The Glorious Becoming (2 page)
Read The Glorious Becoming Online
Authors: Lee Stephen
0
OUTER SOL
T
HE INTERSTELLAR
medium was motionless, silent, and cold. Nary a pebble-sized rock had drifted through that particular location for millions of years. It was an untouched oasis of nothing—a stagnant pond in the frozenness of the galaxy.
A shockwave erupted. Its invisible boundaries expanded in attoseconds, ensuring that anything that had been there moments before was now atomized. Attoseconds became nanoseconds, and the barrenness of empty space was filled by the solidarity of a hull, the violent burst replaced by motionless metal.
The jump was complete.
The leader of the Cruiser, a dark brown Golathoch of unremarkable build, stared at the view screen in the bridge. His body was strapped tightly to his chair amid the ship’s zero gravity.
At the front of the bridge, strapped in his own seat, a tan-skinned helmsman turned his horned head. “We are inside the heliopause, controller.” His words were spoken in the choppy guttural sounds of the Golathochian tongue. “Within the fluctuations of the termination shock.”
“Distance.”
“Forty
g-sens
from Earth’s current position.”
The controller made no reply. Shifting beneath his restraining strap, he stared at the solar system before him. He focused on its sun, a speck barely brighter than the millions of specks around it.
The helmsman spoke again. “Autohelm advises a thirty-nine-
g-sen
jump into the system’s asteroid belt based on pre-established system data. Distance to Earth after jump, eleven
g-sigs
.”
The controller grunted in approval.
“Initiating jump.” The helmsman’s large hands moved over the control panel. The Cruiser shuttered briefly, barely a vibration, then the forward view changed. The sun was larger, its hues reaching from one end of the screen to the next. The screen dimmed to compensate. “We are within the asteroid belt, controller.” In spite of that fact, there was no visible debris in any direction. “No vessels of any kind in sensor range.”
Pressing a small button on the arm console of his chair, the controller said, “Nish`jan-u, you are required.” A quieter voice—an Ithini’s voice—acknowledged. The controller looked on. The Cruiser remained adrift in the void, the space around it silent and cold.
After a minute’s passing, the rear door of the bridge opened. An Ithini drifted into the room, pulling itself forward on wall-mounted handrails. Its opaque eyes found the controller.
“You must connect us to the nearest Earthae upon our arrival,” the controller said as the Ithini, Nish`jan-u, drifted to him. “Do you agree to this?”
Nish`jan-u said nothing.
The controller’s lower lip curled. “I advise you to. Quickly.”
“Controller...” The hesitant voice came from a Golathoch at the navigational console along the far wall. “I am detecting a signature three
g-sigs
113.72.41.9. Minimal light output—too small for a class vessel.”
The controller turned to the helmsman. “Assume tactical control.”
The helmsman acknowledged. Sliding several orbs embedded in his control panel, he caused the system map on his display to be replaced by a closer view of the Cruiser’s immediate vicinity.
The navigator suddenly shouted, “The signature belongs to an Armada beacon!”
Nish`jan-u’s eyes widened.
“Clearance burst detected, two light-seconds aft!” The navigator looked at the rear view screen as a titanic Battleship appeared where empty space had just been. “We have been found!”
Faced with the hand of the Golathochian Armada, the controller engaged the alert function. The ship’s standard lighting shifted from white to violet; a klaxon wailed through the ship’s halls.
The helmsman shifted the Cruiser into tactical skip mode. The ship shuddered, then the forward view changed. The rear of the Battleship appeared on the view screen. At the tactical weapons station, a smaller Golathoch locked onto the Battleship. It disappeared before he could fire, reappearing directly behind them.
The Cruiser shuddered once again, the helmsman engaging its skip drive as soon as the Battleship was poised to strike. This time, instead of reappearing in a position to fire on the Battleship, it emerged from its skip several
g-sigs
away. Within seconds, the Battleship was behind it again.
