CROSSFIRE - Atlantis DSV - New Cape Quest

EPISODE VI
CROSSFIRE
- A T L A N T I S D S V -
The year is 2043,
Mankind is once again at war.
Beneath the surface,
We defend the future...
- 1 -

~ A T L A N T I S D S V ~
- 2 -

CAST OF PRINCIPLE CHARACTERS
The United Earth Oceans Organization (UEO)
Sir James Cathgate - Admiral, ret. Secretary General of the UEO
Fleet Admiral Jonathan ‘Jack’ Riley - Commander-in-Chief, UEO Forces Pacific
Fleet Admiral Travis Sinclair – Commander-in-Chief, UEO Forces Atlantic
Admiral Anise von Schrader – Commander of the North Sea Intelligence Service
Vice Admiral Mark Ainsley – Chief of Staff, UEO Forces Atlantic
The UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110 Carrier Battlegroup
Captain James Banick – Commanding Officer, UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110
Commander Jonathan Callaghan – Executive Officer, UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110
Lieutenant Commander Jack Phillips – Communications Officer, UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110
Major Adrian O’Shaughnessy – Marine Commandant, UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110
Commander Madeline Callaghan – Commanding Officer, UEO Fall River SSN-314
Pilots of Carrier Sea Wing One, UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110
Captain Corinn Roderick – CO, CSW-1, Callsign ‘Archangel’
Commander Edward Richards – CO, VF-107 ‘Rapiers’, Callsign ‘Minstrel’
Commander Jane Roberts – Rapier One, Callsign ‘Deadstick’
Commander Dustin Coyle – CO, VF-115 ‘Dark Angels’, Callsign ‘Bouncer’
Lieutenant Sarah Cunningham – Rapier Eight, Callsign ‘Two Birds’
Lieutenant Samuel Rogers – Rapier Nine, Callsign ‘Stones’
The UEO Aquarius DSV-8200
Captain Lauren Hornsby – Commanding Officer
Commander John Razak – Executive Officer
Wing Commander Gavin Mackenzie – CO, CSW-2, Callsign ‘Trawler’
Commander Thomas Parker – CO, VF-123 ‘Ghosts’, Callsign ‘Sideburn’
The Officers of the Nycarian Empire
Captain Anniel Rhodes – Special advisor to UEO Office of Naval Intelligence
- 3 -

C R O S S F I R E
“...A single tear slipped down her cheek as she squeezed the trigger, the gunshot
echoing throughout the long halls and passages. In the moment before her life ended, time
seemed to stop...”
PROLOGUE
T H E S I N C E R E S T F O R M O F F L A T T E R Y
Twenty One Years Ago...
UEO seaQuest DSV 4600, The North American Coast, somewhere in the Pacific
Ocean. November 13 th , 2021…
“...We‟re at a hurricane shelter near Interstate 95, where traffic has ground to a halt
following rumours that UEO personnel at New Cape Quest are trying to get their families out
of the city after receiving reports that this area may come under attack. This comes after
earlier reports that firepower seen near Pearl Harbor today was not a live firing exercise, but
in fact an act of war... People have abandoned their stolen cars and are jamming in here but
the shelter is running out of room. This is Shirley Jones, back to you in the studio...”
The bridge of the UEO seaQuest DSV 4600-II was unerringly quiet as all eyes
waited, glued to their monitors, looking for the elusive enemy that lurked in the sea beyond
the great submarine. Chief Petty Officer Miguel Ortiz was the first to see it, his free hand
flying over the remote WSKR controls as his other clutched the headset loosely at his ear.
“Captain, I‟m picking up something dead ahead.”
Nathan Hale Bridger was at his shoulder a moment later, his hand coming to rest on
the sonar operator‟s chair firmly. “Concentrate WSKRS forward,” he ordered.
Slowly, the WSKR panned over the seabed, revealing something truly unusual. While
the ground maintained its texture, something – a shadow – shifted against it.
“Captain, I think it‟s unmorphing,” Ortiz said of the tell-tale signs of an optical
camouflage system. The enemy submarine detected the hovering WSKRS and their
movements before it had even fully registered in Captain Bridger‟s mind, the camouflage
system dropping to reveal the sleek, manta-like form of the advanced, rogue SSN beneath.
Bridger was half way to the Conn by the time the submarine had completely
resolved. “All ahead full,” he ordered, reaching Commander Jonathan Ford‟s station a
moment later. He leaned over to stare at the XO‟s board. “Launch a flight of torpedoes at
bearing two nine seven. At twelve hundred meters, reverse them, and begin active seeking.”
The XO regarded his Captain with uncertainty. “They‟ll miss the Marauder.”
Bridger continued to stare at the enemy submarine. “Not if we bring the Marauder to
them.”
Ford‟s expression spoke to his doubts, but obligingly carried out the Captain‟s orders.
Two torpedoes shot away from seaQuest as Ortiz looked up again. “She‟s accelerating.
Torpedo doors opening.”
Bridger exhaled slowly. “Prepare intercepts.”
Swinging about, the Marauder SSN bore down on the massive UEO Deep
Submergence Vehicle, its wings dropping as it entered an attack profile. With a screeching
howl, the torpedoes shot away from the sleek attack submarine, their rocket motors quickly
powering them to over a hundred knots.
“She‟s launched, torpedoes incoming,” Ortiz reported.
- 4 -

Bridger didn‟t hesitate. “Fire intercepts. Break to port!”
The Marauder continued its advance, its torpedoes all the while rapidly closing with
the mammoth submarine ahead of her. seaQuest‟s own intercepts closed with the
Marauder‟s weapons. At such close range, the detonation was enough to rock the UEO
flagship as it continued to pull away.
Ortiz shook his head. “She‟s trying to follow us.”
“...She‟s turning torward our torpedoes,” Ford nodded, whispering slightly as he
realised that the Captain‟s gamble was steadily beginning to pay off. “Torpedoes active in
five. In four...”
...Closing further, the Marauder finally broke off, its new course peeling it away wildly.
The torpedoes hadn‟t even gone active as they approached the submarine‟s rear – a perfect
blind spot in its baffles that should have all but guaranteed a clean kill.
“She‟s breaking off,” confirmed Ortiz.
Bridger looked at his sonar chief in shock. “What?!”
“Torpedoes are active,” Ford followed.
The Marauder continued to pull away, its sensors never even having detected the
two torpedoes that screamed through its wake harmlessly to disappear in to the murky sea
beyond.
Ortiz looked on in disbelief through the eyes provided by his WSKRS probes. “She‟s
running! It looks like she knew they were there!”
Captain Bridger couldn‟t believe it as he saw plainly what Ortiz‟s sensors were telling
him. “She can‟t be running...”
A shrill alarm at Ortiz‟s station brought Bridger back. “She‟s counter-firing,” Ortiz
confirmed. “Torpedoes in the water.”
“Hard to port, fire intercepts!” Bridger ordered again, his mind racing to second-guess
an opponent who had thus-far outplayed him at every turn.
Once again, more intercepts shot away in to the black, but not before the torpedoes
had once again broken inside the UEO submarine‟s defence perimeter.
“Brace yourselves,” the Captain ordered.
...The intercepts hit them at the last possible moment, a heavy blast rocking the
submarine once more. The chaos it caused as the deck lurched heavily under him was
enough to make him wonder if they had indeed struck home.
“They hit our intercepts,” the XO confirmed as Ortiz looked up from his station once
more.
“She‟s gone, sir,” the Chief sighed. “Heading over the mountains, toward the
mainland.”
Bridger was still troubled. “All ahead full. Henderson, try to keep up with them.”
seaQuest was superior in almost every way to the predator she hunted, but still the
SSN made good pace as the Captain watched it receded in to the darkness. “What the hell
is going on, here?”
Commander Ford regarded his Captain apprehensively, gesturing to his instruments
with a hopeless flick his hand. “How the hell did that sub know what you were going to do?”
Bridger sensed the approach an uncertain and delicate figure. Decades of service
told him that it was not the wide, confident gait of a military officer, and only two people on
the ship had access to his command deck that were not actively enlisted in the military. One
of those people was Lucas Wolenczak, who sat quietly beside Ortiz. The other, was the
ship‟s physician – Doctor Wendy Smith.
“There‟s somebody on that sub,” Smith said, swallowing a nervous lump in her throat.
Bridger had no time for the inferred subtlety as he still struggled to comprehend the
skirmish. “Who?”
Smith seemed as uncomfortable with the answer as Bridger was to receive it. Lucas
Wolenczak stood up from beside Ortiz and looked down at the Captain.
“If what Sea Science told me is right, that sub is carrying the most powerful computer
ever designed for artificial intelligence,” he suggested.
- 5 -

Bridger looked at Smith sceptically. “...And you‟re saying that intelligence isn‟t
artificial anymore. It‟s real. It‟s modelled after my personality?”
Smith was distant in her answer. “...Yeah.”
Wolenczak spoke up again. “You know it could be, but based on only a portion of
your personality, because it received only a part of the download before it shorted out. Now
that would mean that somebody would have had to have a computerized profile of your
personality in the first place, but that‟s impossible.”
Nathan Bridger was silent, and never once looked away from his blank, troubled
stare beyond them all.
Wolenczak suddenly felt ill. “...Isn‟t it?”
“I‟m not so sure.”
The wardroom of the seaQuest was the sort one found in an executive office.
Carpentered, stained timbers and paintings adorned every wall, and models of ships and
submarines both past and present from the captain‟s history of service sat in perspex
cabinets around the sideboards. Bridger paced slowly, his back to the communications
screen. “About twelve years ago, just about the time when I was working on this program
that the Marauder sub is now using, NORPAC was running tests on its Captains, and I was
one of them. Remember that?”
Admiral William Noyce, the commander-in-chief of the UEO Navy, looked nervous in
his two-day old suit. The Admiral hadn‟t slept since the crisis had started, and had been
attending a joint sitting of the General Assembly and Security Council when the flag went up.
Next to him, the Secretary-General, Thomas McGath, dared not say a word.
“Yes,” Noyce confirmed, working his hands together, betraying his uncertainty. “We
were trying to create an artificial intelligence module to advise captains in combat.”
Bridger continued, well and truly committing himself to a warpath. “Yeah, well I was a
different guy then, Bill. I was bucking for Admiral, at any cost.”
Noyce shrugged as an aid emerged from off-screen to present him with an unseen
order that was signed without so much as a question. “And you were the best combat officer
the navy had, Nathan. You‟d have my job now if you hadn‟t resigned.”
Bridger huffed at the Admiral‟s oversight. “That‟s beside the point – the point is, I
spent about twenty hours in a scanner where they examined all my mental processes. What
happened to that disk?”
“The project failed. We couldn‟t create an intelligence complete enough to be useful
in combat, so we build a Martinson Screen instead.”
Bridger leaned forward slightly, growing insistent. “What happened to the disk? Now,
I think it‟s been programmed in to that sub. Did Sea Science have anything to do with my
disk?
The Secretary General and the Admiral looked at each other with a dawning
realization, and fearful uncertainty. Noyce paused and thought carefully before he looked
back at seaQuest‟s captain. “No, they couldn‟t have.”
Bridger pressed harder. “What about the injured programmer? What‟s his
employment history?”
Noyce looked down, checking a set of notes beyond the view of what the camera
could pick up. “Well, we know he was with Sea Science Limited, and before that he was with
Nemesis Computer... and before that he was...”
The Admiral‟s voice trailed off, stopping completely as he hit the proverbial brick wall
– the problem Bridger had been searching for.
Bridger paused for a moment before he asked the obvious. “He was what?”
Noyce cleared his throat. “He was... an intern in our artificial intelligence lab.”
Bridge was disquieted by this as his gaze drifted off again. “I knew it,” he said sadly.
“I could be responsible for destroying all of us.”
Noyce said nothing as seaQuest‟s intercom chirped overhead. “Captain, the WSKRS
are picking up some movement ahead of us,” said the voice of Commander Ford.
- 6 -

Bridger didn‟t blink, continuing to stare at his two superiors. “We‟ll talk later... if we‟re
still alive.”
Bridger‟s walk back to the command deck was long and spent in deep thought. The
corridors of the thousand-foot-long submarine passed as little more than instinct as his mind
raced through any number of possibilities. The ship still stood at general quarters, and the
walk was completed alone, with the entire crew having secured stations away from corridors
that could have flooded at a moment‟s notice.
The two massive clam doors were still open when he arrived, and he took a breath
before stepping through the maw to face the music. Ford remained at his station as Bridger
arrived. “Status?”
Ford turned from the Captain to look at the screens. “It looks like the Marauder‟s
reversing course, as though it were hunting us.”
Bridger checked the displays that showed the Marauder closing with his boat, and
then narrowed his eyes for a moment before looking at his watch. “In my program as I
remember it, they should be launching a missile at about eighteen hundred hours.”
Ford didn‟t break his gaze, but followed the simple deduction. “...But it‟s afraid we‟ll
find it before then.”
“So it‟s going to try and destroy us first.”
There was a pause as both officers absorbed the development, and then Ford
stepped up. “What are your orders?”
Bridger resigned, shaking his head. “I can‟t give you orders. It knows me too well.”
Ford had known Bridger long enough to realise he was not a man who stepped down
from command lightly, and baulked at the inference. “I don‟t have the combat experience you
have,” he objected.
The Captain countered. “But you‟re a good warrior, Jonathan, and you‟re good
enough to beat the download and this submarine.”
Bridger paced back to the centre chair – his – and tapped it impatiently.
“You‟re going to give the orders.”
Ford hesitated as the entire Bridge crew looked on expectantly. Meeting Ortiz‟s eyes
a moment later, Ford unstrapped himself from his chair and walked back to where Bridger
still stood, assuming the Conn, and breaking every rule he‟d ever set for himself about using
the Captain‟s chair. “Mister Brody,” he started, looking at the ship‟s tactical specialist. “Take
the attack board and arm all weapons.”
Ortiz warned; “It‟s making its move.”
Ford nodded as he checked the navigation chart, and instantly knew his next order.
“Ok, get us in ambush position behind that seamount.”
Ford looked at Bridger over his shoulder with a small smile. “...If you saw me ducking
behind that plateau, what would you do?”
Bridger said nothing, merely listening as he kept his eyes glued on the folly.
“...You‟d go around the other side, and you‟d be waiting for me when I get there,
wouldn‟t you?”
The Captain smiled his approval, and thumped the back of the chair. “Henderson!”
barked Ford. “Take us over the top, and down her throat.”
seaQuest was a monster as she advanced, and slowly started to crest the ridge.
Henderson‟s manoeuvres were skilled, more than once skirting the thirty-two thousand tonne
giant mere meters from the rocky outcroppings below. “Seamount‟s got us masked,” Ortiz
noted. “I‟ll lead us over with a WSKR.”
Ford was defiant. “No, it‟ll know we‟re right behind it. We‟ve got to do this blind.”
...seaQuest continued to rise, and Ford waited until the last possible moment as the
big submarine‟s arrowhead prow finally pulled past the final crest of the submerged ridgeline.
“Now!”
- 7 -

Henderson pulled back on the yolk and swung the bow around to come down directly
on top of the waiting Marauder. Apparently surprised, the enemy SSN darted from its
position like a frightened bird, heading straight for the plains.
“Target!” Ortiz barked. “Target, dead ahead... and she‟s looking the wrong way!”
Bridger held his breath as Ford tried to bury his kill. “Fire torpedoes!”
seaQuest roared as nine rocket-propelled torpedoes burst from their tubes, locked on
in hot pursuit of the fleeing Marauder. “Torpedoes away,” confirmed Brody quietly, all the
while hoping the XO‟s gamble had paid off.
Far below seaQuest, a tiny object began to stir. Triggered by the massive sonar
signature of the UEO submarine above, its combat sensors went active, and its small,
spindly, spider-like legs detached themselves from the sea floor. Floating up to the DSV,
they didn‟t notice it until it was too late.
“Commander Ford, I‟m picking up something very strange,” Ortiz mused, watching
the small object rise from the floor beneath him.
Once again, the screens showed it clearly – the small, unknown contact steadily
rising like a mine, tripping multiple proximity alarms, and sending a cold sense of dread
through Ford‟s stomach. “Full back emergency!”
“We can‟t avoid it.”
No one on the bridge knew what to expect, knowing only that bracing would be
pointless. If it were a mine, then a detonation in such a position would create a hard,
imploding vacuum that would snap seaQuest‟s back where she lay in less than a second.
When the object hit the hull... nothing happened.
Only Bridger knew what was happening. “Freeze controls,” he ordered firmly. “Hold
the boat steady.”
Lieutenant Tim O‟Neill, seaQuest‟s communications officer, slowly removed his
headset as he stared at the main screen to the image being provided by the submarine‟s
external sensor probes. “What... is that?”
For all his terror, Ford was in awe – being utterly unable to comprehend or explain,
again, what he was seeing. “It‟s a nuclear captor mine,” he explained. “It led us right in to it...
But I‟ve never seen anyone risk that before.”
Bridger sighed sternly. “I have.” Again, the Captain had failed. “I used that in the
Aegean campaign. I forgot it, but it remembered.”
“And now?” O‟Neill asked nervously.
“And now, it‟s going to explode. What happened to our torpedo run?”
Ortiz, Wolenczak beside him, was about the calmest crew member on the bridge.
“Missed it by miles.”
O‟Neill fumbled with his headset as his hand flew over his radio set again. “Captain? I
think I‟m getting a message from the Marauder.”
Bridger shot forward, stepping ahead of Ford‟s chair to stand at the centre of the
bridge. “Put it on the front screen.”
The Captain looked on as the screen resolved in to a dark mirror. A twisted, broken,
fragmented mirror of a version of himself he hadn‟t seen in over a decade. The rolling blue
sky behind the unmistakable, flickering figure seemed an unstable storm, but the main in the
black suit was a reflection that Bridger never wanted to see again.
“Bridger,” it said. “Captain Bridger?”
“Yes,” he replied with uncertainty.
The image of seemed confused, and even hesitant as it continued to flicker
erratically. Whatever program was running the AI, it was breaking down, and quickly.
“Something is damaged in my memory banks... I‟m rerouting it now.” There was a pause,
and then the face looked him directly in the eye. “And I know who I am.”
Every set of eyes on the bridge stared in shock at the image on the screen, a few
flicking their gaze between it and the captain. “...I‟m you: Captain Bridger” said the AI.
Bridger shook his head. “No, you‟re going to destroy a city of five million people.
You‟re not me.”
- 8 -

The AI continued to flicker, unstable, its signal degrading. “It‟s just that we have
different orders,” it explained. “So we‟re taking different paths.”
Lucas quietly stepped up to Bridger and whispered. “If one of us could get aboard...”
The Captain ignored him. “-I‟d like to come and speak to you. Do you think I can do
that?”
The AI agreed without hesitation. “I‟d like that very much,” it said, everything about its
mannerisms only further serving to make the distinction unnerving. “That‟s why I haven‟t
destroyed your vessel.”
James Brody approached his Captain, standing opposite Lucas. “Don‟t do it, „Cap.
Keep it talking while I get a SEAL team aboard.”
Bridger grabbed Brody‟s arm gently, giving the man a warning gaze. “No, no. I can‟t
risk it.” He turned back to the AI. “I‟ll be right there. Out.”
The AI continued to stare through the screen as the image steadily shrank, and then
the Captain faced his crew. “While I‟m stalling for time, you get Piccolo in the water and
disarm that mine.”
Without a further word, Bridger marched from the command deck and disappeared in
to the corridor.
The trip to the Marauder submarine was fast as the tiny, one-man speeder known as
a Stinger shot through the water, its twin engines providing little more than thrust vectoring
as it‟s big, shark-like tail thrust side to side and drove the captain of the seaQuest DSV to a
meeting with his own history. The Marauder SSN hovered like a predator, its torpedo tubes
tracking the crippled, immobilized DSV as the Stinger docked with its underside airlock. Only
once it was secure did the SSN pull about and begin heading back for the mainland at
speed.
As Bridger stalked the corridors, he noted that the interior of the craft was cramped,
betraying the purpose of its design as the first, completely unmanned combat submersible
the UEO had ever built. The lighting was dim, and the atmosphere was both cold and damp
– whatever life support systems that operated having been designed with the most minimal
of functionality. “Where are you?” he called.
“I‟m at the end of the passageway,” replied the AI calmly. “On the main screen... and
don‟t try to touch anything, the results would be unpredictable.”
True to the AI‟s description, Bridger found that the short corridor opened in to a small
command and control center – a simple, single bank of controls sitting on a console at the
base of a large view screen. Bridger did his best to absorb the console‟s controls, searching
for any clue of how to override it. “...The results might be my healing you,” he suggested
hesitantly.
No sooner had his hand hit the first control, the console shorted – a shower of sparks
raining over the deck as the face of the AI – himself – appeared on the screen, unmoved. “I
don‟t need to be healed,” it said. “I am healed. I went through a great deal of pain and selfexamination
to become-“
“-Just what I am,” Bridger interrupted. “‟And I don‟t want to change‟. Isn‟t that right?”
The AI smiled. “You see? We‟re the same! You know my words.”
Nathan Bridger was surprised. “No, no, no. We‟re not the same,” he paused.
“...Years ago, I thought I was self-healed, but I wasn‟t. I had to leave the service to do that,
and I did it. And I changed.”
The AI was stern, its face growing dark. “That‟s impossible. I‟ve never changed, and I
never will.”
The computer stopped, appearing to face an adjacent console. “...Set course, zero
nine six. All ahead two-thirds.”
A female voice filled the room at that, for the first time the AI appearing to be more in
charge than Bridger had assumed. The voice belonged to the ship‟s combat computer.
“Executing course correction now.”
Bridger hesitated again. “Wait, wait, wait. You said we were going to talk. Are we
going to talk?”
- 9 -

“We have talked,” the mirror replied flatly. “And now I‟m going to complete my
mission.”
Captain Bridger laughed in sickened disbelief. “Wait a second. Is that why you didn‟t
finish us off? You didn‟t want to kill me?”
The mirror looked bemused at the question – as if the answer were obvious. “How
could I?” it asked. “I‟m you. And you are me. But as I healed, I realised that if I brought you
here, I could destroy your vessel and ensure that you were safe at the same time.”
The AI paused for a moment, and then ordered calmly, “...Commence destruct
sequence.”
Bridger refused to believe it. “No... You can‟t do that! It‟s the seaQuest! It‟s our crew.
You can‟t do that to them.”
The mirror stared back at him ruefully. “I‟m sorry, but I already have.”
“You realise, you‟re just a piece of me. Even twelve years ago I wouldn‟t have
launched against a city of five million people!”
The AI was growing impatient, and further denied it. “But I have specific orders.”
“But just think it through,” pleaded Bridger again. “If those were really your orders,
why would I be trying to stop you?”
The AI snapped back. “That isn‟t for me to say. My duty is not to question my orders.”
Bridger realised that his reasoning wasn‟t going to work. The AI had already trapped
him once, and was quickly managing to trap him in his own argument. “Alright, your duty was
to fulfil those orders, and I said that before... but I didn‟t mean like this!”
“Nearing launch coordinates,” the cold, clinical voice of the submarine‟s computer
announced. “Request permission to arm missiles.”
“Permission granted,” the mirror said matter-of-factly. “Prepare to launch missiles.”
It had taken Piccolo nearly ten minutes to disarm the mine – time which the seaQuest
didn‟t have. The great DSV gave chase, her engines driving well past their own safeties as
Ford desperately tried to make up the lost ground. In minutes, the Marauder would enter
missile range of New Cape Quest, and five million people would die.
“Marauder sub will be in range in five minutes,” Ortiz said.
Ford‟s chest knotted. It was going to be close. Beside him, the towering GELF named
Dagwood looked on mournfully. He spoke as would a child. “We really are going to shoot the
captain?” he asked.
Ford struggled to look at him. “We don‟t have a choice, Dagwood. There are too
many lives on the line.”
“But isn‟t he our family?” the GELF asked with innocent surprise.
Jonathan Ford stopped at that. Dagwood had been created by engineers seeking to
create the ultimate soldier – bred to experience none of the remorse a normal man might
feel for his enemies. Standing a little under seven feet-tall, the man was a monster... but at
the same time, quiet and deliberate in every possible way. The GELF‟s capacity for genuine
compassion still surprised him in that way, and there wasn‟t a day that went by where
Dagwood hesitated in any action that might hurt another. In his own way, he was a failure...
and so too was the weapon they hunted. While Dagwood couldn‟t even contemplate the
killing of another, the murderous Marauder AI on the other hand – just another product of the
same industry that had created the GELF - was prepared to obliterate five million people,
purely to satisfy an order it could never understand.
The coast of El Salvador was quiet, save for the sleek, lethal SSN that cut through
the sea towards the North American west coast. She led seaQuest by nearly twenty miles,
and there was little the UEO flagship could do to run it down.
“T-minus two minutes and counting,” updated the cold, feminine AI once again.
Bridger was desperate. “Look, this was supposed to be a practice manoeuvre. Not a
real attack, in a real war.”
The mirror betrayed nothing in its expression. “I‟ve searched my memory. Nothing
indicates that.”
- 10 -

“Oh, come on!” Bridger cried. “Even I wasn‟t that stubborn! I wasn‟t that stubborn
before Robert died!”
That stopped the AI. “What do you mean „Robert died‟?”
Bridger saw the opening, and realised his mistake. His son had been dead only a few
years – long after the aborted Artificial Intelligence program had finished. It couldn‟t have
known. “...You know about Robert.”
The mirror smiled warmly, as if recalling a fond memory that it had almost forgotten.
“Of course I do. He‟s my son. How dare you say he died – he‟s at the academy. I heard from
him last week. He was thinking of quitting until we talked.”
Bridger reeled as the pain came flooding back – a pain he‟d long since buried in the
deepest recesses of his mind. “Yes, you talked,” he accused, pointing a finger at his face on
the screen. “You wanted him to continue! But you told him the decision was his, right? And
he continued. And then there was a war. And he was killed!”
Bridger swallowed a lump in his throat, facing a conclusion he‟d never wanted to ever
return to. “We killed him.”
“That‟s impossible,” the AI countered again. “There hasn‟t been enough time.”
“Oh yes there was,” the Captain snapped. “Check the time on your navigational
charts! There was time, and now you want to start another war!”
“Firing in fifteen seconds,” the computer said.
The AI on the screen looked pained, and Bridger pressed it further against the wall.
“Cancel your firing sequence! Stop the module!”
“I have my orders,” it repeated blindly.
“Well, do it for Robert,” Bridger pleaded. “Do it for us! Don‟t make us a mass
murderer...”
“Firing.”
...The Marauder‟s silos opened quickly, and with another high-pitched scream sent
ten hypersonic missiles rippling out in to the ocean towards the surface. Ten nuclear
warheads, each with a warhead of 200 kilotons, directed at a city of five million people.
Bridger could only shake his head. “No... No!”
“Missiles away.”
Breaking the surface, the missile‟s scramjets ignited, rapidly propelling the ten
warheads to a speed better than mach fifteen as they settled low against the waves, evading
whatever surface-based radars might have been searching for them. Their flight time would
be measured in minutes.
Aboard seaQuest, Chief Ortiz watched his monitors in shock, his stomach churning
as he felt an urge to throw up. “She‟s rippling missiles, six away...” he started forlornly. Then
his voice became a whisper as he counted them. “...Eight... Ten. Ten missiles... in the air.”
Officers and crew across the command deck descended in to shock, only a few
among the command staff managing to maintain their composure as the world started to
end...
“It‟s not too late,” Bridger said. “You can stop these missiles.”
Now it was the AI‟s turn to look pained as is frowned deeply. “I feel very strange.”
“Of course you feel strange!” the Captain snapped. “Your program is running down!”
“...What?”
“The war game is over!” Bridger continued. “As soon as the missiles are launched –
the missiles strike, and you cease to exist. Search your memory. Do you see any future?”
The AI stopped, its face disquieted. “...No.”
“Then let me change that,” Bridger offered. “Let‟s complete the download, then you
can really be me. The me that I really was.”
“It doesn‟t matter. I‟ll still fulfil my orders.”
- 11 -

“I‟ll take the risk! I don‟t believe I was the man who could have let this city die.”
There was a long pause as the AI considered it, and then looked himself in the eye.
“...Is it true about our son?”
“Yes,” Bridger breathed helplessly, sensing a light of victory. It would have to be
enough.
“Complete the download,” instructed the AI.
Nathan Bridger didn‟t need to be told twice, leaping forward to furiously work at the
controls as the AI started to break down. The screen flickered – a chaotic mess, unreadable,
the mirror of himself having begun to die.
“Impact in sixty seconds,” the ship‟s computer announced.
“No. Listen to me, you‟re just a machine. You could stop them!”
Bridger continued to work as the AI continued its calm, collected countdown.
“Fifty seconds.”
“Command override,” Bridger ordered. “Unlock codes as follows!”
“I‟m sorry, commands must be directed through the main system bus. I am not
programmed to accept voice commands.”
“I don‟t care!” snapped Bridger impatiently as he continued to work the console.
“Unlock code two three-“
“The command cannot be processed.”
He ignored it. “...Two six – two nine!”
By the time Bridger looked up again, the image of himself had returned to the
monitor, but this time the flickering had stopped, and it was in complete control.
The mirror looked at the computer next to Bridger. “Missile destruct. All missiles.”
Bridger could only look on, incomprehensibly absorbing what he was seeing as the
missiles – the city looming just a few miles away – started to detonate, one by one. At the
end of it, against the golden twilight of dusk, the city of New Cape Quest stood still.
Bridger looked back at the mirror and smiled. “You became me.”
The AI was ashen. “I wish I hadn‟t.”
“Why?”
“I see the only reason I was built was to destroy. But I feel pain... I grieve for Robert.”
The mirror continued to stare blankly as a silent, unspoken command was processed
by the SSN‟s attack computer.
“Initiating self-destruct sequence. All personnel should abandon ship.”
“You don‟t have to do this,” Bridger offered.
The AI merely smiled, but shook its head. “It‟s not suicide. „I‟m just a machine‟. Even
if I was a damned good one.”
Nathan Bridger looked at himself once more in silence before the mirror whispered
back. “Go.”
...The Stinger shot away from the Marauder seconds before its remaining warheads
detonated in their tubes, tearing the submarine apart from the inside out. Nothing but scrap
remained. For days and even weeks after - UEO Intelligence trawled the coast of El
Salvador claiming every last piece of wreckage. Stored in a missile silo deep in the
Californian deserts, no one ever saw the submarine again. Of the computer core and what
remained of it... there was no sign.
“They‟re talking about giving you a medal for this one, Nathan,” Admiral Noyce
beamed from the wardroom monitors.
Bridger would have none of it. “Bill, I don‟t want a medal. I want your assurance that
you won‟t try to deploy these weapons again. Because if you do, I‟m going to resign from
seaQuest and take my case to the press.”
Noyce wasn‟t fussed, but urged for reason. “It‟s already happening. Take a look at
the news tonight. There‟s no way they can talk their way out of this one.”
Bridger leaned back slightly, regarding his old friend with a sceptical smile. “Mhmm.”
- 12 -

“-And maybe that‟s for the best,” Noyce continued. Underscoring Bridger‟s position,
Noyce‟s tone softened. “So, what can I do for you and your crew, Nathan?”
Bridger smiled slightly, leaning forward. “Well, some shore leave would be nice. The
lines home are being burnt out.”
Noyce returned the smile, and nodded his assurance. “You got it.”
„...It‟s been three years since the day New Cape Quest was attacked by a UEO
submarine running a controversial Artificial Intelligence program that military officials claimed
suffered a catastrophic systems malfunction. Last week when Secretary-General Thomas
McGath announced a joint sitting of General Assembly and Security Council to occur today
at the UEO Headquarters in Fort Gore, conjecture that an end to the debate may be near
was rife in an outraged global community. The inquiry in to the attack has sharply divided the
council on the question of whether or not future developments in to advanced, sentient A.I.
programs should be outlawed entirely. Despite vehement support from the military in favour
of such programs, the debate in recent months has tipped in favour of those opposed. As
one councillor put it – with no enemies abroad and most of the developed world now being
signatories of the treaty, the UEO should be taking measures to curtail weapons
development at every sensible turn. Today the debate was finished in a thirty seven-totwelve
vote in favour of the proposed sanctions, and work will now start on drafting
legislation that the military fears will devastate the future of both unmanned and information
warfare. Coming only weeks after the Security Council voted against a twenty-billion dollar
appropriations bill funding a new seaQuest after the ship was lost with all hands two years
ago, this latest action has been just another in a series of blows against a military that is
already fighting to retain its credibility. The UEO Navy - in the words of Admiral William
Noyce - is „being systematically and comprehensively dismantled‟.
This is Shirley Jones, Reporting live, from New Cape Quest...‟
~
- 13 -

N E W O R D E R :
T H E M A N O N T H E M O U N T A I N
N’Djamena (Fort Lamy), Chad. Central Africa. January 8 th , 2027...
Naren Tahlman‟s life was full and accomplished for a man of only twenty five. In truth,
the story of the average human life is probably far more interesting than any story that can
be told within the pages of fiction. Naren was fairly typical of the average Nycarian: born in to
a middle-class white society in Cape Town, he‟d been afforded many opportunities in his
childhood that were not common to South Africa.
He‟d once travelled to the Himalayas in Nepal solely to experience the world outside
of his besieged homeland, but his days in school had never been too kind.
Of course, this was the same for any child of Africa growing up in the middle of the
Third World War. The word “bully” for Naren took on a very interesting meaning when the
playground menace was not a half-wit with too little food and too much time so as to beat
him for his lunch money: but daily air-raid sirens that signalled the threat of being blown to
pieces by bombs dropped from planes he never saw. Indeed, South African children had far
worse things to worry about than playground politics, and it had been an unpredictable
pattern of swing sets and minefields alike that had defined so much of his upbringing.
He‟d been to university of course, and had been one of the most talented batsmen on
the school‟s A-grade cricket team. If it hadn‟t have been for the bomb that destroyed their
training ground during the summer of 2021, he may well have had a chance at playing for
the world-renowned Proteas – the South African national cricket squad. Of course... from
what he had heard since, the sport of cricket was hardly the game it used to be at the turn of
the century... before the weltschmerz.
He‟d lost his virginity during only the tenth grade, and even that had been anything
but the expected roll-in-the-hay that usually defined coming of age. Naren and a girl named
Sara had been hiding in a biology classroom when the air raid siren had sounded that day.
The panic to find their clothes when the bell started to ring for the evacuation still made him
smile to that day...
...Even though Sara had been killed just three days later. They‟d been in a glade next
to the great Table Mountain when an exploding landmine had him cradle the poor girl in his
arms. This kind of horror defined Naren‟s history to such an extent that he found he had to
cling to the better memories like the classroom if only to move on.
In short, which one of those memories had been going through Naren‟s head at the
same time that the 7.76 millimetre bullet had turned his skull in to a fine, red mist, Captain
Narius Rhodes could only wonder for the rest of his days.
Rhodes shook his head as he went through the casualty report, and struck the name
from his list of troops in A-Company. The sound of gunfire was distant now as the NAAF
(Nevarian African Armed Forces) continued its retreat.
The gray haze that coved the city of N‟Djamena extended for hundreds of miles.
Shells had rained for days on the city from a battery of NAAF artillery pieces that sat
somewhere on the distant, murky horizon. For an entire week, the city had been smashed
apart in an attempt to all but obliterate the Nycarian rebels who assailed it. The killing ground
between the Nycarians and the NAAF was now a valley of rubble that used to be the city‟s
central residential district. Such a brutal, pointless battlefield hadn‟t really been seen since
Verdun.
This was not a simple war over land or aggression, nor was it a civil conflict brokered
by conflicting political interests. This was, in its own way, ethnic cleansing.
The NAAF strategy was clear: if the Nycarians didn‟t withdraw, they would be
ruthlessly crushed by standoff ordnance. Inevitably of course, in the face of such an endless
and callous barrage, the rebels were given little choice but to fall back with every new
offensive: their lines being pushed further and further back to the city‟s limits.
- 14 -

The eighth day however had seen a drastic and very final change to the pattern. As
the NAAF pushed forward and prepared to overrun the last of the Nycarians, the exact
reverse answered them. Over-confident, the NAAF commander committed his troops in to
the city wholesale, and soon found them over-extended. In response, the Nycarians rallied
and pushed straight through their lines to strike at communications, supply and command
posts that formed their enemy‟s vulnerable rear echelon. With their troops cut off, leaderless
and surrounded by the Nycarians, it didn‟t take long for the NAAF to surrender, and the few
troops that were not committed to the assault were forced to withdraw in to the wastes of the
cold north. Those that surrendered suffered worse fates
Rhodes trudged through the remnants of an old dug-out with the list of names still
clutched in his hand. He‟d now been without sleep for over seventy two hours, and every
step towards the command post was agonizing.
General Marteen Carthedin stood over a large table that had been hastily erected
from a sheet of wrought iron and a pile of debris. An old map was laid out and Carthedin was
marking the advance of the soldiers of his Ninth Regiment. The Battle of Fort Lamy was
over, and had been a crushing victory for the Nycarians. It was not only a victory, but it was
the first time that the Nycarian Militia had ever engaged the NAAF in open battle and won.
Finally, the war of subterfuge, resistance and flight had come to an end – and the NAAF
would fight on the Nycarian‟s terms. Morale was the highest it had been since the war had
begun, and now Carthedin had been put in a very difficult position.
Rhodes waited at the edge of the dug-out until the General looked up, and offered a
weak smile as he saw the haggard lines under the man‟s eyes. Rhodes instantly withdrew
the paper in his hand behind his back and hid it from view.
“Why did he have to die, Narius?” Carthedin asked flatly as he walked from behind
the makeshift desk. “We were so close...”
Narius Rhodes bowed his head. Carthedin had been the commander of the Nycarian
resistance for less than twenty four hours since their leader – General Neureon Vuender-
Weist-Hezuin – had succumbed to his wounds. Neureon‟s last act had been his greatest gift:
the battle of Fort Lamy had been his plan. Carthedin‟s execution of that plan as the General
lay on his deathbed had been flawless, but it had nonetheless delivered their most decisive
victory, sending the otherwise organized forces of the NAAF in to a pitiful retreat for their
lives.
“We won, Marteen. That‟s all that matters, and I can think of few better to take
command in his stead.”
Carthedin rounded the table and approached Rhodes, looking up at the weathered
flag that still flew proudly above the command dugout. “Nonetheless, Narius, you of all
people must appreciate that we must move quickly to seize this momentum. Word of
Neureon‟s passing has already spread to the others, and what we‟ve won here hangs by a
single thread.”
Despite his own mourning, Rhodes could not help but smile at this friend. “And to
think just a moment ago you weren‟t sure if you could do this,” he jibed. “We‟re with you,
Marteen. We always have been. Without trying to sit on the shoulders of Neureon, you‟ve
got your own feet to stand on, and proudly at that. There isn‟t a single man here that
wouldn‟t give everything for you, but you have to give them something to believe in.”
Carthedin nodded to two silent aids that had been standing nearby, and they
obediently disappeared in to a nearby trench. Carthedin ushered Rhodes aside and then
looked out across the blasted hellscape that used to be the centre of Fort Lamy.
“Narius... We have to find Sanaa.”
Rhodes pulled his lips in to a tight line, and an awkward smile. “One problem at a
time, Marteen. I count Sanaa as much a daughter as I do Anniel, but we cannot let our
personal feelings get in the way of what we‟ve done here.”
Rhodes did not obviously understand what Carthedin had meant, although he soon
easily picked up on the great fear in Carthedin‟s voice. The General continued. “I‟m going to
ask something very difficult of you, Narius... I don‟t imagine it‟s going to be an easy burden
to bear.”
- 15 -

“As always, my friend. You only need ask.”
“Nonetheless, what I‟m about to tell you cannot pass beyond this conversation.”
Rhodes nodded grimly, and Carthedin turned to face him. “Her lineage as the
daughter of Neureon Vuender-Weist-Hezuin notwithstanding, her importance as a Nycarian
is far greater than you could know.”
The outlanders had continued to watch the Nycarians long after the battle had been
won. Sitting amongst the craggy rocks of the mountainside the group sat in silence, watching
and waiting for several long hours. As the sun rose higher in the dust-filled African sky, they
finally began to pack up their belongings. No one could guess who they really were by their
non-descript camouflage fatigues and second-hand weapons, and none of them wore any
distinguishing emblems or insignias.
For the entirety of the eight days of the Battle of Fort Lamy, they had been there as
silent adjudicators of a contest that the world would never know. One of the outlanders stood
high on top of an outcropping, his weapon slung lazily over his shoulder as he scanned the
ruined city with his binoculars. He‟d been standing in nearly perfect stillness for over ten
minutes when one of the other outlanders approached him. “We‟re done,” the outlander said
plainly. The statement took his companion by surprise. He had been fairly sure he‟d
managed to approach in total silence, and the man with the binoculars had not even
removed them from his eyes to address him. His focus unbroken, the man on the
mountainside seemed eerily aware of absolutely everything that surrounded him.
“The last of the NAAF has pulled back, sir,” noted the aid quietly in agreement. “The
Nycarians are moving forward, as well.”
“I know,” said the outlander on top of the cairn. “The NAAF isn‟t likely to sit in Ghana
too long after this. We‟ll need to move quickly if we expect to finish them. The sooner we
take care of that, the sooner we can leave this rock.”
The Lieutenant stepped back as the outlander climbed down from the rock, the
binoculars now around his neck. The aid met his fierce, grey eyes and felt the same uneasy
pang of anxiety that he‟d gotten whenever he looked at him since they arrived in Africa. At
the same time, he saw a reassuring sense of control there that had managed to stay his
questions to that point. Whatever the Captain was planning, he knew what he was doing
only too well. “What do you mean, sir?”
The Captain – the “outlander” – paused for a moment as he passed, and turned to
look back at the younger officer, exhaling a lungful of warm air that sent wisps of frost in to
the cool, evening sky. He took a beat, and then stepped six inches closer to make his intent
clear. “Get Commander Hask for me, Lieutenant”
The Lieutenant hesitated before replying. “Of course, sir.”
Nodding his approval, the Captain turned and headed back to the encampment as
the Lieutenant headed away to his errand. “Good. Once you‟ve done that, help the others
break camp.”
Nearing the encampment where the rest of his men were packing up in silence,
another came up to him, almost invisible against the dark landscape in his black fatigues.
The Captain didn‟t wait for him to inquire of what he wanted. “Ngunntini - I want him dead.
Tell Drael to make sure he uses 7.62 ammunition, and make it look sloppy. Leave the body
with the rest of the Nevarians... The Nycarians will find it, and assume they killed him in a fire
fight.
“Is it wise to get rid of Ngunntini so soon?” the Commander asked bluntly, without any
of the deference shown by his other colleague.
The Captain betrayed nothing as he headed to the four-wheeled desert patrol vehicle
and began packing away his supplies. “Mbotmi Ngunntini has served his purpose, Hask.
With him out of the way, the NAAF will fall apart, and the Nycarians will have their victory
that much sooner.”
“After that little display, you really think Carthedin needs the help?”
The Captain snorted. “Carthedin needs nothing of the sort, and that‟s entirely the
point. His and Neureon‟s actions here have been far more cunning that I predicted...” The
- 16 -

Captain paused for a moment as he considered that with a smile. “Remarkable, really... We
shouldn‟t underestimate them again.”
The Commander was clearly growing impatient as he rolled his eyes and sighed. “If
the purpose is to hold the Nycarians back, I don‟t exactly see how removing the NAAF‟s
commanding officer is going to help the situation.”
The Captain threw his back down in to the rear of the four-wheel-drive DPV hard and
rounded sharply on the Commander. “Don‟t question my orders, Commander.”
“With respect, sir, we‟ve been here for two years without having anything explained to
us and have not questioned a thing. It might help if we knew what we were working towards.”
The Captain stared at the commander in silence for several long seconds.
“Regardless of our actions, Carthedin will get his victory, so that is no longer the issue. We
cannot risk a leak as severe as Ngunntini. He has to be silenced.”
“What of the girl?”
The Captain continued to stare. “She is what we‟ve been working towards,
commander. The Nycarians are far more than soldiers, they are weapons. We achieved our
goals months ago, and now we simply have to let time do the rest. We‟ll bring Sanaa with
us.”
Grimly, the Commander nodded, and trudged off to continue packing up the
encampment. “We leave in five minutes. Pack the vehicles. Get moving.”
The young Lieutenant silently continued to move the last of his pack in to the rear
truck, and then looked back down the mountain at the dwindling fires that still burned
throughout Fort Lamy. For two years he had worked for this without ever once questioning
the reasons why, or to what end. Now, seeing the devastation that had been wrought across
the city, he finally began to feel a sickening sense of dread.
“Lieutenant Callaghan!” called the Captain.
He turned. “Yes, Captain Ezard?”
“Do I need to repeat myself?”
In silence, Ryan Callaghan shook his head and picked up another bag. “No sir.”
Something very dark was coming.
~
- 17 -

