CHAPTER 1
“Present the prisoner.”
An Imperial Marine standing next to the table nodded almost imperceptibly to acknowledge the order. Without turning, the marine at the rear of the room reached out and touched a control panel on the wall and the door at the rear of the common room slid open.
Standing just outside the door was an officer wearing the blue and gray of the Imperial Navy. His uniform was wrinkled, his jet-black hair uncombed. More than one set of healed bruises partially hid the chiseled features that at one time made him a distinguished figure. He wore a grey jumpsuit and his hands and legs were restrained by the traditional set of irons.
At just under 2 meters, he was taller than the two marines escorting him into the room. His two guards shoved him roughly forward and he began to fall but caught his balance and shuffled to the front of the room, maintaining as much of a military posture as his shackles would allow. When he stood in front of the three flag officers sitting at the table he braced to attention, pulling at his uniform to straighten it, more out of habit than any hope he could have any real effect on the wrinkles. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the ringing of the ship’s bell -- three sets of two short rings, a tradition that went straight back to the sailing ships of old Earth.
“This court martial is reconvened,” said Capt. David Thomlinson as he laid the ceremonial hammer on the table. Thomlinson, in the center seat, was commanding officer of the Imperial Navy Heavy Cruiser Jakar’s Sword. On Thomlinson’s left was Capt. Sharon Zawarski of the carrier Islandia. On his right was Fleet Admiral Tobias Schwan.
“Commander Whittaker Davis, you stand before this court martial charged with treason and negligence in the loss of Light Cruiser Samson, and the resultant death of 136 crew members. This court has heard evidence that you were working in concert with the Nazarth, providing them with information that allowed them to plan the so-called ambush that resulted in the loss of the Samson and other Imperial ships.
Thomlinson paused and took a sip of water. A large man with a ruddy complexion and a full beard, the Sword’s CO did not relish the duty he was forced to fulfill. He had recommended Davis for command of the Samson and the ship had been part of Thomlinson’s attack group. All of which meant Davis’s court martial was required to be held on board the Jakar’s Sword. Davis stood in shackles in the very common room in which he had received his commander’s braid not quite a year ago.
“Sir, if . . .,” Davis began, but Thomlinson cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“We’ve heard your testimony,” Thomlinson said. “But unfortunately, Lieutenant Commander Rolehan is not available to back you up. He may indeed be adrift in a rescue pod somewhere, but if he isn’t dead already, he will be soon -- it’s been three weeks.”
Davis was forced to concede Thomlinson’s point -- rescue pods had enough oxygen and food to keep four people alive for a few days. Even if Rolehan were alone in a pod, the oxygen would be running out, if it hadn’t already.
“This board has reached its decision.”
Thomlinson looked to Jawarski, a petite blond, who nodded her final confirmation of the decision the officers had already reached in private. Schwan, a tall-thin man with a hawk-like nose and a pasty complexion also nodded slightly.
“The members of this tribunal find that you betrayed your shipmates, the Navy and the Imperium and declare you guilty as charged,” Thomlinson said. He stood and slowly walked around the table to face Davis. He reached up and took hold of Davis’s commanders braids and roughly ripped them from his uniform. “You are sentenced to death. Sentence to be carried out at 0600 hours ship’s time tomorrow.”
Thomlinson dropped the braids and Davis’s feet turned and walked back around the table. He picked up the hammer and again rang the ship’s bell. “This court stands adjourned. May whatever God you hold dear have mercy on your soul.”
Thomlinson turned his back on Davis. The other two officers that had made up the court martial rose and did the same. The marine guards took Davis by the arms and walked him to the rear of the room. As Davis walked up the aisle, people he had previously counted as friends stood with the rest of those in attendance, crossed their arms and turned their backs.
Each individual Davis was led past on the way from the common room to the brig in the bowels of the ship repeated the ritual. Davis didn’t respond, just stared straight ahead as he allowed himself to be led through the ship’s corridors. And of course, the guards took the longest route possible.
Finally they arrived and the guards shoved Davis roughly into one of the cells. One guard removed the irons while the other casually let his hand rest on his pulse pistol. Once the irons were removed, the guards stepped back.
“Wait,” one of the marines said as the security officer on duty reached for the switch that activated the force field. The marine grabbed a plain gray coverall from a near-by table and tossed Davis who let it fall to the floor next to him.
“You don’t deserve that uniform, even with the braids torn off,” he said. “Put that on.”
When Davis made no motion toward the clothing, the Marine removed his pulse-pistol from his holster.
“Now.”