“Skip us to Earth!” the controller bellowed. The forward view shifted again as the blue planet appeared. But the maneuver was too late. Barely a
g-sig
away on the Cruiser’s starboard side, the massive Battleship fired its neutron cannons. The fleeing Cruiser’s advance to Earth had been anticipated—the mark of a more experienced foe.
The Cruiser was struck just as its atmospheric thrusters engaged. The hit had been glancing, but that was all it took to rupture the Cruiser’s hull and crush its engines. With the reckless momentum of an unassisted entry, the Cruiser was rocked end to end. Zero gravity vanished; the tug of Earth took control. The Cruiser free fell.
Despite the violent jostling, the command crew remained strapped in their seats. The lone exception was Nish`jan-u. The Ithini had been slammed into the wall with skull-crushing force.
The helmsman, eyes bearing down upon fast-approaching continents, struggled to regain control of the ship. Grasping the orbs through gritted teeth, he fought to pull the Cruiser’s nose up. As the auxiliary boosters came to life, the Cruiser’s downward vector began to plane.
The surface was closer now. The planet’s curvature became less definable. But steadily, the nose eased up. The crash was inevitable. It was the severity of the impact that the helmsman was fighting to lessen. If the engines could put out just enough, the crash wouldn’t be devastating. Some of the crew might actually survive. Perhaps some of the animals, too. If the engines could put out just enough...
The Cruiser crashed in the middle of a field. The ground was the last thing anyone in the bridge saw, as the impact left the forward section mangled. But indeed, the crash hadn’t killed them all. Some of the crew, all in other sections of the ship, had actually survived.
And indeed, some of the animals had, too.
* * *
FIFTY MINUTES LATER
C
ATALINA HAD SEEN
it moments before, flitting behind her in her peripherals. Even in the dark, its form was unmistakable: a necrilid. It had scampered out of the Cruiser from a hallway she’d sworn moments before had been clear. Her error was her new obligation—she had to hunt it down. As for why she was completely alone—that error was someone else’s.
“I’m gonna kill you, Peters.” The words escaped from her trembling lips. The Canadian beta private’s armor was stained with blood. Strands of sweat-soaked black hair dangled from her helmet—her brown eyes were focused. As she left the safety of the Cruiser’s interior, she panned her assault rifle to the ship’s outer hull. She spoke into her comm. “This is Private Shivers. I’m tracking one necrilid outside the vessel.”
The response she got was not a pleased one. “I thought you said your section was clear.”
“...I thought it was, sir.”
“Stand by. I’m on my way.”
Something skittered across the top of the hull. Swinging her rifle after the sound, Catalina saw the necrilid bound out of view. It disappeared toward the rear thrusters. “I have visual, in pursuit...”
A female voice crackled through. “Cat, like, didn’t the major just tell you to wait?”
“Not now, Tiff.”
“But you, like—”
“Not now!”
Picking up her pace to track the creature from the ground, Catalina trotted toward the rear of the ship.
It had been the most intense mission she’d ever been on, though that said little considering her inexperience. Nonetheless, five privates had already been killed. She had no intention of being number six. Originally, she’d been paired with another soldier: Mark Peters. They were put together often, and usually formed a capable duo. But not this time. Against her advisement, he’d left her behind to assist another team. He was a good soldier, but he had a rebel streak in him. The two had developed somewhat of a working rivalry—and maybe a little something else, too.
Stopping by the rear thrusters, she put some distance between herself and the Cruiser. The craft had apparently been shot in the rear section, or at least that much could be assumed by the massive holes in its hull. Looking upward, she tried to spot the creature on the roof. But nothing was there.
“Where are you?” she asked the necrilid, swallowing. “C’mon...come down.” She adjusted her visor for thermal imaging.
Thump.
The Canadian froze. The sound hadn’t come from the roof, or from anywhere near the Cruiser. It came from right behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know what it was. But turn, she did—quickly.
She saw it the moment she’d come around. The necrilid’s body, warm in thermal imaging, cocked itself back. Its knees bent in preparation to strike. It opened its mouth.
The shot came out of nowhere. The necrilid’s head burst open, erupting in a crimson explosion. The alien’s corpse collapsed to the ground.