I
N E W O R D E R
“131121/010”
Fort Grace Naval Command, 20 miles south-east of San Angeles. The Pacific
Ocean. August 4 th , 2042…
The gleaming spire of Fort Grace glinted under the afternoon sun on the surface of
the Pacific - the sprawling dockside being a bustle of activity where thousands of marines,
sailors and officers milled. Fort Grace was a huge facility spanning a hundred square miles
across the ocean floor and served as the operational headquarters of the entire UEO Pacific
Fleet. The relatively small extent of the surface docks were but a shadow of the immense
base which extended beneath the surface to the city of San Angeles just twenty miles away:
the tip of a monolithic, imposing iceberg. Ringed by hundreds of defence turrets, sensor nets
and subfighter bases, it was one of the most heavily fortified naval installations anywhere in
the world.
Wing Commander Corinn Roderick walked along the length of the eastern docks,
staring up at the towering bulk of the submarine that sat in its moorings beside her. The
Aquarius DSV-8200 was now the only ship of her class; the UEO‟s flagship, and the single
greatest warship in the Pacific. For nearly two years, she had held a thin blue line against an
unstoppable tide of violence. The Alliance of Macronesia, despite every effort, had
maintained its offensives and force concentrations across the sprawling Pacific fronts, and
for a cost in life that climbed by the dozens – if not hundreds - every day, nothing had been
gained.
The islands of Japan – once having fallen to the Chaodai in the early stages of the
conflict – had been liberated through the heroic, determined efforts of the UEO Marines and
the scattered remnants of the fourth fleet and now served as the staging base of the entire
western Pacific fleet. But even that success had been undercut by the war‟s most shocking
turn...
In Roderick‟s eyes since that day, the new Secretary General of the UEO, Sir James
Cathgate, had steadily driven the fleet from success to failure. The counter-offensives in to
the Marshalls, Carolines and Philippines had ground to a halt with the changes of national
defence policies, and the war was being increasingly driven by political agenda. The most
frustrating issues for UEO military commanders were the apparently arbitrary and unwanted
force rotations at the front line – the most experienced and best equipped UEO fighter
squadrons and battlegroups found themselves relieved and pulled back in reserve, only to
be replaced by comparatively inexperienced North Sea Confederation units. Normally, the
assistance of the UEO‟s European allies would be welcomed with open arms, but rather than
directing the war in a spirit of cooperation, Cathgate had increasingly taken away operations
and jurisdiction from UEO units, and left their commanders confused and unsure of their
responsibilities. Uncertainty had taken hold within the UEO ranks, and much of the
frustration was beginning to be directed at the NSC forces that now ran the front line.
For her part, Roderick was only grateful. For two entire years, she had led the 115 th
fighter squadron, the „Dark Angels‟, through the worst of the war. The squadron had become
a symbol of the UEO‟s pride, never knowing defeat, even amidst unimaginable loss. Pearl
Harbor, San Diego, Ryukyu Trench, Challenger Deep and Kuril Trench: all names that had
become synonymous with the most hopeless of odds, and useless of struggles. Then there
was Atlantis...
For weeks, newscasts had reported on the ship‟s loss, the same images of its final
moments being replayed over and over again from London to Beijing and Melbourne to New
York. The shock had hit the UEO harder than any other loss to that day, and the
repercussions were still being felt across the theatre. The Dark Angels had been there for
- 18 -

every single one of those engagements, and each time had walked away surrounded by a
shadow of death. It was as if death hunted them – watching and waiting for them to slip
before deciding that their luck deserved to run out.
Roderick thought it odd that it was the very reason why her pilots were seeing
progressively less combat as the war dragged on. It wasn‟t that the fighting was getting
easier, it was that command was increasingly seeing them as a tool of morale, and orders
had them kept behind the front line as a „support‟ unit, out of harm‟s way. They had earned
and defended their laurels many times over, and had nothing more to prove.
And so she found herself in San Angeles – arguably the safest place in the entire
Pacific Ocean, surrounded by a thousand nautical miles of submarine fortifications,
protected by the cradle of the Pacific Fleet.
She stopped as she came to the boarding tower at the end of the pier, and looked
around at the gathered crowds. Her white shore uniform stood out brightly against the sea of
stark black and navy blue jumpsuits, and it didn‟t take long for someone to recognise her
amongst the throng. “Quinn!”
She turned towards the towering hull of DSV Aquarius again, and strained to make
out the source of the voice in the crowd. She smiled when she recognised him and took off
her uniform cap before he jogged up and took her in to a warm embrace. At only five feet
tall, Roderick was virtually swallowed by the taller, heavily built man, but for the first time in
as long as she could remember she simply didn‟t want to pull away.
“Gavin,” she said after a moment, pulling back for just long enough to stare up at him.
“It‟s so good to see you...”
Wing Commander Gavin Mackenzie, the commanding officer of the Aquarius sea
wing beamed brightly as he stared down through Roderick‟s eyes. She was still young, but
her eyes seemed so old – two years of war had weathered the once bright and fiery Irish
soul. He felt a twinge of sadness as he saw the pain there, and smiled in comfort. “It‟s been
a while,” he noted quietly, finally pulling back and letting his hands fall down her shoulders to
her forearms. It was a motion that made her want to recoil. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“I had no excuse,” she offered lightly. “I know you don‟t have long, but I had to see
you off. I‟m sorry I couldn‟t make sooner.”
“Hey, that‟s ok. Don‟t apologise,” Mackenzie‟s face darkened. “...How‟ve you been?”
Roderick didn‟t break her gaze, and smiled weakly. She was strong, despite
everything she‟d been through, but her once-masked eyes betrayed her thoughts before she
even answered. “I‟ve been ok. Keeping busy, I suppose.”
It was about the vaguest answer she could ever give, and Mackenzie smirked.
“Bullshit,” he said bluntly. “You‟re bored out of your brain. Ever since they pulled you off the
line, all you‟ve done is train nuggets, and you want action.”
Roderick stopped, her expression changing to one of regret as she thought about it.
“I was actually thinking the opposite,” she said truthfully. “I‟m tired of all this, Gav. It‟s just
that now that I‟ve got time on my hands, I have no idea what to do with it.”
Mackenzie‟s heart skipped a beat as he realised his hand had slipped further to hold
hers, and he pulled away softly. She caught the glint in his eye and felt flushed. He smiled
bashfully. He loved Corinn like a sister, but he had never seen her as anything more. Two
years of war had taken their toll – her porcelain face was tired, her dark eyes drawn and her
once-proud and strong shoulders slouched. But god, despite it all she was still beautiful. He
could never tell her that... “I can think of a thing or two,” he winked innocently, but Roderick
backed down, her hand finally pulling away.
“I can‟t,” she strained apologetically, before looking back up at him with a weak
smile. “...I don‟t have that much time on my hands. At the end of the week we‟re being
shipped out to the Commonwealth.”
Mackenzie‟s face twisted in to a mixture of disappointment and surprise. “The
Philippines?”
Roderick swallowed a lump in her throat and smiled again, although it was obviously
forced. “I came to say goodbye because I‟m not sure how long the tour‟s going to last. Wing
Commander Carrol was killed last week. They need a new CAG.”
- 19 -

Mackenzie‟s face paled at the prospect. The fighting in the Philippines was bad, this
was no secret, and no position on that front was safe or secure. Roderick was being given
what, for any other squadron, would be a suicide mission. “And you accepted?” he said
slowly, his voice lowered to a growl.
Roderick‟s face was again pained. “It was ordered, not requested. But hey - there I
was thinking they might give me a desk. I guess they think I‟ve still got something left.”
“What about the Angels?”
She nodded curtly. “They‟re coming with me. Don‟t know how much Admiral Morgan
had to do with this, but at least they‟re not being broken up. God knows Morgan needs all
the help he can get.”
“Walking on old graves,” he noted with a grim, weak smile.
There was a twinkle in Roderick‟s eye as she smiled again, and took his hand again,
this time with a confidence he‟d rarely seen. “No... I think the ghosts left him a long time
ago.”
Captain Lauren Hornsby stood on the flying bridge of the Aquarius DSV, looking
down over the surface docks with a watchful eye. Her gaze had come to rest on the lone
officer in white along with their companion at the end of the pier, and she smiled as she
realised who it must have been. Beside her, Commander Thomas Parker, the squadron
leader of the VF-123 Ghosts, smiled slightly. Hornsby looked at him with a wary stare.
“Something the matter, Commander?”
Parker looked up in surprise, but couldn‟t repress the smile. “Sorry, Captain... Not my
place to speculate.”
Hornsby raised a delicate eyebrow. “Then why don‟t you ask?”
Parker paused for a moment and then smiled lopsidedly, realising he was being
baited. “There are some things, Captain, that one doesn‟t ask the Wing Commander.”
Hornsby smiled mischievously. “Good answer,” she said bluntly. “The less we know,
the better, as far as I‟m concerned. Emotional baggage around here is the last thing any of
us need right now...” She stared blankly down at the dockside and past the two fighter
pilots, her eyes darkening under a furrowed brow. This time it was Commander Razak‟s turn
to interrogate her, the Aquarius XO having her exchange with Parker from the other side of
the observation deck.
He walked over silently and placed his hands on the guard rail. “Captain?”
Hornsby‟s eyes flickered to watch him for a moment and then gazed back out over
the surface of the Pacific. She closed them and shook her head. Razak had known for a
while that the details of their mission had been troubling Hornsby for a while, but to this point
the Captain hadn‟t openly let it show. It was a subtle lapse for an officer known for being so
guarded, and Razak doubted that anyone else would have noticed it.
“Are you alright?”
She opened her eyes again and glared at Razak fiercely. “You know my concerns,
John. Let‟s leave it at that.”
Razak nodded gravely, straightening his uniform and checking the deck behind him.
“As you wish, ma‟am.”
Hornsby looked back as well, noting the attention of several of deck officers. It was
attention she didn‟t want, and she sighed and straightened. “Enjoy the view while it lasts,
gentlemen. I‟ll be in my office.”
Razak watched the Captain disappear down the staircase in silence until Parker
spoke up from the rail. “What was that all about?” he whispered with a frown.
The XO turned and smiled nonchalantly. He betrayed nothing. “Nothing, Commander.
I think the Captain‟s just had a long week.”
Gavin Mackenzie held Roderick tightly one last time before he she let him go, and
pulled back quietly. An embarrassed, inward smile briefly flushed her cheeks as she
straightened and tried to put on a more formal guise. Mackenzie was unreadable for a
moment and in the back of her mind, a million thoughts and questions still tumbled. It was a
- 20 -

struggle not to blurt them out, and she saluted sharply to cover it. “Good luck, Wing
Commander,” she said curtly while almost fumbling with Mackenzie‟s rank.
Mind made up, a part of her saw a missed opportunity, and it was matched by the
brief glimmer of disappointment in Mackenzie‟s eyes. He returned the salute after a long
moment of hesitation, and then offered a reassuring smile. Her heart skipped a beat.
“See you „round, Quinn.”
Roderick nodded and smiled again, swallowing another lump that had risen in her
throat. Mackenzie turned and walked away without ever once looking back, his stride
purposeful as he approached the boarding towers and returned the salute from a pair of
Aquarius‟s marines. Roderick continued to watch from the dockside for another hour. She
stayed and watched the great DSV break from her moorings slowly and shrink on to a bloodred
western horizon. Before too long, the great ship slipped beneath the waves and
disappeared.
It was the last time anyone at Fort Grace would ever see her.
~
Five days later, UEO Aquarius DSV-8200, 550 miles inside the Alliance border,
the Polynesian trench. August 9 th , 2042…
A giant, spread-winged manta moved silently through the abyss, her huge flanks
sweeping carefully around the walks of the trench line as she advanced under the cover of
the submarine hills. A UEO DSV was capable of speeds that passed two hundred knots:
their navigational fins and bioskin working in tandem to produce an almost perfect slipstream
and propelled by six giant engines that were each, on their own, the size of a UEO SSN.
For now, Aquarius would do no more than few knots at best. A submarine of her size,
irrespective of how advanced her decoys and countermeasures may have been, was a
massive target that stood out on even the smallest of sonar arrays with all the prominence of
a mountain range. Not even the fish were disturbed by her passage as she continued to
prowl the depths, yet the tension amongst those on her command deck couldn‟t have been
any more painful.
Commander John Razak had watched the movements of Hornsby‟s boots as she
continued to pace the upper bridge deck, the slight „clank‟ as boot heel met steel grating
having all the precision of a well-made watch. It was a nauseating rhythm, and one that he
had been watching for what seemed an hour. In reality, it had only been several minutes.
The Captain‟s eyes continued to look downward, tracing the line her feet followed where two
of the deck gratings met along a frame, heel-to-toe.
After a time, the ship‟s tactical officer, Lieutenant Commander Davis Akara, also
found himself watching the Captain intently, first as he noticed Razak‟s blank stare to the
Captain‟s feet, and then being drawn in as the next victim of the oddly-hypnotic pattern.
Eventually, Hornsby stopped as she sensed the two sets of eyes cast on her, and she
looked at Razak quizzically. “Problem, Commander?”
Razak pulled back in surprise, his jaw agape as he struggled with the thought.
“What? Oh. No, Captain...”
“No ma‟am,” added Akara hastily, drawing the Captain‟s gaze from the XO to the
lower deck.
“Nothing to report, Davis?”
“Uhh, no... Not really.”
Hornsby nodded, and then continued her pace across the deck, pulling a lock of
stubborn blonde hair from her eye to drape it behind an ear. The ship‟s progress was
agonizing, moving at a speed of barely ten knots as they neared a place which no UEO ship
had visited in exactly thirteen months. The last time that had happened, the ship in question
had never returned. The threat posed by Macronesia‟s massive Atlas missile defence
- 21 -

system had left a dark shadow over the Aquarius, and the importance of remaining
undetected had become a default second-to-none.
This was where Atlantis had died, and the ghosts would never leave. Why the ship‟s
orders had brought the Aquarius there, Hornsby had never been able to find out, and every
inquiry in the purpose and pursuit of the operation had been flatly rebuked by anyone with
even a hint of authority. She didn‟t appreciate being led around blindly by her nose, and had
simply been assured that a rendezvous would take place. With who, and why, remained
mysteries.
A shrill chirp from the sonar stations turned all three officer‟s heads (two of them
mercifully) at once.
“Captain?”
“Mister Mackenzie?”
Lieutenant Kathleen Mackenzie was an oddity – and one that Hornsby had never
been particularly pleased with. This was because she was the sister of the Aquarius‟s most
impetuous Wing Commander. In normal circumstances, the fleet would have prohibited the
two officers from serving together in the same command... but with demands being what
they were, Hornsby had not been willing to part with one of her most experienced senior
staff, and as head of ship operations, she almost never left the bridge. “Hypersonar contact
in the trench, ma‟am. Range twenty-two miles, dead-ahead. We caught it as we rounded that
last turn.”
“IFF? Matching records?”
“None, ma‟am. Solid mass, depth approximately sixteen thousand feet.”
Hornsby felt a rush of familiarity, and a momentary silence filled the command deck.
She hesitated before issuing her next orders, swallowing a lump that had risen sharply in her
throat. “Deploy WSPRS forward, send Curly in for a visual identification... keep Larry on
direct laser relay. I don‟t want to give our position away with active sonar.”
Mackenzie nodded solemnly. No one was saying what was on their minds, but it was
already clear, and there were very few things in the world that could give a sonar return so
quickly from that depth...
“It‟s her...” said an oddly distant, haunting voice from Hornsby‟s side. The Captain‟s
eyes shifted to meet the purple glow of the ship‟s AI. The AI stared at the view screen at the
front of the room, as if gazing in to the darkness at something that her human comrades
could not yet distinguish.
“Ari?”
“A personal matter, Captain, I apologise,” the AI replied curtly, meeting the Captain‟s
gaze momentarily.
Hornsby pursed her lips. She‟d managed to get used to the continuous presence of
Ari in her tenure as Captain of the Aquarius, but there were still times where the too-human
mannerisms caught her off-guard.
Aquarius‟s tiny, unmanned satellites – named Curly, Larry and Moe – moved about
their larger mothersub like fireflies, their spotlights painting the hull as they moved back and
forth, always scanning, watching and protecting her in the abyss. Obediently, they
disappeared in to the blackness of the trench far below, and the tense game of waiting
continued anew.
Aquarius herself never halted, still moving over the black pit below her on her way
through to the mission. That this passage of ocean remained the only way that submarines
could traverse the south pacific west-to-east without being detected sat uneasily with
Hornsby, and the presence of patrols remained a distinct possibility. Even without the three
“Whispers” probes – Wireless Sea Protection and Reconnaissance Satellites – Aquarius still
had three WSKRS – Sea Knowledge Retrieval Satellites – to cover her approaches.
The Polynesian trench was one of the scars left behind from two decades of
ecological chaos, first as the result of a catastrophic geothermal meltdown off the Australian
coast in 2019, and then by Macronesia‟s use of subduction weapons to annex most of the
South Pacific basin. When they claimed the expansive Tongan prospects, the use of so
many of the weapons had reduced layers of bedrock that had sat undisturbed for a million
- 22 -

years to slag. The damage was irreversible, and for the next ten years, a great, uncharted rift
had steadily formed between American Samoa and French Polynesia over three miles deep.
For a time, it had been a serious concern to geologists who feared a dramatic shift in plate
tectonics around the Pacific, but it had never come. Now, a trench some fifteen hundred
miles long remained as a testament to the unnatural forces that had so ravaged the region. It
remained the UEO‟s one and only lifeline in to the Macronesian Alliance, and one that was
fraught with risk.
To those aboard, it felt as if Aquarius stood alone - too stubborn to submit, and too
proud to give in as the endless black of the trench reached out of the maw as if wanting to
engulf her insignificant form and swallow her for the rest of time.
Hornsby closed her eyes as the WSPRS continued their long plunge to the bottom,
some ten thousand feet below. Minutes passed, and an eerie silence had settled over the
ship‟s command decks as every eye sat watching the monitors intently.
To the eyes of the probing WSPR satellites, she loomed out of the darkness like a
ghost – battered, scarred and tortured. Grey shafts of light from the hovering probes shone
down around her ruin, and it was this that so defined the sight. Hornsby raised her head
slightly as she watched the shadow in the darkness materialize in to a ghostly, unwelcome
form. Sitting just a few meters from the edge of the rocky abyssal, the Atlantis DSV lay
broken: her great prow jutting across the rock precipice to throw a shadow in to the abyss
below. Her upper decks appeared to glow under the piercing gaze of the WSPRS flood
lights, the dramatic silhouette of the great battleship staring her down sending a chill through
Lauren Hornsby‟s spine.
For Ari, it was an entirely different experience as the sensors and sonars of the DSV
and her accompanying satellites probed and analysed the wreck. She saw things in real time
that no other member of the crew could have imagined.
“Extensive damage to her upper decks,” Ari reported quietly. “This is strange...”
Hornsby turned again. “How? Ainsley‟s action report stated that most of the upper
decks were destroyed, didn‟t it?”
“Yes, Captain... And that‟s consistent, but her hull is intact.”
Hornsby frowned. “Put it up.”
The screen changed, and the WSKRS data displayed was displayed in its aggregate
entirety. Atlantis was initially invisible against the mud and seafloor, her huge flanks and
wings covered by layers of detritus that had settled long after her final plunge. A virtual
overlay dissolved in to view as the data was pieced together, revealing a familiar shape. The
jutting arrowhead prow was the first and most recognisable part of the hull, jutting out over
the immense precipice of the rock face, her canards lagging out from behind as the grid
swept back over the hull, widening to its thick mid-ships bulk. There, two huge, swept wings
seemed to hang, rather than diverge, from its shoulders. Details started to become apparent
as the mesh was refined, and the extent of the damage of the upper decks became
apparent. Entire bulkheads had been torn away from the dorsal hull, leaving shattered
frames and decks visible beneath the debris and mud that had fallen to fill the great wound.
Yet despite the ugly scars... she was very clearly intact. To Hornsby‟s eye, something
seemed unusual about the pattern of debris that had settled atop the dorsal hull, but she
could not figure what it was.
“There has to be about seven thousand pounds per square inch of pressure out
there,” remarked the Captain, studying the suspiciously stable structure before her. “She
should have imploded during the descent.”
“Seven thousand, three hundred and thirteen, to be precise,” Ari corrected. “And it
seems improbable to me that the ship could have survived an uncontrolled descent the way
it has.”
Hornsby folded her arms as she continued to stare, captivated by the ghostly image
before her and then quietly hit the intercom. “Anniel,” she asked. “I‟d like you to come to the
bridge.”
Hornsby started to pace slowly in front of the Conn as her staff continued to gather all
the information they could. Atlantis made for an abysmal sight, her prow jutting out in to the
- 23 -

murky darkness ahead of a hull that had already been covered in mud and debris. The
depression she lay in was probably formed when the 240,000 tonne submarine collided with
the seabed, kicking up hundreds of tonnes of sediment. The vast wings of the submarine
comprised an area the better part of two football fields by themselves, and their downward
slope and considerable mass – designed to keep the great vessel‟s trim stable at close to
transcavitational speeds – had done her a service in keeping the keel upright. If the ballast
tanks within those wings were deliberately breached and flooded as Ainsley‟s report had
always held, then she had been saved by that final act. Hornsby doubted much would have
been left of the ship if she had listed and gone down at an angle. The impact of one of those
massive wings, ahead of a quarter of a million tonnes of titanium, carbon composites and
steel, would have almost certainly destroyed her.
The delicate, almost deliberately covert footsteps behind her were something that
Hornsby was going to need to get used to, she decided with a half-smile. The footsteps
stopped well-short of the Conn. It was a subtle but deliberate decision that Hornsby knew
was being made as a respectful consideration before she slowly turned.
The woman wore a black, high-collared tunic uniform trimmed in gold piping,
although it gave Hornsby a momentary pause to note she wore the jacket open, the top
button of the white blouse unfastened comfortably. For a Nycarian, it practically passed as
completely casual attire.
“What do you make of this?” Hornsby asked her, turning on a heel to stand next to
the woman.
Anniel raised an eyebrow as she straightened and looked at the indicated sensor log
with a slowly narrowing gaze. “Interesting,” she started. “The hull has sunk on an even keel.”
“Mhmm,” Hornsby agreed with a half-smile. “Go on.”
The Nycarian looked briefly at Hornsby, realising full well the UEO Captain was
weighing and judging her every comment. She was welcome to those examinations, but it
did nothing to faze her. “According to Admiral Ainsley‟s report, and the findings of the inquiry,
the destruction of the starboard ballast tanks should have led to an uncontrolled sinking... If
my knowledge of the hull composition and construction is correct, the loss of equilibrium
would have resulted in a catastrophic loss of hull integrity at a depth of approximately five
thousand feet.”
Hornsby smiled at Ari, who maintained a particularly smug grin from her small
pedestal next to the Conn. “She‟s after your job, Ari,” Hornsby prodded.
The AI sniffed, but the Nycarian continued to stare at the plot.
...It started as a high-pitched whine that turned in to a shrill, piercing stab of noise,
echoing and bouncing through decks and corrid throughout the Aquarius moments later. The
crew stopped, looking at each other in surprise at the distinct, unmistakeable sound.
“Active hypersonar ping,” Mackenzie confirmed as it lingered on.
“Origin?”
Mackenzie was about to reply when the monitors around the bridge began wink out.
They were steady at first, but then other, secondary systems began to stutter.
Davis Akara barked an alarm from tactical, and he was very quickly followed by
almost every other station officer on the bridge.
It happened too fast for anyone to realise, or even report. Next to Hornsby, on the
small, unassuming pedestal adjacent to the plot, Ari stammered.
“Captain... Something is... very...”
Then the impetuous AI, too, flickered. For a moment, genuine surprise covered Ari‟s
face before she dissolved in to static, the image buffers projecting light on the haze of water
vapour unable to process her routine information fast enough as the main computers were
overrun by a flood of data that surged through them. It seemed the most unlikely of
scenarios: Ari, a living, sentient computer built on the DNA of a human mind, permanently
hardwired in to the most sophisticated system of slaved neural-fibre supercomputers,
capable of processing the battlespace of an entire theatre down to most comprehensive of
fine detail in real time, blacked out. Firewalls failed, countermeasure programs were
- 24 -

destroyed, and for a moment, the finest neural computing system ever designed by the UEO
died.
The bridge was plunged in to darkness and silence for several long seconds. Senior
officers gritted their teeth and gripped hand rails as they waited for an expected barrage of
torpedoes and enlistedmen looked to them for orders. Neither would come as a lone, gentle
blue light flickered from the holographic pedestal, and the AI appeared, appearing to be on
her knees, turned away from the bridge staff, head low, with arms limp at her sides.
Lauren Hornsby slowly walked around the pedestal as an eerie sound carried on the
command deck.
A deep, wounded sobbing. The AI‟s shoulders heaved with each breath, and tears
welled under her pale, white cheeks, glistening in the light. Akara stood from his station to
look back in wonder. They seemed... real.
“Captain-“
Hornsby silenced him with a single, raised index finger.
The purple, monotone hue of the AI that they had all become so used to witnessing
had disappeared, now an icy, lonely blue.
As Hornsby completed her long, half-lap, the AI looked up at her, a single tear rolling
from her cheek to spatter on the pedestal.
The AI‟s mouth hung open for a moment as her gaze met Hornsby‟s, and there was a
frightening unfamiliarity there which made the hairs on the back of the Captain‟s neck stand
on-end.
“Help... me...”
~
- 25 -

“030639/3536”
Extract from the personal journal of Mark A. Ainsley.
Dated 17 October, 2042…
“...Wing Commander Corinn Roderick may well be the last person to have ever seen
the Aquarius DSV. When I learned of the loss, I felt as though a part of me was lost with her.
Even now, two months since she disappeared, I have no answers.
I will always wonder what happened to Lauren Hornsby and her crew, and I doubt
that any answer can ever truly bring about an end to my bereavement. Despite this, my
professional relationship with Captain Hornsby does not compare to the great personal loss I
feel of Commander Thomas Parker. He leaves behind a wife of three years, and son of just
five months old: my daughter and grandson. I would like to believe that saying he died
defending them would be enough. To give everything in the defence of something greater
than one‟s self is a noble sacrifice that should be as much celebrated as it is mourned, but
even this I cannot know with any certainty.
For over thirty years, I have trained those under my command to detach themselves
from emotional responsibility – to understand that they cannot be blamed for that which lies
beyond their control. The hypocrisy of this does not escape me as I consider that my
grandson will grow up without ever knowing his father – a fine man and a gentleman who I
only too proudly and without hesitation call my son. It brings no small amount of tragedy in
knowing that Michael Parker will grow up without ever knowing the example and guidance of
such a man. By contrast, it is with unrivalled anguish that I witness how such fine deeds can
be tarnished by the distortion of the noblest of our ideals...”
~
- 26 -

Almost Six Months Later. The Present Day...
Fort Grace Naval Command, 20 miles south-east of San Angeles. April 3 rd ,
2043…
The centre of Fort Grace was nothing more than a solid, obsidian-walled armoured
bunker complex on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. A remnant of the Third World War, the
facility had been progressively upgraded over the years that had passed since to include
rings of defensive emplacements, docking facilities and subfighter hangars. In contrast to the
surface facilities a couple of miles away, the only access to the command centre was by
submarine transport or the twenty-mile long sea floor Mag-Lev tube that ran from San
Angeles itself. For eighteen months, Fort Grace had served diligently and capably as the
headquarters of the UEO‟s Pacific Fleet: hundreds of war-subs and thousands of subfighters
called the base home in a theatre that was struggling to manage with overburdened logistics
and supply demands. Even eighteen months after the loss of Pearl Harbor and San Diego,
the UEO had struggled to bring their other bases to the level of capability needed to support
the ever-growing Pacific fleet. With Japan now once again in UEO hands, bases in
Yokohama and Kure had been rapidly brought back in to service, but Fort Grace had
remained at the very centre of fleet operations in the theatre.
One reason for this was the increasing presence of North Sea Confederation forces
throughout the Pacific. Nearly half of the UEO‟s Pacific-based forces were now drawn
directly from the North Sea Confederation, and with this increase in force had come
increased demands on the few fleet bases that existed across the Pacific.
At any one time, Fort Grace was host to at least half a dozen carrier taskforces,
sometimes being forced to deal with as many as ten, as it had done during the staging
preparations for Operation Clipper over a year before.
It was not just the new materiel demands that had been troubling Fleet Admiral Jack
Riley, but also the demands of those behind the forces themselves. When the North Sea
Confederation had committed to supporting the UEO‟s war against Macronesia, no one had
foreseen the political entanglements that would result. A move that was supposed to bring
about a swift end to the war had spiralled in to a drawn-out war of attrition with Macronesia:
the UEO/NSC coalition being unable to counter the massive defence battery which had held
the Pacific in an iron-grip for that same eighteen months.
A weapon named Atlas.
It was the same battery which had destroyed the Atlantis DSV, and now the Alliance
was making rapid progress on a second such system, located in the middle of the most
heavily fortified stronghold in the Pacific: Pearl Harbor.
A clock was ticking down to a deadline that had been set by Secretary General Sir
James Cathgate. Zero hour was midnight, August 1 st , 2043 - just four months away. It
coincided with the projected time that the Alliance would bring the massive weapons system
online.
This was the burden that weighed heavily on Fleet Admiral Jack Riley in the
headquarters complex of Fort Grace. It didn‟t help that it was compounded by the headache
being created by the twelve other Admirals who stood around a great oaken table arguing in
the middle of the war room. The question of Pearl Harbor was a point of great contention
amongst the General Staff of the Pacific Fleet, and it seemed to Riley that no one was
capable of agreeing on even the most simple of subjects. Rank only applied to a point – an
Admiral, regardless of the number of stars on their collar, was a powerful individual that was
afforded respect... most especially when they belonged to a separate chain of command.
“That‟s enough,” Riley snapped sharply, glaring at two UEO and NSC Admirals who
were seconds away from tearing each other apart from across the table. “You people need
to learn the actual definition of the words „war room‟. I am not having this command centre
turned in to a circus because you can‟t decide who has the biggest torpedo tubes.”
- 27 -

The argument turned silent instantly as every pair of eyes locked on the Fleet Admiral
and one or two of the UEO staff tried unsuccessfully to hide bemused smirks. Riley didn‟t
break his poise under their gaze, instead turning his lip in to a curled sneer. “When I say I
want Pearl Harbor by August, I don‟t expect you to tell me it can‟t be done, and I most
certainly don‟t expect the point to be argued. It‟s an order. Now give me options.”
The NSC Admiral, an officer of the German Navy named Dietrich von Kesselring,
was one of seven NSC commanders in the room. It hadn‟t escaped Riley that the number of
UEO officers at these meetings had steadily decreased in the past eighteen months, and
most of the NSC officers that had been assigned to his General Staff had come at the orders
of the new Secretary General. It had coincided with a major decrease in the number of UEO
ships and taskforce commanders on the frontline – something which Riley suspected to be
an ultimately under-handed and insulting attack on his command by Sir James Cathgate.
“Admiral, I respect the orders, however I question whether this can be done in such a
short time period without unacceptably high casualties,” said Kesselring in his usual cold and
stern tone.
Admiral Andrew Hayes, Riley‟s chief of staff – and the other half of the argument –
smirked inwardly and opened his mouth to say something before the Fleet Admiral shot him
a warning glare. He stopped and then reconsidered his thoughts. Hayes had held his
position for as long as Riley had been the commander of the Pacific Fleet, and shared his
frustrations. Unlike the Fleet Admiral however, Hayes was not as patient, and became a
Pitbull when his authority was challenged. “Jack, we don‟t have much choice in the matter.
The Secretary General was quite clear... All options on the table, the third fleet‟s our best
shot. It isn‟t numbers we need here: It‟s firepower.”
“No, Admiral Hayes, it isn‟t. What we need is time,” countered Kesselring dryly.
“October, November, we may be able to do something, but not before. If you send a fleet of
five battlecruisers to Pearl Harbor now, you will lose five battlecruisers.”
“I don‟t know if you‟d prefer me to say it in German, because I‟ve tried English a
dozen times - We don‟t have until November,” sighed Riley as he removed his glasses and
rubbed his eyes with the Secretary General‟s orders ringing in the back of his head.
Admiral Hayes pursed his lips and straightened, gesturing to the satellite photo of
Pearl Harbor in the centre of the desk, pointing specifically to the huge underwater missile
base being constructed on what remained of the off-shore fortress of Saratoga naval station.
“This is our only real target,” he offered slowly. “This deadline is being driven by the
construction of that battery, correct?”
“Yes. If they finish it, then they will have the capacity to hit any target from Tokyo to
San Francisco, and we won‟t have to worry about retaking Pearl Harbor, because we will
have lost this war. It‟s that simple.”
“Then forget about Pearl Harbor,” suggested Hayes, holding up his hands. “We only
need to destroy the battery. Even if we just delay the completion of the facility, we can press
the Secretary General for more time in taking the islands.”
Kesselring raised an eyebrow, but remained silent as he listened to Hayes, giving
him only inches. Now they were getting somewhere. “How?”
General Bradley Colburn, the commander of the Combined UEO/US First Marine
Division, spoke up from the end of the desk. The audacious marine, normally not known for
reservation, had remained quiet during the heated exchange between Hayes and
Kesselring, apparently savouring every moment. Colburn had been in command of the UEO
Marines based on Hawaii in person when the Alliance had invaded in 2041. When the order
had been given to retreat from the islands, it had been his command that had taken it most
bitterly. “Joint operation: Force Recon and NSF through an orbital insertion. We drop in,
plant charges, and get out again before they ever know we were there.” Colburn smiled. “I‟ve
been looking forward to kicking those bastards in the balls since we lost it to start with. Just
give me the word.”
Riley shook his head. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Brad, but short of a
tactical nuke, there isn‟t anything you have that is going to put the entire battery out of
commission. We tried conventional weapons with the one sitting off the Australian coast. It
- 28 -

didn‟t work, and the Air Force haven‟t shut up about their losses since. It‟s too heavily
fortified, and too deep. As for your preferred insertion, Whitechapel is still months from being
anywhere near ready for trials, and even if you made it in, we have no way of getting your
men out.”
Colburn hesitated only for a second. “That‟s a risk I‟m willing to take, sir, and with
respect – it‟s a risk we‟ve taken before.”
Hayes wasn‟t finished. “I was thinking something more direct, General,” he corrected
calmly, gesturing to the large holographic map which showed the location of the third fleet.
“A large, carrier-based subfighter attack may be fast enough to break through their defence
nets and hit the base before withdrawing to the north. We‟ve done that before as well.”
“Yes, with a fully-loaded Atlantis-class DSV,” said Colburn darkly. “We don‟t have that
capability anymore.”
It hung for a moment, and never did Riley feel as if he had wanted those ships as
much as he did at that moment. In 2041, the Atlantis had led a most spectacular assault over
a thousand nautical miles behind enemy lines to attack and destroy nearly a third of the
Alliance‟s fleet carriers. It had been the single most one-sided victory that the UEO had seen
during the entire, blood-soaked first year of conflict, and had been bookended by what was
regarded as singularly the most tragic loss – the destruction of San Diego by nuclear
weapons. It had cemented what the DSVs were capable of, and the demand by theatre
commanders for their presence in any given operation had exploded.
Now, despite the greatest hour of need, they had nothing to turn to. Atlantis had been
destroyed, and Aquarius had disappeared. For three months, the UEO fleet had scoured the
trenches and ravines of the Pacific for any trace of the massive submarine, but none could
be found. Aquarius was gone, taking with her the best hopes of the entire Pacific Command.
Admiral Hayes sighed. “Admiral Kesselring is right, General. Without Aquarius, we
can‟t risk a fleet engagement with the scale of the fortifications around Pearl – and forgive
me for saying it – but even if we did send in a subfighter wing - the potential loss of a
seawing is considerably easier to bear than the loss of an entire battlegroup.”
Kesselring stiffened and glowered. “I‟m not committing NSC pilots to a suicide
mission, Admiral Hayes.”
Hayes matched him and levelled his gaze, his stare cold and unappreciative of the
German‟s stubbornness. “...Then maybe, Admiral Kesselring, if you think your pilots can‟t
hack it, you should take a page from the General‟s book and let us do something for a
change.”
“That‟s enough, Andrew,” chided Riley before the argument could be fired up again.
“This may be the only shot we have, and if you make this happen – both of you – then I think
the Secretary General could be convinced to revise his deadline.”
“You realise Jack that they‟re both right - this would be a suicide mission,” said
General Colburn mournfully. “Whoever goes in there is not coming out again. And I don‟t
think we have a single commander in the entire Pacific who‟s ever pulled something like this
off.”
Jack Riley paused and cast his eyes across the map before him slowly - one man
being at the forefront of his mind... “You‟re correct, General, we really don‟t.”
Whitehall, London. North Sea Confederation. April 4 th , 2043…
~
The gentle murmur of quiet conversation and the ambient sound of a string quartet
pervaded the reception hall. Waiters and dignitaries drifted and danced in between crowds,
occasionally giving way to a rise in the clinking of glassware or nurse and polite laughter.
The sheer number of politicians and diplomats in the room at that moment was
enough to make even the most battle-hardened Generals want to melt in to the shadows and
disappear back in to their bunkers. Admirals were still soldiers and the false platitudes that
- 29 -

dominated such functions rang of indignation and dishonesty, and the awkwardness
between the staff officers of the UEO and the Russian Confederation was painfully obvious.
The Third World War had been over for more than thirty years, yet the bitterness remained.
In some cases, the more senior officers of the two militaries had once probably called each
other enemies during the early days of their career, and it was those officers that were the
easiest to spot. They remained distant, often regarding each other from across the room with
no more than a courteous nod of recognition, but always remaining silent.
In contrast to their military counterparts, the diplomats seemed to be enjoying every
moment of the high-brow limelight, but they were not the only ones who called such
occasions their hunting ground. Every one of them were watched from the alcoves and
balconies above by shadowy, grey men and women of no noted political interest whose sole
job was to report on whatever largely unnoticed drunken quip that might escape one of the
politicians‟ lips. These were the spies of the NSIS, ONI, CIA and GRU. None of it was
particularly out of the ordinary at such functions, and no one was really giving it a second
thought.
The formal reception for the new Russian ambassador to the North Sea
Confederation was only an hour old, but for Vice Admiral Mark Ainsley, it was already feeling
like the addition of hard labour to a long and painful prison sentence that came without
parole. For a year, Ainsley had served as the Chief of Staff to Fleet Admiral Travis Sinclair,
all the while watched by the highest levels of the Atlantic command. On the face of it, it was
a post which effectively made him the second most senior UEO officer in the entire Atlantic
fleet. The only problems were that the Atlantic fleet barely existed anymore, and it was so far
from the front line that command intended to keep him out of harm‟s way... or as they saw it,
to keep him from causing any more trouble.
Sinclair had told Ainsley how he saw it as an ignoble way to end a thirty year career
that had made the former Atlantis-captain one of the most celebrated commanders in UEO
history. That he should pay for someone else‟s mistake stank of idealistic bureaucracy.
Ainsley saw it as a peaceful and blessed change of pace that had come far too late, and an
easy road in to paid retirement. He was hardly going to argue the point with those who put
him there and so long as they remained happy about it, then so would he.
Ainsley shrugged slightly in a vain effort to loosen the tight, starched collar of his
dress uniform, and when that didn‟t work, he took another mouthful of the Dom Pérignon that
he had been nursing for the better part of twenty minutes. One of the other UEO staff
officers, General Ethan Willems, exchanged a knowing smile with Ainsley from across the
hall and then disappeared in to the crowd once again.
The knowing smile was directed at the petulant, flustering gasbag in front of Ainsley:
an NSC Admiral, Harold Lewis, who had both literally and figuratively formed a battleline with
his words. Lewis was the Commander of the North Sea Confederation‟s Mediterranean
Fleet, and around him had gathered a significant crowd of NSC, UEO and Russian officers
and diplomats – including the Ambassador - who had been steadily attracted by the
animated conversation.
“Tell me, Admiral Lewis,” asked the Russian Ambassador in nearly perfect
pronunciation. “This war in the Pacific has gone a very long time, as you say. What steps
has the NSC taken to improve the situation?”
Ainsley swallowed another mouthful of the Champagne, although the question made
it taste bitter. He remained silent, all the while having no particular desire to get any more of
Lewis‟s attention.
“The problem in the Pacific, Mister Ambassador, is and always has been the sheer
size of the theatre,” Lewis offered simply. “The North Sea Confederation – Europe – has
always had a relatively small – but all the while very capable - military when compared to
say, the combined UEO or Macronesian fleets.”
The answer was a double entendre, and not in any way that the present UEO officers
appreciated. Lewis continued to be very animated; offering elaborate hand gestures at every
key word or phrase and for the last five minutes had steadily annoyed Ainsley to the point of
distraction. Yet no one dared interrupt the NSC Admiral in his commentary. “For the last six
- 30 -

months, Mister Ambassador, we‟ve worked very closely with the Secretary-General to take
on a more active and direct role in the administration of regional strategy.”
The Ambassador raised a curious eyebrow and briefly caught Ainsley‟s deathly gaze
before he followed through. “What of the UEO commands?”
Lewis looked at Ainsley for several long seconds, as if he seemingly expected a
challenge to the question. Ainsley gave up nothing, and continued to lock eyes with Lewis
until the pompous NSC commander finally looked away to venture his own answer. “Unless
my colleagues here wish to answer in my stead, I can only suggest to you, sir that after
nearly three years of this conflict and the most exceptional of pressures, the UEO fleet has
been stretched to its utmost limit. Our involvement in theatre strategy means that many
previously dead-locked fronts can be opened through the engagement of the Alliance far
more directly than was previously possible. Much of that problem, of course, has been due
to some, shall we say controversial decisions by the higher UEO commands to withhold
many fleet assets from the front.”
Ainsley nearly choked and Lewis caught his gaff through a prying, watchful eye. The
UEO Admiral saved him the trouble of asking, and finally spoke up – despite every warning
gaze from the other UEO officers around him. Lewis had thrown down a gauntlet, and
Ainsley was not about to let it sit there unanswered. “Admiral Lewis... While I wouldn‟t think
to disagree on the point of the UEO fleet being stretched thin, I must observe that your
knowledge of the front is truly... insightful, sir.” The compliment was a thin veil which
momentarily let Ainsley see the blood run out of Lewis‟s face. He paused only a second
before asking; “Tell me sir, and please forgive my memory on the matter - In which theatre
did you serve...?”
Ainsley held his gaze masterfully, betraying nothing of the fact that he knew full well
that for over thirty years, Harold Lewis had commanded nothing more than a desk, moving
from one administrative assignment to another. Lewis held the Dom Pérignon in his mouth
for a second longer in an attempt to give himself the moment necessary to formulate his
answer. He swallowed.
Instead of answering, Lewis bowed ever so slightly and smiled, while offering a hand
towards Ainsley in introduction. “Ambassador Sobolev, forgive me – may I introduce you to
Vice Admiral Mark Ainsley, the UEO Chief of Staff to Fleet Admiral Sinclair, whom you met
previously.”
The Ambassador beamed and lightened slightly as he heard the name and shook
Ainsley‟s hand warmly. “Admiral, I‟ve so wanted to meet you. It‟s a pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine, Ambassador.”
Lewis‟s timing was perfect and cruel. “Surely you of all people, Admiral Ainsley,
should appreciate that the UEO cannot be expected to carry the weight of this conflict as has
been demonstrated thus far alone. Even your command has suffered from the demands of
this conflict, through no fault of your own, of course...”
Ainsley ignored the ingratiating jibes and caught the grimaces on the other officers‟
faces. There had been few officers in the NSC command more pleased by Ainsley‟s
reassignment than Lewis had been. It had been the orders of his then-superior officer and
now-Secretary General Sir James Cathgate that had led to the destruction of the Atlantis
DSV, and it had been Ainsley who was in command. Cathgate and Lewis had been among
several to call for Ainsley‟s removal from active service after the disaster, but for whatever
had happened throughout his career to put him in that position, Ainsley still had powerful
allies. With the weight of two Fleet Admirals behind him, there had ultimately been little
opposition to his new post. Lewis had resented the decision ever since, as his own
Mediterranean fleet was one particular NSC force that had suffered drastic force reductions
with more and more ships being diverted to the Pacific.
“Admiral Lewis, I remind you sir, that this uniform notwithstanding, I am still an officer
of the Royal Navy. The UEO enjoys every aspect of its relationship with the North
Sea Confederation, and I – along with many others - would take it as a personal
slight, sir, were you to suggest that the UEO navy‟s commitment in this conflict was...
half-hearted?”
- 31 -

