotting strategy, and laying out all of the old Confederate missile bases they could find in their ships’ databases. King sat at the back of the bridge, staring blankly at the forward screen, clearly peeved at being left out of an important meeting, and likely more so at having the “new guy” commanding over his head.
Conrad wasn’t particularly happy himself. He wanted to be back on the Macbeth, overseeing repairs. Especially now, when everything was either coming together, or coming apart, around him.
Alarms flared briefly from the back of the bridge. Conrad turned, and looked at the two officers scratching their heads at their readouts. “What was that?” Conrad asked.
“It was a distress call, sir,” said one of the officers, “But it only lasted two seconds…”
“What happened to the transmitting ship? Where is it?” Conrad asked, knowing both answers already. The ship was destroyed, and there wasn’t enough signal to get a vector.
“The scanners can pick up a debris field. I don’t know if that’s where the call was from or not.”
Conrad quickly assessed the situation. If he did anything, he would surely make Calhoon mad. After a brief evaluation, he decided he just couldn’t pass up that chance. “Send a combat drone out to the debris field. And contact the shipyards, maybe they can see something we can’t.”
***
The Umojans had already reacted to the situation. Fifty years of watching their back had honed their military response time to mere seconds. Three gunships from the Protectorate Fleet were racing towards the site of the attack. Upon arrival, they were greeted by a tiny white craft, all of which fourteen meters long. The forward half of the ship could be described only as a thorny egg. Three hooks extended from the rear of the craft, each ending in some sort of engine.
The three gunships approached the unidentified craft. Standard operating procedure dictated Defense Operation Level Four in such encounters, but in the two such encounters in human history, such protocol was ignored. A message was transmitted, a standard request for identification and an explanation of the attack. No response was transmitted.
Instead, the alien ship fired three needle-thin energy beams from the bristles on its surface into the bow of the lead gunship, breaching the hull, and killing the entire crew. The other ships opened fire in response, with a massive barrage of laser fire.
The beams, intended to cripple cruiser-sized ships, reflected off the smooth white hull of the alien ship. In retaliation, the alien ship transmitted its own message: a long string of indecipherable clicks and coos, which was at once intriguing and terrifying. The message was received and recorded by instruments throughout the system.
***
“Take us out there!” Conrad ordered, as the drama played itself out before him, “Quarter acceleration. Charge the Yamato.”
The ship lurched under him, and the star field slowly moved across the screen. The three remaining gunships had all turned back towards the planet, fleeing from their mysterious assailant. Two bright white beams sliced through space like a great pair of scissors, crossing at the trailing gunship’s engines. A moment later, a great pulse of energy, not a simple laser, but a flyswatter of light, peeled the hull off of the ship.
Conrad scowled. That’s three ships without taking a hit, he thought, The Zerg would be proud…
The last remaining gunship fell into a rough formation, using the Darkhammer as a shield against further attack. Conrad scanned the forward screen, his heavily augmented vision checking for any movement. “Is there a science vessel nearby? Or a scanner drone?” he asked.
King stood at his post in the back of the bridge, crossed the bridge, looking over officers’ shoulders. “Yes. There’s a Kel-Morian listening post. They can’t detect anything. Whatever it was, it left,” he said.
Conrad’s arm felt like the flesh was rending from the bone. “No,” he said. He was rewarded with stares from around the bridge. He didn’t care. His eyes were locked on the screen.
Then, he found what he wanted. A near perfect line of four stars… Only the last star in the line was slowly sliding from its position. “Tactical! Do you see that line of four stars?” he said.
“Yes,” the officer replied, uneasily.
“Fire a burst at the bright star at the end of the line.” Conrad said. The tactical officer glanced at King, who wasn’t watching. “Fire the damn lasers, or I’ll throw you out there and see what happens!” Conrad yelled.
The forward laser batteries fired. Four bursts of red light lanced out into empty space. Only the space wasn’t empty. The small ship had retreated rapidly after its previous encounter, but nothing could outrun a laser in normal space. The four beams struck home, and ricocheted wildly, one or them striking the Darkhamer across the bow. “Fire the Yamato, same vector.” Conrad ordered.
King touched him on the arm. “Don’t use a sledge hammer to kill a fly,” he said.
“Captain, this is no ordinary fly,” Conrad replied.
The Yamato blast barely caught the side of the craft. The beam fractured on impact, dissolving into a huge spray. “You ain’t kiddin’,” King said.
The white was rapidly growing in the screen. Three blue beacons began to glow on its surface.
