Brimstone Sector, Arcbird R-721

Adams thought she caught the initial reaction flash of the EMP, but she’d been told very specifically to wait, and she didn’t doubt the Admiral’s expertise in the slightest. Sure enough, a few seconds later, the remnants of a massive power surge washed over her ship, briefly flooding the systems and powering them up before it left her again in perfect darkness. That was the specified signal.

She reached out and began to power her craft back up, watching the lights of her comrades’ ships blink on one by one in the darkness. The EMP had mostly dissipated into the void by the time it reached them. With their ships powered off, it had stood little chance of doing any damage and the starting batteries had retained their charge.

All according to plan. Fireball swallowed, trying to remember that this plan had been designed by one of the finest tacticians in the worlds. I’ll be fine. She had to trust that the Admiral knew what he was doing. “Everyone, check in.” She ordered.

The pilots’ confirmation of startup rang through her helmet radio. Nine. That was everyone. “Alright, here we go.” She engaged the main engines of her craft, boosting forward as she was flanked by her comrades. “You all know the drill. Warhawks paint the target and pierce the armor, Arcbirds check the perimeter and finish the job.”

“10-4.” Her squadron said.

The acceleration was burdensome, crushing, but just shy of being painful. At that rate, the remnants of the battle were in sight in just over a minute. As ordered, the Arcbirds split, two moving in opposite directions to secure the perimeter. They would meet on the opposite side of the battlefield while Adams herself shadowed the Warhawks’ attack run.

Squadron 26 greeted them with darkness. The engines, the hull lights and the infrared target sights were all gone, dead. They’d been killed by the Singularity’s EMP, but the ships themselves drifted linearly onward as the nebula’s resistance slowed them at an irrelevant rate.

The Singularity herself had vanished into the distance, leisurely decelerating until the inertial dampeners came back online. Once that happened, the ship would make a sudden reappearance to confirm Squadron 26’s condition.

“Here we go!” one of the Warhawk pilots cheered, painting targets with his infrared indicators. “Like fish in a barrel.” With the click of a button, he loosed a pair of missiles from the mounts under the wing of his craft. Their own guidance systems kicked in, the thrust vents popping open as they rocketed away.

The move was mirrored by the other Warhawks, now scattered among the drifting battleships. Slowly at first, the missiles began to accelerate towards their targets. The propulsion wakes they left behind made it a dangerous dance of white ribbons. Inching towards the battleships in apparent slow motion, the weapons met no challenge.

The first detonation was a lonely orange welt until others rose up behind it in silent, uniform flashes. From Adams’ perspective, it was so peaceful. Without the usual chaos of combat, the carnage was a thing of beauty. Without having to fight for her life, constantly dipping and dodging, she could watch the shimmering debris spiral slowly away like leaves on an autumn wind. As slow and calm as it seemed from her distance, it was magnificent.

Adams’ wingman laughed wildly, “That’s three more for the Lady Sin, you spineless Eran monkeys!”

Not yet, it isn’t. “Donut, form up, we’re doing our run.” The Arcbirds’ heavy blasters would carve out a nice chunk of ship in all the strategic places where the missiles had just pierced the armor. Squadron 26 would not be able to repair their communications, navigations, weapons or sensor capability within the next day. All according to plan, she knew it was.

So why did this suddenly feel wrong?

Donut off her starboard wingtip, she approached the nearest ship. Its name was emblazoned on the flank, glowing in the light of the nebula’s core: Firon. She remembered it vaguely, some ship they’d handed the Neutral Zone patrol over to a few times. The crew had seemed decent enough, a memory that now gave her stomach twinges of discomfort.

What was she doing firing on this ship? How had things come this far in a few days? The Firon’s crew had been decent, average sailors, some of many that served under Command. The ship hadn’t been special, not in the way that the Singularity, the Olympia and their respective crews were, but she’d been a decent ship – one now caught on the other side of a coup.

Did the Firon’s crew even know what had happened on Ariea? Did they realize that the centralized government and Command had fallen under the Erans’ control?