Ainsley let the statement hang for a moment as he raised his glass to his lips again,
but paused to lock eyes with Lewis once more. “Not that you would make such base
implication, of course.”
“Indeed,” said Lewis dryly, his voice only a few notes above a growl.
No one dared say a thing to break the tension between the two Admirals that hung
rank in the air for several long seconds. Not even the ambassador tried to continue with his
previous line of questioning, and his staff shifted uncomfortably.
Ainsley smiled apologetically and then grimaced at his glass after taking another
mouthful. “Forgive me, gentlemen,” he offered lightly. “I suspect this Champagne is going to
our heads all too-quickly. I think I‟ll get some air.”
Admiral Ainsley excused himself to the ambassador and the other officers, leaving
Lewis only with a warning gaze across the crowd of gathered officers.
Stepping away from the group quickly, he moved quickly to the balcony outside.
Casting his eyes around the room on his way, they briefly came to rest on a pair of women –
notably not in uniform – who were swept up in a lively conversation that looked like it was far
more entertaining than the drivel he had just endured. He smiled as he traced the line of one
of their backs, wrapped in blue satin from ankles to shoulders, with brown hair that was done
up in curls in a high bun at the back of her skull. Samantha Ainsley was so caught up in her
conversation with Lisa Sinclair that she wasn‟t even aware of her husband‟s passing. With
his mood being what it was, he decided against interrupting her and quietly stepped outside
and stared out at the courtyard below.
There was one set of eyes, though that did catch Ainsley‟s retreat to the balcony, and
having witnessed most of the exchange between he and Lewis, was only too curious and
eager to poke at the wounds.
“Admiral, you look like you could use something a little harder than champagne...
Perhaps a duelling pistol,” said the familiar, velvet-glazed German accent of Admiral Anise
von Schrader.
Ainsley turned to face the commander of the North Sea Intelligence Service and
smiled as he saw her, despite it being forced. Three years of war had not been kind to
Schrader and she looked much older than when Ainsley had last seen her. She was fifty-two
years old, and Ainsley remembered vividly how barely two years previously she had still
been full of youth and charm. Her alabaster skin and delicate cheeks had become thinner,
and increasingly more grey was creeping in to her silken, black temples. Her eyes had lost
the mischievous glint that had defined them from the day Ainsley had met her in the
academy, and her smile – while genuine – somehow came across as sad and mournful.
“Admiral von Schrader,” greeted Ainsley with a sigh.
“Oh, Mark,” she said, shaking her head in defeat. “I‟m never going to get you to drop
rank, am I?”
“...Anise,” he warned with a slight growl, frowning in disapproval. “I‟m in no mood.”
“Sorry,” she said plainly, turning so she could lean against the balcony next to him.
Her face softened as she turned her eyes to his. Ainsley saw vulnerability there, and for
once, didn‟t retreat. “Where did we fall apart, Mark?” she asked. “You know there was a time
you would have come to me with anything. I know we‟re over, and we have been for a very
long time – I get that.”
She stopped for a minute and looked across the floor of the ballroom at Samantha –
Ainsley‟s wife. “...That shouldn‟t change the fact we‟re still friends.”
Ainsley sighed and looked down at his glass, but he didn‟t drink it. “I‟m sorry, Anise,”
he said whilst shaking his head. “It‟s not you, it‟s what you do.”
“What I do?” she repeated with surprise. “Now what‟s that supposed to mean?”
“The NSIS,” he clarified. “I feel like I‟ve been left behind. I‟ve not been back here in a
very long time, and everything has changed.”
“Except you,” she nodded with a quiet smile. “Not everything has changed, Mark. A
few assholes like Lewis, maybe, but the best things always stay the same.”
- 32 -

“Then it‟s just a shame that its people like Lewis who are running the show,” he said.
“If his knowledge of warfare extends to logistics, then it‟s no wonder his fleet‟s shrinking.
God help us if he starts running things in the Pacific.”
Schrader laughed. “You‟re right, you haven‟t changed a bit,” she scoffed. “You still
can‟t see an inch past the uniform and may as well be married to your career.”
“I‟ve never seen myself with a choice otherwise,” he retorted, and failing to see the
humour. “I‟ve lived and breathed Navy for thirty-six years, Anise. It‟s who I am.”
Schrader stopped and looked across at Samantha again. “How does she deal with
it?”
He smiled. “Sometimes, she doesn‟t. We‟ve had our fair share of scraps, but we‟ve
known each other for nearly forty years, and been married for thirty of them. I suppose at the
end of the day we‟ve both come to understand it‟s not how often we see other, but what it
means to us when we do. For better or worse, that‟s always been enough.”
Schrader smiled and raised her glass slightly towards Ainsley. “Then to your
continuing retirement,” she offered lightly.
Ainsley smiled. It was something he would happily drink to. “Cheers.”
Schrader swallowed hard and paused awkwardly before what she said next. “I was
sorry to hear about Thomas,” she chanced. “I know he was like a son to you...”
“Mmm...” His eyes drifted off, lost in the distance of the crowd.
“Jessica must have taken it hard.”
“Of course she did,” he almost spat. “In the back of my mind I always knew that this
was a possibility, and that if it were to happen I might be able to explain it to her in a way that
she could understand, but... not knowing what happened... I can‟t even do that.”
Schrader hung her head and swirled her glass absent-mindedly. “I‟m not supposed to
speak about what goes on at the office Mark, but for what it‟s worth, we scoured the
Macronesian fleet reports for weeks afterwards, searching for anything that might suggest
Bourne‟s involvement. We didn‟t find a thing. If she went down, it wasn‟t to an Alliance
torpedo.”
Ainsley nodded solemnly. “That‟s what concerns me. I take it you got my note?”
Schrader said little, and merely smiled. “I‟ve had some contacts look in to it. You‟ll
hear from them in a couple of days if they have anything to report.”
“Them?” repeated Ainsley with uncertainty.
“Professional colleagues,” she stated simply, as if it would explain everything and
clearly unwilling to elaborate further. “I think you can trust them. I‟m just sorry to say I don‟t
think they can bring you the closure you wanted.”
“I understand,” he said softly. “Thank you for trying, Anise. I know I had no right to
ask.”
Smiling, she patted him gently on the arm. “You had every right to ask.”
An uneasy silence settled between the two officers for a moment before Schrader
turned slightly. “There‟s something else,” she said quietly.
“Hmm?”
Schrader turned for a moment to make sure they were alone, and then nodded.
“About four months ago, you told tech services that you were receiving... unintelligible
messages in your office.”
Ainsley stopped at that and looked up. “Yes. They told me it was probably just
service errors. Never found out what the problem was for certain. Happened two or three
times, if I recall.”
“Four,” Schrader corrected.
Ainsley shrugged for a moment before he stopped and looked over at his companion
with a slowly-dawning realization. “And why exactly is it the North Sea Intelligence Service
checking my calls?”
Schrader continued to stare ahead over the balcony to the River Thames beyond.
She was to the point. “The messages were flagged, Mark. They weren‟t just white noise.”
“What are you talking about?”
- 33 -

Schrader smiled and shook her head. “Ainsley, for someone with your reputation, you
are slow to catch on. You work in a building shared with MI6. Every call that goes in to or out
of Vauxhall Cross is monitored.”
Ainsley rolled his eyes. “Now they tell me.”
Schrader rounded on him. “Ainsley, there was more to it than a simple systems glitch.
The calls were flagged because they contained classified UEO Signals Corps encryptions.”
Ainsley straightened, feeling his stomach knot as he considered several thoughts –
none of which were particularly pleasant – at once. “And how is it that the NSIS would be
privy to codes used by UEO Signals?”
Schrader ignored the question as she reached in to her dress jacket and removed a
sealed envelope. “There was a message buried in each of the calls you received. NSIS
managed to decode it, but only to an extent. The messages were a series of numbers, but
none of my people could work out what it meant. The strange part of is that each message
seemed to be derivative of a single, originating code.”
The UEO Admiral frowned as he took the offered envelope and opened it, reading
what had been printed on the page inside. Four blocks of nine and ten digit numbers, exactly
as Schrader had said. “They‟re just numbers. Without some kind of context I couldn‟t tell you
what they mean,” he said plainly. “I suggest you check your ciphers.” Schrader could tell
from his expression that he meant what he said, and nodded.
“Well, whatever the numbers mean, we believe you were the one meant to receive it.
Yours was the only office to receive these calls, and it‟s got more than a few people curious.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Mark, I called in a lot of favours to chase up your problem. I even trod on toes that
aren‟t supposed to exist, so I‟m not asking much. I just want you to think about it, and if
something comes to mind – you let me know.”
Ainsley looked at the letter again, and then nodded with a half-smile. “No promises,”
he said simply. “Something tells me your contacts in Signals are better than mine.”
Schrader pushed herself off the balustrade “Mark... The Signals code embedded in
those calls hasn‟t been used in eleven months. It took us nearly four months of code
breaking to even find the correct cipher, and another month after that to decode it. The only
reason we know about it now is because we stumbled across it when we were investigating
holes in the UEO defence budget about six years ago. There is only one place on the entire
planet where that message could have been encoded.”
Schrader looked over her shoulder again and Ainsley strained to see what she was
trying to look at through the crowd. “What‟s so special about this code?”
“Ainsley, most military encryption protocols are dynamic, five-block encryptions: This
was a quadratic, floating point cipher. For most defence signals bureaus, that kind of thing
doesn‟t even exist. It‟s impossible to break unless you know the algorithm‟s variables. The
only computer that has ever been able to encode information to that level of encryption is an
AHAI.” Schrader paused. “...And last I checked, the only Human-AIs that have ever existed
were aboard Atlantis class DSVs.”
Ainsley frowned “Aquarius was lost over six months ago. That‟s not possible.”
Schrader gave Ainsley a warning gaze as she finally turned away. “Now you‟ve got a
reason to think about it,” she said bluntly. “You tell me what this means, and you‟ll get your
answers.”
“Admiral von Schrader, why can‟t you leave my staff alone? Shouldn‟t you be starting
a new cold war with the Russians?” called the clipped, authoritative voice from the door.
Ainsley and Schrader straightened and smiled slightly as UEO Fleet Admiral Sir Travis
Sinclair emerged from the ballroom. The cuffs of the man‟s sleeves were a sea of gold braid,
and his chest virtually a rainbow of coloured ribbons and medals.
The commander-in-chief of the UEO Pacific fleet smiled as he approached them both
and held up a hand as he sensed them both moving to salute. “No formalities, both of you,”
he warned.
“Of course, Admiral.” Ainsley countered, nodding politely.
- 34 -

Sinclair looked at Schrader and raised an eyebrow. “Anise, I mean not to intrude, but
may I have a brief word with my Chief of Staff?”
“Certainly. I‟ll catch you later Mark.” She smiled slightly before adding with a coy grin,
“Try not to let him draft you.”
Sinclair and Ainsley watched Schrader depart and disappear like smoke in to the
crowds inside. Ainsley smiled at this before turning back to the Fleet Admiral, sighing.
“That woman is irrepressible,” Sinclair growled with an edge of amusement. “And as
for you – will you at least try to look like you‟re having a good time? I know champagne and
dress whites aren‟t exactly your soiree, but it comes with the position.”
Ainsley smirked and then regarded the Atlantic fleet commander with a smile that
matched Schrader‟s. “As I recall sir, I wasn‟t given much of a choice.”
“You could have retired.”
“And give Cathgate the pleasure, sir?”
Sinclair laughed. “Cathgate is a bastard, yes, but an easier job is one thing he could
do with of late. I‟d really prefer not to make it any harder for him than it already is.”
Ainsley smiled weakly. “Perhaps. And may I say Sir Travis, congratulations again on
the knighthood. It‟s been a while coming, I think.”
“You‟re one to talk, Ainsley. But just between us, I believe your favour still runs high
in certain circles. His Majesty doesn‟t overlook that which is overdue.”
Ainsley paused for a minute and then smiled again at the Fleet Admiral. “...You mean
when it‟s politically appropriate, sir?”
Sinclair stopped at that and smiled apologetically. “...Such is the curse of our level of
service, Mark. You have always said what you mean, and you mean what you say. As a staff
officer, I could never ask nor want anything more; truly, it‟s an outstanding thing. But there
are some circles very near us who find it confronting and sometimes even abrasive. If you
ask me, and I dare not say it aloud, it‟s these people who often don‟t have the wit or brains to
fire back when you land one across the bow.”
Ainsley laughed and looked over at Harold Lewis who had somehow decided he
preferred the company of a smaller audience, this time entirely of NSC officers. “Admiral
Lewis struck a delicate nerve, sir, I won‟t lie.”
“It was ungracious of him to make such comments,” Sinclair offered quietly. “The
annoying thing for me is that this kind of bickering extends all the way to The Hague and
New Cape Quest. How the hell we are ever supposed to win this war while we‟re at each
other‟s throats I‟ll never know... although, there could be hope yet.”
The comment stood for a moment unnoticed by Ainsley until the final words
eventually sank in. Something in Sinclair‟s voice was awry, and it made him turn.
“Sir?”
Sinclair smiled slightly, but looked as if he wasn‟t going to enjoy what came next. “I
have a problem, Mark.”
“Anything I can help with?”
Sinclair laughed. “Not likely. You caused the problem. I don‟t know what strings
you‟ve pulled, but they worked at Fort Grace. It seems your name came up in a staff meeting
yesterday, and it‟s put me in something of a bind.”
Ainsley continued to stare in puzzlement, entirely unsure of where Sinclair was going.
“I don‟t have a clue what you‟re talking about, sir.”
“Well if that‟s the case then I wish I knew what was going on over there,” he said
bluntly. “Riley wants you back in the Pacific, Mark. His orders were not specific, only that
you‟re to report to him on the Constellation at the earliest possible convenience.”
Ainsley was frowning and he looked across the hall at Samantha again who
continued to laugh and talk happily with the other guests. “That‟s rather vague, sir,” he said –
not letting any of the anger that was building in the back of his mind show. “When did this
come in?”
“About an hour ago, in a priority message encrypted to me on the battlenet,” the Fleet
Admiral replied. “The NSC has organized a flight for you and Sam in two days from RAF
- 35 -

Welford, subject to your arrangements. If I didn‟t know any better, I‟d say there was a
conspiracy around here to get rid of you.”
“If there is, I wouldn‟t know anything about it. There was nothing specific to the
orders? It‟s a rather long way to get someone to travel without giving them the foggiest idea
what it‟s about, sir. This is... irregular.”
This time the junior officer‟s irritation was clearer, and Sinclair shook his head. “The
only other thing I can tell you, Mark, is that the orders were open-ended. I don‟t expect you‟ll
be back this way any time soon.”
Ainsley rubbed his face and cursed under his breath with a long sigh. “I don‟t need
this, not now...”
“I‟ve already appealed the order, Mark,” Sinclair offered. “It seems Riley is pulling the
rug out from under me on this one, and he wasted no time in repeating it when I asked. He
used the authority of the joint Pacific Command in lieu of his own, so I‟m afraid there isn‟t
much I can do.”
Ainsley shook his head and smiled at the irony. “You know, a year ago I couldn‟t
have thought of anything I wanted more than to stay in the Pacific, and the whole world
seemed determined to keep me from it. Now, just as I‟ve started enjoying home again, they
pull this.”
Sinclair bowed his head and nodded slowly. “Sometimes it pays to be low-key. Our
creed, Ainsley – run silent, run deep.”
“I built a career out of it,” he countered. “You‟d think I would have learnt it a bit
better.”
“I‟ve been giving some thought to your replacement,” Sinclair said, trying to move the
conversation from the low-key note. “No easy task, I promise you... But I may know just the
man.”
“Forgive me for saying sir, but that didn‟t take long,” Ainsley suggested with a smile.
“Well, hear me out, Ainsley. He‟s a real people-person. Loves to organize things, but
doesn‟t usually have the time to do them himself. Rather perfect, I think, for dealing with the
rest of my officers.”
Ainsley smirked as he gestured towards the balcony doors and slowly started to walk.
“Anyone I would know?”
“Quite well, I should think. His name‟s Harold Lewis.”
“I appreciate the irony, sir,” said Ainsley with a broad grin. “He should have had the
post years ago.”
Walking through the doors and back in to the ballroom, the two officers listened as
there was a soft rise from the quartet in the corner, and a familiar waltz – the Blue Danube –
began to play.
“You always did get the last laugh, Ainsley,” finished Sinclair as they drew closer to
the crowd of women who had paused for a moment to listen.
“I‟ve always tried, sir.” Ainsley changed the subject quickly as he drew closer to
Samantha. “Admiral, you will need to forgive me, I have other, rather more personal duties to
attend to.”
“I couldn‟t agree more.”
Both officers split quietly as they approached the women and gently sidled up next to
them. Ainsley smiled at Sinclair across the small circle of people and rested a hand on his
wife‟s arm.
“Darling,” he said quietly, turning to face her. “I‟m afraid I‟ve been rather unattentive...
Would you care to dance?”
“Well, here they are,” said Sam with surprise. “We were thinking you‟d abandoned
us.”
“Shall we?
“I‟d love to.”
The two couples separated with a brief exchange of goodbyes, and the Admiral led
his wife to the floor where already many of the officers and diplomats had begun to dance.
- 36 -

“Claire Lewis... I can‟t stand her,” she said quietly as he held her close and smelt the
perfume rising from her cheeks.
“Darling,” he managed after a moment‟s hesitation. “There‟s something we need to
discuss...”
UEO Headquarters, Fort Gore, New Cape Quest, Florida. NORPAC
Confederation. April 6 th , 2043…
~
The headquarters complex of the UEO stood like a giant, glass and stone citadel on
the Florida foreshore, stretching high above the low-rise skyline, surrounded by a myriad of
large dock facilities, wharves and office buildings. As was usual for the first thing of a
Monday morning, the entrance milled with reporters and journalists who were all eager to
interrogate the Secretary-General on his way in to the office for the first day of the working
week.
The motorcade that pulled up to the building was the same as it was every week –
the first of many as councillors, Admirals, Generals and diplomats who would arrive over the
course of the hour were shadowed heavily by UEO-stamped Hummers and armed marines.
The security arrangements that surrounded the Secretary-General and his staff since
the shooting of his predecessor nearly two years prior had undergone serious revision, and
most of those revisions had come at the direct order and supervision of James Cathgate
himself.
All of it seemed a horribly moot point when considering the throng of people who
waited to speak to the man, any one of which could have been his would-be assassin. None
of this escaped Fleet Admiral Jack Riley or Admiral Andrew Hayes who waited pensively at
the side of the crowd, occasionally sending warning gazes towards reporters who looked as
if they were about to bombard the pair with a torrent of questions.
“Andrew,” drawled Riley slowly under his breath without ever drawing his eyes from
the roadside. “Remind me next time I am meeting the Secretary-General to wear a suit. We‟ll
stand out less.”
Hayes smirked. “I‟m not sure it would make much difference, Jack. They can smell
fear.”
Riley stifled his laughter long enough for the motorcade to pull up to the curb-side
and quickly moved with Hayes to the second limousine in line. As usual, the door opened
and Sir James Cathgate stepped out and faced the mob.
Well in to his late fifties, Cathgate had long-served in the North Sea General Staff
and had been a rising star in The Hague for many years. He was no stranger to the game of
politics, and smiled all-too warmly as he approached the gathered reporters.
It was a smile that made Riley‟s stomach turn uncomfortably, and one he‟d seen
many times before – usually before the drubbing of someone‟s career. It was obvious to
most of those in what was left of the UEO command that officers such as Riley and Hayes
had maintained their positions out of political convenience. It would have been a nearly
suicidal move for Cathgate to remove them as he had done so many others, but ever since
being appointed to the lofty position, the Joint Command of the UEO military had been kept
on an increasingly short leash. Riley and Hayes‟s careers hung by threads... and that thread
was firmly attached to Cathgate‟s patience.
“Thank you,” hushed the Secretary-General, raising his hands to silence the gathered
media. This attention had been a long time coming, and every one of the UEO command
staff knew it. “I‟m afraid I don‟t have long, so I won‟t be taking any questions,” he battled to
say over the continuing noise. The rumours of major UEO fleet movements circling around
the defences of Pearl Harbor were no longer a secret, and it had been a continuing point of
frustration for not only Cathgate, but also Riley, that there were apparently very few ways of
keeping the media‟s attention diverted from military activities.
- 37 -

Cathgate waited until the constant calls for answers died down and then cast an eye
across the gathered journalists. “In the last week, my office has received many inquiries from
all of you in regards to the disposition of UEO and North Sea military forces in the central
pacific. Since 2041, Pearl Harbor has become a major staging area for the Alliance fleet, and
Macronesian activities within that area of responsibility have steadily pushed out towards
some of the more heavily fortified of our lines. The only statement that I will give you at this
moment is that we take the continued security of the front line as our highest priority, and the
fleet has, by extension, been required to make several changes to its usual deployments. I
will be more than happy to offer you a more comprehensive explanation of these movements
after military operations have been concluded in the area, but for the time being I ask that
you continue to respect the security of the servicemen and women who are protecting the
UEO from continuing Macronesian aggression. I ask that you report on the activities of the
fleet with responsible regard for these considerations. Thank you.”
With a carefully measured glance to the marines who had been waiting next to the
limousine, Cathgate backed away from the disappointed crowd and began to head inside.
Without needing to be told twice, the marines stepped in to block the path of the journalists,
and both Hayes and Riley made good their escape to follow the Secretary-General inside.
Upon arriving at Cathgate‟s office, Riley and Hayes were asked to wait for several,
frustrating minutes in the ante room by his Secretary. Both officers refused to sit, instead
standing quietly at ease, their caps clasped in their hands in front of them in absolute
silence. After a time, the intercom on the Secretary‟s desk chirped. Cathgate‟s clipped voice
instructed that the two Admirals be allowed in, and with only an apologetic smile, the
Secretary regarded the two men and nodded quietly.
Walking in to the office, Riley and Hayes found Cathgate sitting in silence behind his
desk, already signing a set of General-Assembly dispatches that had been left for him. In the
time they‟d been waiting, Cathgate had prepared a pot of tea which sat on the opposite side
of the desk along with three empty cups.
“Gentlemen, good morning,” said Cathgate, standing up to greet the two as if he had
been sitting there an hour. He cordially shook hands with each of them before gesturing to
the two high-backed chairs opposite him. “Sit down, please. Tea?”
“No sir, thank you,” declined Riley as Hayes shook his head.
“I know the journey from San Angeles is long, so thank you for coming on such short
notice. I‟ve scheduled a full briefing for sixteen-thirty this afternoon with the rest of the
Atlantic command. If the situation weren‟t so urgent, I‟d have gone to San Angeles myself to
save you the trip.”
“Well, sir, it‟s certainly been a while since you paid us a visit,” mused Riley as he
settled back in to the chair and looked around the office. It had changed a lot from the
traditional, well-tended furnishings of his predecessor, Nathan Bridger, and was now
adorned with shelves of books and files, and nothing more than a sideboard with a few bits
and pieces to help Cathgate get through the day. “But likewise, it‟s been a while since I‟ve
been to the Cape, so I thought it best to handle this in person.”
“Very good, then,” said Cathgate flatly as he poured himself some of the tea. “This
situation is beginning to get out of hand, so I‟m looking forward to hearing your solution... For
the time being however, what is it I can do for you both this morning, gentlemen?”
“Perhaps we‟d best start at the beginning, sir,” suggested Hayes politely. “We do
have a solution to the Pearl Harbor issue, however far from ideal it may be. But before we
bring it to the rest of the joint chiefs, we felt it wise to first discuss our intentions with you.”
Cathgate allowed nothing as he stirred the tea and continued to stare blankly at the
two Admirals. “...And?”
Riley levelled. “A carrier task force, perhaps two or three carriers, plus their escorts,
could slip across the front line and get close enough to Pearl to launch a combined,
synchronized subfighter attack against the target. Between the carriers, we should be able to
hit them with anywhere up to a hundred strike craft which will get in, drop their weapons and
immediately disengage to the north.”
- 38 -

Cathgate let out a long breath and then nodded slowly. “I assume you realise that this
would be a practical death sentence for one hundred pilots. The suggestion of withdrawal is
academic at best.”
“We realise that sir, but given the alternatives, I‟m really not sure we have much of a
choice in the matter. We can‟t risk capital ships in a frontal assault.”
“It also does nothing about retaking the islands, Admiral,” Cathgate interjected
sharply. “My orders were fairly straight forward, and I-“
Riley never had much patience for Cathgate‟s presumptions, and wasn‟t about to
hear this one out. “Sir, if you‟ll permit me, the argument of taking Pearl Harbor is also
academic, as that is not what this is about. COMPAC does not believe that we can take
Pearl Harbor without unacceptably high casualties and the commitment of most of the
combined Pacific Fleet. If we only destroy or disable this battery before it can be brought
online, then it will buy us the time we need to mount a more comprehensive and feasible
offensive at a later time.”
Cathgate stopped and thought for a moment, before nodding his consent. “Very well.
Understanding the consequences of failure in this endeavour, I‟m assuming you already
have an idea as to what you need to do this.”
Hayes, the chief of staff, nodded. “Of the potential options sir, and having conferred
with the rest of my staff, we believe that it would be the Third Fleet that is in the best position
to carry out the operation. More specifically – the Commonwealth Battlegroup.”
“Reason being?” Cathgate countered, already having an uncomfortable feeling of
where the discussion was headed.
“Reasons being that they have the most complete sea wing. If you look at many of
our other strike groups, they‟re starting to use slingshots instead of torpedoes, sir. Wing
Commander Roderick has managed to keep her units intact, so far, which brings another
point – she is the most experienced fighter commander we have still in the fleet, and she‟s
done this sort of thing before.”
Cathgate didn‟t divert his eyes. “She‟s also about to be promoted, as I understand it.”
“...A point which bears no practical significance, sir. She can command a fighter wing
from an operational position just as well as she can from a cockpit.”
Cathgate sighed and then smiled slightly as he closed his eyes for a moment.
“Admiral Hayes, Admiral Riley... While I have no objection for the moment, if I were to ask
who you had in mind to lead this little expedition, I have the distinct impression that I would
be disappointed.”
Riley locked eyes with the Secretary-General, and didn‟t dare blink. “Mister
Secretary, Mark Ainsley is the best man we have for the job, in either the Atlantic or the
Pacific. While you may not always agree with his methods, the last person we need leading
this attack is someone who is so bound by political considerations that he can‟t think when
being shot at.”
Cathgate was shaking his head. “No, I don‟t think so, Admiral. Ainsley is a loose
cannon and insubordinate. He‟s also been out of command for a long time. I can think of
dozens of other candidates more than qualified. What about Matthew Simmons, or... Harold
Lewis?”
Hayes nearly choked at the mention of the name Lewis, and had to bite his tongue to
stop himself from taking the obvious bait. Riley caught this as well, and calmly pushed the
suggestion aside. “Mister Secretary, Matthew Simmons is a fine officer and his knowledge of
logistics and strategy is without peer in the Third Fleet, but I cannot afford to pull one of my
best flag officers from strategic command of an entire theatre on a matter of political
convenience. As for Lewis... well sir, to be perfectly frank with you, if I wanted an accountant
to run this operation, I‟d have gone to the department of finance down the hall. And I cannot
think of a single occasion where Ainsley has acted against orders – either yours or anyone
else‟s, sir, so you will forgive me when I say that I find it a gross affront to his record and
reputation to suggest that the most decorated career officer in the world is anything other
than deserving of my utter respect. He has over twenty years experience in command, and I
- 39 -

do not question for a moment that a couple of year‟s vacation will have - at the absolute
worst - merely given him some perspective.”
Cathgate straightened, nodding in slow hesitation and grudging acceptance. “I will
not say that you‟ve convinced me, Admiral. But I will go along with this for now, and I will
expect almost daily updates on progress.”
“That‟s reasonable.”
“Yes it is,” Cathgate said, lowering his voice to something sterner, and with a
considerably blunter intention. “Because I do not ever expect to hear from you again the
suggestion that my decisions are based on political convenience, am I clear, Admiral?”
Riley sat back slightly, being unfazed by the implication of threat. In truth, nothing
would please him more than to see Cathgate try to act on it. “I wouldn‟t think to undermine
you, Mister Secretary, but yes... you are clear.”
Cathgate stood up and looked down at them both as if he were a school headmaster
disciplining two squabbling children. “Good. I remind you, Riley, that this is on your head. If
Ainsley fails, then the consequences will be your responsibility. You‟re both dismissed.”
Hayes and Riley got up in silence and started to head to the door. They didn‟t get far
before Cathgate stopped them again. “Oh, there is one more thing...”
“Yes?”
“The only details that you are permitted to tell Ainsley are those pertaining directly to
the operation. Regardless of his position in this undertaking, under no circumstances is he to
know about our contingency. I trust you still understand the need for security in this matter?”
Riley and Hayes looked at each other uncomfortably and then back at the Secretary
General. “Yes sir, we do.”
Several hours and several heated debates had passed before they‟d finally left
Cathgate‟s staff briefing and found the relative peace and quiet of their temporary offices.
Hayes tossed his cap as if it were a Frisbee and watched it land softly on the couch along
the side of the room. Riley sat down in the tall, leather chair behind the provided oak desk
and sighed. “Andrew... why is the world run by assholes?”
“The only thing worse than sitting in a room with Cathgate is sitting in a room with his
staff,” the more junior officer asked. “If one more person tries to ask for „more time‟, I will
tender a strategic requisition recommending we nuke the Macronesians and be done with it.”
“Andrew... Please,” scolded Riley as he rubbed his eyes.
Hayes apparently didn‟t hear, or didn‟t care. “No, really. Can we do that? It would
make things so much easier. No mess, no fuss. I have this theory that there is no problem in
this world, Jack, that can‟t be solved with an appropriate application of firepower. We stood
by and did nothing when they vaporized San Diego, and all we‟ve done since is fuck around
in the bushes trying to remember where we put our balls. What happened to the UEO, Jack?
When did we lose it?”
Riley sighed. “Give Ainsley a chance, Andrew. It‟s hard enough to defend him from
the goons in that office. He‟ll come through.”
Hayes allowed himself a small chuckle. “In his own way, he always does.”
~
- 40 -

II
S W O R D S M A N ’ S F O L L Y
“150940/179”
Five Months Ago...
UEO Commonwealth Battlegroup, the Philippine Sea. December 8 th , 2042…
“This is Warseer... Flight two: Head‟s up. Tally-ho on bandits closing on your position
from two-two-zero. Distance: five miles, depth: devils three. Rapiers Five and Six are cleared
to engage.”
“This is Five: understood. Six – follow my lead.”
The slate-grey Raptor subfighter shot through the darkness at nearly four hundred
knots. The only form of guidance that the pilot had was the sonar-assisted HUD that
highlighted the bleak world around him with varied and changing indicators and outlines. It
was the same as always – a UEO cruiser had been hit and left to drift by Chaodai
subfighters, and the Commonwealth had sent fighters to protect it while it limped from the
combat zone. Then, when the fighters had arrived, the Chaodai had come back and tried to
take both the wounded animal and its protectors. This time, the Rapiers had been there
waiting for them, and were punishing them dearly for the transgression.
Another of the Chaodai Xiao-Yu class fighters disappeared in a ball of blue fire under
the Raptor‟s guns as it cleared the last embankment of the seamount and found its kill zone.
Commander Edward Richards, callsign Minstrel, pulled back quickly on his stick and throttle,
sending the fighter in to a tight loop back over its own tail. His wingman, „Deadstick‟, shot
past at speed in pursuit of two other Chaodai fighters that had been held off only by her
continued persistence and accuracy.
“Rapier One: Scratch one bandit. Rapier two, I‟m on your six. Cleared hot,” he
ordered calmly. His Raptor‟s nose came about again and he kicked in his throttles to settle in
on Lieutenant Commander Roberts‟ tail.
The two Raptors sat side by side for a time as Roberts worked to get above the
leading Xiao-Yu. Richards did his best to keep the second of the fighters pinned, but in the
years since Ryukyu Trench, he had still not worked out the measure of the Chaodai‟s pilots.
For a brief moment, he considered how the Xiao-Yu fighters ducked and weaved through the
submarine mountains differently to their Macronesian allies, and it was in that second that he
missed the second flight of Chaodai craft that had pulled out of the adjacent ravine and on to
his tail.
Commander Edward Richards never saw his assailants until it was too late, and the
first searing rounds of subduction fire shot passed his Raptor in to the darkness beyond.
Warnings lit up the cockpit dash and Richards tried to evade, although it was a reaction that
came too late, and too panicked. With the two fighters behind and above him on both wings,
there was nowhere to go, and the first round punched through his starboard wing,
obliterating hydraulic lines and destroying frame work. At first, Richards‟ controls were only
sluggish as he pushed the fighter in to a steep dive for the sea floor, all the while unaware of
the heavy cavitation that was streaming from his ruined right wing. The board showed
nothing but red, and he could only pray that the sluggish rattle in his stick was superficial.
It took several seconds for the damage to turn to disaster as the immense pressures
placed on the shattered frame finally took their toll, and the wing disintegrated.
The stick went limp in Richards‟ hand as he was jerked hard in to his seat. The fighter
spun out of control, the damage spreading with each passing second further and further up
his ruined fighter‟s fuselage. “Rapier two, I‟m hit and going down,” he managed hoarsely
through the crushing force of the corkscrewing dive. “Get out of here, Jane.”
“Negative, Lead, I‟m coming back for you.”
- 41 -

“Rapier Two that was an order!” he barked as he continued to wrestle futilely with the
controls. “I‟m dead stick. Got to eject,” he said calmly, accepting the inevitability of his
situation. His depth continued to fall rapidly, and the seafloor was less than ten seconds
away. “Warseer, mark my position. Grid one-five-three, zero-two-seven. Two thousand and
falling. Eject, Eject, Eject!”
With the last of his energy, Richards strained to reach the handle and pulled it out,
hard. The explosive bolts holding the cockpit module of his fighter in to place detonated and
the powerful rocket motor beneath the capsule ignited, sending the entire cockpit blasting
away from the doomed fighter in a flat spin.
Richards didn‟t realise the second error in his urgency until it was once again too late.
Already on the verge of blacking out, he glimpsed the horizon on his dash board and felt a
stab of panic. He had ejected up-side down, and the seafloor was approaching far quicker
than he had originally anticipated. Even if his wayward cockpit module survived the crushing
pressure of the ocean outside, it would soon be tinfoil across the seabed of the Pacific
Ocean, and there would be nothing to distinguish him from plankton.
As it happened, it wouldn‟t even come to that as the Xiao-Yu that had destroyed his
fighter completed its long, banking turn and started to make another pass to confirm its kill.
Chaodai pilots did not take prisoners, nor did they leave survivors. It was the one
underpinning fact of the western front that had made the conflict so vengefully unforgiving.
And so - the wayward, defenceless cockpit module lit up the Chaodai pilot‟s sensors like a
Christmas tree, and he angled down and bracketed the would-be coffin in his gun sights.
Two precisely-timed pot shots later, and weird, distending bolts of subduction energy ripped
through the lower parts of Richards‟ cockpit, destroying the plasma engine and igniting its
fuel lines.
The cockpit did not, however, explode as the carefully regulated fuel lines cut-off and
sent a backwash of superheated plasma back through the outtakes. The inferno that
engulfed the floor of the cockpit cut through both composite plate and titanium alike. The
heat that washed through the cockpit felt like the surface of the sun as oxygen was sucked
out of the air to fuel the fire below. Blinding pain was the last thing Edward Richards felt, and
from beneath his mask, he screamed...
...The pain that coursed through the pilot was like nothing he had ever known as
muted voices filled his ringing ears and flickering lights washed across his blurring vision.
Passing in and out of consciousness, he struggled to make out the faces of those that
crowded over him, and strained to understand their words.
“Pulse is erratic... blood pressure is falling, sixty over forty...”
“He‟s in severe shock. We need to stabilize him now or we will lose him...”
The world still a blur, and feeling the rattle of something beneath him, he tried to look
up, but felt only a strong force hold him down. Slowly, he began to notice that everything
below his hips felt numb, and a sense of tingling engulfed his legs.
“...Christ, where is Doctor Reed?! I want the OR ready for surgery as soon as we get
him in.”
“Fifty-five over thirty nine. Doctor...”
The world was rapidly beginning to spin as the gurney continued to race down the
corridors, the flickering lights that passed overhead now finally making some form of sense.
Richards‟ chest felt like it would explode as he considered what may well have been his last
earthly thoughts. He was going to die. He found the one last face in the crowd of those
above him that made him smile. They seemed an angel to Richards in more ways than one
as he considered that the long black hair matted around her face was doing little to hide the
tears that rolled down her cheeks. Indeed, if this was his last mortal thought, then the
sweetness of it would last an eternity.
“Quinn...” he rasped, the world steadily slipping away.
“Stay with me, Ed,” the angel urged, her voice drawing more and more distant. “I
didn‟t give you permission to die...”
- 42 -

~
The Present Day...
Reverence class Battlecruiser UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110. One thousand
miles south-east of Japan, the Marianas Sea. April 8 th , 2043…
The black-hulled SF-38/A Raptor II came up the recovery ramp of the sea deck softly,
its skids sliding gently with a practiced touch across the recovery ramp: the spray of sea
water behind it settling around the fighter as a fine, gentle mist. The fighter was not
especially old, but like its pilot, the scars of battle and wear were plainly apparent. Two years
had taken their toll on the Raptor, and the once-shining black paintwork had long ago been
worn down to a dark blue-grey. The polish that defined the well-known scheme had lost its
lustre, reduced to a matt-granite that was pock-marked by scratches, stains and small dents
that mechanics had given up in trying to remove, for lack of both time and patience.
Nevertheless, the reception the surfacing subfighter received was spectacular, and
no sooner had it broken the water, warning lights had been turned on in every part of the
hangar as fire hoses began to soak it down from nose to tail. Dozens, if not hundreds of the
Commonwealth‟s crew crowded the deck as the fighter came to a stop, every single one of
them noting the colourful array of uncountable kill scores that had been painted over the
nose. Some of these markings had to be painted over older ones that had faded with time
and wear because there simply wasn‟t enough room.
All of them had come to see the end of an era, and the passage of one of the
greatest pilots that the world had ever known, in to history. The shower of hoses didn‟t stop
as the flight marshal held the two glowing paddles aloft and crossed over his head. He held
them there for several seconds as the two powerful turbines that drove the Raptor whined
down to a stop. After a time, the canopy cracked open and the pilot stepped up and calmly
climbed down the ladder that had been placed next to the fighter to the sound of a deafening
applause. Helmet under arm, the pilot stuffed her gloves inside it and signed the Raptor off
on the clipboard that was presented to her by a smiling, bulk-armed crew chief that slapped
her on the back and then gave her a long hug that virtually lifted her off the deck.
The air was rife with cheers from every level of the hangar, from the flight deck to the
highest gantry as a champagne bottle was brought up to the front by another of the
squadron‟s officers. The bottle, having been shaken vigorously by the deck crew thoroughly
doused the laughing pilot from head to toe. After twelve years in the seat, over four thousand
sorties and three hundred and ninety-eight confirmed subfighter kills, Wing Commander –
now Captain – Corinn Roderick, had finally hung up her riding boots.
She fought to keep tears from her eyes as she worked her way, saturated, through
the crowds of pilots and tech crews that had supported her for so many years, her long-time
executive officer, Commander Dustin Coyle, only a few steps behind. The cheers continued
for the entirety of her walk from the hangar deck, a hundred hands slapping her on the
shoulders, back, and even some other inappropriate places. Of the later, she recognised the
ranks of pilots from both the Dark Angels and Rapiers that had formed a guard of honour
from her Raptor to the exit of the hangar over a hundred feet away. Nearing the door, she
recognised the senior staff of the battlecruiser Commonwealth, central amongst them the
ship‟s Captain.
“Company! Present Arms!” Captain James Banick barked noisily. As she
approached, the assembled officers – all of them in dress uniform - snapped to attention
sharply and saluted her. They held it until she stood in front of them and returned it.
“Congratulations, Captain Roderick,” Banick said slowly as he dropped his salute.
“Not „til tomorrow, sir,” she said with a coy smile. “I‟ll enjoy the dolphins as long as I
can.”
- 43 -

Roderick risked a glance over his shoulder to try and find the one man she was
looking for, but once again, her heart was missing, just as he was.
Sitting in the shadows on the dismantled intake cover of a stripped-down Raptor,
another pilot watched in silence. If Roderick‟s eyes betrayed a sense of premature age, then
his were filled with pain. He applauded like the rest, unable to work the slight curl of a smile
from his lips. In spite of it – he felt no joy in the moment. He sat back against the fighter and
sighed, hearing the metallic clank of his left leg as it hit the side of the panel beneath him. A
lot had changed in his world since the war began three years before. Hell, the whole world
had changed.
He laughed inwardly as he caught his own selfish question, and then cringed as he
felt a new rush of pain shoot through his thigh. The stump below his knee had long since
healed since his brush with mortality, but the bruising that had been brought on by the new
prosthetic hidden beneath the leg of his jumpsuit had only continued. Through all the
sessions of therapy and the long road to rehabilitation, he had never given thought to the
bigger picture of where he was eventually going. He could no longer fly, of course, and he‟d
almost given up the thought that he might ever be back in to the seat of a Raptor.
And so came to a close not one career, but two. Wing Commander Roderick – the
most celebrated fighter pilot since Gabriel Hitchcock – left the fleet in the same way that she
came in. Celebration and full honours were given to her in accordance with the oldest naval
traditions, but to the other... there was afforded only a quiet, respectful silence.
He had not walked away from a subfighter to the sound of applause or cheers. He
had been pulled away, bathed in fire and agony, to the sound of screaming misery and
panic. Roderick was retiring to the company of ghosts, and he was first amongst them.
Commander Edward Richards, former commander of the VF-107 Rapiers, would
have once been there with her, to walk her away from that fighter and hold her high. Now he
could barely stand, and every step he took came with the same pain that he had felt when
he‟d been ripped out of the cockpit, his legs a ruin of incinerated flesh and bone that doctors
had been unable to salvage. After weeks of surgeries and treatment, his right leg had been
saved, but they could do nothing to save his other. From just below the knee down, his left
leg was now a crude reconstruction of metal and composites, and still the pain remained.
Counsellors had told him that with time and appropriate therapy, that pain would fade
and he would know how to deal with what was left. What they had meant by that could have
seemed a cruel irony depending on how he chose to take it. What was left of the pain? Or
could it be what was left of his life?
Against odds, he had survived the massacre of Ryukyu trench. Roderick had saved
him then, but she couldn‟t do it again.
“Hey, Boss,” said a voice from the deck below. Richards stared down blankly to see
the crew chief that was assigned to the Rapiers. “You alright?”
“Yeah, chief...” he sighed. “I‟m fine.”
“You know, I‟m not gonna lecture you, Ed,” said the Chief hesitantly. “And I‟m not
going to spout the obvious to you either, but she shouldn‟t be walking that gauntlet alone.”
“You my mother now, Craig?” he retorted.
“Nope, but she‟d be awful shattered if she saw you like that.”
“Whatever,” Richards spat as he tried futilely to get more comfortable by sitting on his
side.
“Well, ok, I tried the nice way,” said the Chief with a shrug. “But will you move your
ass? I need to get in that intake... Champagne or not, these things don‟t fix themselves.”
Richards looked at where he was sitting again, and then smiled inwardly as he pulled
himself off the shelf of the intake and quickly stumbled. The chief gripped his arm hurriedly,
but Richards had none of it and shrugged him off. Taking a moment to steady himself, he
looked across the hangar at Roderick who was still receiving well-wishes from the rest of the
sea wing.
“...Fine.”
- 44 -