Davis was reasonably sure the marine wouldn’t shoot him and deprive the rest of the crew the pleasure of seeing him take a swim in space. But he also knew that if any opportunity presented itself, he needed to have his wits about him, and that would not be the case if he were recovering from a close-range blast from a pulse-pistol.
He glanced at the security officer, an Ensign Marcelle as he recalled, as he removed the torn uniform shirt to reveal a muscular chest and arms, and a rather unusual scar that ran up his right neck to a point just below his ear. The ensign blushed slightly and sat down, trying very hard to keep from watching as Davis stripped down then put on the coverall.
“The uniform, kick it over here, and keep it on the floor,” the marine said, indicating with his pistol where the garment should end up. Davis complied, gently nudging what had once given him so much pride across the floor so it lay just in front of the marine. A moment later the force field shimmered into place.
Without another word, the two marines turned and walked out of the brig, dumping Davis’s uniform in the disposal chute. Davis rubbed the circulation back into his wrists as he looked around. What he was looking for, he wasn’t quite sure. He knew the brig cells were virtually escape proof. Unless someone turned off the force field, he wasn’t going anywhere.
“It’s Ensign Marcelle, isn’t it,” he said.
Natalie Marcelle looked up from the DataPad she was reading and glared.
“The prisoner will not attempt to engage the security officer on duty with idle conversation,” she said, and then returned to her reading.
“Glad to see you can quote regulations, ensign.”
Davis walked over to the force field and touched it, reflexively jerking his hand back. The field coalesced where it was touched and the hum grew for a moment.
“Don’t do that,” the ensign said.
“Careful ensign,” Davis replied. “You might end up having an idle conversation with me.”
Marcelle swallowed to avoid allowing a smile to show. Davis was known for his even treatment of all the crew, from officers down to the ensigns and crewmen.
“Look, Marcelle, in about 14 hours I’m going to take a long walk in a short airlock. I just want to have . . ”
Davis never finished the sentence as the deck of the Sword was knocked out from under him. The lights in the brig dimmed momentarily but came back accompanied by flashing lights, the klaxon and the voice of the XO on shipwide broadcast.
“Red Alert, Red Alert, all hands to battle stations. This is not a drill. Repeat -- all hands to battle stations.”
“What’s going on?”
“Don’t know, my comm’s down,” Marcelle replied as she grabbed her pulse pistol and started to leave for her battle post.
“Wait, you can’t leave me here. Lower the force field so I can get out if I have to.”
The ensign almost laughed. “No way, sir, and you know better. If anything happens, they can drop the field from the bridge.”
She bolted from the brig, not giving Davis a chance to press her further.
“I need emergency power to the defensive grids NOW,” roared Capt. Thomlinson from his command chair in the center of Sword’s main bridge. “Tactical, what the hell is going on out there?”
“We’ve got multiple contacts, all on different vectors,” the tactical officer replied. “They’re Nazarth fighters, and they’re swarming.”
“Wonderful,” Thomlison said as he spun in his chair toward the CONN officer. “Mr. Jackson, get us out of orbit and get me some maneuvering room. McNamara, point defenses on automatic, try and keep them from getting too close.”
“Aye sir, point defenses on auto,” the weapons officer replied.
On the exterior of the Sword, protective covers rolled back to reveal the battleship’s primary defensive mechanism -- point defense laser cannons that automatically targeted any object determined by the ship’s AI to pose a threat. The cannon’s were capable of launching nearly a dozen terrawatt bursts of energy a second at any incoming ship.
Which was exactly why the insectoid Nazarth’s swarming strategy was somewhat effective against imperial ships. Sheer numbers often overpowered the ability of even the near-sentient imperial AIs to track every incoming ship making each ship more of a manned missile than a fighter as the vast majority of the enemy fighters were destroyed before they could fire and those that made it close enough to fire were usually destroyed before they could make a second run.
When the Nazarth swarm ships first began attacking Imperial interests 245 standard years ago, the Imperium thought it would just outlast the bugs. But it seemed that no matter how many fighters were knocked out of the sky in each battle, wave after wave appeared to continue the attack. The Nazarth pilots had no concept of self-preservation, everything was for the hive and for the Nazarth queen -- information that Imperial security officers were able to obtain from the rare Nazarth captive.
And it was this hive mentality that made the species seem even more alien to the humans than just their insect-like appearance. At least the Reptilian Gorth shared human concepts of society and law and the value of the individual life.
“Status,” Thomlinson barked.
“PD is holding off the initial wave, but long range sensors indicate another more massive assault squadron on its way,” said Ens. Marshall, the tac officer.