Likely not.

Fireball shook her head. Don’t think about it, she told herself. It was do or die out here.

“Fireball, this is Butterfly,” the radio in her helmet crackled, pulling her away from darkening thoughts. “Something’s weird here. Something’s really weird.”

Fireball swallowed, trying to fill the growing pit in her stomach. All according to plan. “What is it, Butterfly?”

“I’m off the Iko’s stern, swooped by the obs. decks to mock the pitiful bastards, but there’s nobody there.”

“So what, Butterfly?” Donut snorted, “Maybe they didn’t want to watch you stroke your ego. They probably have better things to do, like fix their ship.”

“No, this is weird.” Butterfly was certain of nothing except that. “I swept all the windows on the Iko’s bow and, Firon too. They’re empty. They’re all empty. No movement. No emergency lights. It’s just dark.”

“Hear me out, buddy, tinted windows,” Donut said. “That way if people look at a nearby star, they’re not instantly blinded.” Weird how things work in space.

“I saw some electrical shorts, remnants of the EMP, but nobody was fixing them. No one had even cut them off from the grid.” Basic damage control wasn’t being done on the Firon or the Iko, though there had been plenty of time to start. “Where the hell are the crews?”

Fireball raised her gaze to the torn armor ahead of her. Flames licked around the damage. No fire suppressors had been activated. On a ship like the Firon, that could be activated from CIC with a simple command. So why hadn’t they been?

What had stopped the crew?

Aboard the Singularity, systems were back online without a hiccup. It was all going suspiciously well from Zarrey’s point of view. Squadron 26 had been successfully neutralized by the EMP and their support craft were finishing the job. “Well, that was easy.”

Too easy, the Admiral mused. Usually, even his best plans didn’t go off without a hitch, and this had not been among his best. He toned out the noise of the crew, using the sounds of the ship to help him think.

There was no such thing as a perfect plan. There were always unknown variables. Now was no exception. He had designed the plan to work, of course, but he had never expected it to work flawlessly. He’d expected to end up in a reckless battle of broadsides without targeting systems. He wasn’t complaining, but it was odd. The Singularity might be his lucky charm, but she really wasn’t very lucky. She was a strong, exceptionally reliable ship that had fought through her entire history. And this, this didn’t feel like a fight. It felt like they’d been handed victory. And nobody, least of all a hypersmart AI, handed over victory without other intention.

“Remain at Condition One,” he ordered, hearing Zarrey start giving orders to stand down.

The XO turned, hearing the Admiral break a long silence. “Your paranoia getting the best of you?”

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It was only paranoia if he turned out to be wrong. “Train the active sensors on the Firon. Check for anomalies.”

Maria Galhino worked her controls, adjusting the focus distance of the active sensors. “It would help if I knew what I was looking for, sir.” Was she checking for unusual equipment? Surviving power signatures?

“Anomalies.” It could be anything. Something wasn’t right here. They had to figure out what before the trap was sprung. “Helm, all ahead full. Get us there.” He wouldn’t leave their pilots out there alone.

“Aye, sir.” Jazmine said, edging up the throttle. “I have noticed some damage on the helm’s wiring. It might cause some unreliability.” He’d noticed the tangled mess while replacing the battery. While the helm seemed to be operating normally, he was required to report it.

“Understood,” the Admiral answered, knowing full well the extent of that damage. He could trust the ship to function. That was the one thing he always trusted. Under extreme duress, crew, in his experience, was less reliable.

No doubt, they were conflicted. Having to fire on former comrades that may or may not know the extent of Command’s corruption was troubling. There were soldiers and sailors on those ships who had no idea that the New Era had taken control. They had no way to know the Erans’ intent to drive humanity back to civil war, and they had no way to know that the Erans’ plans for an idealized humanity supported selective slaughter. Some knew the truth. Some didn’t. Some were corrupted by Manhattan.

There wasn’t any way to tell the difference. Even the ghost’s telepathy couldn’t distinguish the truths of unfamiliar minds. While sensitive to their emotions and sometimes their immediate intentions, she was not all knowing, and what she felt now was wrong.