Commander Jane Roberts had watched in silent approval as the celebration
continued around the Wing Commander, although she knew that something was missing. Ed
Richards‟ absence from the proceedings had not escaped her, or any other pilot in the
Rapiers squadron. In the five months since he‟d been shot down, Richards had become
distant and detached from the squadron he once commanded, and it had steadily grown to
irritate Roberts as morale within the unit began to suffer. She cast her eyes over the hangar
and found the missing pilot next to one of the squadron‟s fighters, leaning against the intake
as a crew chief went about his work on the engines. He, along with the other technicians
who worked on the deck-that-never-slept, continued to watch the proceedings from afar.
Roberts‟ smile slowly faded as she saw this, and eventually she shook her head at
exactly the wrong moment as she sensed a shadow falling beside her. The starkness of
Roberts‟ black flight suit contrasted boldly to the white dress uniform of Commander Dustin
Coyle and he smirked as he looked across the hangar to where Roberts had been staring.
“The amusing thing for me about seeing you beat him up over it is that you‟re doing
exactly the same thing.” Coyle looked down at Roberts, and the smirk turned in to a warm
smile. “Jane, you‟ve got to give him a break,” he said as his hand slipped down to her elbow.
Something in Coyle‟s hand tensed as he realised what he had just done and felt the warm,
smooth ivory beneath his fingers. She‟d rolled up her sleeves. He felt her instinctively recoil
and then quickly withdrew, looking back across the hangar at Richards.
“It‟s going to take a while.”
Roberts looked down at the floor for a second and then looked back at Coyle. For two
and half years, he‟d always been there, but between their two squadrons, they had remained
worlds apart. She thought little of his slip and simply smiled in return. “The Rapiers will miss
him,” she said simply. “I remember when the Wing Commander left us, we... It took a while
to get used to him. Ed was everything Hitchcock wasn‟t: Brash, impatient, even insensitive,”
she confessed. “I didn‟t know what Roderick saw in him to give him this assignment, and it
took so long for me to understand it.”
“He changed a lot,” Coyle agreed. “I‟ve never seen him so distanced since he came
back.”
Roberts sniffed. “That‟s just it. I don‟t think he did come back. He left a part of his
mind in that fighter... The best part, I think. I‟ve been there too.”
“Forty-one, I remember,” Coyle said, sitting down on a crate of ammunition next to
him, finally putting his back to Richards and facing Roberts completely. “Marinduque. You
lost Tom Reynolds.”
“I was messed up for months,” she said, her eyes vacant as she stared in to the
distance. “Even when we lost Atlantis, I still wasn‟t all there. You lose something that
important to you, and it fucks with you, Bouncer.”
Coyle looked down at his younger companion and nodded slightly. “Well, I know it
doesn‟t help now, Dead Stick,” he offered confidently, wryly using her call-sign as the
embarrassing moniker that it was originally intended to be. “But I couldn‟t think of anyone
more qualified to take command of the 107 th . They‟re lucky to have you.”
Roberts watched as Roderick was surrounded by the other pilots of the sea wing as
she began to walk from the hangar and then turned back to Coyle. “Same to you.”
Captain Banick laughed lightly as he watched Roderick run a gauntlet of pilots that
had lined the way from her fighter to the hangar exit. She was carried high on the shoulders
of her crew chief, and even then, she still looked short compared to the barrel-chested, oakarmed
mechanic. He applauded as she passed one final time, and held his gaze for several
moments as she disappeared in to the hall. The crowds began to disperse quickly after that
– the moment having died down as crews returned to their duties. There was a part of
Banick that felt that it should be annoyed that for nearly five minutes, nothing productive had
happened on his ship‟s flight deck at all. It was lapses like that that got people killed, and
with their present assignment and alert levels, it was a lapse that really shouldn‟t have been
afforded. Still... Roderick deserved the moment - God knew, she had earned it. Her
promotion was bittersweet in many ways – the position she would go on to hold as the
- 45 -

commander of Fighter Group Four from the carrier Constellation was perhaps long overdue,
serving as Fleet Admiral Riley‟s theatre commander for all fighter operations in the eastern
Pacific, but there could be no doubt that like Hitchcock before her, the fleet was losing one of
the best pilots it had ever seen.
Banick pulled his ball cap out of his back pocket and put it on peak-first as he had
always done since taking command of the Commonwealth. It was a small thing - and a
change since he had been on the Atlantis. There he had always put it on from back to front
as Captain Ainsley had done, but in hindsight, it was uncomfortable and awkward as it had
forced his hair forward on to his brow. Truth be told, this was one of probably thousands of
things that had changed about James Banick since that time. Now it seemed like another
lifetime ago, and he couldn‟t be happier to be rid of it...
He repressed a scowl at that singularly unpleasant thought as he saw his XO round
the corner of the hangar and quietly slipped through the crowd to salute the captain in his
ever-understated way. Commander Ryan Callaghan had fallen in to the role of Executive
Officer like a hand in an old glove, and it was a wonder to Banick that he hadn‟t held the
position much sooner than he did. Callaghan had been perhaps the one constant in Banick‟s
career that hadn‟t tried to change, and that too made Banick happier for it.
Banick noticed the folded piece of paper in Callaghan‟s left hand, and he hadn‟t even
finished raising his eyebrow when the XO had handed it to him, his lips pulled in to a tight,
thin line. “I have a distinct impression you‟re going to love this,” he said under his breath and
with no attempt to contain his sarcasm as he looked around the hangar.
Banick unfolded the leaf and scanned down the page slowly – his eyes growing ever
narrower as he did so. He was silent for several long seconds as he reread the message not
once, but twice to be absolutely certain it was clear. It was, and he sighed loudly as he
slipped the page back to Callaghan and ran a hand over his unshaven chin.
Callaghan smiled as he saw this, and tried to hide it before Banick caught his eye. It
was too late, and the Captain‟s eyes told the question before his tongue did. “Something to
add to this, do you?”
Callaghan stopped trying to hide his roguish grin and simply shook his head. “That
thing you just did. He did it as well.”
“Don‟t even fucking try it, Ryan,” spat Banick with venom. “I already have to find a
new Wing Commander, don‟t add XO to the list.”
Callaghan‟s brow furrowed. “Ouch. Language, sir. You‟re in a touchy mood today.”
“I wasn‟t. But this changed that pretty quickly. When did it come through?”
“Just now,” said Callaghan, folding the paper away in to his pocket. “It came straight
from the Constellation herself. Fleet Admiral Riley also requested that we send Raptors and
a shuttle to escort him here.”
“What, the Constellation‟s run out of fighters, now?”
Callaghan paused at that, and gave Banick his best sceptical smile. Banick stopped
too, and closed his eyes as he shook his head. The bitter truth of the matter was that most of
the fleet was running out of fighters, and commanders were getting increasingly hesitant to
spread them any thinner than they already were. “Right. Yeah, I keep forgetting... Alright.
Fine. Arrange it with the FOC, and prepare one of our launches.”
“Sir, we can‟t send them through Alliance lines, they‟ll have to take the Bering Strait.
That‟s a three and a half thousand mile haul.”
Banick turned, and stopped half-step to give Callaghan an icy stare. “Then I suppose
you‟d better send the Rapiers. They‟ve had enough downtime as of late to get their hours
back up.”
Callaghan paused, not quite believing his Captain‟s disregard. Finally, he nodded,
and watched as the Captain disappeared down the corridor. The XO felt another presence
beside him, and turned enough to recognise Commander Dustin Coyle. “What was that all
about?” the fighter pilot inquired.
Callaghan shook his head, and was already walking down the hall when he replied.
“Two-birds, Stones and Roadrunner... Have them report to the pilot‟s briefing room in five
minutes.”
- 46 -

...Captain Corinn Roderick stared in to the mirror, and her hand slipped up to her
collar to find the two tridents wrapped in golden laurel leaves. She smiled as she unfastened
the rank pins and set them down on the dresser next to the old blue deltas. Picking up the
black, velvet box, she set the two old rank insignias inside carefully and closed the lid. It was
probably the last time she‟d ever do so.
Sighing, she unzipped the jumpsuit half-way, and put the small black box in to the
draw before walking back to the basin to splash her face with water. The computer on her
desk started chirping an alert for her VOIP intercom, and she quickly grabbed the towel from
the basin and went over to hit the receiver. The screen switched from the default, spinning
screensaver of the ship‟s crest to an office over two thousand miles away. She grinned again
in surprise as she recognised the familiar, mischievous beard, and sat down with a laugh.
“Well, it took you long enough!” she said.
Fleet Captain Gabriel Hitchcock smiled in return. He still didn‟t look any older than
when she‟d last seen him in person, but grey was visibly creeping in to the man‟s temples.
She recognised the view out the windows behind him as being the central courtyard of Cape
Cortez‟s administration complex. There we still students milling there, and for a moment, she
had to check the clock on her wall to remind herself of the time. “I pulled Commonwealth‟s
flight roster from the battlenet,” Hitchcock grinned, leaning forward. “Your routine‟s
reasonably predictable, Quinn. I hope no one in the Alliance has that one worked out, or else
you‟re in trouble.”
She laughed again. “You always were a bastard, Gabe.”
“Congratulations, Quinn,” he said with sincerity. “And at the same time – you have my
condolences.”
“A desk can‟t be that bad, surely,” she said, frowning. “You‟ve managed.”
Hitchcock smiled, and ran a hand through his greying temples. “My father didn‟t go
grey until he was 50. I‟m still 42, Quinn.”
Roderick shrugged. “I didn‟t tell you to become the Commandant of the Cape. You
have no one to blame but yourself for that one.” Hitchcock laughed, but Roderick frowned.
“Speaking of promotions – when did they make you a Fleet Captain?”
“Last month,” he replied. “They‟ve given me a new job, too. That‟s why I‟m calling.”
“New job?” she repeated.
“Yeah, I‟m still running things at Cortez, but they‟ve got me attached to Fighter
Command. Seems something‟s going on that they‟ve called in a lot of staff for. No one‟s
saying anything, but... I haven‟t seen such a big shift in fighter activities since I was still on
the Atlantis.”
“Anything I can help with?”
He seemed uncomfortable. “I got your new orders this morning. I can‟t say I‟m
surprised, but I have no idea what it‟s about.”
Roderick frowned. “Gabe, my orders for the Constellation were signed last month.”
“No, I meant these ones,” he said, holding up a piece of paper that Roderick could
see bore the seal of the UEO‟s fighter command. “Why are the cancelling the transfer?”
Roderick straightened. Whatever Hitchcock had been told, she knew nothing about it.
“What do you mean cancelled? Gabe, I have no idea what you‟re talking about.”
“This was just sent through Fighter Command,” he said. “They‟ve rescinded the order
for you to report to the Constellation. Further orders pending.”
Roderick‟s face twisted in to a confused grimace. “When? This is the first I‟ve heard
of it.”
Now it was Hitchcock‟s turn to be confused. “I assumed you knew?”
“No, I didn‟t. What‟s going on, Gabe?”
“I was hoping you could tell me, Quinn. But there‟s something else... Last week you
sent a message to ONI asking for information about a fighter attack south of the border.
Macaw bank.”
“How did you get it?” she asked, almost accusingly.
- 47 -

Hitchcock shook his head, and held up a hand. “They forwarded it to me. Brass got a
look at it before they did, and they want to run an investigation on it. You really pissed
Intelligence off on this one, Corinn. I don‟t know why, but now it‟s out... they‟ve pulled every
report on it fleet-wide.”
“Why?”
“Well that‟s what I want to know,” Hitchcock countered with a laugh. “If I had to
guess, then it‟s probably got something to do with what the Australian resistance is doing,
but that still doesn‟t explain ONI‟s involvement. If you hear anything, try and keep it quiet, but
I‟d appreciate any updates.”
Roderick stared at Hitchcock for several long seconds and then paused. “...Gabriel,
there‟s something you‟re not telling me. I can understand why ONI would want to know, but
what‟s Fighter Command‟s interest in this? What‟s so important?”
Hitchcock smiled weakly. “I‟m sorry, Quinn. That‟s all I know.”
“I see.”
“Take care of yourself, Quinn. And watch your six.”
The image of the fighter commander winked out, to be replaced by the seal of the
UEO Subfighter Corps, and Roderick looked down. Gabriel Hitchcock had been one of her
closest friends for a decade. And he had just lied.
Seven hundred miles east of Fort Grace - the San Angeles Plains, Pacific
Ocean. April 9 th , 2043…
~
The ocean floor that separated the city of San Angeles from the Hawaiian Islands
was a single, immense mudflat. Over ten thousand square miles of endless, flat seabed
containing only a precious few colonies made the area one of the least geographically
interesting places on the entire planet. San Angeles itself lay at the very edge of these
plains, marking the only major population centre for nearly a thousand miles in every
direction. The colonies of New Reno, Monterey and Roosevelt were the only other harbours
between Hawaii and the Californian coast, and with populations that only came to about a
million when combined, it left San Angeles – a city-state of about five million – the most
obvious and lucrative port of trade in the Western Pacific.
For this reason, the flats were impossible to approach undetected, and traffic that
entered the region was under the most intense scrutiny at all times between ports. While
piracy and smuggling were non-existent in the northern Pacific since the UEO had been
formed, the presence of a major Alliance fleet base at Pearl Harbor had San Angeles, and
Fort Grace, at the highest possible levels of alert since the third world war.
It was no surprise then that the fleet warships that prowled this massive sea lane
formed in itself, one of the most massive military formations in the Pacific. The battlecruiser
Constellation sat at the middle of a battlegroup of over thirty submarines, mostly UEO, but
with a significant number of attending North Sea vessels.
The flagship of Fleet Admiral Jack Riley had prowled the border between the Alliance
front line and the UEO‟s San Angeles defences for almost sixth months, a forbidding
presence that stalked the eastern pacific as if searching for a fight, and daring the Alliance to
leave the safety of their moorings in Pearl Harbor.
It wasn‟t far from the truth as Fleet Admiral Riley seemed to mimic the movements of
his fleet, pacing back and forth over the command deck while gazing apprehensively up at
the main tactical plot. Alliance units were moving slowly along the border, lying in wait for a
UEO attack that would probably never come. This pattern of „stand-off and readdress‟ had
grown common in the eastern Pacific as both sides tried to move forces through to the west,
and in to the growing conflict in the Chaodai Confederation. The UEO had committed to an
offensive a year earlier in the fall of 2042, and the losses had been severe, with the carriers
- 48 -

Liberty, Rampant and even the massive Reverence class battlecruiser Ark Royal being
counted among the losses. It was the single greatest toll exacted against the UEO carrier
fleet since Pearl Harbor, and had cost the fleet the tenth carrier battlegroup, and its entire
sea wing.
The UEO task force – sent on an a misbegotten raid to try and cripple the Alliance
command facilities at what used to be called Fort Saratoga – had been met by over three
times their number in Alliance cruisers, attack submarines and fighters. The battle had been
decided in less than two hours, with the flagship Ark Royal sinking to a concerted and
determined attack by Alliance fighters. The attack had come at the absolute insistence of the
Secretary General, who had driven the move behind a „need‟ to demonstrate that they were
still working towards a „positive resolution of the conflict‟.
The political rhetoric aside, it had served to severely demonstrate the extent of the
Alliance fortification at Pearl Harbor. A simple raid on the outer defences had ended in
disaster, and no one had the courage to try the same thing again. Newly-promoted Fleet-
Captain Luke Rawlings had been the quiet right hand of Admiral Riley for two years since he
had raised his flag on Constellation, and he had commanded the submarine, watched over
her and protected her since she was commissioned in 2039. Riley had seemed to have
made a point of keeping Rawlings in the centre chair since he had come aboard and
Rawlings had grown comfortable with the ship. It had grown on him, and he in turn had
grown on it to the point of it fitting like a glove. The Fleet-Captain sat in silence at the back of
the bridge, watching the Admiral with a casual eye as he went about the usual business of
signing off department reports and reading the most recent contact and action sheets from
his fighter squadrons. What was an easy but tense day for the ship was invariably a day in
hell for the pilots who brought their patrols to the very edge of the border, and it was almost
on a daily basis that a skirmish occurred.
Jack Riley was the man behind it. For months since the loss of Ark Royal, he had
steadily ramped up the number of ships and battlegroups along the border, and predictably,
the Macronesian Alliance had responded. The build-up was played out like a game of poker:
bluff, raise and call, wondering when the other person would fold.
Rawlings studied Riley for a moment before checking his watch. It was 1440. He
cursed silently as he saw how time had slipped away and then quickly turned to his XO,
Commander Jennifer Millner. “XO, you have the Conn. I‟ll be on E-Deck.”
She nodded and looked up at the rest of the bridge crew. “XO has the Conn,” she
announced loudly. Riley turned at this, and looked at Rawlings. The Captain tapped his
watch; Riley smiled, and without further word waved him out of the bridge.
The Fleet-Captain returned the salute of the two marines who stood guard at the
bridge entrance and slipped in to the corridor. It felt like days since he‟d left the command
deck he reflected silently, and rounded the stairwell to E-Deck, two decks below his feet.
It was a short walk to the officer‟s quarter, which during the midday watch was about
as populated as a ghost town. Normally the corridors of the battlecruiser were filled with the
sounds of milling crew members, or even quiet conversation. Now, somewhat oddly, all
Rawlings could hear was the gentle hum of the ship‟s machinery – a sound and feeling he
was so accustomed to that it never normally crossed his mind. Rawlings reached a
hatchway down the end of the corridor and paused before wrapping lightly on the frame.
“Enter,” said the voice inside mutedly.
Admiral Mark Ainsley sat quietly on the lounge at the center of the room, sorting
through a number of papers that had been conspicuously marked as “classified”. Even from
the door, Rawlings could see the recognisable crest of the Office of Naval Intelligence that
sat on the corners of the pages, and knew it best not to pry.
“Afternoon, Captain Rawlings,” Ainsley offered as he turned and slipped the pages
back in to a briefcase.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he returned sharply as he descended the small set of stairs in
to the day cabin. “I understand your launch is leaving soon, sir. I came to see if there was
anything you needed before you disembarked?”
- 49 -

Ainsley smiled as he stood up. “There is one thing. I might need a pair of duelling
pistols, if the armoury can spare them.”
Rawlings looked down for a moment and hid a twisted smile. He‟d been caught offguard
by the Admiral‟s gaff, but had nonetheless been expecting it since he‟d arrived on his
ship. The Captain nodded sagely. “Even with a change in command, Commonwealth‟s
Captain hasn‟t really changed, sir. He might go by a different name, but he is as stubborn as
I remember.”
Ainsley picked up his briefcase and checked the room one last time. “Well, he was
always headstrong...”
Rawlings waited patiently for the Admiral, but couldn‟t bite his tongue. “Permission to
speak candidly, sir?”
Ainsley paused and looked at Rawlings with a raised brow. “You wouldn‟t be where
you are now if you spent your career holding your tongue, Captain. Speak your mind.”
“Captain Banick is new to his post, but his service under you was exemplary, sir,”
Rawlings observed. “What changed?”
“I taught Captain Banick almost everything he knows about command,” Ainsley
answered without hesitation. “And that, perhaps, is the entire problem... Now will you be so
kind, Captain, as to accompany me to the sea deck?”
~
“Rapier Nine, Rapier Ten, keep it tight. Constellation STC this is Two-birds, holding at
devils-zero-one-zero, point-five miles on two-one-five. Requesting intercept vector to escort
detail, acknowledge.”
Three SF-38 Raptors banked around the port side of the Constellation, flying a tight
delta formation with the leader. Rapier Eight - call-sign “Two Birds” – kept a steady speed of
one hundred and fifty knots. The pilot took a moment to look out the starboard side of her
canopy up at the massive bulk of the battlecruiser beside her. Riley‟s flagship was identical
to her home carrier in almost every respect, but it didn‟t do anything to make the sight any
less impressive.
“Two-birds, this is Black Star STC. Standby.”
“Two-birds, acknowledged.”
Two-birds waited for several long seconds as she led her escort flight under the bows
of the battlecruiser. The shadow that was cast over her from the battlecruiser‟s long, knifeprow
brought a shiver down her spine, making the great submarine seem even more
dangerous than it already was. She‟d been with the VF-107 Rapiers for only six months, yet
the entire time it had felt like coming home to something she had always belonged to. It was
no coincidence that the squadron considered her something of a lucky charm, as her history
with the squadron was something that had made her name well known in the halls of Cape
Cortez ever since she had graduated.
Some claimed that Lieutenant Sarah Cunningham had been destined for the elite:
Her baptism of fire had given her a rare and similarly remarkable five-kill “ace-in-a-day”
status during an ultimately-disastrous training cruise aboard the DSV Atlantis, and that had
been before she had even graduated. For the two years since, she‟d been under the
instruction of Corinn Roderick herself, and as soon as her name had appeared at the
promotions board for her O-3 rating, she had been short-listed for rostering in the famous
squadron. With the losses they had had taken so heavily defending their ship, the need for
experienced pilots far outweighed perceptions of favouritism.
Despite this, Cunningham was fast becoming as jaded as some of the hardest
veterans in the fleet. Her introduction to the navy had been unfairly brutal, and it was by the
same token that her wingman, Lieutenant J.G. Samuel Rogers – Callsign “Stones” - had
joined her.
- 50 -

Two years previously, Cunningham had flown straight through the enemy‟s lines to
rescue Rogers when the two of them had been separated. Disobeying her orders to hold fire,
she obliterated an Alliance subfighter, never once realising that the mistake would result in
the destruction of her flight leader – Commander Dustin Coyle – as he was unable to
manoeuvre away from the tumbling wreckage. Coyle had survived, but the mistake had
earned the two pilots callsigns that would stay with them for the rest of their careers.
“Two-Birds, this is Black Star STC: Your escort detail has begun. Assume heading
one-nine-zero to intercept at two miles.”
Cunningham squawked her acknowledgement and checked her instruments. The
contact that came up on her sonar matching the bearing and distance was non-descript, and
its identification number had not changed. As escort duties went, this was one of the worst.
After flying cover for the speeder for over eight hours from the Sea of Japan, she had gotten
barely three hours of stand-down before getting back in to the cockpit on the Constellation
for the trip home.
“Alright, Stones, Roadrunner, we‟ve got our orders. Assume one-nine-zero on my
wing,” she ordered sternly.
She banked around hard, bringing the fighter in almost a full circle to double back on
its own course. The two other Raptors of her flight obediently followed suit. Her radio
squawked as she heard the voice of Rapier Ten, Lieutenant Edwin Bruckmeyer, callsign
“Roadrunner.”
“Acknowledged, lead. One-nine-zero on your lead. Were you told exactly who we are
breaking our backs for out here?”
Cunningham rolled her neck, producing a series of rapid and grisly cracks that made
her sigh with some relief. “That‟s a negative, Roadrunner. He‟s got stars, and that‟s all that
matters.”
“Well, next time they can bring their own god-damned escort. Three thousandfucking-miles.
What a joke.”
Cunningham sneered. “Rapier Ten, check your traffic and keep it clean, you
understand me?”
“-Rapier flight, this is Dragon-six-delta. We‟ve got you at zero-point-five miles and
closing. Confirm visual.”
Cunningham sighed and looked outside. They were in shallow water, and the sun
beating down through the calm waves above spoke of the conditions on the surface.
Visibility was good for a few hundred meters, and it took several seconds for the nimble,
sleek UEO transport speeder to come in to view. She smiled. “Roger that, Dragon-six-delta.
Confirm visual. Good to be with you. How‟s our cargo, over?”
“Sittin‟ tight, Two-birds. Ladies first: take lead and I‟ll follow you home.”
Cunningham smiled slightly and pushed up her throttles. “Wilco. Take heading twoeight
at three-five-zero knots.”
Ten hours later, fifty miles south of the Commonwealth Battlegroup. April 9 th ,
2043…
~
The approaches of the Marianas Trench had long been a breeding ground for
smugglers, pirates and those who would prefer to go unnoticed. For that reason, it was
almost completely devoid of shipping lanes as civilian and contracted freighters remained at
shallow depths to take routes that avoided the massive abyssal ravine. The only major port
in the area, Challenger, was named after the eponymous trench and was the only routine
stop that merchants would make on the east-bound sea lanes between Palau Ridge and the
Japanese mainland. It was not at all uncommon for freighters trying to shorten the journey by
negotiating the ravine to fall victim to piracy and smuggling.
- 51 -

This was the proving ground of fighter aces on both sides of the border, and saw
more skirmishes in six months than the entire war had in the two years preceding. The wing
of Chaodai fighters that ducked through the ravines of the trench served as a poignant
example of this testimony. It had been common practice for a decade that fighter pilots in the
UEO, Alliance and Chaodai alike used the trench as a training ground, pushing themselves
to faster and tighter passages through challenger deep, and using the massive trench to go
deeper and further with every new attempt. Some, records held, had pushed it too far...
This wing of Chaodai fighters – some thirty strong – were taking a passage known as
“Swordsman‟s Folly” as quickly as they could drive it, and broke apart to dart amongst and
between the tributaries of the ravine with each new turn to hide their number. On this
occasion, they were not training - and were rapidly bearing down on a UEO battlegroup just
fifty short nautical miles away. Their discipline in this task was nearly perfect – not one of
them broke radio silence, yet the coordination of their advance was deliberate, methodical
and quite clearly practised.
The lone eye that sat near the start of the Folly went completely unseen by the
fighters as they approached its position. The thump and roar of the fighters‟ engines as they
rounded in to the first straight woke the eye from its quiet rest and it slowly picked itself up
off the seabed to look towards the sound. For a few moments, it watched without reaction as
the Chaodai submarines screamed up the ravine, its eye scanning each in turn, and waiting
until they had passed to quickly rise from the seabed and float to the top of the ravine.
The WSKRS probe dispatched from the Commonwealth to monitor the trench was
named “Alvin”, and its „eye‟ continued to watch the fighters as they travelled deeper in to the
ravine, shielded from the UEO‟s sensors by the sonar-blinding shield walls of the submarine
canyon.
Alvin‟s burst of communications was short, and the small AI-driven probe had been
too eager to report what it had seen. Even as it slowly began to settle back in to its sentry
position, the second group of Chaodai fighters had rounded the same straight and in one
quick burst of laser fire, ripped the defenceless WSKRS probe to pieces.
The Sonar operator on the bridge of the Commonwealth jumped slightly as the
monitor for Alvin‟s status feed froze and chirped in alarm as the signal was terminated. He
tried twice to re-establish the connection unsuccessfully, and then attempted to check the
data log he‟d just been sent.
At the Wing Commander‟s suggestion, the Sonar operator had sent Alvin to the Folly
to keep an eye on it. It had never dawned on the ensign to ask why it was called such a
peculiar name, only that when the Wing Commander had a hunch, it was usually a good
one.
He shook his head, and then turned. “XO?”
Commander Callaghan looked up from his station on the command deck and walked
over without a word. The ensign waited until he had leaned down. “Problem?”
“Possibly sir. I had Alvin out at the pitchforks, near Swordsman‟s Folly?”
Callaghan frowned. “Yeah, I know it. And?”
“Alvin had just started to send me something when I lost the feed. As in, lost, sir. I
can‟t get it back.”
Callaghan straightened, and checked the monitor in question. “K.O?”
The ensign looked grim. “Sir, you know as well as I how the Chief babies those
probes. I haven‟t seen a drop out like that in sight six months.”
The Commander sighed “I know. I was just hoping you might tell me some good
news. How long will it take you to move one of the other WSKRS in to position to confirm?”
“At least ten minutes,” the ensign offered without hesitation.
Callaghan paused for a moment, and then looked at the ensign expectantly. “Too
long. Make the call, ensign.”
“Sir?”
Callaghan didn‟t break his gaze. “Do we sound it, or not?”
The ensign hesitated for a long second, and then managed, “General quarters, sir?”
- 52 -

“As I said, ensign... Make the call.”
Callaghan was already walking back to the command deck when the ensign finally
shook his head and keyed the 1MC. “General Quarters, General Quarters, set condition one
across the ship. Alert-Five prepare for launch. Captain Banick, report to the bridge.”
The battle klaxons started wailing as soon as the ensign had finished his
announcement, and Callaghan fell in to his chair to begin acknowledging stations as they
checked in.
It took nearly a minute for the ship to report as battle-ready, at which time Captain
Banick walked on to the bridge with Now-Captain Corinn Roderick close in tow. Bells rang as
the clam-doors began to close, and sealed shut with a solid “thump” and snap-hiss. “What
do we have?” Banick asked as he walked up the stairs to the command deck. Callaghan was
already standing up to head in to the CIC that was directly next to the command deck
through folding glass doors.
He stepped in line with Banick and Roderick as the three officers entered the Combat
Information Centre, and the doors closed behind them. “Unknown, sir. Sonar just lost contact
with one of the WSKRS in the Folly, and we‟ve been unable to bring it back online.”
Banick looked at the large glass chart at the centre of the CIC, which had noted on it
the locations and positions of the Commonwealth and its battlegroup. Less than fifty miles
south of them, Challenger lay as a massive, open hole in the Earth. The Chaodai carrier they
had been hunting for a week was said to be operating out of the Abyssal, where its ability to
launch attacks and then hide again had dogged the UEO fleet for the better part of a month.
Commonwealth had been called in to deal with it, but so far had only driven the enemy
warship further in to hiding. Swordsman‟s Folly was the last in a series of ravines that
opened in to the low plains immediately south of Commonwealth – a notoriously winding and
complex passage that made tracking the movements of fighters with any degree of reliability
all but impossible.
“I take it we‟ve had nothing on our own sensors then?” Banick asked.
“No sir, not a thing. But without that WSKRS, that‟s one hell of a huge hole through
which you could slip almost anything. They could be on top of us and we‟d never know it.”
Roderick nodded silently, but didn‟t seem convinced. “It was your call then?”
“No ma‟am, it was Ensign Drusetti‟s, but I supported it.”
“Good enough for me,” said Banick. “Have the Dark Angels move in from CAP to
cover the alert fighters. Have them do a sweep of the approaches of the Folly, but do not
engage unless ordered. I want to know size and disposition, nothing more.”
One of the CIC operators removed his headset and turned to face the Captain. “Sir,
Fall River and Tripoli have reported battle ready and have taken position on our quarters at
one mile. Alert fighters are launching now.”
~
Commander Dustin Coyle cleared the starboard-bow of the Commonwealth and
pulled in to a tight banking turn that brought him straight on to the wing of a red-pinstriped
Raptor from the 173 rd fighter squadron – the Griffons. “Griffon three, this is Dark Angel one,
check your nine, I have your wing.”
“Commander Roderick? Your voice seems to have gotten deeper. Balls finally
dropped?”
Coyle smirked and kicked up his throttles to break out ahead of the flight of Raptors
making up Commonwealth‟s five-minute Alert-squadron. “Na, they just got larger. You now
have my wing. Take up formation on my six and try to watch who you‟re shooting.”
Griffon Three‟s laughter was cut short by the firm but collected voice of Warseer – the
SEWACS in charge of flight operations.
“Alright – Bouncer, Nimbus, cut the chatter. We‟ve lost contact with a WSKR near
Swordsman‟s Folly, and the Captain wants us to find out why. Dark Angels – you have point.
- 53 -

Griffon squadron, cover their ingress and watch the approaches. Without WSKRS cover,
we‟re blind in this trench, so keep it tight.”
Coyle keyed his radio and wagged his wings as the rest of his flight settled on his tail.
Not far away, the second flight of the Dark Angels were making at speed to the northern arm
of the ravine. “Understood, Warseer. Inbound at three-seven-zero knots, firewalled.”
“This is Griffon Lead... Bouncer? Twenty says you can‟t beat the Swordsman‟s time.”
Coyle smiled inwardly. “Thirty says I shave two and a half seconds off it, Hitman.”
“The only thing you‟ll be shaving off is your own glorified paintwork, Bouncer. On your
six at zero-point-three miles, throttles answering three-seven-zero. You have the lead.”
Banick and Callaghan looked down with raised brows as they began to register the
steady tapping in the CIC. The orders that were still being issued by the CIC operators
seemed insignificant next to the uneven, sporadic noise of Captain Corinn Roderick‟s
fingernails on the railing in front of her. Callaghan smiled as Banick gently leaned over to
whisper in her ear. “Are you ok, Captain?”
Roderick realised her error and stopped, but still didn‟t blink as she continued to stare
at the tactical plot, and lied smoothly. “It‟s just the new uniform, sir. Still too much starch,
that‟s all.”
Banick nodded. “Apparently this doesn‟t get any easier, so you may as well try to get
comfortable.”
“...Yeah.”
One of the officers in the CIC turned to face the command staff. “Captain, we just got
a solid return on those contacts we picked up earlier. Incoming from zero-three-five, distance
is ten miles at two-nine-zero knots. Four contacts, UEO transponder codes.”
“Shit,” Banick said simply taking his hat off and slapping it on the console in front of
him. “His timing always was perfect. Have they hailed yet?”
“No sir, not yet. But I‟ll give you one guess what I.D. had them as.”
“Then let‟s hope they‟re in a hurry.”
~
...Coyle angled his fighter down towards the twin, rocky outcrops of the ravine ahead
and pulled back slightly on his throttles. The Raptor whined as the engines spooled back
from full thrust and rolled through the rocky peaks with ease. The ravine ahead was a
completely blind passage that branched off in to no less than eleven different canyons, and
whatever was in there was not going to be easy to find. He kept his trigger covered lightly
with his thumb as he began counting down the distance to Swordsman‟s Folly. “This is Dark
Angel One... I just crossed the first marker, still no contact. Five miles to the Folly. Dark
Angels five and six: take approaches two and three and then double back at the first turn. I‟ll
press on with Hitman and do a half-pass of the main passage, understood?”
“Roger, Bouncer.”
“Acknowledged.”
The two formations of fighters – some twelve in total – broke out of their deltaformation
in to three groups and swooped down in to the trench. Coyle held back for a
minute to watch their ingress and then followed suit down the main channel, Dark Angel
Three flying formation off his wing as Griffons One and Two held off by a few hundred yards.
The trench was pitch-black, and a nightmare to fly for any inexperienced pilot. Aided
only by the ghostly outlines provided by his HUD, Coyle smiled slightly as he pushed his
throttles back up to 80 percent, and watched his needles climbed past three hundred knots,
the steady roar of his engines causing the fighter to rattle as cavitation kicked up around the
fuselage. The channel got narrower as he went further in to it, and before long the clearance
on either side of his wings had narrowed to less than twenty meters. The pass was notorious
for the fact that the distance between the rock walls got as low as five meters before it
started to widen again, and that was where the trick lay – a pilot had to slow down to take
- 54 -

the gap, rolling his subfighter on to its wings through a course of more than a kilometre in
order to safely clear it. How much the pilot slowed down, of course, dictated how long it
would take him to accelerate out the other side. Making matters worse, the chasm was
essentially a tunnel, with the very top of the canyon being so rugged and unpredictable that it
was impossible to pull out once you had committed. This was the portion of the ravine that
was now infamously known as “Swordsman‟s Folly”.
In its earliest days, Cape Cortez had run advanced training through the perilous
canyon, but a fatality in 2033 meant that the course was officially declared out-of-bounds.
Cape Cortez maintained a simulated version, of course, which cadets could run at their
leisure in the safe confines of an academy simulator room, but no pilot felt that it was the
same ever since.
Something flashed through Coyle‟s HUD for a moment, and disappeared as soon as
he cleared the first straight. “Hello...” he said to himself curiously, checking the sonar log to
confirm the brief contact. “This is Bouncer, possible bogey-dope further down the trench.
Warseer, please advise.”
“This is Warseer. We have no contacts on scope, Bouncer. Proceed with caution and
confirm tally, but do not fire.”
“Understood,” Coyle replied warily, un-safing his cannons. “Dark Angel Three, fall
back to my six and cover me. Decelerate to two-seven-zero and wait for them to clear the
Folly. We‟ll tag them as they come through.”
Neither side registered each other until they virtually collided on a sharp turn near the
Folly‟s entrance. The first flight of Chaodai Xiao-Yus flew over the Dark Angels fighters at
three hundred knots and Coyle‟s sensors went berserk. “Shit! This is Bouncer! Tally-Ho on
Bandits. Incoming Xiao-Yu-class subfighters at speed three-one-zero. Requesting
permission to engage!”
~
...Sarah Cunningham listened to the radio traffic with an increasing sense of dread as
her fighter powered as fast as it could towards the Commonwealth, the engines red-lined at
three hundred and eighty knots. The shuttle, only capable of a relatively modest three
hundred was falling behind, and she intended to keep it that way as she tried to head off the
attackers. “Warseer, this is Sword-Eight, inbound from zero-two-zero. ETA Is two minutes.
Requesting intercept vector to engage.”
“Two-birds: Warseer. That‟s a negative. We don‟t have time to get you refuelled. Hold
your present heading and prepare to land.”
Cunningham cursed and looked at her fuel gauge. She was running on fumes, and
any talk of a combat intercept was now completely out of the question. “Understood,
Warseer. Request time to turn-around?”
“Also a negative, Two-birds. The take off ramp is presently full. Get your bird stowed
and stand down.”
Cunningham swore loudly and pounded the canopy in frustration to such a point that
her fist actually hurt as her knuckles racked against each other painfully, producing entirely
unnatural sounds. The radio squawked again, and this time a new voice piped up on the
channel. “Commonwealth: Advise we do not have time for landing. Request you prep the aft
airlock for immediate docking.”
Cunningham frowned as she heard the voice. It seemed familiar, although she didn‟t
recognise it as being the pilot of the speeder. Warseer beat her to the chase. “This is
Warseer – identify yourself, Dragon-six-delta. Who is this?”
“Warseer, I.D. is transmitting to you now and I say again: Prep that airlock.”
~
- 55 -

...Roderick closed her eyes for a second as she listened to the radio traffic and
watched the tactical plot - a silent prayer going through her mind as she absent-mindedly
gripped the small cross that was around her neck. She listened as Warseer cleared the
fighters to engage, and brought the shuttle in
Banick picked up a headset from the console dash and put it on. “Bouncer, this is
Commonwealth-actual. How many bandits?”
“Unknown, Commonwealth. I‟ve got at least four in this sector alone, Dark Angels five
and six report similar contacts from multiple headings. Warseer is relaying to you now.”
The three officers watched silently as multiple contacts lit up the tactical board,
closing from almost every southern approach vector out of the ravines. Banick didn‟t bother
counting them – there were too many for a pair of half-strength fighter units to deal with in
time.
“Twenty miles and closing,” Warseer reported.
“They‟ll hit us in four minutes,” Callaghan said after running the numbers through his
head. “And that‟s conservative unless Coyle can hold them.”
Roderick moved like a gun that had just been fired and moved from the plot to the
EVA station a few meters away, virtually jogging up the steps as Callaghan threw her a
headset that she caught and quickly put on. “Bouncer, this is Archangel. You need to get
them out of that trench any way you can. You don‟t have time to pick them off.”
“Archangel, with respect, if even one of those fu-“
“-Dustin, this is not the time to argue with me! Now give them something else to think
about and get those bastards out of that trench! And that‟s an order!”
Roderick removed the headset and tossed it on the console as she leaned over the
flight director‟s shoulder. “How far away is that shuttle?”
“They‟re on final approach now for airlock two. They‟ll be here any second.”
Roderick nodded and then turned to Banick and Callaghan. “Do you remember what
we did at Marinduque two years ago?”
The Captain and his XO paused for a moment and then went wide in realization of
what she meant. Banick slapped Callaghan on the shoulder and immediately started back to
the bridge deck. “Callaghan, with me. Captain Roderick? Coordinate our fighters from here.”
The UEO battlecruiser continued to form up with her escorts as she slowly
approached the ravine crossing. The shuttle that slipped between the escorting SSN Fall
River and the cruiser Tripoli was dwarfed by the three capital ships as it pulled alongside the
battlecruiser‟s aft quarter and steadily approached the external airlock. It took only a few
seconds for the pilot to manoeuvre his craft in to position, although the docking was anything
but smooth. The speeder hit the airlock hard, the magnetic locks immediately gripping it and
forming a soft-seal nearly instantly. It took only five seconds for the speeder‟s airlock to
pressurize and the passenger was already bolting through the door before the speeder had
even really settled. The speeder was not staying, and its engines continued to be heard
through the Commonwealth‟s hull as they spooled up again, the airlock sealing once more
and closing quickly to allow it to leave just as quickly as it had arrived.
The man who now walked quickly down the battle-ready port side corridor of the
battlecruiser left many marines turning in wide-eyed wonder at what they had just seen, the
mess of gold braid on his shoulders and cuffs betraying his rank and adding further to their
confusion.
Bells rang as the clam-doors of Commonwealth‟s bridge opened with the whine of
hydraulics, and the man stepped on to the command deck, still in full-dress frock. Captain
James Banick almost fell over as he saw the sight, and Admiral Mark Ainsley walked up the
stairs to the command deck and turned straight to the tactical plot as if the more junior
Captain were not even there.
“What‟s the situation?” he asked simply.
It took Banick and Callaghan a moment to gather their thoughts as the Captain
regarded Ainsley with an equal measure of both bewilderment and annoyance. He bit his
- 56 -

tongue, and obediently provided the report. “Chaodai subfighters just broke through
Swordsman‟s Folly, Admiral, but with respect, sir, the situation is well in-hand.”
Ainsley turned at Banick, but the Captain was already walking to the main plot.
“Tactical, load all batteries. We‟re only going to get one shot at this.”
“Aye sir, batteries one through sixteen arming. Tracking solutions on masters one,
two three and-“
“No time for that,” Banick interrupted. “They‟re subfighters. We‟re not going to shoot
them down individually with Mark 92s. All warheads to one-hundred percent charge,
suppression barrage on bearing spread one-six-zero to two-two-zero. Set weapons to
remote detonation. Copy this to the Tripoli.”
The tactical officer looked worried as he carried out the instructions. “Aye, sir.”
Ainsley continued to watch in silence, sensing Banick‟s eye drift to him in the corner
of the command deck, as if baiting him to ask the question on his mind. The Admiral merely
smiled as he recognised what order Banick was issuing, and simply clasped his hands
behind his back. The tactical officer emphatically pulled the last safeties on the weapons
releases, and turned back to Banick.
“All batteries loaded and armed, warheads answered one hundred percent charge,
Captain. Alpha strike ready on your mark.”
~
Commander Benjamin Harker, callsign “Hitman”, juked hard as one of the Chaodai
fighters on his tail put two rounds of laser fire straight through his flight path, impacting
harmlessly on the rock walls ahead of him. He tried again to target the leading fighter ahead
of him as its wingman countered by trying to draw a bead on his own tail. “Bouncer, this
one‟s stubborn. Where are you?”
“Coming up on your two, Hitman, Hang tight.”
Harker frowned for a minute and checked his two-o‟clock – almost dead ahead.
There was absolutely nothing there except for the ever-narrowing rock walls of the Folly. He
then realised what the Dark Angels commander was doing, and felt his stomach turn.
“Bouncer, this is Hitman, understood. Just make it quick.”
“ETA is one minute.”
Harker shook his head as he unsuccessfully fired a volley of shells across the Xiao-
Yu‟s nose. The enemy pilot rolled in a tight circle, and accelerated harder in to the trench.
“Fuck, at this rate he‟s going to make the Folly. Griffon Two, Dark Angel Three - are you two
still with me back there?”
About half a mile behind him, the two other pilots were engaged against a second
flight of Xiao-Yus that had held back to try and pin down the UEO CAP fighters. It had
worked to an extent, but had also tied up nearly a third of the Chaodai subfighters that were
making for the Commonwealth.
“Copy that, Hitman. This is turning in to a hell of a shit-fight. I don‟t think we‟re going
to do this in time.”
“We don‟t have to,” Harker responded grimly. “They‟re using the Folly to get through
Commonwealth‟s defence screen, so we‟ll use that if we can. Bug out and see if you can
take some of them with you.”
“I sure hope you know what you‟re doing, Hitman.”
“Tell that to the boss, Bouncer.”
The ravine was getting narrower by the second and Harker was finding it increasingly
difficult to keep the trailing Xiao-Yu off his tail. His Raptor was doing over two hundred knots,
barely half of what it was capable of, and it still felt too fast for the increasingly
claustrophobic confines of the canyon. Another burst of laser fire grazed his port wing,
causing several alarms to wail noisily, and making the entire fighter rattle in protest. He
silenced them quickly, and then checked his position before cursing, and realising his
predicament.
- 57 -