“ETA?”
“Two minutes, sir.”
“Are they trying to rescue Davis,” the captain wondered out loud.
“Not likely, sir,” said XO Cliff Sparrow. “Even assuming Davis was involved with them . . .”
The Captain shot Sparrow a look to let him know he was treading on thin ice even mentioning the disgraced officer.
“It’s unlikely they would attempt a rescue,” Sparrow continued, not backing down under his COs gaze. “Davis would be just another drone to them.”
“Perhaps,” Thomlinson, just before the Sword was rocked by several impacts of Nazarth missiles. “Get me the Islandia”
“On-screen,” the comm officer announced after establishing a communications link. The view stabilized on the carrier’s bridge and the ship’s XO in the command chair.
“Commander Hope has Capt. Zawarski returned.”
“I’m here, David,” Sharon said as she walked into view. The XO immediately stepped to the side to allow her captain to sit down in the center seat.
“Good. Have your fighters launched?” Thomlinson asked, trying to establish an official reason for the communication.
Zawarski looked at her XO who nodded. “Of course, Captain, they should be engaging the enemy as we speak.”
“Good to hear it, Thomlinson out,” he said, indicating to the comm officer to close the channel.
“OK Mr. McNamara, let’s heat things up a bit. Bring all . . .
Before he could finish, the Sword was rocked by a series of hits as several Nazarth swarm ships broke through the defensive perimeter. Several consoles on the main bridge exploded in a shower of sparks. The main lights went out and the bridge was immediately bathed in the red glow of emergency lights.
Davis had been standing close to the force field that kept him in the brig when the ship was hit and the main power went down. The blast also knocked him across his cell, stunning him momentarily.
Davis raised himself up on one elbow and shook his head to clear it. When he saw the brig was on emergency power he pulled himself to his feet and carefully reached out to see if the force field was in place. When his hand moved through the space where the field should be, he quickly walked into the main brig area.
Well, that’s a bit of luck, Davis thought as he looked around the room. He spotted the weapons locker and started for it, hoping its locking mechanism would also be off-line. But just as he reached for the door there was a noticeable hum as the main power came back on and the red lights were replaced by white. He grabbed the locker door anyway and pulled, but it held fast.
“Damn,” Davis said. “Well, let’s see if the old Davis luck continues to hold.”
Davis strode quickly to the door and palmed it open. He looked into the corridor and found it empty.
“So far, so good.”
Davis crept through the door and started walking toward the shuttle bay. He listened intently for any sound of approaching crew but knew that for the most part everyone would be at battle stations and shouldn’t be wandering around corridors at this level.
But his luck didn’t quite hold, as he heard approaching footsteps. He looked around quickly trying to find a hiding place, knowing full well that with the ship at red alert all crew members would be armed, and he wasn’t. The only place he could find was the bank of escape pods located in an adjacent corridor. He quickly sprinted over to the row of pods and activated the nearest one. It seemed to take an eternity for the access hatch to open fully, but it did and Davis nearly dove inside, slapping the close switch even before he could pull his feet through. The door closed and latched.
Davis tried to scrunch down into the pod as far as he could to avoid being seen by the two ensigns that jogged past, but they were too busy with their own concerns and didn’t even notice the soft click of the pod’s hatch securing itself.
“Well, a shuttle would be better, but this would be one way off this tub,” Davis said. “But the timing has to be perfect.”
Davis activated the pod’s system and brought the sensors on-line. The ongoing battle was going well for the Imperial Navy. Most of the swarm ships were being destroyed well short of their targets. While he didn’t want to see anyone aboard the Sword killed, Davis knew he needed a group of Nazarth to break through to create a distraction to cover his escape.
As if in answer to his request, a Nazarth hive ship dropped out of hyper and disgorged a huge swarm of fighters. The swarm made a beeline for the Sword and its battery of PD cannons. About half of the swarm was stopped, but the rest broke through. Davis waited, his finger poised over the launch button.
“This is going to be a rough ride,” he said.
Davis watched the incoming fighters. When he gauged the timing to be right, he punched the button to start the pod’s one minute launch sequence.
When the countdown on the control panel hit zero, the bolts holding the pod in place exploded milliseconds after the Sword was hit by incoming fire. The pod’s engines ignited a second later, propelling the tiny craft into space.
The irony of his dodging death on the same kind of pod his former XO supposedly died in wasn’t lost on Davis as the tiny ship rocketed toward the nearby planet. Davis’s only hope was that when he landed, the natives would be friendly.