She was accustomed to resentment, to anger. When people saw the Singularity, that was often forefront in most of their minds. In battle, those emotions intensified. Resentment often shifted into fear and anger boiled into fury. These days, enemies were torn, some consumed by fear of the Singularity’s past crimes, and others furious that the old ship would dare challenge them. When the Admiral guided her to another victory, those emotions usually collapsed into self-loathing for being too scared or being too confident.

But his victory over Squadron 26 had only intensified the anger. The emotion hadn’t collapsed into self-disappointment. It had risen into hatred. It churned and boiled, as toxic as poison to the surrounding space. No matter how the ghost tried to turn from it, to ignore it, it seeped in. It ate past her feeble barriers, a gnawing, hungry presence that was growing ever stronger.

Her instincts brought her to Admiral Gives. Among all this hatred, this confliction, he was calm. His mind was familiar to her, a point of retreat. ‘Something’s wrong.’

It was unusual for her to disturb him during combat. Unless it was important, she tended to let him focus on the situation at hand. ‘I know.’

‘No.’ He didn’t know. He had no idea. The very sensation of this hatred burned. Against her, it was a damaging attack. ‘I’ve never felt something this powerful.’ It was pure and harsh, weaponized intent. ‘It’s a perfect hatred.’ This wasn’t the chorus of a thousand angry minds. It was one. It was the feel of an enormously powerful presence. One that felt nothing but hate.

She, suffering from old scars and prior damage, was nothing in comparison. Danger!

Admiral Gives grabbed the nearest handset, knowing his standing orders to Robinson kept it hooked up for an instant, general broadcast. “All ships, break, break,” he ordered. “Get out of there now.”

But his warning came too late.

Dark and suffocating, a tangible fear had seeped onto the bridge, and a sudden hush filled the air as the crew stared at the viewscreen, unable to tear their eyes away.

It happened so slowly. Squadron 26 ballooned outward, the ships’ superstructures twisting apart. Orange blossoms ruptured from below the hull armor, and geysers of fire spewed into the void, only growing stronger and more numerous. Decompressions carried the pillars of fire outward, precious oxygen feeding the flames. Then in an instant, it became an inferno. All three ships exploded violently outward.

The surrounding space became an instantaneous maelstrom of debris that would shred anything in its midst apart. It was all they could do to watch the chaos. Over and over again, debris crashed together and pulled apart, the dance hypnotizing.

For a long moment, Zarrey stared blankly at the disaster, “Stars.” Over eight hundred sailors and Marines flew on a Keeper-class ship. He’d just watched over two thousand people die – all gone in an instant.

The Admiral tightened his grip on the handset. “Get a SAR bird in the air, now,” he commanded without hesitation. Nine pilots. He’d launched nine pilots on this mission. Tactically, he knew their lives didn’t matter. They had more pilots – not many – but they could stand a few losses. Yet those lives did matter. They were members of the Singularity’s crew. They mattered to the ghost, and they mattered to him. Only poor tacticians had to forfeit lives. He could, would do better than that.

Remembering the unusual weight of the handset, he brought it up, “All ships, this is Actual. Check in.” He knew their names. He knew every single one of them. They were just kids, kids who’d been dragged into their predecessors’ ridiculous war. “Repeat, all ships, check in.” He closed his eyes for a moment, pleading with those kids, don’t make me bring you home in a casket. He’d already seen enough loss. They might fear him, or hate him, but they were still his crew. They were his responsibility.

It took a long moment, but the first pilot answered, “Butterfly here, Actual. I’m a little battered, but I’m all right.”

Others followed in his wake, reading out damage and injuries. The Admiral forced his usual calm. The bridge crew would find him unconcerned, even think him cruel for it, but emotions were a risk. Emotional people made mistakes and mistakes only got more people killed. It was a vicious cycle, one he refused to fall victim to.

“Base, this is Donut. I’ve lost all thrust control. I’ll need assistance.”