“Shit. Dark Angel One, I‟ve just hit the first marker. I‟m committing to the Folly.”
“Hitman, don‟t you even dare. You won‟t make it at that speed.”
Harker barked as he pressed his throttles up. “I‟m counting on the fact that they won‟t
either, Bouncer. Now get your ass down here!”
Above him, the walls of the ravine seem to shrink away. Barely half a mile to go and
his throttles were now answering a speed of over two hundred and forty knots. No pilot had
ever done the Folly at more than two hundred and ten, yet the Chaodai pilot either didn‟t
know it, or simply didn‟t care as they brazenly matched Harker for every turn.
“Cocky bastard,” he muttered to himself.
“Hitman, this is Bouncer, I‟ve just entered the Folly. I‟m dead ahead of your position. I
hope you‟re on your way through, because this is about to get real tight...”
Harker looked up to see the last of what little light made it to the canyon disappear as
the rock walls closed up. The walls on either side of him seemed a blur, and every touch of
the stick seemed to send the Raptor off wildly towards oblivion. This was Swordsman‟s Folly.
“Bouncer, I‟m in. Going high.”
“Understood. I‟ll pass right under you. Weapons are free...”
Harker‟s chest wanted to explode as he flipped the Raptor up ninety-degrees and
entered the inescapable chasm. Proximity warnings blared from every alarm, but he dared
not take his hands off the throttle or stick to silence them as the world continued to spin
around him. Time seemed to slow down in the final seconds of his run, with every detail
coming to him in near-perfect clarity.
“Three...”
The blue contact ahead of him turned red and lit up his sonar as a collision warning,
but he didn‟t blink as Coyle audibly counted down the seconds until his pass. Harker was in
such a trance that they didn‟t even register in his mind. Seconds seemed like minutes as
more shots flew past his fighter, missing it by inches as the Chaodai pilot was forced to
divert his attention on simply flying his fighter, lest he crash in to solid rock walls at speeds
so fast that he wouldn‟t even register his own demise.
“Two...” Coyle said, his voice a distant blur in Harker‟s mind.
In the end, no one would ever know how fast Harker‟s Raptor was actually travelling
when it did the infamous run. Not even Harker, who hadn‟t adjusted his throttles since he set
them, seemed to register it as every ounce of his concentration went in to guiding the Raptor
through the ill-formed, would-be tunnel.
“One...”
Coyle‟s fighter appeared under Harker‟s fighter as a black, shapeless blur, its guns
blazing the entire way as it ripped up the walls of the Folly, sending flying rock and debris in
to the path of the pursuing Xiao-Yu.
A large chunk of granite slammed in to the enemy subfighter, as its wingman
struggled to make it through the gap. It didn‟t, and Coyle pulled high over the wreckage as
the second fighter careened out of control and slammed in to the walls of the trench, littering
itself over the seabed like a shattered egg shell. Coyle however, wasn‟t done.
“Mark!”
A single torpedo left Coyle‟s Raptor and shot away down the approach of the folly.
The Chaodai fighters that were still using the channel to mask their approach were
completely unaware of what waited for them as the six-hundred-pound plasma warhead
impacted the wall and detonated, vaporising tonnes of rock and causing hundreds more to
collapse from the high-vaulted ceilings.
The Dark Angels‟ Raptor snap-rolled and pulled out of the trench at break-neck
speed as the Folly‟s entrance collapsed behind him. The Chaodai fighters that continued to
shoot past him realised what the UEO pilot had done and one by one, began to pull out of
the trench, increasing speed to make their final run on the Commonwealth.
The distance to the UEO battlecruiser was now less than three miles.
Harker laughed euphorically as his fighter burst out of the Folly‟s end and accelerated
through the final straight. The seconds it took him to recover were all the Chaodai fighters –
now above him and having left the submarine canyon – needed to seize their moment.
- 58 -

Bolts of laser fire streaked down in to the trench, and cut across Harker‟s path as he
pulled out of the last marker, inside the Commonwealth‟s defensive perimeter. His laughter
turned to static as the lead Chaodai fighter‟s shots struck home and turned the UEO Raptor
in to a tiny, but rapidly expanding white-hot nova, the echoing “boom” shuddering for miles.
“Griffon-lead is down!” Warseer barked. “No ejection detected...”
“Fuck!” Coyle strained to look back over his shoulder, but saw nothing of the other
pilot. He seethed for several seconds, and then doubled back towards the carrier, following
what was left of the Chaodai fighters in.
~
Roderick closed her eyes as she heard the call, and swallowed the lump that had
risen in her throat. She could now do nothing but watch as the enemy fighters continued to
close...
Next door, Banick counted down the seconds.
“Two miles!” announced the tactical officer. “Bandits have left the trench and are
inside our engagement zone. Shall we open fire, sir?”
“No, hold fire,” said Banick calmly. “On my mark.”
Seventeen remaining Chaodai subfighters – their number having been mauled by the
UEO CAP – bore down on Commonwealth at better than three hundred and fifty knots, and
assumed their bombing formations. The Defiance-class cruiser Tripoli held its position
diligently, but continued to hold its fire.
“One mile!” barked the tactical officer, his voice now showing a measure of
uncertainty.
“All batteries: repeating salvos, fire at will,” Banick ordered, his voice still calm as he
continued to stare at his watch. What happened on the tactical screens no longer held his
interest as the deck shook beneath his feet...
Sixteen torpedo batteries across the Commonwealth‟s forward hull seemed like the
gates of hell to the approaching subfighters. The howling scream of plasma engines as each
battery dispensed half a dozen E-Plasma torpedos lit up enemy sonars like a Christmas tree.
No matter how impressive the sight, to the Chaodai it seemed little more than a last second
act of desperation by the UEO carrier to avoid the inevitable. Tripoli added to the score, her
own batteries emptying themselves on the approaching enemy fighters. None of them
appeared to notice that the weapons were following ballistic trajectories, and failed to realise
their error until the weapons „harmlessly‟ began to pass around them...
Banick looked up as his stopwatch hit zero.
“Mark.”
With a flick of his finger, the tactical officer hit the kill-switch on his console, and all
one hundred and twenty six torpedoes detonated in a single massive explosion over an area
of just less than half a mile. The Chaodai fighters attempted to break out of the conflagration,
but it was not the detonation of the warheads that would destroy them.
The resulting implosion from the mass-vacuum left behind by the UEO salvo was
titanic. The shockwave hit the Chaodai fighter line with all the force of a small nuclear
weapon, disintegrating the attacking formation wholesale, and with not a single survivor left
to tell.
For the next day, Chaodai fleet reports would hold that the massive detonation
detected near the Marianas trench signalled the death of the UEO Battlecruiser
Commonwealth as the attacking fighters did their work in finishing the under-strength UEO
battlegroup. The explosion was felt for hundreds of miles in every direction, and several
communications would ultimately be exchanged between the Battlecruiser‟s CIC and
regional commands, assuaging paranoid Admirals and senior Captains of their fears in what
the intercepted enemy dispatches had reported.
It was assumed for some time by the Chaodai, of course, that their fighter wing was
simply the victim of a tragic, but triumphant attack from which they did not return.
- 59 -

Stunned silence filled the Commonwealth‟s bridge as the crew watched the awesome
display of firepower settle, leaving not a trace of their attackers. Banick sniffed slightly as he
casually took several steps backwards to be in line with the Admiral.
“Nice trick,” Ainsley said simply, nodding his quiet approval as the bridge crew began
to whoop in delight, congratulating each other and cheering all the while.
Banick didn‟t get a chance to respond as Roderick entered from the CIC and looked
aghast at Ainsley, her jaw nearly falling slack. “My god...”
Callaghan smiled as he turned around and watched Roderick run at Ainsley and stop
short of practically knocking him over. She very quickly realized her error and jumped back,
saluting hastily as she regained her footing.
Ainsley grinned and returned it before Roderick cleared her throat. “Ur, Permission to
speak freely, Vice Admiral?”
“As always, Captain, speak your mind.”
Roderick grinned and leapt on Ainsley without any further warning. Her embrace still
managed to catch the Admiral off guard despite his expectations, and he stumbled slightly
as he caught her. “Jesus, it‟s good to see you...” she said, her voice muffled behind his back.
She finally released him and stepped back in shock, continuing to stare up at him with
stunned eyes. “I... What are you doing here?!” she asked, her voice steadily breaking in to a
laugh.
Ainsley looked sadly at Banick and the Captain pursed his lips. “Perhaps this is a
conversation best continued in my office, sir?”
Ainsley silently nodded and followed Banick through the CIC with Roderick and
Callaghan close in tow. “Lieutenant Melling, secure from battle stations. You have the Conn,”
ordered Banick as he walked.
The XO paused for a moment as an ensign from EVA control approached the base of
the command deck. “XO, the shuttles from Fall River and Tripoli that the captain requested
just arrived on the flight deck. Shall I bring them up?”
Callaghan smiled and nodded. “Thank you, ensign. If you could?”
“Of course, sir.”
The short walk through the CIC to the Captain‟s office gave Ainsley enough time only
to remark to Roderick, “The tridents suit you, Captain.”
She smiled as she brought a hand up to the small, black roundels with gold UEO
tridents inlaid in to them on her collar. “Thank you sir. Although I think it‟s still going to take
some getting used to.”
~
- 60 -

III
N E W G UARD
“090941/1219”
The Marianas Sea, UEO Commonwealth Battlegroup. April 9 th , 2043…
Banick flew through his office door purposely and strode past the ship‟s seal that
hung from the wall on his way to the desk at the end of the room. Ainsley may not have
realised it, but the swift and dramatic move had been a very deliberately played gesture on
Banick‟s part. This was his ship, and he intended to let those with him know it. He reached
the desk and spun around only so he could sit on its edge and waited until Callaghan had
followed Roderick and Ainsley in, not speaking until the door latched shut.
Roderick looked around apprehensively and then put her hands on her hips. “Am I
missing something?” she asked simply, watching Callaghan quietly step up beside Ainsley
with his best possible poker face. (It wasn‟t enough.)
“Have a seat, Captain. I‟m certain the Admiral can explain it better than I can,” Banick
suggested.
Ainsley gave Banick a blank look for a minute and then shook his head. “Well, this
isn‟t exactly the reunion I was expecting, but as you wish, Captain - I‟ll get to the point.”
He reached in to his jacket pocket and withdrew a folded letter which he promptly
handed to Banick on the desk opposite him. “As you seem intent on keeping this formal,
Captain, I‟ll do you the courtesy of returning the service. These are my orders.”
He watched for a moment as Banick opened the letter only for a second before
silently slipping it on to his desk, at which point Ainsley continued. “Effective immediately,
under the orders of Fleet Admiral Jack Riley, I am to take command of this Battlegroup until
such time that our combat operations in the Eastern Pacific are concluded.”
Roderick frowned and looked from the Admiral to Callaghan and Banick who shared
the same, blank expression. “You two knew about this, I assume?”
Banick simply nodded, and Ainsley continued before either of them could say a word.
“...As part of those orders, Captain Banick was instructed to keep the news and purpose of
my assignment a strictly need-to-know basis. These orders also pertain to you, Captain
Roderick.”
“I don‟t think I understand, sir,” she said simply.
“Effective immediately, your transfer order to the Constellation has been rescinded.
You‟re to remain at the head of this battlegroup‟s fighter wing, directly under my command.”
Roderick gauged Banick‟s dry and motionless reactions carefully and then nodded
slowly as the office door knocked loudly, and an ensign poked their head through the frame.
“Sorry to interrupt, sirs, but the Captains of the Fall River and Tripoli are here, as you
requested.”
Banick stood up from the desk as the Admiral turned, and gestured for the junior
officer to bring them in. A second later, and two officers – a Captain and a Commander
respectively – stepped through, one of whom made Ainsley smile slightly. Both officers
snapped to attention and saluted sharply.
“Admiral Ainsley, this is Captain Sean Barker, UEO Tripoli,” Banick introduced, his
hand extended to the more senior of the two new officers. Ainsley returned the salute and
nodded. “At ease, Captains.”
“It‟s a pleasure sir,” replied Barker sternly, returning the nod curtly, but offering
nothing more.
Ainsley then turned to the second of the two officers as Banick continued. “And you
of course know the Commander of the Fall River,” he said simply, taking a step back.
“Commander Hayes,” Ainsley beamed. “It‟s been a while. Congratulations on the
command.”
- 61 -

Commander (full) Madeline Hayes, the former helm officer of the Atlantis DSV smiled
and looked over at Ryan Callaghan just a few feet away. “Actually, sir, if you‟ll forgive me...
It‟s actually Commander Callaghan, now. I changed the name about six months ago.”
Ainsley stopped in his tracks and looked over at the Commonwealth XO, Ryan
Callaghan, who smiled wryly and shrugged, holding up his left hand to reveal the ring that
sat on his fourth finger. “Well... I see you‟ve changed more than just the drapes.
Congratulations. Admiral Hayes failed to mention this when last we spoke.”
Madeline narrowed her eyes and cocked her head. “He assumed you knew, sir...”
Banick stepped forward again and regarded the two commanders with a cautionary
gaze and then looked at Ainsley once more. “Admiral, as this ship has just stood down from
action stations - I‟m sure there will be time for reunions later?”
“Apparently so. Thank you both for coming, but as Captain Banick has been so fast
to remind me, this is not a social visit. Effective immediately, I am in taking command of the
Commonwealth Battlegroup. These orders are classified level-one, so only fleet command
staff will be informed of the details. What I am about to tell you therefore cannot leave this
office. Am I understood?”
The assembled officers nodded in agreement and Ainsley sat down and sighed. “For
nearly two years, fleet command has worked to the immediate goal of retaking what we lost
in Hawaii. This is as much political as it is strategic. Pearl Harbor represents the most
strategically important location in the entire Pacific, and is similarly the most symbolic. It took
almost the entire Macronesian fleet to take it from us, and as you‟re all duly aware, we‟re
having a hell of a time trying to take it back.”
“As the Ark Royal found out to her misfortune,” muttered Callaghan solemnly.
“What you were not aware is that the Secretary-General has imposed a time limit on
this objective. He ordered Fleet Admiral Riley to take it back by no later than August first, this
year.”
Without exception, every officer in the room stopped, and met Ainsley with nothing
but silence. Ainsley waited for what he knew was coming, and was not disappointed.
“It can‟t be done,” Banick said bluntly. “There isn‟t an officer in the fleet who wouldn‟t
know that. It would take the entire fleet six months of preparation just to organize such an
attack, and that doesn‟t even count how long it would take the Marines to do their thing on
the ground.”
“Fortunately for us, Captain Banick, Admiral Riley was able to press your position on
the Secretary General with some degree of success, and he has now conceded that what he
was asking was not possible.”
“And how exactly does that apply to us?”
Ainsley got up and walked to Banick‟s desk to access the controls for the screen that
hung from the wall next to him. “Captain Barker, will you please get the windows?”
Obediently, the commander of the Tripoli reached back and pressed a button next to
the door. The photovoltaic glass walls of the office promptly turned opaque, blocking the
office from the view of the CIC next door. Ainsley brought up a map of Pearl Harbor on the
screen and zoomed in on what used to be the submarine fortress of Saratoga Naval Base.
“In 2041, after we lost it, the Macronesians began using Saratoga as a major staging
area. Last year a team of Naval Special Forces running a demolitions Op on Hawaii found
this-“
Ainsley brought up the battlenet‟s database and punched in an access code. The
computer thought about it for a moment, and then displayed the information he‟d requested.
The officers drew closer to the screen as they saw where the photo had been taken.
“These are recon photos taken from what used to be UEO headquarters. That
structure you can see on Ford Island, near the Ares fleet yards, got ONI‟s attention and for
months they tried to work out what it was for.”
The photo in question showed what appeared to be a large Macronesian command
base, central amongst the buildings being a massive satellite antenna.
“A tracking base?” asked Madeline simply.
- 62 -

“Yes, that‟s what the commandoes reported. You would, however, be wrong. Shortly
after these photos were taken, the NSF boys took it upon themselves to demolish that
satellite antenna, and ONI assumed nothing more. In truth, we‟re probably having this
conversation with no small amount of thanks to those SEALs, because when they blew up
that command post, they set the Alliance back in what they were doing by nearly a year.
They completely redrafted their construction plans, and relocated the site near what used to
be Fort Saratoga, three miles off shore. We‟ve been unable to touch it since.”
Ainsley hit another control, and a set of schematics were displayed on screen. One
by one, the gathered officers closed their eyes, steadily recognising what it was. “You all
know – most of you with personal experience – what the Alliance‟s Atlas missile system is
capable of. When we lost Atlantis to this system in ‟41, they had only a single battery
operational off of the Australian coast. That battery has an effective range of just over two
thousand, five hundred nautical miles, and has kept us from taking this war to them. As we
speak, Macronesia is constructing a second such system... on Fort Saratoga. Cathgate‟s
deadline just happened to coincide with its projected date of completion.”
Barker‟s shock was whispered. “If they finish that battery they‟ll hit everything from
Japan to the West Coast.”
“That‟s correct,” Ainsley nodded grimly. “It will mean nothing less than the end of the
war, and the UEO will be forced to surrender unconditionally to the Macronesian Alliance.
My orders are to stop that from happening.”
Banick grimaced. “That‟s quite melodramatic, Admiral, but how exactly does the Fleet
Admiral propose we are going to do that?”
Ainsley glared at his former XO, the glint in his eye warning him not to test his
patience much further. “...That is where Captain Roderick comes in. Admiral Riley believes
that an all-out fleet engagement against Saratoga will only end badly, and has suggested
that a mass fighter attack - similar to that which we executed in the Philippines two years
ago – may be sufficient to knock out that battery. If we can prevent Macronesia from bringing
that missile battery online, then we will have bought the rest of the fleet the time it needs to
prepare for a feasible, sustained assault against the Hawaiian Islands.”
Roderick straightened and looked at Ainsley in a mixture of disbelief and sadness.
“Admiral, you have got to know that this would be a suicide mission for the pilots involved.
How can you ask me to give that kind of order?”
Ainsley closed his eyes. “Sadly, Captain, I‟m not the one asking. Fleet Admiral Riley
has ordered it, and I am in no position to countermand him. As to why he asked for you? I
can only imagine it‟s because you are one of the only senior fighter commanders in the fleet
to have done this before, and he thinks you can do it again.”
The office door rapped again and Banick cut in. “Enter!”
The door opened and Ensign Drusetti emerged from the CIC, his face ashen. “Sorry
to disturb. Captain Roderick? I think they need you on the flight deck.”
Roderick sighed as she closed her eyes. “Where‟s Richards?”
“No one knows, ma‟am. He didn‟t report in.”
Roderick shook her head and looked apologetically at the other staff. “Captain,
Admiral? If there‟s nothing else?”
Ainsley nodded sadly as he looked at Drusetti in the doorway. “There is more, but
that will have to be all for now, Captain. See to your pilots.”
She smiled weakly and quickly paced for the door as Banick got up off the desk again
and sighed. “Admiral, if that‟s all for the time being then I need to see to my ship and debrief
with Captain Barker. Ryan can see to your needs.”
“That will be fine.”
Banick nodded before Madeline stepped forward. “Captain, if you don‟t mind, I can
show the Admiral to his quarters.”
Banick exchanged a wary gaze with his XO and then nodded. He waited until Ainsley
had left the room before turning to Barker. “Captain Barker, if you will wait in the CIC for a
moment, I‟d like to have a word with my XO.”
“Sure, Jim. I‟ll be outside.”
- 63 -

Banick stepped behind his desk and sat down heavily. He rolled his neck as he
tapped his desk for a moment thoughtfully. He watched through the corner of one eye as
Barker left the office, and then spun to look up at Callaghan. “Say it,” he almost spat.
The XO didn‟t wait to be told twice and leaned to plant his hands on the oak desk.
“...Could you possibly have made that any more awkward?” he asked plainly.
“Answer me just one question, Ryan. Of all the ships in this fleet - why this one? Why
did he have to come here?”
“You‟re making this harder for yourself,” Callaghan answered bluntly, ignoring the
question entirely. “He probably doesn‟t want this assignment any more than you do, so don‟t
go burning bridges before he‟s even reached the bloody shore.”
The Captain‟s reply was almost a snarl. “He did that himself.”
~
Ainsley and Madeline Callaghan walked slowly down the main corridor of B-Deck as
the ship‟s crew stood down from battlestations around them. Ainsley laughed as she
explained. “Honestly, I didn‟t exactly have many options after that. The fleet‟s been strapped
for trying to find experienced command-rated officers, and they wouldn‟t let me stay on the
Commonwealth, so I could either resign, or accept command.”
The Admiral smiled at the former helmswoman and shook his head. “It really has
been a year and a half, hasn‟t it?”
“Yes sir. Although it seems an age when you‟re on the frontline. How was London?”
“Cold and miserable, like home always is,” he smirked. “Well, maybe just cold. I‟m
pretty sure the things that make London miserable are the politicians.”
The two of them rounded the staircase from the bridge deck and began walking down
through C-Deck‟s main port side passage towards Commonwealth‟s aft.
“The observation has to be made, Commander, it has to be very confusing for people
when you and your husband are in the same room.”
She laughed as they returned the salute of two marines who were standing guard
beside the main bulkhead hatch. “I think that‟s probably the real reason we aren‟t allowed to
serve together sir, but if it answers your question, usually I use the name „Hayes‟ when I‟m
on duty to keep things simple, but Jim normally runs a pretty casual command. He seemed
pretty up-tight back there... It was weird to hear him use rank.”
Ainsley paused at that thought and nodded. “Somehow, Commander, I don‟t think it
was anything you did.”
“No, I didn‟t think it was,” she dared, looking up at him with curiosity. “I don‟t mean to
presume, sir, but Ryan did tell me what Jim – that is, Captain Banick – had to say. They‟re
pretty close when they‟re not trying to stop the ship from falling apart. I wonder if I might ask
if there‟s any truth to it?”
“Well, I‟m not exactly how he tells it, Commander, so I‟m not sure I can comment. Far
be it for me to add fuel to the fire...”
“That‟s not what I meant.”
“I know it‟s not. But frankly, Madeline, I have nothing against him. He‟s got himself an
extraordinary command and one of the finest crews I could imagine, and he should be proud
of that. I‟m not here to take that from him.”
She stopped in front of a hatch way and checked the sign on the door. She looked
back at the Admiral and smiled. “I know you‟re not, sir. But it‟s good to have you back just
the same.”
She opened the hatch, and looked inside. “Well, here we are. C-Deck, frame sixty,
corridor C5, Admiral‟s stateroom.”
She held the door as Ainsley stepped through the hatch and hit the lights. His bags
had already been left next to the sofas in the centre of the room, and he smiled as he walked
in. “Well, I suppose this is home.”
- 64 -

~
Corinn Roderick stepped on to the flight deck, her stomach still fluttering in anxious
anticipation. The deck crew were still busy bringing subfighters in from the recovery ramp as
ordnance was unloaded refuelling was completed. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw the
line of three bodybags at the side of the hangar, and she whispered a prayer again as the
corpsmen did the rounds and marked the dead. After two and a half years of war, one could
sometimes think she‟d get used to it, but the truth was that it never got easier, and she was
finally beginning to understand why so many pilots chose to quietly enter retirement before
their time was really up.
Every day, new names were added to the list of lost comrades, and today was no
exception. Roderick moved forward and her heart sank as she saw one particular husk of an
SF-38 Raptor on the other side of the deck. The craft was a complete ruin, its wings an
unrecognisable mess of shredded metal, and its fuselage broken in two like a shattered
spine. Its markings were unmistakeable. The black fuselage, razor-wings and crooked halo
identified it as one of her own – the Dark Angels. She looked around hurriedly, and finally
saw Commander Dustin Coyle signing off his own fighter not far away. He‟d already seen
her, and walked over slowly, his helmet in-hand as if it were a ball and chain that he had to
drag across the deck. His shoulders, normally broad and imposing, were slumped and
depressed, and the dark rings around his eyes spoke clearly to his anguish.
“Dustin... Who?”
“We lost five, including three Angels,” he rasped. “Three others wounded.”
He looked back at the line of bodybags and then shook his head. “Seabury, Pickford
and Anderson,” he said grimly. “SAR is still searching for any sign of Shalders‟ or Harker‟s
bodies.”
Roderick slumped. “Shit... Do the rest of the Griffons know?”
Coyle huffed and turned around to look at the mass-gathering of pilots in the corner
at the other end of the hangar deck. “What do you think?”
“Bouncer, they just lost their squadron commander. Where the hell‟s Richards?”
“Fucked if I know. Haven‟t seen him since yesterday.”
Roderick fumed quietly for a moment. “What about Roberts?”
Coyle smiled weakly. “Relax, she‟s doing what she can for the rest of them. She
couldn‟t find the Wing Commander. She got here a few minutes ago.”
Roderick saw the younger Rapier commander, Jane Roberts, amongst the crowd of
Griffons. Like wounded eagles, not one of them held themselves up with any pride. Morale
was already waning, and several more days like this could finish them.
“Fuck it,” Roderick said, turning quickly and storming from the hangar. Something in
the back of her mind told her exactly where to go...
...Edward Richards lay on his back practically swimming in his own sweat as he
strained to push up on the weight above him. His feet ached, and it annoyed him that six
months before, this would have been a simple, run-of-the-mill exercise.
Foot, he corrected to himself silently. After so many weeks in bed, the muscles in his
good leg had atrophied, and his other, aided by the metal shaft they called a “replacement”,
couldn‟t really do anything except provide balance, with the pain of it pressing against the
stump of his knee being too much to hold much at all to begin with.
The ship‟s gymnasium was empty, of course, and he virtually screamed as he tried to
push the seventy-pound, steel block back in to place on the slide for the last time. His knee
trembled under the strain. Inches were all that it would take...
His knee gave way, and the weight came back, pushing his legs down with it.
He cursed as he straddled the press and closed his eyes. His lungs burned with
every breath he took – a sensation that he now hated with a very particular and unique
passion.
“And how many was that, then?” said the familiar, scolding voice from the door.
- 65 -

Richards hadn‟t even heard Roderick enter. Indeed, she hadn‟t, as he lolled his head
sideways to find her leaning against the door frame, her arms folded in front of her and a
look on her face that probably could have killed small children.
“Nineteen,” he said with defeat.
“And how exactly do you think strain-induced trauma is going to help your situation?”
“Well Jesus, Quinn, I don‟t fucking know!” he yelled helplessly, throwing his arms in
to the air, and not moving from his back. “You‟re the one who seems to have all the goddamned
answers, why don‟t you tell me? What will help?”
She nodded knowingly, and paused for a moment as she thought about it, and then
walked in, closing the hatch behind her. “Reed failed you on your physical again, didn‟t he.”
She‟d said it as a statement, not a question, and Richards smiled sarcastically. “You
think?”
Richards stopped for a second and looked back up, pulling himself up vertically
without much effort, evoking some degree of surprise from Roderick next to him. He turned
to face her, but didn‟t stand.
“Hitman‟s dead,” she said casually, and showing no regret in the blunt statement.
“What?”
“Ben Harker. Bought the farm in that skirmish you just missed. Coyle tells me he‟s in
little pieces all over the Folly. All the king‟s horses, all that crap. Just thought you might want
to know,” Roderick suggested callously. She suddenly turned very dark, and seethed
through cold eyes. “You know, considering it‟s supposed to be your fucking sea wing!”
Richards seemed to tremble as he exhaled slowly and stared blankly in to the wall.
“Who else?” he asked distractedly.
“Well none of your swords, if that‟s what you‟re worried about. But I suggest if you
want to know, then you get your useless arse down there and actually fucking find out!”
Richards nodded as he stood slowly, bracing the prosthetic against the bench as he
did. He didn‟t say a word as he walked across the gym to the locker room and pulled out a
towel. Roderick continued to wait, rolling her eyes to the heavens to spite his pride before
slowly following him.
“I heard we had a three-star arrive,” Richards remarked casually.
Roderick nodded, but didn‟t say a word.
“You know I don‟t blame the Captain, if the story is true,” he continued. “I think I‟d be
pissed too if someone pulled the rug out from under me like that, disappeared for two years,
and then rocked up trying to steal my command...”
She glared at him, warning him not to continue, but he ignored her and went on. “And
you know the weirdest thing?” he said, beginning to laugh. “Apparently he was replaced by
Harold-fucking-Lewis. I mean shit, how expendable are you if a useless piece of shit like that
takes your place as the chief of staff for the combined god-damn Atlantic-fucking fleet?”
Roderick shook her head and continued to stare in shock. “You‟re a piece of work,
you know that?”
She was already walking out when Richards slammed the locker shut and laughed
hysterically. “Hell, babe, if there‟s a mutiny – then I‟ll be first in line, „cause mark my words,
this is a one-way ticket straight to hell.”
~
- 66 -

T H E G I R L A T T H E E N D O F T H E W O R L D : I
Nycarus Laboratories, Fort Sulima, the Sierra Leone Coast. August 3 rd , 2025...
The sands of the Sierra Leone coast were truly as desolate as one could imagine.
Once considered an Eden of natural beauty and resource wealth, the diamond coast had not
been that same image of untamed wilderness for over fifteen years.
Decades of war, and more recent ecological disasters had turned the once verdant
coastal region in to a massive tidal basin for the Atlantic Ocean. The ruins of the country‟s
major cities and ports could still at times be seen peaking above the cresting waves of the
sea, long abandoned in a mass exodus that supposedly went as far west as Niger. Bathed in
a perpetual haze of grey, the sands now spoke only of the most horrific of war stories in an
otherwise barren land that was all but completely devoid of human habitation, with one
notable exception.
It was an unassuming sight at first glance – the old, worn-down bunkers of Third
World War armies that had been abandoned to the peaks of the mountains.
The bunkers were, at one point, buried deep within the forests of those very same
peaks, but the forests had long since been burned to ash and the mountains now formed an
eerily spectacular line of sheer-cliffs that bordered the great basin.
The massive promontory of rock which supported the bunker complex had been
forgotten to all but a very rare few, although very occasionally, local tribesman would speak
of the moaning souls of the dead that drifted out of the dark mountains, carried by the winds
of the Great Sorrow.
In a few years, those sounds would disappear - the tribesmen telling only that the
coming of a great „rebirth‟ set the tortured souls free of their mountain prisons to begin life
anew on the other side of the great plains through which the winds had carried them.
That day however was not this one, and still this does not dispel the tales of primitive
man as pure fiction. Indeed, the souls of the lost did cry, and the winds did indeed carry
them to the ears of tribes in lower Equatorial Guinea.
The sounds of the sick and dying were not uncommon in the Nycarus laboratories,
nor were they the fictional campfire stories of local shamans who had been all but forgotten
by the civilized world. The sterility of the place - with its spotless white walls and ceilings -
was betrayed by the sounds of things too unnatural for the human body to produce of its own
accord. Indeed, the projects occurring inside the laboratory, one could say, were hardly
human at all.
Doctor Thecus van der Weer was a monster, he told himself, yet this made his work
no less important. The cost of one human soul was far outweighed, in his mind, by all that
could be gained from the wretched caricatures of human form in front of him. To see the
scope of his work to its fullest extent was a truly strange experience. Some patients were
little more than slowly-disintegrating husks of skin and bone that resembled shadows inside
their worn cloaks. Where they had gotten the cloaks, he didn‟t know – nor did he particularly
care. All he did know was that for whatever reason, the gene stabilization therapy that they
had been receiving was being rejected by their immune systems, and one of several dozen
side effects (a modest number, compared to some early results) was a highly developed
sensitivity to light in their optic nerves.
With refinement, that particular side effect could well be turned in to a significant
breakthrough that could later be incorporated in later patients.
They stood in complete and bizarre contrast to those who now took it upon
themselves to care for them. Having received similar doses of the catalyst, their would-be
carers – they too, patients – stood tall and healthy, their minds sharp, honed and even - in
some ways - enhanced beyond what they had originally arrived as. These were the ones –
the „potentials‟ - that would go through to the next rounds of treatment.
- 67 -

Van der Weer made several notes on his clipboard as he moved through the ward
and took careful attention of three patients whose conditions had somehow improved since
his last inspection. He made note of them too, and then signalled the waiting orderlies to
take them away. This was as much for their protection as it was for the insurance of his
continued progress – it was vital that such promising patients be kept in isolation from the
others.
Van der Weer finished his round of the eastern wing and then quickly walked back to
the observation room, swiping his access card through the reader next to the door as the two
massive militia guards stepped carefully behind him to level their weapons on the patients. A
precaution, he was assured. After so long in captivity under the brutal heel of Mbotmi
Ngunntini‟s militia, they had learnt the bitter price of disobedience, and now simply
cooperated. The Doctor abhorred the methods used by the militia to maintain discipline, but
he could not deny the result.
He sighed and removed the surgical mask as he ascended the small staircase to the
observation area, and found the outlanders who continued to stare through the glass. The
more senior of them (or so he had been led to assume) turned and regarded the doctor with
a singular look of apathy. “Doctor, your results continue to be... inconsistent.”
He nodded in acknowledgement, not denying what was so clearly obvious. “Yes, and
that was to be expected. The data your scientists gave me was incomplete, and as I‟ve
already told them, it will take time to find a formula that will yield a stabilizing genome for the
catalyst.”
The outlander nodded, and looked back in to the ward where the patients continued
to loiter. “Some seemed promising,” he observed plainly. “What is their condition?”
Van der Weer flicked through his clipboard until he found the psychology report from
that morning, and then looked out at the ones who were being processed for isolation by the
guards. “Physically healthy in almost every respect,” he shrugged. “Mentally... I can‟t explain
it. The tests have revealed an unbelievable increase in neural activity. The gene splicing is
almost completely perfect.”
“But?”
“But I still haven‟t been able to find a matching sequence for the last-“
The outlander interjected quickly. “-Doctor, unlike those I answer to, I do not possess
such a keen knowledge or interest in the genetic sciences. Simplify it.”
The Doctor pursed his lips and considered it for a moment. “...Well, the problem we
are still having – and I doubt it can be solved with any degree of ease – is that the human
DNA in this case is less... dominant, if you will, when compared to the catalyst that it is being
introduced to. Given that we can‟t design a new catalyst, the side effect is that it tends to
take a certain amount of „chemical priority‟ during the gene therapy that we cannot control.
The result is never the same from subject to subject, because we are – as you know – all
different.”
The outlander took the clipboard from the Doctor and handed it to his aid, who
promptly walked away to take the report to their superiors as they did every day. “At this
point, Doctor, I am beginning to wonder if this project is a waste of time. Controllable or not,
this level of variation in results is completely unacceptable.”
Van der Weer paused and nodded slowly. “There is one notable exception,” he
confided. “Perhaps you should follow me...”
The walk to the dilapidated, decaying western wing of the complex was long –
deceptively so, for a structure that on the outside looked quite small. With only a cursory
inspection, it would have been impossible to tell that the mountainside bunker contained will
in excess of over 5,000 people, and only the smallest fraction of them were those who
worked there.
The Outlander followed the Doctor past multiple holding cells - watching with some
disdain the subjects therein. The pens seemed to go on forever in the underground labyrinth,
and they finally passed through a security checkpoint in to an area that was anything but the
slum that they had just witnessed. Bare, worn concrete walls turned in to sterile white
- 68 -

plaster, and the floors went from barren rock to polished tiles before they had even realised
it. It was a particularly bizarre transition for the Outlander as they checked behind them to
look at how it had changed. Van der Weer stopped them at the second checkpoint.
Three heavily armed guards – clearly not members of the militia, judging by the
calibre of their equipment – stood on either side of the security screen, watching the
outlander with suspicion. Their fingers visibly moving to cover their triggers as the Doctor
walked straight past them to speak with the Sergeant. After a few words of quiet
conversation that went unheard by the outlander, the Doctor turned. “If you will wait one
moment...”
The Outlander looked at each of the guards warily as the Doctor disappeared down a
side corridor for several long minutes with the Sergeant close in tow. The two guards
remained, and never once broke their gaze from the new-comer. Moments before, the
Outlander had been the one in charge. Now, it seemed, he was anything but.
Finally the Doctor returned with another man, his uniform nothing more than a black
jumpsuit, bearing the familiar black and gold deltas of an Intelligence Officer. This put the
Outlander off guard, as he had no idea who the man was – and had never seen him before.
Van der Weer approached and extended a hand towards the man in gesture. “This is the
adjutant in charge of this operation,” he said simply, and not daring to introduce him by
name.
The Intelligence Officer didn‟t have to explain further for the outlander to know – that
much like himself – he worked for Section Seven, but by his remarkably junior rank, they
also knew better than to assume he was the one in charge. Such postings were not issued
lightly, but there could be no doubt that the Lieutenant had the ear of someone far more
powerful than himself. “Gentlemen, if you will follow me,” the officer suggested simply, not
bothering to ask their names. It had become a convention around the facility that names
were unimportant, and in some cases and circumstances, their use was even strictly
forbidden.
The walk further in to the western wing was almost as long as the one that had taken
the Outlander there to begin with, and the trip was taken in almost total silence. Unlike the
rest of the facility – which had a perpetual atmosphere of sickness and death - this part of
the base was eerily silent. The four men continued down the corridors for some time,
passing doctors, guards and several other officers as they walked, but none said a word.
They finally arrived at their destination – at the end of a long hall guarded by two
more soldiers that brandished the unmistakeable armaments of UEO marines. The
unassuming door had a simple red light above it, and van der Weer had to key in his access
code. The outlander noticed the security camera watching him, and after a few seconds, a
loud buzz sounded as the door was unlocked from the adjacent security station, and the light
turned green. Silently, van der Weer and the Lieutenant entered the room, and the outlander
followed them inside.
For all the security, the sight that awaited him came as nothing less than a complete
surprise. The room they were in was an observation area, with a single sheet of reinforced
glass stretching across the entire length of the room, looking directly in to a bare,
unremarkable cell that had been furnished with just a bed, basin, toilet and security camera.
Dressed only in an old set of medical scrubs, a young girl was curled up in the corner. She
was thin, and clearly emaciated after what had clearly been months of maltreatment.
The outlander stepped forward and looked in to the room quietly. He said nothing as
the Doctor proudly explained. “This is Subject N-295277145,” he started. “She is one of our
best results. In fact, to be precise, she is the best result we‟ve ever had.”
“How so?” asked the Outlander flatly, continuing to wonder about the appalling
conditions in which the girl was being forced to live.
“She is the only subject to reach a stage-five catalyst,” the Doctor said, as if it would
explain everything. “In all other patients, without exception, the genetic instability of stage
four has resulted in a... catastrophic failure of synapse control. In the best cases, acute
epilepsy onsets at about ninety-six hours, and the worst case-“
- 69 -

“Doctor... Get to the point.”
The Lieutenant spoke up, clarifying succinctly. “...In this case, the subject has
displayed no such symptoms. Her neural reactions are... beyond anything we‟ve ever seen
from this project. There has been no physical augmentation, of course, but we‟re reluctant to
explore that option. She is far too valuable to risk through – if the Doctor will forgive me –
massively untested and invasive surgical techniques.”
The outlander nodded, as he slowly came to understand. “She‟s the key.”
The Doctor shrugged and nodded. “Well, in a manner of speaking... Yes. I suppose
you could call her that.”
The outlander closed his eyes and nodded. “How long has she been here?”
The Doctor shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, since we administered the stage-five
treatment.”
“That‟s not an answer.”
“A year.”
The outlander drew a deep, sharp breath and turned to face them both. “The Captain
sent me here to ensure that this... remarkable milestone of progress was being
safeguarded,” he said bitterly. “She‟s malnourished, dehydrated, and living in conditions that
I wouldn‟t even consider using to describe a zoo.”
The Doctor frowned and shook his head defensively at the outlander. “Lieutenant
Callaghan, control is paramount if-“
The outlander wheeled and pointed an accusing finger at the doctor. “That is enough,
Doctor!”
There was a pause and the other Lieutenant pursed his lips as the Doctor blurted out
his companion‟s name. Callaghan continued. “No matter how you try to spin it, this girl is a
human being – and I want her transferred. Effectively immediately, I am taking custody of the
patient until such time that I can deliver her to Captain Ezard aboard the Proteus personally.”
“Please, Lieutenant, this is unacceptable. We cannot guarantee controlled research
unless the patient remains here.”
Callaghan shot the Doctor a foul look. “All I‟ve seen since I have been here, Doctor
van der Weer, is something resembling a freak show. If you honestly think to call that
„controlled research‟, then we have a very serious issue that I might be inclined to take to
Captain Ezard, personally. Prepare her for transfer to the Proteus, now.”
Van der Weer continued to stare at Callaghan for long seconds before he turned to
the other Lieutenant and nodded hesitantly. “Do it.”
Callaghan‟s eyes didn‟t blink until the Lieutenant was nearly at the door, and he
called him back. “...And Lieutenant?”
“...Yes sir?”
Callaghan sniffed. “I suggest once you‟re done, you might seriously consider the
Doctor‟s position as untenable. If Captain Ezard were to learn about how this part of The
Project was being conducted, I imagine it would reflect rather... poorly... on your own
contributions.”
Callaghan sighed as the Lieutenant departed, and walked up to the glass to look at
the girl in the corner. She seemed impossibly fragile, and for a moment, her brilliant blue
eyes met his from under a veil of dirty, brown hair, staring through the one-way glass pane
as if it were not even there. “What‟s her name?” Callaghan asked simply.
“Sanaa. Her name is Sanaa.”
~
- 70 -

UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110 Nine hundred miles south-east of Japan, the
Marianas Sea. April 10 th , 2043…
“...From the sea we came, and to the sea we shall one day return,” the Chaplain
continued, his voice echoing in the vast interior of the ship‟s hangar. The silence, it occurred
to Quinn Roderick, was an entirely off-putting sensation for this part of the ship. The flight
deck never slept, yet the stone, grim faces of three hundred members of the
Commonwealth‟s flight crew seemed to underscore that which had, in only two weeks on the
Marianas front, become an all-too frequent ritual.
At dawn, every day, it was the same thing over and over again. Before flight
operations could interrupt any opportunity to honour the dead, they would send them to the
deep, before sweeping away both the grime and bitterness alike to start the cycle all over
again.
The burial of her pilots had a sickening symmetry to it. It was from this very deck that
they had left the ship, never to return, and it was from the same deck that they would be
buried. Five shrouds covered caskets in the center of one of the hangar‟s six vertical drop
shafts, two covered by the blazing orange livery of the VF-173 Griffons, and three shrouded
in the black-winged halos of the Dark Angels. Shalders, Harker, Seabury, Pickford, and
Anderson.
Roderick had never known Ben Harker as well as she would have liked. In the
relatively short time she‟d been aboard the Commonwealth, Harker had often held the
nightwatch to her duties as the Wing Commander, but it was undoubtedly his loss that would
hit the sea wing the worst. His death had all but decapitated his squadron, the Griffons, and
the addition of the squadron XO – Rod Shalders - to the butcher‟s bill now meant that the
squadron‟s cadre of command officers had been all but decimated.
The fate that awaited the already under-strength Griffons would likely see them
folded in to another squadron, and Roderick knew from bitter experience that it would be
difficult to see through.
For her part, the pain she felt came from the three coffins directly next to the two
Griffons. Lieutenant Commanders Jake Seabury and Brooke Anderson, along with
Lieutenant Jack Pickford were amongst her oldest colleagues, having been with her since
the squadron‟s inception over three years prior. Anderson had been out of the academy
barely a year when the war had broken out, and Roderick had practically been her mentor in
the years that followed.
Roderick‟s gaze caught that of Sarah Cunningham across the way, and she
instinctively pulled her gaze down again, and gripped the tiny silver cross in her hand even
tighter before closing her eyes. Cunningham saw the look that had washed through her face,
and could only wonder if the elder Captain had seen something in Anderson that she now
saw in her. It sent an unwelcome chill through Cunningham‟s spine as she looked down at
Anderson‟s casket and realized just how similar they‟d been. For reasons that Cunningham
couldn‟t entirely explain, she felt sick, and tears began to well in her eyes.
Roderick watched in silence as five groups of Commonwealth‟s marines folded the
shrouds with grim precision as three sharp volleys rang out from the firing party that lined the
side of the drop shaft. Not a word was spoken as the marines then placed the flags in a neat
pile and passed them to the master-at-arms who sharply saluted before spinning on his heel
and marching towards Captain Banick.
The deck rumbled for a moment under the feet of the gathered crew as the drop shaft
slowly began to descend, the sea doors closing behind it as it disappeared in to the
darkness below. The heavy doors sealed with a heavy “thump” that almost seemed to make
the Captain respond by snapping to attention as he saluted to accept the offered shrouds
from the master-at-arms. Waiting until the bugler had finished his mournful recital of Taps,
the Commonwealth‟s captain then turned on his heel and marched from the flight deck.
Quinn nearly choked as she realised she‟d been holding her breath as the cross had
begun to dig in to the soft skin of her palm. She slowly released her grip and swallowed the
- 71 -

lump that had risen in her throat, feeling a rush of warmth and pain alike as blood made its
way back to the tips of her fingers.
With a sigh, Roderick took the cross and hung it back around her neck, quickly
burying it again underneath her dress uniform collar. She sniffed slightly as the master-atarms
dismissed the gathered crew, and seemingly instantly to her eyes, the makeshift
memorial was transformed in to the usual throng of activity that so defined a carrier‟s
operations. The dress uniformed honour guard of marines – like spectres – had vanished in
to the crowd, and it suddenly dawned on Roderick just how grimly efficient the crew had
become at holding and then dispersing such services.
“That was tough,” said the quiet, almost understated voice of Dustin Coyle beside
her, and she nodded sharply, unable to speak without the risk of breaking down.
Nonetheless, both officers found themselves staring across the now-empty drop shaft to
stare at the most unlikely of men. Commander Ed Richards hadn‟t moved from the place that
he stood during the ceremony, and continued to stare down at the floor as if the caskets had
never left. His uniform cap was folded neatly in his hand before him, and he didn‟t show
even the slightest discomfort for the unseen wounds he wore beneath his trousers. Indeed, it
would have been impossible to tell through the polished boots and immaculately-pressed
uniform that he was missing a leg at all if it were not for the walking stick that he held in his
free hand.
“And wonders never cease,” Coyle mused through gritted teeth as he continued to
watch Richards across the way.
“This isn‟t fair,” said Roderick, as if to no one in particular. “We can‟t keep doing this.”
“What?”
Roderick looked at Coyle and shook her head. “Dustin, morale on this ship is already
rarer than Banick having a sober day. We can‟t keep holding these bloody funerals on a
daily basis. That‟s what‟s killing us, not the Macs.”
“We‟ve managed so far,” Coyle offered, although his lack of conviction was only too
clear. Roderick looked back at Richards who was steadily working his way back to the
corridor, his prosthetic leg dragging lazily behind the other. Even Richards, a man so proud
he refused to face the reality of his own injuries, couldn‟t stand it.
“I got another request today from Commander Marsden on the Royal Oak,” she said,
her voice seeming to drift as she watched Richards leave. “Apparently another Alliance
fighter patrol went missing around the Macaw Bank again.”
“Another one?” Coyle asked with surprise. “That has to be the third one this week.”
“At least.”
Coyle frowned. “One thing I‟ve been wondering is why do they keep asking you about
this? Why don‟t they sent it to Intelligence?”
Roderick shook her head, but bit her tongue. “Intelligence is denying they have any
knowledge of it, but apparently whoever is attacking these Macs, their fighters... well, seems
funny, but they keep being described as „black ghosts‟. The Alliance seems to think it might
be us, but what few descriptions they have of the fighters don‟t add up. They just show up,
wipe out the whole unit, and then disappear in to thin air. There‟s not even any traceable
radio traffic.”
“So they‟re UCSVs?”
Roderick smiled. “Well, if they are, they‟re the best unmanned drones ever made.”
Coyle grinned. “Nice to know our reputation still precedes us.”
Roderick found herself staring past Coyle as she found the ashen shade of white that
flooded the face of Sarah Cunningham in the crowd, and saw the bottomless wells of
sadness that had built up in the young Lieutenant‟s eyes. A second later, and Cunningham
was stumbling away – almost in a dazed stupor.
Roderick had seen that very particular look only a few times before, and she closed
her eyes, and silently whispered a prayer...
- 72 -

Sarah Cunningham was halfway down the port side access way when Rogers caught
up with her. She walked with a fast step that Rogers knew to be uncommon, and he stepped
up his pace. “Hey, Sarah,” he called.
She didn‟t stop, and continued to push through the oncoming crowds of flight deck
crew before throwing a hard turn and disappearing through a door that rapidly closed behind
her. Rogers stopped only for a moment to look up at the signage above the hatchway. It was
the pilot‟s locker room. Drawing a breath, he pushed his way through the door and no sooner
had he entered the room did he turn away.
Cunningham wretched in to the basin as tears ran down her cheeks, her hands firmly
planted like pillars on either side of the frame. Like the other pilots of the sea wing, she‟d
attended virtually every memorial aboard the ship since she‟d arrived, and at first it had been
hard. It was true that to lose five pilots in a single sortie was extreme, but with worse days on
record – including the one where they themselves had nearly lost their commanding officer –
it had to be said that Rogers had never seen Cunningham lose her composure so
comprehensively since they‟d still been in the academy. Over an extended period of time,
combat had a way of making death a simple fact of life... but this time something had shaken
Cunningham to her very core.
Rogers slowly walked to where she stood, shaking but unmoving over the basin, and
slowly put a hand to her shoulder as she splashed her face with water and then tried in vain
to clear her eyes. “Hey,” he managed – for lack of absolutely anything else to say. Slowly, he
pulled her back so that she was almost leaning against him. “That‟s it, steady...”
“Rogers, I don‟t know what to do,” she rasped, her eyes staring through the mirror in
front of her.
He drew a hesitant but sharp breath as he wrapped his hands around her waist. “Just
take it easy. What‟s wrong?”
“Anderson...” Cunningham recalled, as memories came flooding back. “She...”
Rogers had little earthly clue where Cunningham‟s mind had gone. “Slow down.”
Cunningham pulled away from Rogers slowly, and leaned against one of the lockers
beside her with a loud clatter. “It could have been us, Sam,” she said, her eyes still vacant
and lost. “She was us. I remember it clear as if it was yesterday... sitting in that briefing
room.”
“When? Where? What are you talking about?”
“On the Atlantis!” she cried. “Anderson stood up and... She never wanted us there.
The way she looked at us during that briefing was like she knew this was going to happen.”
Rogers stopped as he remembered what it was that had so taken Cunningham.
Nearly two years before, they had sat for the first time in a briefing room aboard the Atlantis
DSV as little more than cadets, and Lieutenant J.G. Brooke Anderson had been the only
pilot in the entire Dark Angels squadron to stand up to stare Corinn Roderick in the eye to
tell the commander she was wrong. Later that day, three cadets had left on a sortie that
would make history, and only two would come home...
“Oh,” he said, the realization now hitting him. “No, Sarah, no... Of course she didn‟t.
We‟ve been over this.”
“Then how do we? How do I know that tomorrow you won‟t be in one of those
caskets?”
That stopped Rogers for a moment, but before he‟d even had a chance to get his
thoughts in order, he was thrown back against the locker, out of sight of the rest of the room,
and suddenly felt the soft, warm lips of Sarah Cunningham against his. That is, he would
have, assuming her attempt to ram her tongue down his throat hadn‟t almost knocked out his
teeth.
Rogers held her back for a split second only long enough to manage a futile “what?”
before she started to unbutton his shirt. “I‟m not losing you,” she gasped angrily, her fingers
fumbling as they worked to remove his clothes.
“Sarah, what the hell are you... Wait, stop this.”
She glowered at him as his hands met hers and he flipped her around to pin her
against the wall, her eyes burning in to his. He met them, and spoke slowly. “Stop it.”
- 73 -

Reluctantly, he let go of Cunningham‟s wrists, and she paused briefly before, in one
swift, well-aimed stroke that could have only come from a skilled marksman, snapping her
hand across his face.
Sam worked his jaw for a moment, feeling fire lance through his cheek. Cunningham
turned on a heel and stormed out of the room.
It had all happened so quickly that Rogers was simply left to stare at the door she
had left by in a stunned daze, his jaw still absently lolling from side to side as the impact of
her hand continued to seer.
Indeed, it had happened so quickly that he had been completely unaware of the
open-mouthed shock that was Lieutenant Commander Wilhelm Schrader not ten feet behind
him. Slowly and carefully, the elder Rapier pilot walked up the aisle of lockers to step around
Rogers and look him slowly up and down, the look on his face being a mixture of abject
terror and total confusion. Schrader‟s head turned to look at the door and then snapped back
to the Lieutenant. He opened his mouth to say something, but words had clearly failed him.
Rogers understood the intention, and simply shook his head. “I have no idea...”
Corinn Roderick stood over the duffel bag that contained the entire sum of her life for
the previous six months, and steadily went about the task of unpacking. Ainsley‟s arrival
could not have been much more tightly timed even if the man had planned it, but with the
sheer number of senior officers now on the Commonwealth the likelihood of being moved to
larger quarters in lieu of her promotion seemed drastically unlikely. She paused for a
moment as she got to a photo frame that had been buried under some clothes and smiled as
she brushed dust from the frame to look at the two smiling faces beneath the glass. A small
flutter in her stomach brought her home again as she looked at the fifteen-year-old image of
Patrick Roderick, beaming proudly with his arm almost draping from her shoulders like some
kind of misbegotten mantle setting, herself the image of youth with a smile so bright it could
have melted the heart of anyone she looked at. It was a face she hadn‟t recognised for a
very long time, and she put it back on the desk.
Her dress uniform remained laid out on the bed where she had left it after the
memorial service, but she hadn‟t bothered to remove the many insignias and ribbons that
were adorned. The time it took to redress a service jacket simply wasn‟t worth the effort
when it would only be needed again in less than twenty four hours. The insanity of that fact
hadn‟t escaped her, and it was that reason alone that brought Jane Roberts to her door.
A rapping of knuckles against the door frame outside made Roderick turn, and she
called out. “Come in.”
Half a second later, and Commander Roberts opened the door and looked around
the room for a moment to find the Captain standing over the study against the bulkhead. “Is
this is a bad time, Captain?”
“No, not at all, Jane. Come in, please.”
Roberts quietly closed the door behind her as she entered the quarters and slowly
walked to the middle of Roderick‟s quarters, the personal affects furnishing the room being
few in number, but exact in their measure. The occasional photo, violin stand, album or diary
provided a very limited look at the life of the sea wing‟s most guarded commander. “We‟ve
got a problem, Quinn,” Roberts said bluntly. “Morale is already in a slump. If Captain Banick
keeps pushing for these morning services every day, there‟s going to be a mutiny.”
Roderick smirked. “...Again with mutinies,” she muttered inwardly. “I know.”
“So... aren‟t you going to do something about it?”
Roderick stopped, and sighed deeply. “I heard about the incident with Two Birds and
Stones. Is Cunningham alright?”
Roberts raised her eyebrows at that and folded her arms. “So, Schrader already
spoke to you?”
She shook her head. “No. But sapped morale has a way of propagating rumours
faster than I‟d like.”
Roberts pressed further. “Then you‟ve got to see we need to do something about
this. Five is the worst all week. How many is it going to be tomorrow? Banick can‟t keep
- 74 -

shoving bodies out airlocks like they‟re some kind of trash. It‟s wrong, and he seems to be
the only one who doesn‟t see it. The pilots are starting to crack. First it was Richards, now
Cunningham... The next one could be in the middle of a dogfight and decide it‟s all too
much.”
Roderick nodded. “I already tried speaking to the Captain.”
“You did?”
“Yeah,” she continued, her voice slipping in to a venomous, sardonic drawl. “He said
that it keeps us sharp, and helps maintain discipline.”
“That‟s bullshit, and he knows it.”
Roderick turned back to the bag to pull out more of her belongings and nodded. “I‟ll
speak to the Admiral. Hopefully he can talk some sense in to him.”
Roberts stopped, and cocked her head with a bemused smile. “You trying to cause a
mutiny now?”
Roderick‟s head snapped around to stare at Roberts icily. “Don‟t you start, too.”
“Absolutely not, Captain,” Roberts assuaged, her smile not disappearing.
Roderick turned back to her belongings but didn‟t reply. Roberts took this as a cue,
and changed the topic, looking at the piles of clothes from other bags that had been put back
on shelves. “Scuttlebutt says you‟re sticking around a while longer. „That right?”
Roderick stopped what she was doing and nodded. “A man like Ainsley doesn‟t just
show up unannounced and take command of a carrier group without explaining himself
unless things are bad, Jane,” she suggested, her voice betraying that there was more she
wouldn‟t, or couldn‟t say. “And it‟s probably for the best anyway. Richards is in no state to
take command. If I were to leave now, things would only get worse.”
Roberts raised an eyebrow. “Well that‟s about the most cryptic thing you‟ve said all
week.”
“If I knew more than that, I‟d tell you.”
“Would you?”
“No.”
They both stopped, looking at each other for a moment. Roberts studied the lines of
Roderick‟s face, and nodded slowly. “That bad, huh?”
~
The sequence displayed on the holographic monitor atop the desk was puzzling to
Admiral Ainsley. Four sets of numbers, seemingly without meaning that had been delivered
with the strangest of intentions and with a purpose he could not fathom.
030639/3536
090941/1219
150940/179
131121/010
He‟d been staring at the numbers for hours, and was no closer to understanding
them now than when he‟d started. Alpha-numeric substitution had yielded only gibberish, but
of course the NSIS had told him that much in their efforts to break it. Serial numbers
remained a possibility, but a search of UEO databases had revealed everything from
weapons identification numbers to the barcodes on canned soup. Had NSIS screwed up
their cipher? Certainly, the fact the code had originated from a UEO Signals encryption could
have lead to inaccuracy on Schrader‟s part, but it would likely be hours – if not days before
Admiral Hargreaves and the rest of the Office of Naval Intelligence would respond to his
query, if at all.
Unsurprisingly, Signals were notoriously protective of their ciphers, even from those
who were in the know and even ciphers that were no longer in use. To an intelligence body,
suspicion was something entirely different from a closed case.
- 75 -

Ainsley leaned back in the tall office chair and closed his eyes. Of the remaining
Intelligence ciphers he had access to, every single one of them had either not fit the pattern
or couldn‟t make any further sense of it. What disturbed him the most was something that
had stuck in the back of his head since he‟d learnt of it.
The Signals Corps ciphers used aboard the Atlantis were impossible to replicate
outside of the ship‟s SOC. It was the one single facet of the DSV‟s intelligence operations
that had made it such an invaluable tool in the management of the UEO‟s battlenet. The
fleet‟s largest vessels were capable of sending the most sensitive information without fear of
interception purely because it was supposed to be impossible to break without knowledge of
the algorithm that created it. Schrader had explained that much, but had underestimated just
how much the Admiral understood.
The algorithms alone used to encode a DSV‟s strategic transmissions were not
enough to decode the same message. The formula was a constantly changing and ever-fluid
fractal cipher which was never the same at any two moments in time. For Schrader to have
managed to decode even this much of it, she would have had to have known the exact
moment at which the messages were sent, and not merely received.
It led Ainsley to one inescapable conclusion, but one he could not face with any
degree of rationality. It had been sent from a DSV. The only questions that remained were
which one, and how Schrader had known. Schrader was playing him – he knew that, and he
would go with it only to the point of where he got his answers, but to what end Schrader was
drawing him out, he could only guess.
Ainsley grabbed the numbers displayed on the holographic monitor out of thin air,
and with a quick flick of his hand sent them spiralling away through virtual space, the display
disappearing with it just a few moments later. He continued to stare across the room,
following closely the patterns of blue light that were splashed against the floor and walls by
the window behind the desk. Commonwealth was now running deep, but her exterior flood
lamps went some way to pouring light from the otherwise black abyss beyond - an endless
pit of darkness which even after thirty years, still fought to become Ainsley‟s master.
His intercom chirped several times before he finally acknowledged it and slapped the
receiver quickly. “Yes.”
“Admiral, am I interrupting?” the Yeoman assigned to him by Banick asked
cautiously.
“No, Petty Officer, it‟s fine. There a problem?”
“No sir, but Captain Roderick would like a word if you have a moment.”
Ainsley smiled slightly and got up from his chair to walk to the sideboards where a
steaming pot of coffee still brewed. “Send her in.”
“Yes sir.”
Ainsley had only just finished pouring the first mug when the door to the office swung
open and Roderick stepped inside the hatchway and closed it before presenting with a sharp
salute. The Admiral regarded her with a knowing smile, and nodded curtly. “At ease,
Captain. Coffee?”
She thought about it for a moment before smiling and nodding. “Thank you sir, yes.”
Ainsley kept pouring and without even thinking dropped two cubes of sugar in to the
mug before adding milk. As an afterthought, he looked at Roderick with a raised brow. “Still
white with two?”
“Perfect, thank you, sir.”
Ainsley nodded and finished preparing it before slipping it on to a plate and passing it
to the Captain opposite him. He turned and leaned against the sideboard, gesturing for her
to take a seat as he sipped his own. He swallowed and sighed before smiling.
“I imagine you‟ve got a few questions,” he said simply. “It‟s been a long two years.”
Roderick nodded from the seat in front of Ainsley‟s desk. “Too many, I would think,
sir. It hasn‟t been the same without you.”
“Requirements of the service, Quinn. It‟s nice to see the Angels are still ok after all
this time. It was a bit quiet there for a while.”
- 76 -

She pursed her lips. “The Secretary-General tried pretty hard to keep us off the line,
sir. But since the Aquarius... well, you know. I guess we‟ve been pushed pretty hard since.
Lost our fair share, too.”
“So I‟ve noticed.”
She nodded. “Actually, that was the reason I wanted to speak with you, sir.”
“Then spit it out, Captain.”
Roderick hesitated for a moment before turning up her nose slightly. Whatever she
was going to say wasn‟t easy for her. “We‟ve been on this line for about two weeks since our
last rotation, sir, and I‟m not going to try and pretend things have been easy. We‟ve lost
more pilots in the last fourteen days than we have in the previous six months combined.”
Ainsley shrugged. “Commonwealth is the only carrier between here and Palau. We‟re
spread thin until Enterprise arrives. You‟re the only thing between Japan and the entire
Chaodai 6 th Fleet right now. I‟m not exactly surprised.”
“Admiral, I don‟t want you to misunderstand me. I am not taking issue with our duties.
This is a war and people die – I‟ve long since accepted that. I don‟t need to be lectured on
it.”
Roderick‟s tone was hard, and Ainsley straightened slightly at the sign that he‟d
inadvertently struck a nerve. Roderick was quick to realise her own mistake, and looked
away apologetically. “...I apologise, sir. That was uncalled for. But like I said, it‟s been hard,
and if you‟ll take my meaning Admiral, I‟m probably coping with the situation better than
anyone right now.”
A flicker of a smile appeared at the corner of Ainsley‟s mouth, and he began to
understand. “Ah.”
There was silence for a few seconds as Ainsley drank his coffee again. “And how
often does Banick hold services?”
“Daily, sir. It‟s been like this since the Chaodai moved up a second carrier group two
weeks ago. We‟ve been losing one or two people every day. Today was the worst we‟ve had
it in nearly three months.”
“Then I‟d say we have a problem.”
“Yes sir.”
Ainsley worked his jaw for a moment before looking to the mirror. The darkness
outside gave him nothing more than his reflection, which served to send a chill down his
spine. “I take it you‟ve spoken to the Captain?”
“I tried, yes. But right now Captain Banick is trying hard to run the ship as tightly as
he can. When I spoke to him yesterday morning after the last service it was about the most
stubborn I think I‟ve seen him. And I mean that with as much respect as I can afford, sir.”
Ainsley closed his eyes. “I suspect you caught him at a bad time, CAG. I‟ll see what I
can do.”
Roderick smiled genuinely for the first time in days, and Ainsley could tell that the
emotion had become unfamiliar to her.
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. And it‟s good to have you back.”
Roderick stood, looking down at her coffee for a moment before setting it aside. She
snapped a sharp salute. “Sir.”
Ainsley returned the salute, and then nodded to the unfinished, steaming mug on the
sideboard. “You may take that with you, Captain. I‟m sure it won‟t be missed.”
Roderick nodded a quick smile as she picked up the offered mug, and quietly made a
hasty retreat, leaving Ainsley alone once more.
The Admiral rapped his fingers for a moment as he let a long, drawn breath, and then
purposefully marched to the desk, hitting the intercom, this time to the bridge, once again.
“Bridge, lieutenant Stewart here.”
“This is Admiral Ainsley... Lieutenant, are you able to raise me a secure line to
Captain Hitchcock on the seaQuest?”
“Of course, Admiral. Should I patch it through to your quarters?”
“No, my office please, lieutenant.”
“Standby, sir.”
- 77 -

Ainsley walked around the desk again and sat down, accepting the routing request
being put through to his computer from Stewart‟s communications station on the bridge. The
spinning crest of the Commonwealth hung on the screen for several minutes, in which time
he stared at the mysterious numbers again, pulling them apart in his head to rearrange them
in different combinations, as if expecting an obvious revelation that he had missed.
He became so engrossed in them that he completely failed to notice the face of
Captain Katherine Hitchcock wink up on his monitor. Her stunning blue eyes, stared through
him for long seconds before she smiled lopsidedly. “Admiral Ainsley?”
He shot around and met her gaze, for a moment forgetting what it was he‟d been
doing. “‟Morning, Captain Hitchcock... I trust I haven‟t woken you.”
“Not in the least, Admiral. We run a ship‟s clock, not zulu time.”
“Good. So how‟s the South Atlantic this time of year?”
Hitchcock smiled a very peculiar and coy smile. “I can‟t say I‟m at liberty to say, sir.”
Ainsley smiled back, flexing his hands in front of him. “I‟ve got a favour to ask.”
“Favour? That‟s funny. Last I checked you finally accepted a promotion... You could
just order me.”
“You haven‟t heard the favour yet, Captain,” Ainsley suggested, giving her a knowing
and warning gaze, all at the same time.
“Anything you need, sir.”
“NSIS?”
“...Shit.”
Ainsley clicked his fingers. “Now you know how I feel.”
“What have they got you on this time?”
Ainsley picked up the page so Hitchcock could see it, gesturing to it before setting it
down again. “I‟d like you to run an encryption through your SOC. I‟m curious to see what
Descartes gets from it.”
That stopped Hitchcock, and she narrowed her eyes. “Admiral, out of curiosity, just
what kind of encryption needs an AI to decipher it?”
“That, Captain, is exactly what I‟m trying to find out.”
~
At the start of the day‟s second shift, the bridge of the Commonwealth was a flurry of
activity as dreary-eyed night-shift officers were relieved by a swarm of fresh faces that
nursed mugs of coffee and tea.
“It‟s been quiet all day,” said Callaghan, gesturing to the tactical plot with his free
hand. Swiping it over the holographic, 3D landscape, he shifted the map along to show the
approaches to Swordsman‟s Folly, and then pushed it away to zoom out, showing the entire
theatre. As he did so, the display flickered momentarily, and Banick shook his head. “These
new holo-displays are dicky,” he remarked flatly of the ship‟s new interactive holographic
monitors. “Try and get maintenance to take another look at it after second shift.”
Callaghan continued to stare at his Captain expectantly, and Banick sighed. “Sorry,
you were saying?”
Callaghan hesitated a moment before turning back to the plot. “...It‟s been quiet since
we took out that last attack yesterday. For what it cost us, it seems they‟ve given up trying
for the time being.”
“I doubt it,” put Banick bluntly, planting his hands on the guard rail and surveying the
board. “Their last one nearly had us, and they had to know we were hurt by it. Why aren‟t
they trying to finish us? They‟ve got us at three-to-one.”
One of the other combat specialists in Commonwealth‟s CIC looked up at that and
eyed the Captain. “There is a possible explanation, sir,” he offered.
“Enlighten me, Mister Jackson.”
“Traffic intercepted by SEWACS, sir,” Jackson elaborated, forwarding a report to the
display in front of Banick. “Caught it in the last half hour. Seems that explosion we caused
- 78 -

yesterday was picked up by a Chaodai cruiser on the other side of the abyssal. They‟re
reporting it as the breakup of a carrier, sir. Looks like they think they‟ve killed us.”
“That‟ll be the day,” Banick muttered with an inward chuckle.
“Yeah, well the reports are spreading quickly, sir. We‟ve already got three requests
from our own commands asking confirmation of our status.”
Banick rolled his eyes. “Let‟s keep the rumour mill going for a change. The longer we
can keep the Chaodai guessing what the hell‟s going on, the longer we might get a break.
Even so... Mister Jackson, as you seem to be on top of things - send a status update to the
regional commands along with casualty reports. May as well let them know we‟re still here.
We can‟t dodge paperwork forever.”
Jackson laughed lightly as he headed for the door to the bridge. “Yes sir.”
Banick looked back at vertical chart at the center of the tactical plot. The display
showed almost the entirety of the Marianas trench, sitting quietly to one side being the
Commonwealth and her accompanying battlegroup. The image was made up from the
combined data of SEWACS, WSKRS, satellites, proximity probes and information from other
allied units in the region, and the picture it painted was positive. Commonwealth was alone –
the nearest Chaodai battlegroup being over 400 nautical miles away, moving parallel to the
carrier‟s course. Commonwealth had moved on from her previous position at the northern
approach to the Folly, and the fighters sent to check that area had long since carried on.
They were alone. “Just the same,” Banick put forward. “I don‟t want us to get caught with our
pants down. Double the CAP, move the Alert-10 to Alert-5.”
Callaghan nodded as he brought up the dispatches from the CIC with his hand and
corrected the order in four quick strokes. As quick as he‟d been given the order, it was sent
back out. “XO?”
Callaghan looked up as an ensign entered the CIC from the bridge next door, quietly
ushering him aside as the Captain went about his morning reports.
“Sir, the Admiral‟s asked to see the Captain in his office, as soon as possible.”
Callaghan looked awkward, and turned a careful eye to Banick a few feet away.
“Ensign,” he whispered. “The Captain‟s just begun his shift. I‟ll inform him in-“
“No,” interjected Banick. “If the Admiral wants to speak to me, I‟ll see him now. Let‟s
make this as smooth as possible. Mister Callaghan, you have the Conn.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Callaghan and the ensign watched the Captain walk out of the CIC without so much
as a backward glance, and the XO gritted his teeth, regarding the ensign with an apologetic
smile. “I didn‟t actually expect him to hear that...”
~
“...I just got Banick‟s report,” said the face of Fleet Admiral Riley. “While the losses
are regrettable, I suspect yesterday‟s action may well have given you something of a
reprieve for the time being, Mark.”
“Understandable,” Ainsley mused. “One doesn‟t let off a hundred thousand pounds of
ordnance without someone hearing it.”
“My thoughts exactly. If Intelligence reports are to be believed, it seems the Chaodai
have the Commonwealth blown to pieces across the sea floor... and all the same it‟s nice to
know you‟re still there.”
Ainsley nodded slowly, the hesitation being readily apparent. “Captain Banick‟s crew
did well. I can‟t say I‟d have handled the situation any differently.”
Riley leaned forward. “Ainsley, I know you and Banick have your differences as of
late. Hell, he probably thinks you‟re trying to snake his command, and given what‟s ahead of
you I don‟t exactly blame him for his anxiety.
Ainsley smiled lopsidedly. “I imagine he will be telling me all about that when he gets
here, Jack.”
- 79 -

The Pacific Commander-in-Chief unhappily lamented. “Well, he always was a
pitbull... So far as this business as Schrader goes, you know I can‟t officially authorize any
action that goes beyond the jurisdiction of your command. If Jason wants to play hardball,
I‟m afraid there isn‟t much I can do to change his mind.”
“Jack, you and I both know that Hargreaves has his hands in places that aren‟t
supposed to exist. If I could simply get some kind of indication that that message was
properly decoded-“
“Jesus, Ainsley,” Riley spewed. “Do the words „political shitstorm‟ mean anything to
you? If we suggested the head of the Office of Naval Intelligence was above the level...
Plausible deniability exists for a reason, and I‟m on thin ice with the Secretary General as it
is. I‟m sorry. If you bring me something tangible, I‟ll see what I can do, but right now all
Schrader has is a bunch of numbers from a Signals cipher that she thinks she understands.
If Cathgate sees me stepping on Intelligence toes...”
Ainsley held up his hands and took a step back. “You‟re right, Jack, I‟m sorry. I
shouldn‟t have asked. I‟ll let you know if I find anything more.”
“Just try not to piss anyone off while you‟re at it, Mark. We‟ll be in touch.”
Riley‟s face evaporated, being replaced by the slowly-turning crest of the United
Earth Oceans, leaving Ainsley staring through the image only to sigh. After a moment, he
turned off the holo-display, and then hit the intercom. “Yeoman, I‟m all finished here. Could
you could send Captain Banick in now?”
“Yes sir.”
Ainsley continued to stand, leaning against the edge of the desk as the hatch cracked
open and Captain James Banick stepped in to the room. “Captain. Thank you for coming.
Please, take a seat.”
“Thank you, Admiral, but I‟d rather stand,” he replied curtly.
“Very well. Can I get you something? Coffee or tea?”
Banick shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, sir, but I‟ve already had it. Was there
something you needed?”
Ainsley raised an eyebrow, still surprised by Banick‟s cursory attitude, and walked
back behind the desk to sit down, settling back to make himself comfortable. “Yes. I‟m
concerned about your shift rotations.”
Banick stiffened, his feathers riled. “With respect, Admiral... the day to day operations
of this ship is solely my authority.”
“That‟s not what I‟m talking about, Captain. For the last two weeks, this ship has been
on an active front line engaged against superior Chaodai forces, and yes – you‟ve been
taking losses.”
Ainsley paused for a moment. “What concerns me is the nature of the memorial
services this ship is holding on its flight deck before first bells.”
Banick narrowed his eyes. “Sorry, Admiral, I‟m not quite sure I follow.”
“Morale on this ship, Captain, is the worst I have seen on a UEO warship in living
memory. Asking the entire crew to observe the ceremony of a full-honours burial every
morning before they‟ve even had their coffee is not congenial to the fighting spirit of your
command.”
Banick exhaled softly and folded his arms. “Admiral, you‟ve only been here a very
short time. A lot has changed in two years, and with further respect, things aren‟t the same
as they were when-“
“That‟s enough,” Ainsley snapped, his voice neither changing in volume or tone, but
his eyes locking with the Captain in front of him. He‟d made every effort to be courteous to
his former executive officer, and patience was rapidly beginning to wear thin. “Banick, for
whatever reasons, I seem to have lost your respect – that‟s fine. But whether you like it or
not, I‟m still your superior officer, and you could at least ways pretend to show some degree
of deference.”
Banick bit his tongue, visibly recoiling, and Ainsley went on. “Within twelve hours of
being aboard this ship, I‟ve already read four reports of crew who‟ve snapped, and heard
- 80 -

personally from one of your officers on the state of this ship‟s morale. Don‟t bullshit me. I‟m
not an idiot.”
“Admiral, if my crew had an issue, they would have brought it to my attention,”
Ainsley nodded. “-Which is a statement in direct conflict with what Captain Roderick
told me not half an hour ago. From what I understand, she approached you yesterday
morning asking for a reprieve from this sort of flag waving, and you declined that request
outright.”
“This is not a democracy. The opinion of a single officer-“
Ainsley nearly exploded. “She‟s your fucking CAG! Captain Roderick came to you
with an official report on the mental health of your sea wing telling you – and I quote:”
Ainsley picked up a sheet of paper that was sitting atop his desk, and read from it
word for word. “...That „the state of readiness of pilots and flight deck personnel based on
mental health and morale is in a state of such doubt that that I am forced to question the
status of this sea wing as a fighting unit, and will be given little recourse but to terminate
active rosters based upon a professional assessment of being combat ineffective pending an
official review from the ship‟s physician.‟”
Ainsley stopped, and slid the page over the desk towards Banick. “Last I checked,
Captain, when the wing commander of a carrier‟s sea wing is prepared to call her entire wing
combat ineffective, the Captain should be obliged to act on that officer‟s recommendations.”
Banick stepped forward, his tone suddenly gaining a very dangerous edge. “Admiral,
I‟ve been losing members of my crew for the last month. At the very least, I owe it to their
memories, for their sacrifices, to honour them. What would you have me do? Throw them out
the nearest airlock and carry on like it never happened?”
The Admiral shook his head and stood up, beginning to pace around the desk.
“Banick... my God. This is a war, and in war rules need to be flexible. I appreciate your
sentiment, and believe me, I sympathise with you more than you could know. But you cannot
drive this crew to such distraction if it‟s going to mean that this ship ceases to operate as a
unit. Especially now. I‟ve told you the orders that I‟m here to carry out, and I am not
questioning your authority in the running of this ship‟s day-to-day operations, but if we are
going to have any hope in hell of pulling this stunt off then I need your people at their very
best, and given we‟re so short on time, that‟s going to have to start now.”
Banick twitched. “Understood, sir.”
Ainsley sighed and stared back out the window of the office. “Jim... I‟m not your
enemy in this. This ship – your command... you got here on your own merits, and I recognise
that. She‟s the finest ship left in the fleet, and that‟s no small part in thanks to the way you‟ve
commanded her. I‟m not here to take that off you.”
The Captain finally softened for a moment, but his bitterness was still clear. “I
appreciate that, sir, and will that be all?”
Ainsley turned for a second to meet Banick‟s unwavering gaze. “No.”
Banick continued to stand at ease, waiting for the Admiral‟s elaboration.
“My understanding of yesterday‟s action is that the Chaodai fleet is reporting us as
dead, is this correct?”
“Yes. I only found out myself a few minutes ago. The noise we created yesterday has
more than just the Chaodai thinking we‟ve foundered. CIC‟s been getting status requests
from every regional command from Tokyo through to Fort Grace.”
Ainsley nodded. “Good. We‟ll use it to our advantage while we can. As long as the
Chaodai think they‟ve put us down, they‟re unlikely to send out anything in force. I suggest
you reduce the CAP, and try to give your pilots some time to turn around.”
Banick nodded. “That was my intention, sir.”
“Good. For now... Just remember that this crew is dangerously close to snapping,
and I need you to turn that around. She‟s your boat, Captain, and I will do as little or as much
as you need to make that job easier, but I will not permit this command to fall apart. We don‟t
have the luxury of being inflexible in this... as much as you probably wish we did.”
- 81 -

UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110 Nine hundred and eighty miles south-east of
Japan, the Marianas Sea. April 10 th , 2043…
~
No sooner had the day‟s last bell been rung, Sarah Cunningham was confronted with
no less than seven of the sea wing‟s pilots. The old magazine she was reading from the seat
of her desk chair dropped just enough for her eyes to peer over and stare them down. Their
expressions were a mixture of bemusement, smugness, mischief and repressed
amusement. Four Rapiers and three Dark Angels: Schrader, Tomlinson, Richthoffen, Coyle,
Sakai, Chavez, and central amongst them – Samuel Rogers.
Coyle examined Cunningham from head to toe. Sitting unassumingly in the chair,
cross-legged and looking every bit the picture of a high school teenager with a bad dress
sense in her long, black pilot‟s jumpsuit.
“Something I can help you with?” she said accusingly.
Coyle ignored the question, the all-too-suspicious line of pilots continuing to snigger
and failing to hide their bemused expressions. The Dark Angels‟ XO turned to Rogers and
asked simply, “...So, she really tried to make a pass at you?”
“Yep.”
Coyle turned in mock surprise to Cunningham and shook his head. “Jesus, Twobirds,
I thought you had better taste”
“Bastard”, spat Rogers snidely.
“Stick it, Stones,” Coyle retorted.
Cunningham put the old rag down and got up. “Do you people have any real point for
being here? Or do you just want to fuck off now so I can forget this?”
“Forget it?!” guffawed Schrader – the big German seeming to grow even larger as he
leaned forward.
Rogers revealed a hand that had been folded away behind his back and produced a
single black blindfold, hanging loosely between two fingers. “Nope.”
Cunningham took a step back, but found she had nowhere else to go...
...Banick was halfway across the bridge deck from the CIC as reports were still being
thrust in his direction. Each one he signed off without question or glance, passing them back
to nameless officers as he finished his day‟s shift, Callaghan not once breaking step beside
him. “No,” Banick said simply.
“And why not?” his XO countered, not understanding his hesitation.
Banick laughed, possibly for the first time that day. “Because I‟m not in the mood. I‟ve
already been torn out on my own boat by Admiral Ainsley, and... you know better than most
that I really shouldn‟t even be near the stuff.”
The two officers passed through the bridge doors, returning the salutes of the
watching marines as they made their way down the central B-Deck corridor. Callaghan
pursed his lips, and waited until they were out of earshot of the rest of the crew. “Sorry, I
didn‟t mean it like that. No one said you have to drink, Jim... But you really should at least
put your head through the door and say hi. That‟s all I‟m asking.”
“Look, I‟ll think about it,” he said, holding up the reports that he‟d been left with. “But I
still need to file these with the Admiral. I‟ll meet you there, but... just don‟t make me regret
this.
“Of course not. I‟ll see you there soon.”
Banick nodded as he started to head down the next side corridor towards the
Admiral‟s office, and then stopped to turn. “...And Ryan?”
“Hmm?”
“Where the hell did they get the alcohol to begin with?”
- 82 -

The XO hesitated, and smiled slightly. “I never asked, sir. But with the week we‟ve
just gone through, I‟d let them have it this time. I‟ll make sure Major O‟Shaughnessy‟s boys
keep an eye on it.”
Banick thought about it for a moment, and then nodded with an inward smile.
“Probably wise.”
...Cunningham was blind as she was guided – dragged, perhaps more accurately –
down the corridors and passages of the ship, with ever increasing urgency and lack of
control. “Guys, this really isn‟t funny,” she protested, feeling the heavy grip of Coyle‟s hands
pinning her arms to the small of her back.
“Oh stop whining,” Rogers said from somewhere behind her.
“Where the hell are you taking me?”
The explanation didn‟t help. “It‟s a surprise.”
“You do like surprises, don‟t you, Two-Birds?” added Coyle over her shoulder,
unnervingly close to her ear.
She started to laugh, but it almost came out of panic – the words in her ear making
the hair on the back of her neck stand on-end...
The door knocked.
“Enter,” Ainsley said, putting the last of his papers in to the briefcase atop the desk.
With a clunk, the hatch cracked open and Banick stepped inside, closing it carefully
behind him, Ainsley noting the day‟s final reports folded away under his arm. He looked at
his watch – it was 5:40 – and Banick was ten minutes late.
“Captain,” he said curtly, thinking better of noting Banick‟s tardiness. As it happened,
he didn‟t even need to concern himself with it.
“Sorry I‟m late, sir. A few last minute things on the bridge to take care of - the new
flight roster wasn‟t quite as seamless as we‟d hoped.”
Ainsley nodded. “Not surprised. We‟re down five pilots.”
Banick held out the pile of papers, and Ainsley took them in the same manner the
Captain had received them. He‟d read them later. “Your report?”
“Not much to say, Admiral. The Chaodai decided against pushing the Folly again...
given their last attempt, they‟ve turned north. They left our area of operations about two
hours ago.”
“That makes them Ticonderoga‟s problem then.”
“Yes sir. For the time being, things around the Marianas are quiet. Best guess is
they‟ll try the Sea of Japan. I don‟t imagine Morgan will have many problems this time.”
Ainsley smiled slightly, even if the thoughts that came to mind threatened to open the
fleet‟s oldest wounds. “I‟m not sure he‟ll appreciate the irony. Morgan‟s been itching for a
chance of payback with those bastards since Ryukyu. I‟ll make a note to give him my best.”
Banick smiled – a gesture which Ainsley found so shocking for the day‟s events that
he had to forcibly ignore it lest he fail to keep his tongue in check. “Already taken care of.
I‟ve made sure the Rapiers have got point on tomorrow‟s rosters. If Morgan has any
problems, we‟ll send him whatever he needs.” Banick paused for a moment and then added
as an afterthought. “...I just hope Richards‟ men don‟t go blind in the mean time.”
That stopped the Admiral, and he stopped filing and turned with a half-smile to face
Banick. “Blind?”
The Captain sighed, and held up his hands. “Yeah... They‟re throwing a bash in the
pilot‟s mess for Lieutenant Cunningham. Birthday – 22 nd I think. Seems like yesterday when
she dragged herself aboard Atlantis like a drowned rat and didn‟t know how to tell the rightway-up
in a dogfight. But still far too young...”
Ainsley stopped at that and thought for a moment, his eyes narrowing ever so
tellingly. “Birthday...”
Banick backed up. “I won‟t be partaking. I‟m just going to pass on my regards.”
- 83 -

For a moment, it seemed that Ainsley had not heard what the Captain had said as he
stared blankly across the room, a small question forming in the back of his mind. Banick
didn‟t have the opportunity to press on.
“No, very good,” Ainsley deflected, brushing it aside before it had been asked. “You
go on. I‟ll drop by soon.”
Banick knew enough of Ainsley to tell that something had suddenly piqued his
interest. “Something wrong?”
“No.” The reply had no hesitation. “Nothing wrong. That will be all, Captain.”
Banick paused for a moment before nodding slowly, and then saluted – holding it just
long enough for Ainsley to return it before he turned on his heel and marched to the door.
The Admiral thought for a moment, heading to the computer terminal as the numbers
returned to the fore.
All thought of the papers Banick had left disappeared as he opened the file he‟d
hidden away on the holo display‟s desktop. He stared at it for only a moment, and then
rubbed his stubbled chin.
“Well... Happy Birthday, Lieutenant Cunningham.”
...The rapturous cheers and applause that erupted as the blindfold was pulled away
from Cunningham‟s eyes was almost deafening in the modestly-sized, but appropriately filled
pilot‟s mess. The big, colourfully painted banner that read “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” across the
rafters was flanked by pilots, deck crew and other officers of the battlegroup who stood on
tables and pooled around whatever stools could be gathered. Schrader pushed her in to the
crowd before she‟d even had a chance to inevitably belt him in the arm for the stunt.
Lost for words as a large tankard was thrust in to her hands, she watched as Dustin
Coyle jumped up on the table in the center of the mess and bellowed in a voice that most
marine drill instructors would have been proud of. “Oi!”
He had to wait a few seconds as the noise dinned, none of the pilots being
particularly brave enough to question the request of the Dark Angels‟ commanding officer –
by all the rights the new “Top Gun” of the sea wing as the illustrious Corinn Roderick stood
aside. Roderick of course was there, but she had done her best to remain discreet at the
side of the mess, amongst others of the fleet‟s more senior command cadre. This was not
their moment – it was a celebration of something much younger.
Coyle continued to wait for a moment even after silence had settled. “Ladies and
Gentlemen,” he said in a serious, un-playful tone. “Raise „em.”
He watched as every hand in the room raised its glass high, and nodded, bowing his
head. “Shalders, Harker, Seabury, Pickford, Anderson - a moment‟s silence for absent
friends.”
For just the second time that day, the Commonwealth was deathly silent, with only
the hum of the engines deep within the ship to bring tension to an otherwise still air. The
creed amongst pilots was simple – fleet commanders could hold as many formal ceremonies
as they liked, but at the end of the day, they would mourn their own. Pilots would honour
them with sorrow and honest, unrepentant booze, and it was one of the fleet‟s quieter, but
nonetheless notable „traditions‟ that squadron commanders managed to produce illicit
rations for the occasion. It was commonly held that where they got it, how they got it, and
where it was hidden had become skills that defined the post of a wing commander more than
their experience in the cockpit – and every time, they delivered.
Coyle took a mouthful of his drink and threw it back, raising his glass slightly - exactly
a minute after he‟d called it. “Thanks,” he said simply. “Now... The reason we are here...”
He pointed at Cunningham, and turned his finger upside down to curl it towards him,
ushering her forward. “Get up here.”
She was clapped, cheered and jeered as she walked through the parting crowd, and
was hauled up on to the table next to Coyle. She had only been aboard the Commonwealth
for four months since her promotion to Lieutenant and posting to the Rapiers, and she knew
– to her embarrassment - that meant that Coyle was going to make the most his opportunity.
Coyle was grinning as he put a heavy arm around her shoulder and rattled her slightly. “After
- 84 -

the crap we‟ve had today, she probably thought we forgot,” he snickered. “But nonetheless...
I‟d like to tell you all a story, about some bratty twenty year-old cheerleader who was
probably holding sticks between her legs long before she joined our beloved corps.”
The Rapier and Dark Angel pilots in the crowd chuckled at the wry, base joke,
already knowing where he was going with the tale. The more senior fleet officers watching
looked on, bemused and curious as to how he could have gotten away with such comments.
“I cannot tell you how long I‟ve been looking forward to this,” he grinned “...About
eighteen months ago... Eighteen? Yeah, that‟s about right. Longer than most of you pukes
have had wings, either way, I was sitting in the briefing room on the Atlantis when these
three, fresh-faced, sickeningly-cute academy pups are put in front of us, and our very own
Wing Commander – Now Captain, god bless her, she will be missed – Quinn Roderick, tells
me that these kids are going to be flying with Halo callsigns.”
More laughter, and Coyle wasn‟t done. “Of course, they hadn‟t even graduated, and I
figured they‟d be fish food inside a day.”
He paused. “In fact it was more like twelve hours,” the laughter that followed was
underscored by the red that suddenly flushed through her cheeks as she pursed her lips.
“Archangel didn‟t think anyone had noticed, but I have to tell you... Anyone who has ever
been torn apart by our beloved CAG knows two things. First is that it‟s very loud, and second
is that if you value god‟s gift of procreation, you never again want to miss a pilots briefing on
her watch. In this case, our Sarah slept through it.”
Some pilots winced, and Roderick simply tried to stifle her own laughter by covering
her mouth with her hands. Beside her, Jane Roberts simply gave the elder fighter
commander a sharp nudge to the ribs. Coyle sped things up. “...Sufficed to say that while all
of you know the story of the famous duo of Cape Cortez students who became aces in a
day-“ the crowd cheered. “Few of you know how they got their names. If I can be serious for
a moment, the fighting to defend the Atlantis DSV was possibly the most fierce I have seen
in eighteen years of flying, and one of those three cadets went down in history as being the
first ever pilot to make five kills before they had even been given their dolphins. Tim Reiter
died to save the sorry ass of the only other cadet to achieve the same - his squad mate...
and she stands before you now.”
There was a nervous pause, and a few applauded. Others simply raised their drinks.
“Not only did Cunningham become an ace – she became the youngest ace this planet has
ever seen, a bare twenty years old. But because I am not here to kiss her extraordinarily
well-formed ass, let me tell you the last part of that story.”
Coyle stopped again and looked around him for a moment before he found his target,
and grinned, his teeth baring down like those of a White Pointer. “...He probably thought I‟d
left his part in this out, but I want Samuel Rogers to step forward please.”
Obligingly, Rogers emerged from the crowd and stood in the circle that had formed in
front of the table that had become Coyle‟s stage, holding up his hands hopelessly.
“Some of you might wonder why I am the one standing up here doing this rather than
their commander, Deadstick... well I‟ll tell you why. It‟s because I am the only one here who
is truly able to give them shit for the dumbest mistake that I have ever seen, and in this case
experienced.”
The Dark Angels and Rapiers – already happily lubricated by several rounds of
drinks beforehand – were now in stitches of barely-contained laughter. “Cunningham‟s fifth
– and sixth - kill will go also down in history as the second dumbest thing I have ever seen.
She bore-sighted a Mac Lysander when I was virtually on top of it, while flying on my wing,
and took the initiative to blow it to greener pastures... without telling me first.”
The laughter that followed that one was telling of what had just been said, and Coyle
nodded with some measure of admitted embarrassment. “Yes, I was Cunningham‟s sixth kill
that day. One shot – two kills. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Lieutenant Sarah “Two
Birds” Cunningham – twenty two, gorgeous and single-“
“That‟s not what Rogers said!” blurted out Schrader, to further laughter, and Coyle
flipped him a one-fingered salute.
- 85 -

