SS Nelson

Marengo Station,

Sector Seven-F.

The Nelson had completed repairs to the hyperdrive and return to the nearest base.

Chase stepped through the airlock onto the station’s main deck. It was about as crowded as things got this far from the main shipping lanes. Marengo Station served as the outermost hub for humanity’s shipping in the sector and was a waypoint for freighters delivering to the colonies and ships like the Nelson that protected them. Apart from the occasional attempts at piracy, they tended to be uneventful trips, and the Nelson routinely stopped at Marengo at least once every other month. Chase had even begun giving some thought to leasing an apartment here should he make captain. The increased salary would make it more than affordable, and while space was still at a premium on the station, there were more options than even a captain’s cabin on frigates like the Nelson.

Marengo was the main command post for the Navy for the sector. While headquarters were based out of the cluster, the decisions for the sector were made here. Commander Wessex was currently meeting with the fleet officers stationed here, which left Chase in charge of trying to organise the evacuation of Hemera. It would not be a simple task. There were only around thirty ships currently stationed here, and at least a third of them would not serve any use in an evacuation capacity.

Chase turned right, out of the docking bay concourse and headed for the bar next to the station’s viewing gallery. There was a collection of stores and businesses dotted around the wide corridors. There was enough room for someone to drive a hovercraft on each side of the walkway and then have some leftover for footpaths on either side, and Chase enjoyed the extra space, especially when like today it was not overly crowded. Unlike a naval ship, they somehow did something about the usual smell. They might be just as cooped up on the Marengo station, but they managed to hide it better.

The bar was designed to look like a nineteen-twenties speakeasy. Light jazz was playing, and the chairs had a certain art déco style to them. The walls were dark red, and covered with photos of old jazz musicians l. It wasn’t really to Chase’s taste, but he found it a welcome distraction after weeks on the ship. He ordered two drinks and threw a wave at a familiar face, Elizabeth Wokoma.

“Well, look at you,” Chase said to her. “How long has it been, Liz?”

“Nathan Chase, as I live and breathe,” Wokoma replied with a smile. “Three years, surely?” she asked, doing the mental arithmetic. That seemed about right. She was a few years younger than Chase. They’d spent some time together in training.

“Are you still on the Nelson?” she asked him, moving dreadlocks off her face.

“I am, and there’s a chance I might end up as captain in the not-too-distant future,” Chase bragged.

“That is amazing. Congratulations!”

“Well, it hasn’t happened yet. What about you? I guess you’re no longer in Zimbabwe?”

“I’ve not been home in years. I’m a historian for this engineering team,” she replied. “We dig out old ships and get them working again.”

“Really?” asked Chase, picking up his drink and sipping the cold beer. He didn’t know if it had been brewed on one of the makeshift stills on the station or brought in from the nearest colony. Either way, it was never particularly impressive.

“Yes,” she said. “We are actually about to head out on a deep space mission.”

“But who’s to say if your news from Hemera will put a stop to all that?”

“Is it even real?”

“What do you mean?” asked Chase. She looked him straight in the eyes, trying to determine his honesty.

“Aliens, Nate. You’re asking us to believe in aliens,” she said.

Chase threw his palms up defensively.

“I never said aliens,” he replied firmly. “What I said is that one of our newest colonies has been devastated by a missile attack of unknown origin. That’s what happened.”

“Yet everyone thinks aliens,” she said.

“It might be. Why would anyone else target indiscriminately from outside the system? Even the coalition wouldn’t have the guts to try something like that? Or the motivation,” said Chase.

“The coalition hasn’t been active in thirty years, not since the accords.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Chase sipped the beer. Wokoma seemed even less impressed with the brew than he had been.

“So, do you know what’s going to happen next?” she asked him.

“I’m putting a flotilla together. We are going back, getting as many people off-world as we can.” He slid his slate over to her.

The plan was an ambitious one. They hadn’t got exact numbers of how many people needed to be evacuated or indeed who was still there. He couldn’t even say how many would go.

There were several screens located around the bar’s walls and dropping down from the ceiling of the main corridor. All had started flashing an alert announcement.

“What’s happening?” Wokoma asked.

“That was me,” replied Chase. “A general alert has just been put out. All available ships docked at Marengo have essentially been nationalised to assist with the evacuation.”

“Will that be enough?” she asked.

“It will have to be,” he said. “It would take too long to get anyone else in from the cluster, and we can’t keep people waiting any longer. Another attack could be imminent,” said Chase.

“But it might not happen at all,” said Wokoma. “This could all be for nothing.”

“You’re quite right,” said Chase, “but that was Wessex’s recommendation to the Admiralty, and it looks like they agreed with him.”

“Well then,” she replied, “I guess we’ll be shipping out with you.”

“How many can you fit on board?” Chase asked.

“If we empty the cargo bays, maybe a hundred, depending on Marengo has storage space.”

He picked up his glass and finished the rest, but she left hers unfinished. He reached into his uniform pocket and left a two-credit coin as a tip.

***

Eight of the twelve ships were visible on the main screen of the Nelson. The rest flew in formation to the aft. Most of the screen was taken up by Hemera, its atmosphere now filled with grey smoke from the dozens of explosions and surface fires that still raged.

Days later, they had not yet received an accurate death toll, but Chase knew it would not be easy reading. The initial attacks had caused of massive loss of life, but that could pale compared to what happened now. The infrastructure has collapsed on this world.

While they had the capacity in a flotilla to evacuate hundreds, perhaps thousands, of colonists, if they could get to the landing point, it would not be anywhere near enough. Wessex had spoken to Naval command for the cluster at Caelus IV and larger ships were being re-routed as quickly as possible, but there was no guarantee they would arrive in time.

“Life signs?” Chase asked the comms officer. She’d been quiet since the attack. Usually quite outgoing, she had been much more reserved, a consummate professional when operating the console.

“I’m detecting 90% of the population recorded on the last census,” she told him. That would have meant at least a hundred thousand dead. Chase pushed the thought to the back of his mind and focused on the job.

“What about the atmosphere? Is it toxic?” he asked. Winter at Tactical had already done the analysis.

“Not toxic,” she told him, “but you wouldn’t want to stay down there too long. There’s a lot of fumes in the atmosphere. It’s not pleasant, but short-term exposure shouldn’t offer any health issues.”

“What about radiation?” asked Chase.

“Not great, not terrible,” Winter said.

“Put us on stand orbit over Port Montgomery,” Chase commanded. The landing party assignment had already been posted.

“Captain, I leave the Nelson in your experienced hands,” Chase told Wessex as he headed aft towards the shuttle bay.

The flight in was rough. The clouds and smoke made navigating much more difficult, and the shuttle was buffeted as they made their approach. When they finally broke through the cloud layer, the settlement was unrecognisable. The port had never been particularly busy; however, they would have difficulty finding a landing pad for even the smallest shuttle. Most of the buildings had been reduced to rubble, and finding a space to settle down was proving a challenge.

“Have a beacon hover over the town, about a quarter of a mile up, rebroadcasting our message,” Chase told the pilot. He nodded and fired the small device. They were broadcasting their coordinates on standard entertainment frequencies. The local government broadcast was being superseded; Citizens were instructed to report to the port for evacuation.