Mouth still opened in shock, Catalina spun around, aiming her assault rifle at the roof of the Cruiser. No necrilids were there.
“That was the only one.”
Even though the voice was familiar, it still made her flinch. Lowering her assault rifle, Catalina forced her stomach back down her throat. Then she faced him. He was walking straight toward her, his sniper rifle shouldered. The major.
“I watched it leap right over you from the roof while you were turning on your thermal,” Tacker said. “In another second, you’d have been dead.”
“I’m sorry, sir—”
“Don’t apologize to me,” he cut her off. “Apologize to your parents. They lost their daughter because she couldn’t follow commands.”
Her shoulders sagged.
“Where’s Peters?”
She gathered her pride—at least enough to pin the blame on someone else. “He left me to help Pierce and Masters, sir.”
“So is this all his fault?”
It was a trick question; it always was with him. “No, sir. I should have listened to you and held my position.”
For several seconds, Tacker said nothing. Finally, he nodded his head. “Feathers,” he said through the comm, “prep the ship. We won’t be here long.”
The same woman who’d spoken to Catalina earlier answered him. “Yes, sir.”
Catalina knew she was dismissed without Tacker having to say it. He had a way of ignoring those he was done with. She waited several seconds, just to be sure, until his attention went somewhere else. He now stared squarely at the Cruiser’s damaged hull.
She walked away in silence.
Inside the Cruiser, Colonel Brent Lilan of Falcon Platoon shouldered his assault rifle. Eleven Ceratopians killed in combat—that made twenty altogether. In a wrecked Cruiser, twenty sounded right. “White, check the bodies. Caldwell, Doucet, clear the silo and signal the sweep.”
“Yes sir!”
The colonel pulled off his helmet. His gray crew cut was damp with sweat. He wiped his forehead and spoke through his comm. “What’s it like out there, major?”
Tacker’s answer crackled through. “We’re clear, sir. Sweeper team should be good.”
“How’d we do?”
“Five dead, two wounded, one crit.”
“Veck.”
Between Charlie and Delta Squads, that was too many. “Have Rhodes patch up the crit. I’m gonna check out these ‘Topians.”
A moment passed before Tacker replied. “It’s Smith now, sir.”
“What?”
“Rhodes was transferred to Hawk two weeks ago. Our medic is Frank Smith, now.”
Lilan placed his hands on his hips in disgust. Tacker was right. She had gone to Colonel Young’s crew. He’d completely forgotten.
“Sir, there’s something else I need to talk to you about...”
“Yeah, go ahead.” Lilan’s tone indicated his frustration. He couldn’t keep track of anyone anymore. Falcon Platoon was a revolving door—a unit whose sole purpose was to wet the feet of new Academy grads. Outside of a few pleasant surprises, like Charlie Squad’s Peters and Shivers, he had almost nothing to work with.
There was a lag in Tacker’s response. Something was wrong. “Remind me to recalibrate my rifle when we get back to base, colonel. It aims down and to the right.”
Lilan stopped walking. Tacker’s words weren’t a literal statement. They were code. A “recalibration reminder” was a request for his immediate presence. “Down and right” instructed him where: the rear starboard side of the Cruiser. Something was happening that Tacker didn’t want on record.
“Will do,” the colonel answered. “Lilan out.”
The Cruiser had landed on somebody’s farmland. In the distance, the farmer was shouting hysterically, angry about the damage to his property. Lilan understood the man’s irritation, but he wasn’t about to apologize—not for doing his job.
Tacker was waiting at the starboard side of the ship. Donald Bell was with him. With Rhodes gone, the black demolitionist was the only remaining holdout from the Falcon Platoon of months before—Tacker aside.
“How’s it goin’, coach?” Donald asked. He and his friends always referred to Lilan that way.
“It’s going.” Lilan shifted his attention to Tacker. “What do we have, major?”
Tacker gave Lilan a knowing look. “You need to see for yourself.” He glanced at Donald. “Keep the privates away.”
The demolitionist turned to corral the other operatives.
Lilan followed Tacker to the back of the ship. “What am I looking for?”