“...and her partner in crime – Samuel Rogers, who is the only pilot I know to have
had the... Stones... to disobey a direct order from Corinn Roderick. Which incidentally takes
top honours to become the most stupid thing I‟ve ever seen.”
Coyle stepped back, and turned towards Cunningham, applauding mockingly before
jumping down to leave her alone atop the table.
“Speech!” the pilots cried.
Still flushed red, Cunningham smiled. “Thanks, Bouncer... I love being reminded how
much you love me. I‟ll keep this short...”
...Away from the celebrations, still locked away in his office, Ainsley stared at the
numbers again, and felt a flutter of recognition.
idiot.”
030639/3536
090941/1219
150940/179
131121/010
... 030639
“Zero three, zero six, three nine,” Ainsley whispered to himself. “Oh, Mark... you
~
- 86 -

IV
A P P A R I T I O N S
UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110, the Marianas Sea. April 10 th , 2043…
Ainsley sat in the officer‟s wardroom alone, a pot of tea brewing beside him, sending
wafts of steam drifting through the holo display on the desk in front of him. It was twenty-two
hundred hours, the night watch having settled in to the wrong side of the clock. At shallow
depth, no light came through the wardroom‟s windows at this time of night, and in the dim
light every one of his other senses were firing, the gentle hum of the engines – normally an
unrecognisable din that had become a part of him over the years – was now a noticeable
throbbing, with rhythm and beat that a trained sonar operator could have learnt any number
of details from. In such silence, the entry of someone in to the wardroom became something
as noticeable as a torpedo detonation, and Ainsley turned. “Thanks for coming,” he said.
“Missed you in the mess hall,” Banick replied simply. “Something came up?”
“You could say that,” Ainsley suggested, pouring a cup of tea from the steaming pot.
“Tea?”
“Will this take long?”
“...I don‟t know.”
Banick finally nodded. “Yeah, alright. Thanks.”
Ainsley smiled as he produced a second cup from the sideboard and filled it, sliding it
over the great oak desk along with a tray of milk and sugar.
“There‟s been something bothering me. Truth be told, I haven‟t been thinking about it
that long, but then I suspect I wasn‟t supposed to.”
Banick sat down next to the Admiral and picked up the mug. “Well that‟s about the
most confusing thing you‟ve said all day.”
“Yes, well, I‟ve spent all day staring at it.”
“What is it?”
Ainsley flicked the display around with his hand, the motion sensors in the newlyissued
holographic interface tracking his fingers and responding to it as if he‟d flicked a
switch. The numbers flickered up in front of Banick and he frowned.
“Admiral von Schrader gave this to me before I left London. NSIS picked up four
transmissions that were sent to my office, encrypted with UEO Signals codes. When they
finally managed to decode them, they got these four number sequences.”
“I don‟t follow.”
“Neither did I until about two hours ago. They‟re dates.”
Banick raised an eyebrow and scratched the back of his head. “Ok... They‟re dates.
What are the dates for?”
Ainsley raised a finger. “That‟s would took me two hours to work out. As soon as I
knew they were dates, I worked out this second one fairly quickly.”
Banick read it. “090941... Ninth of September, ‟41...”
“Sound familiar?”
Banick sighed and closed his eyes. “It should...”
Admiral Ainsley stood up and started pacing. “Yeah, so whatever the rest of those
dates refer to, I have to assume they have something to do with the day we lost the Atlantis.”
“Admiral, can we slow down here? Something I still don‟t is why this is even
important. Why is NSIS looking into this? Why did they get you to look into this?”
“I can‟t answer that,” he confessed.
“...Alright, fine. Forget I asked. But why are the dates important? Why not simply put
them in the right order?”
“I did,” Ainsley admitted. “21, 39, 40 and 41. There‟s no logical progression there.”
The Captain shrugged. “I didn‟t expect there would be. You asked the computer to
cross reference them with the date of Atlantis‟s sinking?”
- 87 -

Ainsley nodded slowly. “That‟s what concerns me. I did. And it withheld the results
from me.”
“What?”
“Apparently it‟s classified.”
Banick stood up and shook his head. “Admiral, I appreciate that you want my help
with this, but unless you can tell me why NSIS is so interested in this – I‟m not sure I can.”
Ainsley looked down for a moment and thought about it. He smiled. “What I‟m about
to tell you doesn‟t leave this room,” he ordered.
Banick‟s arms were folded as he looked at the Admiral expectantly. “Done.”
“Good. When NSIS picked up these messages, I told you they were encrypted with a
UEO Signals protocol. What I couldn‟t, and should be telling you, is that the cipher they used
was the sort used exclusively aboard DSVs.”
Banick stared blankly through Ainsley for a moment, as if he didn‟t quite believe what
he‟d just heard. Finally, he suggested, “What about the seaQuest?”
“That was the first thing I checked. I made the call to Captain Hitchcock personally.
The protocol identifier attached to these codes doesn‟t match anything seaQuest has ever
transmitted from her SOC.”
“Why is this cipher so special?”
Ainsley sniffed. “Schrader told me that the reason this code is unique is because they
needed something with the sophistication of an AHAI to keep track of a floating point
encryption. Annie is the only thing on the planet capable of encoding and then decoding a
fractal algorithm, and to have any hope of decoding it otherwise, you would need to know the
exact time and place from which the message was sent, accurate to the second.”
Banick frowned. “But... NSIS doesn‟t have any AHAIs. seaQuest is the last one we
have. How did they decode it?”
Ainsley smiled and pointed at the code on the holo display. “That‟s what concerns
me.”
“Annie...” Banick repeated, looking at the code again. “Ninth of September, 2041...”
Ainsley sighed, and shook his head.
Banick thought otherwise, and frowned. “That‟s not right...”
“What?”
“You‟re assuming these dates refer to events, rather than a record of events, as the
order would suggest. By records, Atlantis wasn‟t lost on the ninth. She was reported lost on
the tenth when Admiral Morgan signed off on it. That is the entry that would have been made
on the official record.”
It hit Ainsley like a bolt of lightning. “Annie. We lost Annie on the ninth.”
Banick spun the display around again and quickly typed in a search of records.
“Thirteenth of the November, 2021...” he said with a measure of finality. “Action report filed
by UEO seaQuest DSV 4600-II by Captain Nathan Hale Bridger. Reported the destruction of
the autonomous SSN code-named Marauder...”
Ainsley turned from the window at the side of the room. “Marauder wasn‟t the name
of the submarine... it was the name of the AI project it was running.”
Banick nodded. “She launched ballistic missiles against New Cape Quest the same
day. I remember it set Artificial Intelligence development back twenty years when the
Security Council banned development of autonomous smart-AI.”
“That‟s the key,” said Ainsley excitedly. “ANNIE was the first such AI they managed
to develop since the attack. Run a search on the other two dates, 2039 and 2040. Cross
reference it with records on ANNIE‟s development.”
Banick shook his head as he tried to fill in the requests. “I don‟t like your chances. If it
bounced back as classified the first time, I don‟t see what you‟re going to get now.”
“No, you‟re right. Try something broader. Check low-level classification records for
the entire DSX project, checking only those dates.”
Banick stopped at that and looked at his former commander even more sceptically.
“That will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Maybe, but at least we know what the needle looks like.”
- 88 -

Banick huffed when he entered the search data and then sat down. “Right, well that‟s
a big haystack. It‟ll take a few minutes to finish the search.”
Ainsley nodded, and turned back to the window, even though there was nothing to
see. Banick watched for a moment, and then walked over to where the Admiral stood.
“Staring in to the abyss... Hoping it will stare back?”
Ainsley laughed a little, and didn‟t turn. “I‟ve done my fair share of staring in to that
mirror, Banick. It stopped staring at me a long time ago. Did it help? For you?”
The Captain looked at Ainsley with a measure of surprise at an implication he hadn‟t
expected in the least. It was a subtle gesture on the Admiral‟s part... almost a peace offering
he didn‟t think possible. The suggestion simply being that whatever failings he may have
once seen in Banick, had disappeared. “I... Well you know, to be honest? I never looked.”
Ainsley bowed his head slightly with a careful smile. “Because you were afraid of
what you might see?”
...On the other hand...
Banick thought about it for a moment before he jumped on the bait. It wasn‟t like
Ainsley to go from something so subtle, to something so blunt and so quickly, and more
poignantly, it had been a question – not an accusation. Instead, he smiled. “No, because I
wasn‟t ready for what I was going to see. I know I had a problem, I thought I was dealing
with it, and for a time, I was wrong.”
“And yet here we are.”
Banick went to answer, but was cut short by the shrill chirp from the console behind
them. Ainsley turned and went through the records quickly, but shook his head.
“Fifteenth of September, 2040... third-layer bioskin integration, control plane tests,
fusion core magnetic field calibrations. You weren‟t kidding. This is a haystack.”
“Wait...” said Banick, stopping Ainsley from going any further. “Here. Check that –
personnel reports. They only filed those once a week.”
Ainsley nodded as he opened the file, and it didn‟t take long to find his match. “Oh...”
“What is it?”
“This one‟s not a personnel report – it‟s a death notice posted to the ASDB, copied to
biomedical R&D.”
“Who?”
Ainsley nodded, and looked back over his shoulder at Banick. “Doctor Anne Ballard...
Project director of the Atlantis Neural Network Intelligence Project. Hell... Look at the file
photo.”
Banick felt a chill run down his spine. It was ANNIE, and the resemblance was more
than uncanny. “I knew they had to base ANNIE‟s neural pathways on an actual, developed
human brain, but I had no idea about this.”
“Cause of death... result of...”
Ainsley stopped, feeling his eyes glaze as a sudden, and surreal realization started to
dawn. “Jesus. Condition caused decay of synaptic pathways ultimately resulting in terminal
loss of neurological function. Banick, I think this is the same thing that killed Annie...”
“How can that be right?”
Ainsley shrugged with surprise. “We assumed that Section 7 had put a virus in
Annie‟s computer core – what if it was a genetic condition that was contracted when they
imprinted the Doctor‟s neural pathways on to Annie‟s core?”
“Possible, but that seems unlikely. Doctor Ballard died two months before Atlantis
was commissioned. Wouldn‟t the condition be at the same stage of development in ANNIE?”
The Admiral looked back at the photo of Ballard. The date stamp on it was merely
two weeks before the report of her death, yet she looked the picture of health. Something
wasn‟t adding up. “We don‟t know enough to say,” he concluded. “This last date is what has
me confused – there‟s no match at all. The day may as well not have even existed within the
project‟s history.”
Banick circled the desk, past the twin flags of NORPAC and the UEO that flanked the
imposing ship‟s crest on the wall. “Something‟s changed.”
“What?”
- 89 -

“The numbers, Admiral. Have a look. When you rearranged the codes so that the
dates were in order, the second set changed.”
Ainsley stepped back and looked at them, his head slowly lolling sideways as he
thought about it a few seconds longer. The order now read;
131121/010
030639/3536
150940/179
090941/1219
Three four, three four...
“Three, then four,” Ainsley said. “I‟m not a cryptographer, but NSIS would have
needed to be blind and stupid not to work this out,” he stared. “Zero one zero, three five,
thee six... Two lots of seven numbers. Lat and Long. 10 degrees, 35 minutes, 36 seconds by
179 degrees, 12 minutes, 19 seconds. The only thing left is to work out is compass
headings.”
Banick was already staring at the large ocean chart on the wall of the wardroom,
tracing the lines with his finger. “179 degrees east or west is going to put you within 2
degrees of the same longitude, so there‟re only two options. Assuming ten degrees north,
you‟re in the middle of the Pacific basin, and there is nothing there for nearly six hundred
miles in every direction. If you go south, it puts you either south of the Kosciusko
Tablemount or dead-on the Macaw Bank...”
By the time Banick had finished dictating, Ainsley was already at his side. “The
compass wasn‟t designed merely to get you „close‟ to something, Banick. If the coordinates
match the Macaw Bank, then that‟s where we‟ll go.”
Banick rounded on Ainsley quickly, the look in his eye aghast. “Absolutely not!”
Ainsley pointed at the chart with an accusing finger, but he was not gesturing at the
Macaw Bank – rather something further south. “Captain, the Macaw Bank is a mere five
hundred miles from where Atlantis went down. If this message was meant for me, then that
cannot be a coincidence.”
Banick straightened, and pointed at a line on the map that fell a long way north of
where either of them had been looking. “The Macaw Bank is over a thousand miles inside
Alliance lines, and nearly seven hundred miles inside the effective range of that damned
missile battery that killed us last time! I will not send this ship on a suicide mission on your
whim without higher orders from Fort Grace. I don‟t give a damn what the NSIS want!”
Both officers were now so heated that they both neglected to notice the entry of
Captain Roderick, who now stood in the open door, watching in silence. Before Ainsley could
respond, and before either man could do something they would later regret, she quickly
interjected. “Am I interrupting?”
They both turned, and Banick cleared his throat, vainly attempting to straighten his
uniform as Ainsley stepped back and looked briefly at the chart again. “Captain Roderick,”
Banick said with surprise and a half-greeting. “I thought you were at the party?”
“The wrong one, apparently,” she replied warily as she stepped in to the wardroom,
looking first at the masses of data shown on the central holographic interface, and then the
chart over which they‟d been arguing.
“Is there something we can do for you, Captain?” Ainsley asked, his tone indicating at
the very least that he didn‟t appreciate the interruption. Roderick brushed that aside, having
no desire to choose sides in their argument or even get involved.
“No. But as Commander Coyle so enjoyed reminding me an hour or two ago, you
might want to know that arguments on a submarine have a tendency to be overheard,
respectfully, of course.”
“Captain, I appreciate your concern but this isn‟t the best time,” Ainsley suggested
warningly.
“No, I don‟t imagine it is. Even so... The Macaw Bank is an interesting conclusion,
sir.”
- 90 -

“Do you know something we don‟t, Captain?” Banick asked, a measure of curiosity
becoming apparent.
“No more than anyone else in the sea wing, sir, but you might want to know... I had a
report come across my desk a couple of weeks ago from Fleet Intelligence that suggested
the Alliance had been suffering attacks in their own lines.”
“We know this. The New Australian resistance has been increasingly active since
Adamson took over.”
“That‟s not what I mean, Admiral. This was something else – specifically around the
Macaw Bank. Intelligence said that Alliance fighter patrols were being ambushed by
something... they hadn‟t seen before. Whatever hit them was fast and usually disappeared
before anyone had a chance to get an ID. It‟s happened twice more in the last week in nearly
a four hundred mile radius of the Macaw Bank, but they haven‟t found a thing.”
“Ghost stories now, Captain? Aren‟t we a little old for that?”
“They‟re not ghost stories,” she retorted snidely. “But whatever is going on down
there, it was enough to scare intelligence – because despite the attacks, they‟ve stopped
reporting them, and when I made inquiries, they denied that it had ever taken place.”
Ainsley stepped forward again, looking once more at the chart. “Then what makes
you think this attack wasn‟t isolated, and continued?”
“Because I have other sources besides Fleet Intelligence, sir. Rumour mills in the
Subfighter Corps are fed by this sort of news. If there is a group of mercenaries, pirates or
anything that can pull off repeated attacks against elite Macronesian fighter groups and
evade their navy on their own soil for an entire month and get away with it... it gets people‟s
attention. I dealt with about four requests for information about this from other fighter group
commanders on the Enterprise, Royal Oak, Constellation and St. Patrick personally. I still
have the reports from them if you want to read them yourself.”
“That doesn‟t explain why ONI would have pulled the report from the battlnet,” Banick
pointed out.
“No, it doesn‟t. Where did you get this information about Macaw?”
The look that was exchanged between Banick and Ainsley on that note spoke a
thousand words, and Banick held up his hands in defeat as the Admiral shook his head. “I‟d
ask that you keep whatever you know about this to yourself for the time being, Captain
Roderick. I‟m not entirely sure what to make of it myself at this point, but I would appreciate it
if you could forward me those reports. Anything you know would be helpful.”
Roderick just stared at Ainsley for several moments, trying to work out what the man
was hiding, but eventually gave up, and shook it away. “Yeah, of course.”
“Thank you. That will be all, Captain. If you would excuse us?”
Unhappily, Roderick assented and left with the wardroom without further word,
closing the door behind her on the way out. Banick walked around the desk again and
returned to his seat, sipping the mug of tea that he‟d left there as Ainsley stared at the chart
for a few seconds longer.
“So... Shall I assume we will be setting a course for Macaw Bank?”
~
T H E G I R L A T T H E E N D O F T H E W O R L D : II
Two hundred miles south of the Cape of Good Hope, May 31 st , 2029...
Callaghan stood on the bridge of the DSV Proteus with a watchful eye, the science
staff and other Nycarus personnel who were overrunning the submarine having found it
necessary to convert half of the ship‟s central command centre in to an extension of their
inhuman laboratories elsewhere on the ship. Why, he never thought to ask – the fact that
- 91 -

Captain Ezard had granted it however was enough reason for him to simply allow them their
work, even if he did so with a hand not six inches from his sidearm. In truth, the longer he
remained on Ezard‟s project, the more he disliked what he saw. Among the other things he
had learnt never to ask was why the project existed at all. His selection to be part of this
operation was because his loyalty was never questioned – his belief in the UEO, and what it
stood for being unshakeable and his will to defend it second to none. Only the foolishly
idealistic would think that hard things weren‟t necessary in its defence, as the reality of the
world painted a picture of powers that would happily see the UEO destroyed, perhaps first
amongst them the Alliance of Macronesia...
...Although the UEO General Assembly would never openly admit it. Sometimes, the
UEO, in its idealism, had to be protected from itself.
And so it fell to a few. Those few who were willing to put all other considerations
second in place of the one, incontrovertible truth that the world was a cruel, sometimes
unfair place where the only rule was to survive, no matter what the cost.
It was a strange symmetry, thought Callaghan, that they wound find such a literal
definition of that ideal in the smouldering ruins of the African continent. That those downtrodden
and wretched souls such as those who lived in South Africa could be the salvation of
the stagnating and too-proud UEO was ironic to say the least, yet this was the way it was
going to be.
The loss of the Nycarus Labs in Sierra Leone had put the entire project on-edge,
although Captain Ezard and his staff knew far more about that issue than was openly
admitted. Three years before, lines of communication with the labs had been cut as soon as
they had learnt the extent of the uprising, championed by someone by the name of
„Neureon‟. Like terrorists, the Nycarians demands had been simple – leave, or die.
This left the Proteus the last bastion of Ezard‟s great plan.
Callaghan surveyed the bridge around him once more before he gave a cursory nod
to one of the Ensigns who sat at operations. The officer gave Callaghan a knowing smile,
and he then turned and left the bridge, walking down the pristine hallways past a few
marines and a dozen scientists before coming getting on the mag-lev tube, and riding it
down to the sea deck laboratories.
As the doors slid open, Callaghan was greeted once again by the eerily-white walls
of a Nycarus lab. The design seemed alien to Callaghan when compared to the usual,
industrial lines of a UEO DSV‟s hydrosphere facilities. What should have been a missile prep
room was now a smooth, sleek laboratory with every medical facility the geneticists working
there could ever need. He could imagine the catwalks that ringed the vast chamber once
having encircled a series of massive ICBM silos common to the seaQuest-class design.
Now, where the missiles should have been was a single great cavern on the lower floor of
which was the main control facility for the operation. Above it, suspended eerily from
scaffolding in frozen, steaming tubes of glass and ice, were rack upon racks of those
“Nycarian” subjects that had proven to be successful... and their number was practically
legion. True to his word, Doctor van der Weer had delivered results after a string of costly
and grotesque failures in Sierra Leone. The project was now entering its final stages for van
der Weer, and what defined a “Nycarian” was becoming a formula, rather than a series of
cooperative errors. Heightened awareness, incredible intelligence, intuition, improved motor
control, stamina and perfect senses had created a more impressive weapon that any one on
the project could have imagined.
Where the infamous „Daggers‟ of the early 21 st century had been a polar extreme of
the Nycarians, representing a kind of untempered strength that could breed shock troopers,
a finer mastery of the human brain and its functions had always eluded the GELF engineers.
In the end, it did not matter how much muscle tissue you wrapped a skeleton in or
how dense you could make a bone – a human was still an inherently fragile form, and the
most basic assault rifles could rend flesh from bone in an instant. Bodies were an
instrument. But an instrument was still only second-place to that which was man‟s greatest
gift: the weapon of the mind. Of those weapons, Nycarus was the final word.
- 92 -

Callaghan rounded the stairwell from the catwalk and planted his boots on the guard
rail, sliding down the ladder to the operations deck below. He forced his way through the
working throngs of lab-coated technicians and scientists, and approached the central area of
the room, a raised deck upon which were banks of monitors, diagnostics charts and master
systems displays. The woman central amongst those working there paced impatiently, the
white coat sweeping behind her slightly as she did, all the while oblivious to those around
her as she furiously worked on some kind of problem on her data pad. Callaghan called out
as he approached. “Doctor?”
She held up a hand as she continued to pace, and Callaghan walked up the steps to
wait beside the centre display. “This isn‟t a good time, Lieutenant,” she sighed, looking at
him briefly with piercing blue eyes.
Callaghan didn‟t know how old the Doctor was, but she was young, her long, brown
hair pulled back in to a pony tail, and her face having a spritely energy to it that was all but
unheard of amongst the project‟s other members. Their backgrounds were many and varied
– from Intelligence, to the Marine Corps and Navy Special Forces, Section Seven recruited
from every avenue of the UEO that suited their purposes, but of the young Doctor on the
Proteus, Callaghan couldn‟t imagine her origins. She wore the uniform of a Lieutenant,
bearing the black division deltas of Intelligence. (In this regard, there was no distinction
between Section Seven and their conventional counterparts in the Naval Intelligence Service
– the insignia was the same.)
“Captain asked me to check in,” he explained simply, thinking it would be enough.
She snapped back at him, not caring for his job or where it had come from. “Well,
then you can tell the Captain that he‟ll have to wait. I‟m not done with the results.”
“There‟s a problem?”
She finally stopped pacing, and looked at him with exasperation. “I honestly don‟t
know. Either one of these idiots botched his lab tests, or we have an issue.”
Callaghan raised an eyebrow. “An „issue‟, Doctor?”
She threw the data pad down on to a desk, and walked past him. “Fine. Follow me.”
The Doctor led Callaghan across the control room floor to a terminal near two cryo
tanks and sat down in the chair before rolling up her coat sleeves. “Look at these results,”
she said, quickly pulling up a file on the screen that showed two graphs. Callaghan stared
blankly at it for several moments, all the while reading the graph data.
The impetuous Doctor looked up at Callaghan for a moment, and then blinked once
as she registered the expression on his face. “Well, as you clearly didn‟t excel in math during
the academy, I‟ll explain-“
“No need,” Callaghan said, ignoring the jibe. “These graphs should be the same.
They aren‟t.”
“Well done, Captain Obvious.”
Callaghan shot her a look. “...I do read your reports, Doctor Ballard, I understand it.
What I don‟t understand is why no one told me we‟d started insemination.”
Doctor Anne Ballard looked troubled as she pulled her lips in to a thin line, and then
hit a control on the monitor, closing the graph as quickly as she‟d brought it up. “My office,
Lieutenant. We need to talk.”
Again, Callaghan followed the Doctor across the floor to a small room adjacent to the
lab. From what Callaghan could tell of its location, by design it was probably the starboard
small-arms locker before the ship‟s refit had converted many of the facilities to suit the needs
of the Nycarus project. Now the former-arms locker served as Doctor Ballard‟s office, as it
conveniently looked over the entire lab floor.
Callaghan closed the door behind him and watched as Ballard took her coat off and
threw it on a hook against the wall. She then circled her desk, and dropped in to the chair.
“Lieutenant, the problems I am beginning to have with this project are not scientific. They are
administrative. Captain Ezard has gone over my head and ordered tests that I don‟t believe
we are ready for. Artificial insemination of patients is just the tip of that iceberg.”
- 93 -

“I don‟t understand,” Callaghan shook his head, sitting down in a seat opposite the
doctor. “What could we even gain from it? We know it‟s not possible for the catalyst to be
transferred genetically by reproduction.”
Ballard huffed as she stared at the ceiling. “That‟s the problem, Lieutenant. As Doctor
van der Weer designed it, the catalyst could not reproduce through the transference of
genes, but it‟s mutated, and I don‟t know why.”
Callaghan stopped at that, and thought about the graph he‟d seen once again. “So
you‟re saying that the Nycarians can transmit the catalyst to their offspring?”
“Exactly, lieutenant. And it gets worse.”
Ballard typed something in to her laptop computer, and then spun it around so
Callaghan could see it. It brought the same graph results up again. “In the most basic terms,
this graph shows the distribution of the same catalyst across human DNA in two subjects.
The first is the original recipient, and the second shows the catalyst when spread from that
recipient by reproduction to a child. By all rights, what we know of reproduction says that the
balance of the catalyst should at least show some kind of correlation between their parents
and their child. In this case... there are anomalies.”
Callaghan closed his eyes for a moment. “Where did this data come from?”
Ballard missed Callaghan‟s implication, and was to the point. “Patients sixty five and
eighty nine showed a good deal of genetic compatibility. Eighty nine was inseminated, and
this graph shows development of the fetus after eight weeks. This was the point where the
catalyst stabilized, and normal development continued, with some unpredictable anomalies.”
Callaghan‟s stomach turned at the thought, considering the cold manner in which
Ballard had just sterilized the argument. “What do you mean anomalies?”
“That‟s what I can‟t work out. The most obvious possibility is that the examiner
contaminated his work. But I did a second test myself, and it came back the same. That
graph you saw represented only a very small change in a few proteins – and I‟m talking less
than point zero five of a percent within just those proteins, out of potentially billions. But at a
genetic level, that is massive. It will take further examination, but if the test is consistent over
the course of several generations of the catalyst... the mutation will become selfpropagating.”
“You‟re telling me it‟s evolving.”
“Yes, I am.”
...Doctor Thecus van der Weer watched Patient One intently. The masterpiece of a
life‟s work – determined to see no harm to his one, greatest triumph. She sat at the center of
a sterile, modestly furnished room, a single window her only view to the great ocean beyond.
Everything inside was pristine – from the white of the walls to the white carpet and white
robes she found herself in... Yet her flair for creativity was astoundingly in opposition. She
sat at the desk in the middle of the room, pencil in hand, as she sketched with all the skill of
Giotto, Degas or even Da Vinci. Images with meanings or designs that he couldn‟t – and
probably would never understand – so intricate and detailed and flawless. Van der Weer
loved her like a daughter: her talent was an extension of the greatest gift he had even given
her.
The white of the walls was blocked by that which she created every day, her
drawings adorning every surface but the window through which she spent a great deal of her
life staring. The images were of things she hadn‟t seen in person for years – the Great Plains
and mountains of Africa, birds, animals and even things that only existed within her brilliant
imagination, but all with such devotion to detail that it was impossible not to understand them
– even if sometimes you didn‟t really know what they were.
“Art”. That was her name. Sanaa Vuender-Weist Hezuin was now the legacy of an
entire people, and it was only fitting that that was how the Swahili origins of that name
translated to the simple, but inelegant English tongue. Her long hair spilled down past her
shoulders, framing a slender, elegant face with eyes that bore in to Thecus‟s very soul.
- 94 -

A tear slipped down van der Weer‟s cheek as he considered that which he had been
told by way of an order he was never supposed to overhear. Today was the day he would
say goodbye.
Van der Weer sniffed slightly as he removed the old revolver from his lab coat,
opening the chamber to double-check the six slugs that sat inside. Satisfied, he locked it
shut and felt its weight. He hadn‟t needed the weapon in over twenty years from when he
watched his home – his wife and daughter – bombed, by advancing armies that ground the
city of Harare in to the ground. The girl before him now was the only family he had known
since.
He looked at the clock on the wall as he heard the approach of boots in the corridor
outside. It was eleven o‟clock. He closed his eyes as he turned, and hid the weapon behind
his back. The long seconds that followed seemed an eternity before the door to the anteroom
swung open, and four heavily armed, black-clad outlander Marines stepped inside, an
officer following them – his black rank slides those of a Captain, and his haunted, grey-blue
eyes burning in to the Doctor in front of him.
“Doctor van der Weer,” he said with little surprise. “I must ask you to stand aside.”
Van der Weer stared through the man named Samuel Ezard blankly. The darkness
he felt in the man‟s soul outstripped even his own blackened heart. Yes... death would be a
favour to this one, he thought. He simply shook his head. “Don‟t take her,” he rasped,
another tear rolling down his face.
Ezard stepped forward, his eyes monetarily glancing to each side of the Doctor, and
his hidden hands. “It‟s not open to debate. This project is too important.”
Van der Weer‟s eyes clenched shut tightly for a moment as his lip trembled, a lump in
his throat visibly rising... along with the Smith and Wesson in his left hand.
The marines‟ weapons snapped up, but Ezard did not move as he looked for a
moment at the barrel of the weapon that was aimed squarely between his eyes. He smiled,
but it was a cold gesture that merely sent a chill down the Doctor‟s spine. “Doctor, put it
down. I promise you, she won‟t be harmed.”
“N...No,” he stammered. “I won‟t let you take her. You can‟t.”
The outlander smiled still, and nodded slowly, almost in a manner that tried to be
reassuring. “Yes, I can.”
There was a tension in the air as van der Weer‟s finger moved over the trigger, his
trembling turning to sobs. Ezard stepped forward. “If you were really going to shoot me,
you‟d have done it already. Give me the weapon, Thecus.”
The Doctor shook his head, but Ezard continued to walk forward, holding up a hand
to steady his marines. As it turned out, he would never need them, as he gently reached up
and took the Doctor‟s hand... along with the revolver.
Ezard backed away, the gun in his hand, leaving the Doctor to continue sobbing in
the centre of the room. He looked down at the old pistol, smiling slightly as he examined it.
“Nineteen thirty seven, point four-five... Quite lovely. I haven‟t seen one of these in a long
time,” he mused.
The Doctor looked at Ezard, his face a contorted mixture of grief and uncertainty.
Ezard didn‟t keep him waiting for the answer long as he spun the weapon in his hand,
gripping it perfectly before shooting him once between the eyes. The shot rang sharply in the
ante-room, but being soundproofed and baffled, never carried for either the girl or anyone
else to hear. The Doctor‟s head snapped back and he fell backwards, revealing the bloody,
gore-smeared mess against the back wall. Ezard grimaced as he saw this, and then
gestured for the marines to deal with the body.
The outlander sighed as he turned and stared in to the room beyond, finding the girl‟s
eyes strangely locking with his as her hand continued to draw, not once missing a stroke. He
smiled at her. “We have a lot to do...”
~
- 95 -

UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110, en-route to the Marshall Islands. April 11 th ,
2043…
Ed Richards pushed his leg against the pedals at his feet, cringing slightly as the
prosthetic responded in complaint by jarring against the stump of his knee. Despite the
discomfort, he kept it on the floor of the Raptor‟s cockpit as long as he could. After a few
seconds, his leg was trembling from the pain, and after attempting to do this for half an hour,
he‟d begun to sweat.
This time, he didn‟t give up the strain, the pain working against him the entire time.
Finally, with a grunt of defeat, his knee gave way, and the pedal came back up, jarring it
against the bottom of the cockpit instrument panel with a sudden and painful thump.
At last, he exhaled slowly, and collapsed back in the cockpit chair.
He almost jumped in his seat as he did so, and found a head sitting over his
shoulder, staring down much in the same way an owl would.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Richards, instinctively jumping away from the face next to him.
“Roberts! What the hell!?”
Commander Jane Roberts smiled wryly as she pulled herself further forward along
the top of the fighter‟s fuselage, where she still lay prone, her head resting on her arms
folded in front of her. Her jumpsuit stripped to the waist and in little more than a sleeveless
tank, Roberts finally rolled over and pulled herself upright, spinning around again to swing
her legs down in to the cockpit next to Richards.
“How long were you sitting there?” Richards exhorted.
“About ten minutes,” she grinned. “My turn to ask a question. What are you doing in
my bird?”
“No, no. What were you doing watching me?”
“To be fair, I wasn‟t... initially,” she countered. “I was doing a pre-flight. We‟re on CAP
in about an hour. Faster I get it done, sooner they move it to the ramp. So... How‟s the leg?”
Richards stopped at that, and then hauled himself out of the cockpit, clambering for
the ladder. “Fine,” he said. “Never been better.”
“Hey, wait,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder.
For a change, he didn‟t pull away.
“Jane... Please. I don‟t need you on my back as well as Roderick.”
She didn‟t let go. “No, you don‟t. But your job‟s not going anywhere, so don‟t rush.”
“Yeah,” he forcibly laughed lightly. “So they keep telling me.”
Richards clambered down the ladder of Roberts‟ fighter, and started for the hangar
exit before stopping for a moment, and turning on his good heel. “Jane?”
She stood, planting her boots on the Raptor‟s port side canard. “Yeah, chief?”
“Keep a light on for me,” he said, a smile crossing his features for the first time in as
long as Roberts could recall.
She smiled in return. “Always.”
Roberts continued to watch as Richards walked from the hangar, a few members of
the deck crew standing from their aimless milling around ammunition crates to hastily render
panicked, but nonetheless sharp salutes. Richards returned them, and Roberts smiled as
she considered that it was still given proudly. For whatever Ed Richards would become, he
would always have that respect.
Roberts dropped low from the fighter‟s canard, landing softly with bent knees. She
continued her walk around of the fighter before a heavy shadow fell over her. Lieutenant
Commanders Wilhelm „Reaper‟ Schrader and Jeffrey „Teabag‟ Tomlinson emerged from the
maintenance alcoves of the Rapiers‟ hangar, their helmets and gloves under-arm.
Noticing Roberts, the two pilots saluted lazily, pausing briefly only so she could return
them. Roberts thought back to the group of flight crew only moments before and frowned.
“Something the matter, Commander?” Schrader asked.
“No, Will, no problem,” she lied. “Carry on.”
Roberts watched them walk on, and then leaned against the Raptor‟s intake.
- 96 -

Ed... We need you back...
“Captain Banick?” turned one of the radio operators on Commonwealth‟s bridge. The
officer was Lieutenant Commander Jack Phillips, the former communications officer of the
Atlantis DSV, who was one of many refugee crew members to find themselves assigned to
the Commonwealth upon her commissioning.
Banick and Callaghan looked up from their consoles on the command deck down
across to the radio operators. “Mister Phillips?”
“We just picked up something off the B-net. Report of contacts around fifty miles
south.”
“Hostile?”
“Report originated from the Reverence CIC, sir. Sounds like they‟ve got trouble.”
“Put it through.”
Obligingly, Phillips piped the call through the bridge speakers, and Banick
straightened.
“...peat. This is the UEO Reverence. We are under attack. Requesting... ...port from...
lied vessels in this re... ...damage to all decks. Repeat... this is the UEO Rev...”
Banick closed his eyes. “Mister Phillips, call Admiral Ainsley and Captain Roderick to
the bridge. Sound general quarters and lay in a course for Reverence‟s last reported
position.”
“Aye, aye.”
The Bridge lamps turned blood red as battle klaxons started ringing across the ship,
and Phillips relayed the Captain‟s orders.
“General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands man your battle stations. Admiral
Ainsley, Captain Roderick, report to the bridge.”
Banick was already walking through the CIC‟s doors when the announcement
finished and Callaghan took the Conn. A minute later, and the ship had secured as Ainsley
walked on to the command deck with Roderick – and even Richards – close in tow.
“Admiral on Deck!” Phillips barked, prompting Callaghan to turn at his post.
“Sir, distress call from the Reverence. She‟s reported coming under attack. Number
of hostiles and status unknown. Captain‟s ordered an intercept course and we stand at
quarters.”
“Thank you, Commander, as you were,” Ainsley replied. “That‟s Captain Ford‟s ship...
Have we established contact with them?”
“Negative, Admiral,” Callaghan shook his head. “Communications are patchy at best.
Best guess is that the Alliance started targeting laser relays when they hit her.”
Ainsley walked up the stairs to the command deck and stood at Callaghan‟s side at
the guard rail. “How far away are we?”
“Fifty miles, sir.”
Ainsley started to head toward the CIC. “Send WSKRS ahead and try and plug any
holes in that communications net. We‟ll need to coordinate with Reverence when we get
closer. For the time being, maintain radio silence and launch the sea wing. We‟ll coordinate
with any other local battle groups through SEWACS. Mister Callaghan, you have the Conn, I
will be in the CIC. Richards, Roderick... With me.”
“When it rains it pours,” Roberts said as she pulled on her helmet and keyed her
comms. Not all of the squadron were saddled up, but she could already see that the
squadron‟s First Flight was being hauled on to the hangar drop shafts. The existing combat
air patrol would remain on station – even despite having been in the water for more than four
hours – and would link up with the Rapiers as soon as they hit the water.
“We have a gift for timing, Deadstick,” said the voice of Schrader.
“I‟m not sure Captain Ford will agree with you, Reaper.”
Roberts‟ fighter came to a halt on the number-one drop shaft, and she signalled to
the cat officer below who responded with a swift thumbs-up. “This is Deadstick, board is
green. Lock and load.”
- 97 -

“Rapier 1, drop bays are clear. Launching in ten...”
Roberts nodded, pulling her helmet visor down before grabbing her throttles. Unlike
the Atlantis, Commonwealth‟s flight deck was a compact design, and the drop shafts were
angled away from the centreline at nearly 45 degrees. On the bright side, this meant the
Raptor could throttle up while still inside the carrier‟s hull, the clamps holding the fighter‟s
skids to the elevator floor releasing once its turbines registered 100% power. Five seconds
after that, the Raptor would already be doing two hundred knots.
Roberts took a breath as the fighter was lowered from the flight deck, the tungsten
lights of the overhead gantries being replaced by the moonpool‟s own flood lamps below. As
soon as the doors over her head had sealed, the pressure was equalized, and the gaping
pressure doors of the inner hull opened to reveal the black beyond.
“Captain Banick, what do we have?” Ainsley asked, stepping through the folding
glass doors of the carrier CIC.
Banick turned for a moment to register the Admiral‟s entry, and nodded back to the
tactical plot which had now resolved to show the position of Commonwealth and her battle
group‟s positions entering the Marshall Islands. “Still trying to get some kind of information
on what we‟re dealing with, but at this point it looks serious... We‟re talking about more than
fighters.”
“Battle group?”
“Possibly. That‟s the problem... Reverence has the firepower to hold off a few
cruisers, but if they‟ve brought in fighter groups, she‟s in trouble. At flank speed we can meet
up with her in... twenty five minutes.”
“Good enough,” Ainsley nodded. “That‟ll put Roberts and her people there in a little
over ten. She just needs to buy us time. What else do we have in the area?”
Banick shook his head. “It‟s a mixed bag. We‟re the closest, but not by much.
Monarch has signalled us her intentions to sweep around from the west and we should be
able to coordinate to hit them simultaneously. seaQuest has got two fighter squadrons enroute,
but they‟re at least thirty minutes out. Enterprise has got a unit of Stormhawks as well,
but again – they‟ll be at least half an hour.”
Ainsley studied the chart quickly, absorbing the locations of the other UEO battle
groups and trying to form a loose order of battle. “Good. We still have Roulette out there?”
“Absolutely,” Banick affirmed. “Roulette and Warseer are our SEWACS on station.
Long range communications are still out of the question, but we can coordinate the other
carriers through them.”
Ainsley turned in surprise. “We?”
Banick nodded. “We‟re the only ship on the grid flying three stars. That gives you the
flag, sir. Admiral Carpenter‟s aboard the battlecruiser Repulse in company with the Monarch.
He‟s offered whatever assistance he can, and sends his compliments.”
Ainsley smiled. “Good to know. Carpenter‟s probably the best battleline commander
the NSC has.”
Roderick regarded Ainsley cautiously. “‟Battleline‟, sir?”
He nodded, his smile becoming slightly more wry. “James is from the old-school
navy,” Ainsley explained. “If he had his way, we‟d still be using battleships. He‟s a good man.
It‟ll be nice to have the NSC on-side for once.”
A few snickers went up from around the CIC, prompting Ainsley to stare down the
officers in question with fair warning before turning back to Banick. “Send to the other
carriers: I‟m assuming command and forming a strike group until this is resolved, and
instruct them to maintain radio silence with the Reverence. Ford will already have to know
we‟re in the area, so he doesn‟t need to be told at the risk of losing our position and number.
We have the advantage, and I want to keep it. Captain Roderick, I‟m putting you in charge of
fleet fighter operations. You can have anything you need – just make sure Roberts can keep
the enemy fighters busy for long enough for us to engage in full.”
Roderick nodded without further word, and led Richards around to flight operations.
- 98 -