Conrad turned to King. “Do you have a missile barge in your fleet?” he asked.
“Kane has two. All we have is Valkyries.”
“Comm, get a channel to the Gentry, and tell Dominar Kane I need his missile barges.” Conrad said. “Helm, move us away. And get that gunship the hell out of here!”
The glowing orbs on the enemy’s hull congealed into three impossibly thin beams. The Darkhammer slammed forward, and smoke filled the bridge. Sirens pierced the air. “Report!” Conrad yelled.
From somewhere in the smoke, voices replied. “Engine one gone. Hull breach along the dorsal spar.” The Darkhammer was already retreating, as two smaller missile barges approached.
One of the barges unleashed a salvo of missiles, all of which hit their mark, and detonated normally. Cheers rose around the bridge. Rule number one of war: If you could hit it, you could kill it… eventually…
But this enemy didn’t play by the rules. It charged forward, brushing across the hull of the Darkhammer. “Son of a bitch!” King yelled.
Conrad moved to the back of the bridge, where King stood. “What’s the fastest thing you have aboard?” he asked.
“We have one Firestorm bomber with full afterburner. No air defense.” King said.
“Prep it.” Conrad said, stepping off the bridge. “And take over!” he shouted behind him.
***
By the time Conrad arrived in the hangar, and began to climb the ladder to the cockpit of the Firestorm, he was somewhat annoyed to find that King had assigned a wing of Wraiths to accompany him. How long did he expect them to last against that thing? But, Conrad thought, how long did he expect me to last against that thing?
He absently touched his amulet while the ship prepared for launch.
He pushed the handle forward. The Firestorm eased out of the hangar, followed by six Wraiths. The fighters formed a flying wedge, with Conrad at the point.
Conrad keyed his comm. “Captain?” he said.
It was Calhoon who replied, “Yes, General?” she said mockingly.
“Call your pilots back.” Conrad said, “They’re going to die out here.”
“You stupid idiot!” Calhoon yelled, “What the hell do you think you’re going to do out there?”
Conrad cut her off, and swung his craft across the topside of the Darkhammer. A fifty-meter gash ran from the engines forward, and fuel slowly vented from the bowels of the ship.
He located the white alien ship, and gunned the afterburner straight towards it.
Apparently, this species had never invented Chicken. He slammed the Firestorm into a twelve-g pitch-over maneuver. His vision blurred and blackened. No Terran had any right to survive such a violent spin.
A tiny glowing orb on the nose of the alien ship elongated into a pencil-thin beam, slicing through empty space where Conrad belonged, and all three Wraiths on his port side.
The intercom crackled. “General?” Calhoon’s frantic voice said, “Do you need assistance?”
Conrad ignored her. The Firestorm spun again to face its enemy. “Call your pilots back, Admiral,” Conrad said again, and shut the com off.
He leaned forward on the throttle, steering with his knees. He closed his eyes.
The entire scene played out in his mind, as if he were a casual observer.
The Firestorm closed rapidly with the alien ship. The three remaining Wraiths broke off, heading for the relative safety of their hangar.
There was no sense of time, only the slow stream of images. And memories… There was something very familiar about… Conrad couldn’t put a finger on it, and deemed it unimportant.
Conrad was dimly aware of a slight, familiar heat against his chest, and the dull pain in his limbs. The proper synapses connected, and space in front of the Firestorm erupted in a maelstrom of energy, tearing at the hull of the alien ship.
Conrad suddenly snapped to full awareness. He had barely enough time to spin his craft away before he flew right into the tempest himself.
***
Calhoon stared at the screen in utter disbelief. “What the hell was that?” King said.
The intercom beeped again. “On screen,” the admiral ordered, not waiting for the requisite formalities.
Conrad’s slightly disheveled face appeared, grinning ear to ear. “Well? How was the show from your seats?” he said, laughing. “It was pretty boring from down here.”
Calhoon was slack-jawed. “What the… How… Where in the hell?” she stuttered.
“I thought you might like that.” Conrad said. “Get a tow ship out here, and pick up what’s left of this… thing. Then I can explain.”
A smile spread across Calhoon’s face. She wouldn’t need Kane’s ship after all…
***
Author’s note: I am dedicating this chapter in fond memory of Douglas Noel Adams, author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series.
He reached the Point of Infinite Improbability on Friday, May 11, 2001, while I was writing this chapter.
May his memory live on until we find the Ultimate Question to the Ultimate Answer “42,” and beyond.
