Novels2Search

Act Three: Part I

Act Three

Adrift

Part I

The void was quiet. Too quiet, to employ the cliche. The quiet rang through reality. The silence deafened, tore and stabbed and stretched, breaking at his senses until his senses simply shut down in protest.

Nothing made sense.

That was it, wasn’t it?

Nothing.

Nothing was hammering away at his brain, hitting out at him again and again. Nothing was pushing at the edges of his perception, screaming in his ear and yet utterly absent, silent, empty, gone, gone, gone…

Who am I? a thought raced through his mind. His thought? He couldn’t tell, he didn’t know. Why am I here? Where is here? What is here?!

Fear tore at his mind, and he frantically groped about his mind, searching for whatever was left of his sanity, until… until what? What was left? Was anything left?

Was anything left?

Was there anything to begin with, or was it all merely a facade, a lie I told myself?

No! We are… you are…

Who are you?

Who am I?

His mind gave him no answers in the long, dark silence.

***

SES Legacy, Februn 17th, 3730.

The Solarin Empire Starship Legacy arrived at the edge of the Great Desolation almost quietly: the space around it empty, silent as the grave.

A poor omen.

The Legacy hung in the blackness of the infinite void like a silver arrowhead floating in a deep pool, a point of glinting metal and red-painted accents in an otherwise featureless space. So small she seemed that a casual observer might have feared that the space around her would just swallow her up. That fear was certainly shared by her crew.

Scuttlebutt throughout the ship had already done its cruel work: rumours of an invasion of dæmons or monsters from the Great Desolation abounded, conveniently ignoring the fact that dæmons were a fairy tale (not to mention that such an invasion would call for far more than a single Valiant-class cruiser as a response), and that as much of an unknown as the great Desolation was, it was not officially home to dæmons, monsters or worse.

Still, by the time they had actually reached the coordinates of the distress beacon they were answering, the whole ship was permeated with a sense of unease, one that could even be felt on the vessel’s bridge, and even by her commanding officer.

Captain Reyla Dyjar’s ears were standing straight atop her head, her fur bristling with disquiet and her wide, yellow eyes unblinking as she stared at the observation screen. The Vyde has to force herself not to hold her breath in anticipation.

Next to her, she could see her XO, Commander Omar-3, sitting stiffly, even his normally calm expression tinged with unease. In fact, the dark-skinned, gene-modded human was positively frowning. Such a display was almost unheard-of for a man from the planet Mode, so set they were in creating perfect humans, free from such things as doubt and fear.

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

If even a damn Modal is scared, then we’re skekked, Dyjar thought, but she didn’t say it aloud. She was the Captain after all. And that means we must be more than merely Vyde, she admonished herself. It was a lesson she had drilled into herself a thousand times. Be aloof, be strong, be ready. Even when you are not. Especially when you are not.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and then she spoke, putting as much reassurance and authority into her voice as she could.

“Report.”

“I’m still picking up the automated beacon, Captain,” her comscan officer, another Vyde by the name of Lyrak, reported, frowning at his console. His console let out its usual bleeps and bloops, which – despite their somewhat insistent nature – Dyjar found oddly comforting. “Registers as the SES Babel, a science-corp vessel.”

“The Babel was reassigned last year,” Omar-3 said quietly to her. Trust him to know that immediately. “The research was highly classified, as I recall.”

“Might explain what in the hells they’re doing here,” Dyjar replied, scowling. “I can’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to come to the Great Desolation unless they were ordered to.”

“I concur,” Omar-3 agreed. He looked back at the screen, frowning. “May I recommend we take the ship to action stations, Captain?”

“You think that’s a necessary precaution?” Dyjar queried.

“I think we’re responding to a distress signal from a ship at the edge of the Great Desolation,” Omar-3 replied, still speaking softly. “That, in and of itself, suggests caution would be apt.”

Dyjar nodded. “Very well.”

Omar-3 gave a very slight smile, before turning to his own console. He tapped a command.

“This is the bridge,” he said, his words echoing slightly through the Legacy’s comm system. “Action stations. All hands, man your posts at once. This is not a drill. Say again, all hands to action stations.”

A loud klaxon sounded – once, twice, a third time – and every officer on the bridge stiffened, suddenly acutely aware of exactly how serious this situation had become.

Omar-3 glanced at Dyjar, who nodded at him, before he turned to their weapons officer. She was a Sevine woman named Daun; the stringy flesh-strands that sat where hair did on humans were tied back in a ponytail, and her normally blue skin was turning a shade of mottled grey as her emotions bled through.

“Charge particle cannons to full, raise defence fields,” Omar-3 said quietly.

“Aye, sir,” Daun replied shakily, checking her console. Her skin turned even darker grey. “Weapons at ready, defence fields powering to full strength.”

Omar-3 nodded. “Thank you, Daun.” He checked his console one more time, then turned to Dyjar. “All decks report at action stations, Captain.”

Dyjar let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. “Thank you, Commander.”

She tapped her armrest computer, bringing up the manifest of the SES Babel. Right at the top was a report about the Babel’s Captain, Uriel Locke: the image was of a stern man, mid forties, blue eyes, and a blue science-fleet uniform that looked immensely wrong on him. A brief skim-read of his record showed no sign of anything that might have convinced him to go rogue and take his ship into the Great Desolation for skeks and giggles. Then again, as anyone even peripherally familiar with that expanse of space knew, that was no guarantee that he hadn’t just spontaneously gone mad instead.

She straightened, before getting out of her chair. “Scan for the Babel.”

“The ship isn’t coming up on scans, Captain,” Lyrak said, still frowning. “No debris, either. Correction,” he said, turning a dial on his console, “there is some debris, but not enough to account for a ship. Looks like a couple of destroyed evac pods.”

Dyjar nodded, accepting the grim news. “Any survivors?”

“There’s… I think I’m picking up one intact pod, Captain,” Lyran said. “Just the one. Registering a single life signal, human.”

“Activate tractor field, bring them in,” Dyjar said quietly. She looked at Omar-3, who was frowning. “Commander?”

“Hopefully this survivor will be able to give us some information,” Omar-3 said without elaborating. He looked at her. “If it’s all the same to you, Captain, I’d like to be there when they pull them out.”

“Of course,” Dyjar said, her eyes now focused on the observation screen.

As Omar-3 walked out of the bridge, Dyjar found herself wondering just what could have happened to the Babel. Her mind provided only the worst thoughts, and she suppressed them.

Do not let fear guide you. She marshalled herself. You are Captain. You guide fear.

It was a lie, one of many, but a comforting one.

***