In the background Admiral Gives heard Robinson acknowledge and relay the situation to the search and rescue craft. Eight. Eight pilots had checked in. They were one short. “Donut, this is Actual, where is your wingman?”

“I don’t know, Actual. Fireball made the last attack run on the Firon by herself.” Adams had sensed something was off and waived the other ships away.

The Firon was Squadron 26’s command ship. She’d been at the center of their triad. Adams had probably been caught in the midst of the detonations. “Lieutenant,” he turned to Galhino, “get me a full active sensor sweep of the wreckage. Check for any signs of life. Find Captain Adams.”

It was extremely unlikely anyone had survived those detonations in close proximity. “Sir-”

“Do it,” the Admiral said, sharpening his tone, “or I will.” He was very well capable of running that console himself, and he didn’t care that the active sensors were looking for Fairlocke’s damned civilian fleet. The life of one of their own was far more important.

The bridge crew looked grim, but none rose to Galhino’s defense, even if she stood on the side of reason. Logical as the Admiral tended to be, nothing stood above his loyalty to the ship, and he would not allow the Singularity to lose one of her crewmen today. He refused.

It took Zarrey by surprise to see the Admiral be so defensive. Cruel as it could be, he was usually the first to acknowledge their casualties. True, proper acceptance of loss prevented further casualties, but with the Admiral’s general stoicism, it was generally regarded as an unwelcome lack of concern.

However, Zarrey could sense the frost gathering in the air. Without a visible hint of anger, it was clear that if Adams didn’t make it back alive, someone would feel his wrath. Zarrey gulped, certain of their fate.

Above, the speakers on the bridge crackled, relaying a radio transmission. “Actual, Butterfly here, you’re going to want to see this.”

The Admiral was quick to acknowledge his wavering tone. Wrought with horror, the pilot sounded almost sick. “Tap into visual broadcast.” For security reasons, they usually didn’t maintain a live link to any of their support craft for any reason. That would leave the systems of both ships open to cyber infiltration, which had been a hard-learned lesson for humanity back in the Hydrian War.

“Aye, sir,” came the confirmation.

The yeoman operating the controls for the bridge’s screen switched the manual input for the feeds, revealing the transmission from Butterfly’s Warhawk. Zarrey pursed his lips, “We knew there’d be dead, Butterfly.” Each of Squadron 26’s ships would have flown with over eight hundred sailors. Likely, there were two thousand corpses drifting out among the wreckage.

“Look at them.” There was more than ice, more than surprise on their faces. There were lines, and lines of red. It patterned the visible skin on not just one corpse, but every single one within sight. “Those aren’t burn wounds.” Butterfly wasn’t sure what they were.

“Have the SAR team collect a set of samples. I want them brought aboard for analysis.”

“What?” Zarrey startled. “Are you nuts? Look at them! If that’s a disease, we sure as fuck don’t want to be exposed!” That was a nightmarish rash.

“If that is a disease then it has surprisingly adequate knowledge on how to simultaneously detonate a Keeper-class battleship’s fuel and munitions stores,” not to mention a strong telepathic presence. In short, if this was a disease, the worlds were in far more trouble than they could handle.

“Fuel and munitions stores?” Zarrey queried.

The Admiral turned to him, “I saw enough Keeper-class ships sink in the Dead Years to know how they look when they die.” A simultaneous explosion in the fuel storage tanks and armory storage was not an uncommon way to go. Boarding parties sought those targets. Small covert teams had been the separatists’ choice in their acts of defiance. Sabotaging just one ship to violently explode could irreparably damage its nearby allies, one of the many reasons he had refused to fly the Singularity in proper formation with the rest of the fleet. Some called him paranoid, he considered it reasonable, since that had saved the ship more than once.

“Okay,” the XO agreed, “so something blew up those ships, but is this something we really want to be nosing around in?” That seemed like a bad idea. “Maybe we should just count ourselves lucky it didn’t come after us.”

“One of our pilots is MIA, XO.” That wasn’t something the Admiral took lightly, as he darkened his tone, “I would like to know who I should hold accountable.”