“How long will it take to recall the rest of the battle group?” Ainsley asked of the
Commonwealth‟s other supporting ships. Banick grimaced as he checked the board again.
“They‟re at least an hour out, sir.”
Ainsley winced. “This will be over by the time we link up with them. We‟ll need to
make do with what we have.”
“Fighter groups Sword and Halo - this is Roulette. Be advised: Lamp shade. Orders
from actual are in. We‟re coordinating directly with local assets and reinforcements from
Hammerhead are inbound. Approach headings have been forwarded.”
Roberts obliged, pushing her throttles up to maximum power. The fighter shuddered
slightly in protest as the needle gauges climbed, and soon the fighter has passed three
hundred and fifty knots. Checking her bearing, she frowned. The use of the term „Lamp
Shade‟ meant that nothing transmitted could use regular callsigns for fears of enemy
interception. „Sword‟ and „Halo‟ she knew referred to Rapiers and Dark Angels respectively,
while „Hammerhead‟ was fleet command‟s callsign for the seaQuest DSV. She squawked
back. “This is Sword-One, understood. What‟s the situation?”
“Priest battlegroup is under attack by enemy forces, bullseye on waypoint bravo.
Status is unknown. You will sanitize the local area of enemy fighters until Kingpin can
coordinate a counter-strike. All our orders will be coming from Irish, do you understand?”
Roberts smiled, although given the report, it felt like a forced gesture. “Five by five,
Roulette. Sword and Halo, did you copy that?”
“Affirmative, Sword-One,” Roberts heard, recognising Commander Coyle‟s voice.
“Halo will follow your lead.”
Commonwealth powered through the deep, flanked by Tripoli and Fall River, the trio
of subs were making their top speeds of around 160 knots without even breaking a sweat. At
this speed, the old adage of running deep and silent was nothing more than a whimsical
luxury that couldn‟t be afforded. The only saving grace that any of them had was the sonarshadowing
islands of the Marshalls themselves to mask their approach. This worked both
ways, of course, and it would fall to the two SEWACS control subs to tell the carrier and her
escorts what lay in wait ahead.
Ainsley continued to draw out waypoints for the fleet on the CIC chart table, all the
while following in real time the advance of the Monarch and seaQuest‟s bombers from the
west. While the Rapiers and Dark Angels would arrive in less than five minutes, it fell to him
to make Monarch‟s arrival time with Commonwealth‟s in such a way that what was presently
a poor and rushed position could be quickly reversed.
“CIC to the Bridge, reduce speed to one five zero and track on course one-sevenfive.”
Ainsley ordered through his headset as he started walking around the charts.
„One five zero on track one-seven-five, aye.”
“Relay that to Tripoli and Fall River,” added Ainsley to the CIC staff.
“Admiral, we‟ve just been relayed sonar data from the Monarch‟s SEWACS. I‟m
feeding it through our sensor track now.”
“Thank you, Mister Garrett,” replied Ainsley as he looked down at the updating
charts. He exhaled slowly, and his stomach sank.
“Well, that‟s a problem,” said Banick simply.
Ainsley nodded. “Son a bitch... Relay this to Roulette and give our pilots a heads up.
This won‟t be pretty.”
Rapier One rolled around the embankment leading in to the southern edge of the
Marshall Islands shelf, the fighter keeping low to the sea floor to weave between the rocks,
and evading whatever sonars may have been searching for it.
With the embankment fast running in to the plain they‟d lose their cover sooner,
rather than later as Roberts had hoped, but it was the best she could do.
“Reaper, watch that turn,” she said as she nearly overcompensated in clearing the
island shelf.
- 99 -

Her fighter‟s sensors chirped as they began to pick up the Reverence and her
assailants less than ten miles away. No sooner had that happened, the radio squawked in
her ear again. “Sword, Halo – heads up. Patching through tactical data from actual, now.
You‟re not going to like this. It‟s a tally-ho on two Macronesian Saracen class fleet carriers
and four Octavian class heavy cruisers. Returns on approximately four squadrons of SA-33
Broadsword heavy fighters. Possible enemy stealth fighter activity – be on your toes.”
Roberts cursed. “Shit. Roulette: Sword - what‟s the status of the Reverence?”
“Intact, but not in good shape. She‟s trying to pull back, but she‟s trapped between
those cruisers. Her fighters are trying to cover her withdrawal, and they‟re paying for it.
Suggest you get in their fast, Deadstick. Possible contacts another fifteen miles out...
unconfirmed at this stage, but definitely not friendly.”
Roberts nodded, and cracked her right hand as she eased her grip on the flight stick,
her knuckles popping after the tension with which she‟d held it for so long. Snapping the
fighter up, she powered up the Raptor‟s ECM suite and entered the abyssal plain. “Let‟s do
this quickly then. Roulette, get a hold of Irish and find out if we have permission to engage.”
Roderick was frustrated by the need to go through the SEWACS every time an order
had to be issued. The scale of the force that was coming down on the UEO Reverence, just
a few miles away, was beyond what anyone in the CIC had expected. Encounters against
the Alliance‟s brand-new Saracen class carriers had been rare, and what little they knew of
them had them at least on par with the older Honorious class, and possibly even
approaching the capabilities of the UEO‟s own Reverence class ships – such as the
Commonwealth, Monarch and the Reverence herself – that now found herself facing not
one, but two of the new Alliance flagships.
“Irish, this is Roulette. Sword-One is requesting permission to engage,” Roderick‟s
headset blared.
She cringed slightly and turned down the volume before checking her charts.
Richards was only a few feet away, watching patiently, and listening to every word that came
through the SEWACS comms. “Standby, Roulette,” she ordered.
“Richards... Thoughts?”
He shook his head, staring at the chart and the numbers of Broadswords that lay
ahead of barely twenty-one Raptor class subfighters: the Rapiers, running at full number,
accompanied by the Dark Angels who were still three down after the previous day‟s
engagement. “No choice,” he concluded. “The longer she waits, the harder it will be. You
know that.”
Roderick knew where Richards‟ hesitation lay, but issued the order anyway.
“Roulette, Irish – cleared to engage.”
The radio chatter that followed had to be silenced before it threatened to drown out
any semblance of order in the already-crowded CIC, and Commander Richards rubbed a
hand over his bristled chin, his eyes betraying concern.
“You alright?” she asked.
“No,” he confessed. “I‟m really not.”
She put a hand on his shoulder, and whispered under her breath. “It‟s not easy, is it?”
“I just can‟t stop thinking about Ryukyu,” he shook his head. “Now I know how Gavin
felt.”
“Hey,” she scolded. “That was then. This is now. Let‟s focus, shall we?”
“Yeah, I am. That‟s the problem. If Jane‟s looking at Shadowfires, then this is going
to be costly.”
Roderick‟s jaw visibly tensed at that, and Ainsley caught it out the corner of his eye.
“Captain Banick... Range?”
Banick looked down from his data pad at his instruments. “Eighteen miles.”
Ainsley stopped, and thought for a moment before looking up at the weapons station.
“Can we get a reliable torpedo guidance lock at this range?”
“Not wirelessly, sir, no.”
“But Roulette could, couldn‟t they?”
- 100 -

The weapons station commander nodded. “Aye, sir. It wouldn‟t be as accurate as our
own systems just because of integration, but we‟d be in a ballpark.”
“Margin of error?”
“Too hard to say. Close enough to rattle them.”
Ainsley smiled. “Good enough. Captain Roderick, tell Roberts to keep her distance –
let her throttle back and bring it in slowly. Keep her out of Reverence‟s engagement zone for
two minutes.”
Roderick nodded. “Yessir.”
Ainsley looked at the board. “Weapons – load Mark 98‟s in batteries one and two and
rout targeting information from SEWACS. No charge on the warheads, electromagnetic
detonation only.”
“Aye. EM-Charge only. Target?”
“Alliance fighter groups. Nothing specific.”
Banick frowned, and leaned over to whisper in Ainsley‟s ear. “Admiral... what are you
doing?”
“Little trick you reminded me of, Captain. Tactical?”
“Batteries loaded, sir.”
Ainsley nodded. “Batteries one and two, all tubes: Fire.”
Commonwealth‟s bow momentarily erupted in fire as a dozen torpedoes rippled in to
the sea, the howling banshee-screams echoing as they accelerated away from the cruiser,
and then disappeared in to the black.
“Admiral, SEWACS reports fighter intercept in one minute and forty seconds,”
Roderick reported.
“Torpedo impact?” Ainsley countered.
Weapons turned. “One minute, twenty six.”
“That‟s cutting it fine,” Richards muttered to himself.
Roderick smiled. “He knows what he‟s doing.”
“Inbound: friendly torpedoes from bearing zero-two-nine, range ten miles at six-zerozero
knots,” Roulette reported.
Roberts checked her displays and felt her heart rate jump, a dozen markers, moving
so fast that there was nothing the Raptors could do to avoid them... if they had been the
targets, of course. Roberts couldn‟t see the missiles through the black as they shot by, but
she heard their passage – the shriek of their rocket engines a telling hallmark. Her sonar
pinged away rapidly with each torpedo return. Once the torpedoes had passed her
formation, she pressed her throttles up again.
“All fighters, this is Piper. Form up by flights and take out their stealth fighters as
soon as you‟ve reached the engagement zone.”
Roberts frowned. It was Richards‟ voice. “Negative, Piper. No contact with stealth
fighters at this time.”
“Just do it, Sword-Leader.”
She gritted her teeth as the fighter banked around, and she caught the first flashes of
the subfighter battle ahead of her. Below, a dark, receding shadow silently slipped away in to
the deep. It was the Reverence.
Roulette‟s voice followed a few moments later. “Torpedo impact in five... four...
three... two... one...”
To Roberts, it appeared as though nothing had happened as the Commonwealth‟s
torpedoes rapidly disappeared from her sensors one at a time. A second later, and two
dozen other contacts appeared – all of them hostile. The IFF return identified them as SA-
35s... Shadowfire stealth fighters.
“Impact,” reported the SEWACS calmly. “Killzone is clear. Sword and Halo flights,
you are cleared to engage.”
Roberts grinned broadly beneath her mask as she realised what Commonwealth had
just done. She started to laugh. “Understood, Sword – follow my lead. Halo – follow Bouncer
and try and get those Broadswords off the Reverence. Bring the rain!”
- 101 -

Richards nodded as he watched the torpedoes disappear, only to be replaced by
multiple enemy subfighters on the tactical display. Most submarine systems were shielded
from EM radiation, but the active-camo systems of the Alliance fighters had no such
protection, and probably never would simply because of their complexity. The torpedoes
may not have exploded, but the detonation of their electrostatic warheads alone had
knocked out every active camouflage and sonar-decoy system within a two mile radius:
including every one of the Macronesian stealth fighters.
He looked at Ainsley in quiet awe, but the Admiral had already set about the task of
managing the rest of the fleet. It now fell to the skill of the UEO pilots to finish their job, and
Commonwealth could do little to change whatever outcome that might be.
“First priority is the Reverence,” Banick ordered. “Load all batteries with intercept
rounds and cover her withdrawal. Cycle pulse cannons to full power and begin targeting their
fighters.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Ainsley nodded. “Good. Communications, get me a line to Captain Ford.”
The CIC waited pensively for a moment as the radiomen went about the order. It took
agonizingly long seconds to do it, as jamming and damage to their sister ship had made it
anything but a simple task.
Banick and Ainsley looked at the radio operator nervously, and he offered an
encouraging smile as he re-routed the line first through the Commonwealth‟s orbiting
WSKRS probes, and then relayed it by laser through the flanking Fall River. Finally, he gave
a thumbs-up as static momentarily filled Ainsley‟s headset. The Admiral nodded his approval
to the radioman, and pulled the set on properly.
“Reverence-actual this is Commonwealth, what‟s your status?”
“...Commonwealth, this is Reverence-actual.” Ainsley breathed a sigh of relief as he
recognised Captain Jonathan Ford‟s voice. A quiet applause rose in the CIC for a moment
before Ainsley held up a silencing finger.
“Enemy jamming has out open comms scrambled, Commonwealth. Is this line
secure?” asked Ford.
“It is,” Ainsley confirmed. “This is Admiral Ainsley, I‟ve assumed command of local
forces until we get you out of this. Just keep that part quiet for the time being... I‟d prefer the
Alliance not know too much about what we‟ve got for them.”
“Understood, sir. Seems kind of appropriate that you‟d be the one to pull us out of
this one. Good to have you back.”
Ainsley smiled. “We‟ll save that for later, Captain. What‟s your situation?”
“Hull breaches across all lower decks, Admiral. Hydro-pressure seals on the sea
doors have flight operations closed. We can‟t launch or receive fighters at this time.
Weapons stocks are at fifteen percent. We‟ve lost two engines, and can‟t make much better
than four-zero knots. We‟ve sustained a ten degree list to starboard and can‟t equalize
without risking ballast control.”
Ainsley grimaced. He hadn‟t expected it to be that bad, and had been hoping
Reverence might still be able to lend support. For the time being, that left the
Commonwealth on her own. Banick‟s jaw tensed at this news.
“Understood, Captain. Continue your withdrawal... VF-115 is covering you. SEWACS
will update you on any changes. Be advised that all open traffic is lamp shaded.”
“Will do, Admiral. Give them hell for us.”
“My word on it, Captain. Commonwealth: out.”
Ainsley killed the link and returned quickly to the plot, watching as the two welldefined
lines of subfighters, both Alliance and UEO, began to dissolve in to a swirling,
unpredictable melee. He knew merely from the approving nod that Richards gave as he
surveyed it that the initial news was good, and put his attention elsewhere.
“Torpedoes in the water!” bellowed one of the side stations. “Bearing zero nine zero!
Range, four miles!”
Ainsley ignored it. That was Banick‟s job, and he did it well enough.
“Time to impact?”
- 102 -

“Twenty seconds!”
“Standby intercepts,” Banick replied coolly.
Ten torpedoes howled through the deep, rapidly closing with the UEO battlecruiser. It
was a futile gesture, with Commonwealth being able to track many times that number in
short order and dispatch them without much further action.
“Independent tracking, Captain,” Ainsley said simply. “Track IFFs and set systems to
auto-engagement. We don‟t have the time to do this by numbers.”
The tactical officer looked at Banick for a moment, the unspoken question hanging
for a bare split second before the Captain nodded his consent. “Do it.”
Over the next few seconds, Commonwealth‟s massive bank of computer AIs
calculated the positions of every non-friendly target for ten miles in every direction. A second
after that, and her batteries opened fire with a level of measured firepower and precision that
would have been all but impossible for her human crew. The ship‟s AI calculated intercept
vectors, speeds, evasion probabilities and flight times, cataloguing all of them in real time as
it chose how best to distribute the battlecruiser‟s considerable firepower.
Her batteries fired without abandon, targeting each individual torpedo and those
headed toward her badly outgunned sister ship that now slipped quietly through to
Commonwealth‟s rear guard.
The Alliance by now had reacted to the cruiser‟s arrival on the perimeter of the
engagement, and began moving to engage. Ainsley watched the massive flagships with
growing anticipation and curiosity. IFF returns on the board flagged the two Saracen class
carriers Alfred Deakin and Robert Menzies, which had been encountered only three times by
the UEO fleet over the course of the previous six months, and none of those occasions had
resulted in a battle such as this.
Indeed, the Alliance‟s record of battle against the UEO‟s largest class of battlecruiser
was not a gleaming account, yet tellingly as a change in tide, Deakin and Menzies dutifully
answered Commonwealth‟s challenge as they left their pincer holding positions that had so
tormented Reverence, and advanced to meet their new adversary. Like cats that had been
met with an invasion of their territory, the rumble of their engines coming to power was
audible through the hydrophones of Commonwealth‟s sonar operators. As the range
between them closed, the Saracens opened fire.
Roberts snapped her fighter up on to its wings as she tore down the long broadside
of the retreating Reverence. The wounded carrier listing heavily to starboard, she led her
trailing assailant straight through Commonwealth‟s defence screen without so much as a
thought for the torrents of point defence fire that lit up the sea around her.
The Alliance Shadowfire stealth fighter and its wingman ducked and weaved through
Robert‟s line, trying to draw a bead that could finish the UEO Raptor – a target that would
never easily present itself.
A few hundred yards behind them, Rapier Two closed the distance, his HUD tracking
the camouflage-deprived fighters with an ease that Lieutenant Commander Wilhelm
Schrader could only dream of every other day in his life. His finger eased over the trigger as
the Shadowfire neared the centre of the reticule, and a split second before it hit the ring,
squeezed down hard.
The twin Hades guns spun up, rattling the cockpit as they spewed dozens of 25millimetre
explosive slugs through the ocean to rip down the Macronesian fighter and rend it
wing from wing. Skilfully, he rolled through his own attack and peeled around the ailing
enemy subfighter, screaming past at better than two hundred knots. With his wingman gone,
decimated as he was pulled in to the huge cavitational wake of his killer, the leading fighter
finally decided it was time to admit defeat.
Schrader‟s head seemed to snap on its shoulders as he watched the fighter break off
its pursuit of Roberts and disappear in to the fog. “Run, asshole,” Schrader muttered to
himself. “Rapier leader, scratch one bandit. His friend‟s bugged out and your six is clear.”
“Understood, two, thanks for the save,”
- 103 -

Both pilots were interrupted by the sharp call of their SEWACS. Roulette was almost
panicked in his calling of the battle‟s shots, and Roberts quietly wished for the collected and
impossibly calm presence of the more-familiar Warseer.
“Rapiers, Dark Angels – those carriers have our number and are closing fast!
Estimate you‟ve got three minutes before they start hitting Commonwealth. Wrap this up
fast, because we‟re in for it.”
Roberts toggled her sonar to switch over to a battlefield view. She grimaced as she
saw what Roulette had been referring to. Two Saracen class carriers, accompanied by a
squadron of Octavian heavy cruisers were about to drive straight down Commonwealth‟s
throat, and more to the point, they had in tow over forty supporting subfighters. Roberts had
not seen an engagement of this scope in over twelve months.
“Rapiers two and three,” she ordered. “Form up at my three and nine, five hundred
yards dispersion. Track on my six.”
“Five by five.”
Roberts rolled around wide again to come back down on the Commonwealth‟s
heading. Five subfighters were breaking in and out of the sea floor‟s jutting rockscape,
making it all but impossible for the larger carrier to get a clean shot. Her own sonars suffered
the same problem, being unable to attain a torpedo shooting solution through the rocky
outcroppings of the island shelf. She swore to herself and threw the throttles forward. “Five
bandits, six O‟clock low. Padlocked, no joy on guidance. Guns, guns, guns.”
“This is four. I‟ve got your twenty, lead. Heads up on friendly intercept at zero-fourfive.”
Roberts didn‟t blink as she tracked the five enemy fighters through their approach on
Commonwealth. At the rate that the leader‟s wingmen were falling back, she knew the UEO
fighters had been spotted and would soon find themselves flanked by all four of the leader‟s
wingmen. That wasn‟t her concern. Somewhere ahead of her, Samuel Mason and his own
flight of fighters were coming in hard, and now she simply had to stay out of their way.
“One minute thirty!” Roulette reminded her sternly.
“Two and three, tag the stragglers, ignore the leader,” Roberts barked over Roulette‟s
impatience. “Give them something to think about.”
Roberts dove to the side of the island shelf, her fighter nearly skipping along its
embankment as her engines kicked up two massive plumes of sand in her wake. The first of
the Alliance fighters was far too slow in countering, and she blew it to pieces just half a
second later as it filled her gunsights. “Splash one.”
Her two wingmen, Rapiers Two and Three, made their own presence felt in similar
fashion. Given time by their leader‟s demise, two of the other fighters managed to evade the
initial barrage laid down by their assailants, only to pull straight in to the engagement zone of
the shadowing UEO battlecruiser.
Commonwealth punished them as two streaks of laser fire came out of the dark and
obliterated the Alliance fighters in a heartbeat. Only two remained, and having seen what
awaited them at the hands of the UEO flagship, were now making every possible effort to
stay in the cover of the reef. Two more laser shots ripped up coral and rock in their wake,
and Roberts pulled back on her throttles to give the carrier its space.
“Fuck. Commonwealth, check your fire! Friendlies!”
The moment that it had taken Roberts‟ fighter to decelerate had given the two
Alliance fighters all the room they needed. In the cover of the reef, the UEO Raptor‟s speed
meant nothing, and the Macronesians knew it.
Mason‟s Raptor shot past so quickly that Roberts didn‟t even have time to register its
livery, but the British pilot never fired.
Instead, two torpedoes – those of his wingmen – followed him through the
embankment - their guidance systems plugged in to his own targeting systems as he ran
over the reef and illuminated both of the Alliance subfighters with a single sonar buoy that
was dumped from his fighter‟s tail.
- 104 -

Roberts smiled as she watched the two torpedoes disappear in to the reef, slamming
both enemy fighters in to the seafloor like angry fists that reduced them to nothing more than
shrapnel.
“Rapier four here. Scratch two bandits. Commonwealth your approach is clear.”
“Thank Christ for that,” Roberts muttered. “Much longer and I thought they‟d start
ignoring IFF. Nice job, four. We owe you.”
“Rapiers – Roulette: enemy carriers are in the engagement zone. Be advised...
Commonwealth‟s killzone is open. Marine space in sectors three, five and seven is now
closed. It‟s all theirs now. Keep their perimeter clear – fire at will.”
Commonwealth was now less than three thousand yards from the two Alliance
carriers – point blank range. Her prow jutting in the endless deep, the two Macronesian
submarines slowly diverged, never once pulling their bows off of Commonwealth‟s position.
Flanking them, four Octavian heavy cruisers slowly heaved-to, their torpedo batteries coming
to bear as subduction rifles locked on to each and every one of the battlecruiser‟s main
systems.
“The cruisers are locking on, Captain,” the tactical operator reported. “Menzies is
launching strike craft.”
Banick nodded. “Do we have shooting solutions on the flagships?”
“Guidance lock achieved on all tubes, Captain. Batteries one through sixteen locked
and flooded.”
Banick got a curt glance from Ainsley, and he in turn nodded to the lieutenant. “All
batteries - suppression fire. Independent fire at will.”
Commonwealth‟s bow rumbled and screamed as her sixteen batteries put nearly one
hundred heavy plasma torpedoes in to the sea. At a range of barely three thousand yards,
their flight time would be a mere twelve seconds. Any subfighter that might have been
immediately in her path would have been obliterated by the mere ignition of so many rocket
engines, and nothing could long stand against the concentrated firepower of a UEO
Battlecruiser.
Banick watched in morbid curiosity as the Alliance carrier continued to sit there,
unmoved in the face of what was so rapidly headed her way. In three years of war, Banick
had never seen such suicidal intention, and felt that he was now seeing the impossible.
Ainsley continued to stare at the charts, uninterested in that which was unfolding
before the Captain‟s eyes, and Banick baulked as he saw the Alliance carrier‟s response.
Rippling intercepts, the Menzies cut down the UEO weapons like a scythe. Laser fire from
the carrier‟s wings ripped down the most isolated weapons while concentrated torpedo
detonations ensured that no more than a dozen weapons made it inside the carrier‟s
defensive perimeter. Soon, they too were cut down to barely a handful of weapons which
finally impacted – one, two, then three – with the Macronesian ship‟s hull, bathing it in fire.
When the chaos had cleared, Menzies continued to stare down the Commonwealth,
inching even further forward as her sea wing made redoubled and to Banick‟s eyes
seemingly impossible efforts to keep the UEO sea wing at bay. Two of the fleet‟s best fighter
squadrons could do nothing but stay out of the killzone, watching as the two titans began a
lethal and unexpected duel.
“I did not expect that,” Banick whispered to himself in awe. The Captain watched
helplessly as the massive Saracen class carrier replied – putting dozens of weapons in to
the water that were shortly thereafter joined by even more from her accompanying escorts.
First Deakin, then the Octavians – one by one.
“Torpedoes in the water. Thirty... no... forty- fifty rounds! Impact in ten seconds!”
Banick‟s eyes were wide as he pointed at the screens and screamed. “All hands
brace for impact! Relay to Fall River and Tripoli - all intercept batteries – fire at will!”
As Commonwealth‟s intercept batteries fired, Ainsley continued to say nothing as he
slowly turned to communications. What could be done was being done, and nothing he said
could change the short-term outcome. “How long until Monarch arrives?”
“Three minutes out!”
- 105 -

“Five seconds to impact!”
...The Alliance attack was heavy and sustained. In the last few seconds it took the
enemy missiles to reach his carrier, Banick thought back to the battered form of the
Reverence herself and quietly cursed his position. One by one, his intercepts struck down
the alliance torpedoes – but there simply hadn‟t been enough time. The first round slammed
in to Reverence‟s keel hard, ripping apart the bioskin and buckling support frames. The
second exploded forward of the ship‟s missile hatches, opening the port side corridors on Bdeck
to the sea. The section was lost instantly as pressure doors came down, but not before
a third and fourth torpedo blew apart the adjacent bulkhead – taking with it the port side
quarter torpedo battery.
The bridge rocked violently as alarms blared in every quarter. The deck continued to
rumble under Banick‟s feet as the ship started to list, and he pointed an accusing finger at
the engineering master status consoles. “Seal off those sections! Equalize ballast tanks
starboard!”
“Already done, sir,” the engineer confirmed, shaking his head as the battlecruiser
rippled off another salvo of torpedoes in reply. “We can‟t do this for long, Admiral. They‟re
targeting main and secondary systems. We just lost fire control for batteries one through four
along with main ballast control on tanks five and six port side. We need to pull back.”
“Agreed,” Ainsley conceded calmly. “All engines back one third, but keep our bows
on them. Rotate all batteries to intercept rounds and lay down a suppression barrage.”
Banick walked to Ainsley‟s station next to the main plot and leaned over to whisper,
although it came out as a growl. “Admiral, respectfully, we are outgunned and well inside a
preferred firing posture. That carrier can hold us off without any help from those cruisers. We
should pull back in full and regroup with the Monarch.”
To both Ainsley and Banick‟s surprise, it was Richards that interjected, shaking his
head from flight operations. “Captain, the Admiral is correct. I‟m betting Captain Ford nearly
did the exact same thing. But their cruisers haven‟t moved.”
“Mister Richards, I assume you have a point.”
The Wing Commander did not disappoint. “Those Octavians haven‟t moved, sir. If we
give them a blind quarter by withdrawing, they‟ll move forward and overwhelm us. We can
take a few torpedoes, but we won‟t survive a sustained assault from thirty-two heavy
subduction rifles at close range. The only reason they haven‟t done so already is that they
know if they try to get any closer, we‟ll bury them in ordnance before they can even get
intercept locks. They lose every advantage by closing now, and if they split up we‟ll pick
them off.”
Ainsley smiled inwardly, nodding all the while. “Your wing commander is entirely
correct, Captain. We‟ll hold until Carpenter can form on our line.” Ainsley looked over his
shoulder at Richards once again “How far away are the Enterprise bombers?” he called.
“Five minutes, Admiral. They‟re coming in hard – I‟ve got the Dark Angels covering
their ingress.”
Lurking not far from Commonwealth, a two-ship formation silently slipped between
the Alliance fleet pickets by way of an Island strait, all but unseen by watchful eyes of the
Macronesian task force that was now so focused on the Commonwealth and her fighters.
Moving as if they were giant steel blades through the deep, the battlecruisers NSC Repulse
and UEO Monarch – another sister of the Commonwealth and Reverence - were truly
regents of war.
Admiral Sir James Carpenter had watched the entire painful exchange between the
Commonwealth and the two Saracens intently, and knew things would not end well for the
UEO flagship unless they arrived soon. His own command, a Renown class battlecruiser,
was perhaps more fitting of the title when compared to its UEO cousins, having completely
eschewed a flight deck in favour of what was the heaviest payload of torpedo armaments for
any ship in her weight class.
Carpenter hadn‟t hesitated when he deferred to the authority of Mark Ainsley. Indeed,
many other officers in the NSC fleet would have baulked at the decision given the UEO
- 106 -

commander‟s past, but the fact remained that Carpenter and Ainsley had history – the sort
that only a decade of joint service could truly cement, even if it had been filled with its ups
and downs.
The battlenet feed transmitted to the Repulse from Commonwealth‟s CIC had been a
general direction with nothing in particular standing out as a meaningful order, but this was
what Ainsley had been counting on - he knew how Carpenter thought, and Carpenter in turn
was a man who knew how to read Ainsley‟s frequently unexplained intentions. Repulse and
Monarch had been travelling a course westward towards Kapen Atoll and the Fire Corals.
With the engagement being conducted in an open basin just south of that position, the
simplest course of action would have been to continue on that course to make a rendezvous.
This however had not been the order. Carpenter looked down at the sheet of paper in
his hand once again and re-read the Commonwealth‟s message. Aside from a general
situation report and status detailing the strength of local fighter groups, there had been a
single word: “Jemo.”
And so Carpenter had the Repulse committed to a stretch of water known as Ratak
Ridge – a blind sea wall some fifty five miles long between Kapen Atoll and the tiny island of
Jemo through which no sonar could penetrate, taking them south, and away from the
battlefield leaving not a single trace of a clue for the Macronesian Alliance that they were
even in the area. The entire supposition depended on Commonwealth‟s ability to hold
against a superior force for line longer than Ainsley would have ideally wanted, but
Carpenter knew the man‟s style, and couldn‟t mistake the instruction for anything else.
Admiral Mark Ainsley didn‟t simply want to save the Reverence, he wanted to utterly
crush those who had tried to sink it in the first place, and if that was the way he wanted to
play it, then James Carpenter was not about to argue the point – having languished under
other superiors who seemed content with simply holding the line, and defending what
territories the UEO had left. In his opinion, Ainsley was the sort of officer who could win the
war, and no one seemed interested.
“Admiral, we‟re coming to the end of the ridge. We‟re going to need to dive if we‟re to
stay below it, sir,” said the big, Welsh brogue of Repulse‟s Captain, George Bassett.
“Well then, I‟d say Ainsley‟s been waiting long enough. Break radio silence and send
to Monarch – deploy all fighters and begin intercept. Helm, prepare for incoming change of
course, hard starboard on heading three-one-zero.”
“Aye. Course on three-one-zero. Monarch is answering,” the OOD confirmed, a hand
to his ear as he listened to the orders between the two warships.
Carpenter nodded his approval as he felt the deck shift slightly as the bulk of his
battlecruiser began to sweep around the ridgeline south of Jemo‟s southern-most point. He
gripped the overhead railing above the command pulpit as he stepped up to the tactical
officers. “Open all outer doors. As soon as you have contacts, I want shooting solutions on
all batteries forward.”
“Aye aye. All tubes flooded and outer doors are open.
Carpenter leaned back again as the two cruiser rose from the depths to bring their
bulks in to plain and clear view of the Alliance fleet. The sight was as awesome as it was
intimidating as the two ships – each weighing over fifty thousand tonnes – presented their
full batteries at the flanks of the Macronesian line just three short miles away.
“Contacts, designated masters one through five. Two Saracen class fleet carriers and
four Octavian battlecruisers – range, three point two miles and closing. We have shooting
solutions.”
“How long until guidance lock?”
“Thirty seconds!”
Ainsley closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as the two Battlecruisers
appeared as a blip on the battle plot, barely four miles from Commonwealth‟s port side flank.
The deck rocked under his feet again as a third wave of torpedoes slammed in to the
battlecruiser‟s hull, the damage being limited by the bulkheads that had already been closed
- 107 -

from previous strikes. It didn‟t prevent the scene from the engineering auxiliary stations
being chaos, but Banick‟s grim composure also assured him that it still wasn‟t crippling.
To Commonwealth‟s rear, the Reverence had finally completed her long turn and
was forming up not far from the flagship‟s hind quarter. With this action, and the sudden and
unexpected arrival of the Monarch and Repulse to their south-east, the Alliance fleet slowly
pulled back, opening the range and giving the UEO fleet a much-needed breath.
Ainsley turned sharply. “Signal the fleet,” he ordered firmly. “Target those heavy
cruisers and-“
“Admiral!” shouted the sonar operator, their face a contortion of apology and shock.
“We have incoming! Forty-five torpedoes, range seven miles and closing from heading threefour-zero!”
“Track!” the Admiral barked.
“Possible contacts at nine miles, same heading! Designated masters six, seven, eight
and nine!”
“Four contacts,” mused Banick with a frown. “ID or IFF?”
“Still confirming!”
“Fire intercepts,” the Captain ordered. “Admiral?”
Ainsley nodded. “We‟ll deal with them when we know more. Signal the fleet to target
those Octavians, time-on-target. We aren‟t going to get a shot at the carriers while they are
still there. Permission is granted to fire at will.”
...Jane Roberts watched in awe as she passed under the bows of the
Commonwealth, its batteries opening up once again with the Reverence just sixty meters on
her starboard side. Even battered as she was, the ship made a good account of herself as
she too added a weight better than sixty weapons to the barrage.
The Alliance fleet was pinned, and had nowhere to go but back, having little hope of
stopping so many incoming torpedoes from two fronts. Commonwealth and Reverence‟s
weapons broke straight through the intercept fire offered by the cruisers, and while many
were cut down before they had even started their final approach, the combined fire of both
battlecruisers simply proved too much.
The first of the Octavians was struck hard, no less than sixteen weapons finding their
marks in the free for all that pounded her hull to collapse. Reeling, the ship slowed and she
fell out of line with the rest of her formation, a heavy list to starboard in the course of only a
few seconds telling of the extent of damage. Those who weren‟t killed by the detonations of
so many torpedoes certainly didn‟t survive long as the ship‟s hull started to buckle. With such
a catastrophic loss of integrity, it was a predictable end.
The heavy cruiser seemed to bulge momentarily as her seals expanded under the
collapse of her internal pressure hull, and then in a rapid staccato of chattering drums,
imploded like an eggshell. The ruined cruiser was unrecognisable as it rapidly started to
accelerate to the bottom, its sister ships visibly altering their course to avoid the turbulent
debris field.
Roberts‟ fighter wing brought low under the cover of the Commonwealth‟s fire,
picking a lone pair of Broadswords that were struggling to retreat in the wake of the UEO
armada‟s arrival. She flicked the safeties off her three remaining torpedoes and bracketed
each of them as targets. “Rapiers Two and Three, Bandits at eight O‟clock low, cover me.”
“Wilco.”
Sensing danger, the two Alliance fighters split up, one of them going wide. Roberts‟
computer lost track on it the second it had left her fire lane, and she shook her head and
throttled down on the leader. The HUD went red, and she depressed the trigger, sending a
single torpedo screaming away in to the darkness. Three seconds later, and a bright flash
from the abyss, along with the disappearing sonar contact confirmed the Broadsword‟s
destruction. “Splash one. Rapier Two, do you have a twenty on his wingman?”
“Affirmative, lead. Heading on two-seven zero to disengage. Shall we let him go?”
“If you have the shot, take it,” she ordered bitterly. “But do not leave formation.”
“Understood.”
- 108 -

Roberts looked over her shoulder as Schrader‟s fighter pulled back from her tail and
went wide. A few seconds after that, a torpedo slipped in to the water and rocketed away in
to the dark. It went wide at first, following the fleeing Broadsword, and it took several long
seconds to it to find its mark. Being tracked by the SEWACS orbiting high above, there was
little the Broadsword could do as its decoys failed to make even the hint of an impression on
the ASF-7 Foxhound missile, and the pilot had already bailed out by the time the weapon
slammed in to his fighter and reduced it to a pyre of flaming metal.
“Good kill,” Schrader announced simply. “This area is clear, lead. Orders?”
“Rapier flight one, this is Roulette. Command has incoming hostiles on bearing three
four zero. Local jamming has no IFF. Requesting close-range ID.”
Roberts gritted her teeth as she pulled the fighter around again to cross back under
the Commonwealth‟s killzone. “This is flight one. Understood. Rapiers one and two, form up
and stick close. Let‟s see what we‟ve got.”
Dustin Coyle picked up the sensor contact on the edge of his combat sensors just as
Roulette gave Roberts her marching orders. His squadron of nine black-hulled Raptors
surrounded the six-strong formation of SF/B-6 Stormhawk bombers that advanced
inexorably towards the field of battle. The squadron in question was not new to him, the VT-
106 Tigerclaws having previously served aboard the Atlantis. Now, they bore the proud
heraldry of the UEO Enterprise, a “Big E” encircled by the UEO laurels.
The contacts on Coyle‟s sensors were an enigma but were closing at an alarming
rate. The bombers raced through the darkness, moving as quickly as their massive, booming
engines would carry them, although the accompanying Raptors still had to pull back to stop
themselves from overshooting.
“Two minutes,” he said firmly and simply, watching as the sensor ghosts of
Commonwealth and her accompanying fleet drew nearer by the second. Exactly ten nautical
miles remained. Calmly switching his sonar back to auto-engagement, Coyle slowly pushed
his throttles forward in anticipation. “Stripes lead, this is Halo lead. We are ten miles.
Weapons are free, wait for targeting information from Commonwealth-actual and increase to
three-three-zero knots. We‟ll cover you.”
“This is Karnage, acknowledged. Take the lead.”
Coyle didn‟t wait to be invited further, slamming his throttles forward to be
immediately kicked back in his chair. The Raptor rapidly left the formation of bombers in its
wake as the remainder of the squadron raced to catch up, and the first of their opponents
made themselves known. The computer bleeped as the first flight of Broadswords on
Commonwealth‟s perimeter entered the squadron‟s engagement zone and were highlighted
on the HUD. Coyle checked the range. “Dark Angel One – Bandits two O‟clock high. Flight
one is engaging. Flight two, on my six. Flight three, cover the bombers.”
He didn‟t wait for a reply as he snapped the fighter up quickly to race towards the
shallows. Having detected his approach, the Broadswords rolled away, beginning a wide
circle that brought them straight down at the approaching Raptors. Coyle had none of it as
he followed suit and angled the nose out wide to course in towards the Macronesian fighter‟s
rear. As the two formations closed at a combined speed better than five hundred knots,
Coyle rolled the fighter on to its side and pulled back on the stick, beginning a hard turn on to
the Broadsword‟s tails. The three enemy fighters saw the manoeuvre, and rolled back hard
in the opposite direction to try and throw the UEO fighter before it had completed his
intercept. Coyle was better, never having broken his eyes from the pursuit as he continued
to guide the Raptor through its paces. On one hand, he was navigationally blind as he
locked eyes with the fighters that were now above his canopy, but on the other... he never
lost sight of them.
Rolling the stick back, the Raptor inverted again and came back toward its own path,
steadily weaving through the Broadsword‟s evading scissors as it got ever-closer to their tail.
All the while, Coyle never even noticed the G-indicator climbing past “six” each time he
turned, having gotten so used to the manoeuvres over the years that the action had become
an indelible, motor response – his leg and stomach muscles clenching to control the flow of
- 109 -

lood as he continued to take long, easy breaths that came as naturally as the sweat that
formed on his brow.
This was a dogfight. For Coyle and his wingmen, minutes became seconds as each
sweeping bank turned in to another and a racing heartbeat became the slow-ticking clock by
which he would be judged. Coyle slipped in to the Broadsword‟s wake with a heavy thump
that rattled the fighter as it closed. The angle was poor as the Broadsword continued to
leave his decreasing angle of attack, and he brought the fighter‟s nose in once again.
The enemy fighter disappeared in a blur and flash as it rolled its wings back level and
pulled up fiercely in to a steep inside loop that rapidly disappeared behind Coyle‟s head, and
he corrected by pulling the Raptor in to an even deeper climb. His head throbbed as his
vision began to dim through the corner of his eyes. He had no idea how many G‟s he was
pulling at that moment in time, and in truth he would never know as his eyes continued to
meet the Broadsword that ploughed ever-deeper in to the heart of the fleet action now just a
short mile away. Water had become choppy, illuminated occasionally by the bright flash of a
detonating plasma torpedo, and Coyle finally found his bead. Experience was a simple thing
– a split S-turn being a common textbook evasion manoeuvre employed by pilots across the
world. 99 times out of 100, the pursuing fighter pilot wouldn‟t be able to hope to judge the
correct angle to re-enter the intercept, and that brief period of correction might have been all
the time the accompanying wingmen needed to blow them out of the water.
Coyle was that other time. That one-in-a-hundred. This war had been long, and his
service was dotted with a list of engagements the likes of which few pilots would ever know.
Experience was a teacher – the most honest one that had ever come to be.
Coyle came out of his turn with his HUD bore-sighting the Broadsword with an
understated precision that never once had he taken the time to consider. This was combat.
His heart skipped a beat – a very deliberate beat – the one that told him to squeeze the
trigger.
Coyle was already rolling before he was even consciously aware that he had fired.
The SA-33 disappeared in to a blue fireball that incinerated its pilot, blinded its wingman, and
faded in to the dark. In the last second it took the wingman to recover and pull out, Coyle‟s
own company stepped up and completed the same drill: two precise volleys of cannon fire
tearing it apart as the entire flight of Raptors burst out of formation on four separate bearings
before completing long turns to settle back in to their positions.
The entire encounter had lasted a mere twelve seconds, and picking another enemy
fighter, the VF-115 Dark Angels prepared to do it all again...
Six miles away, Jane Roberts was facing a new problem as her fighter started blaring
half a dozen warnings that were all silenced with a single, commanding stroke of her thumb.
The five large contacts on her sonar were being analysed as quickly as the tactical computer
could process it, and she began to nervously glance at the threat indicator as the range
ticked down. She knew it was a futile attempt. If the all-seeing eyes of the orbiting SEWACS
couldn‟t identify what was ahead of her - then her fighter‟s comparatively tiny suite of sonars
had no chance at all.
She forgot about the sensors, and returned her eyes to the darkness ahead, and the
intermittent but hopeless efforts of the fighter‟s HUD to lock on to something. She saw it
before her sensors did, and the shadow melting out of the dark was enough to send a chill of
dread recognition down her spine, sending the hair on the back of her head on-end.
She‟d rolled and dived for the seafloor as the first lances of heavy laser fire ripped up
her fighter‟s trail, dotting a path of scattering laser fire through her engine wake. The three
fighters in her charge did not follow, instead immediately opting to break off their ingress on
her order to scatter in to the dark. Feeding the gun camera footage back to the SEWACS,
Roberts looked up as her fighter screamed across the seafloor in a long loop that brought it
around the arrowhead formation of five Chaodai Komodo class strike cruisers.
As the remaining Octavians closed their ranks around the slowly receding fleet
carriers, Commonwealth and Reverence continued to pour torpedoes in to their line. This
- 110 -

time, the Alliance was prepared – fighters and cruisers alike swatting down the torpedoes
before they even got close. Adding to the UEO problems, Ainsley stared at the approaching
phalanx of Chaodai war cruisers with a snide measure of disdain. The success or failure of
the engagement now had a clock on it, and the enemy fleet carriers weren‟t going anywhere.
With the Alliance in front of them and the Chaodai just minutes away, the situation had
become a deadlock in which there could only be one resolution. “We need room to breathe,”
he muttered to himself. “Communications, get me the Captains of the Reverence, Monarch
and Repulse.”
Ainsley was waiting only a few seconds before the communications officer gave him
a thumbs-up, and the faces of Jonathan Ford, Patrick Mays and James Carpenter resolved
as ghostly images above the battle plot. “Gentlemen, this would be easier if I explained it
personally,” Ainsley started, folding his arms behind his back. “In about five minutes we‟re
going to be in over our heads. Captain Ford... How‟s your ship?”
“Floating, Admiral,” Ford replied dryly. “The rest is too early to say.”
“Best speed?”
Ford shook his head tellingly, and Ainsley nodded in consigned defeat.
“Then withdrawal is not an option. Captain I‟m going to have to ask your crew to hold
a while longer.”
“We‟ll do what we can,” Ford assured confidently.
“Admiral Carpenter, Captain Mays, we‟ll join you when you arrive and continue to
wheel about to meet the Chaodai head-on. Their carriers will be forced to pull back or we‟ll
run them down.”
A flicker of a smile crossed Carpenter‟s face as he nodded once sharply. “Not one for
subtlety, are you, Ainsley?”
Ainsley didn‟t share his opposite‟s humour. “We are not losing this field. Assume a
strike formation abreast and force that flank.”
“If we get too close to those cruisers, we‟ll be cut apart by their subduction
armaments.”
“Leave that to us,” Ainsley assured. “Commonwealth- out.”
Ainsley killed the transmission and took in the entire CIC. “Captain Banick, close us
to two thousand yards. Tactical – full suppression barrage forward, target the starboard
cruiser. And where the hell are my bombers!?”
...The Stormhawks crested the peak of Ratak Ridge and pushed their throttles
forward as they completed a rolling displacement turn to come in sharply directly above the
remaining Alliance warships. Plunging out of the darkness and surrounded by the blackhulled
Raptors of the Dark Angels, the predators charged, ignoring torpedo, shell and laser
alike to dive straight through the barrage of defensive fire that was so concentrated against
Commonwealth‟s attack.
The Alliance fleet simply didn‟t have the numbers to counter both. With their screen
so far having been directed in full against the Commonwealth to stop the battlecruiser‟s
considerable firepower, there was nothing left to give back to the rapidly approaching
bombers.
When the UEO squadrons appeared above the ridge, the Alliance commanders were
faced with an unwinnable decision: to redirect their defensive fire from killing the
battlecruiser‟s torpedoes, or allow a full squadron of bomb-laden UEO strike craft to pummel
them with impunity.
Slowly, the Alliance cruisers pulled back, swinging their bows around to face both the
bombers and the approaching UEO battleships as best as they could. Two of the
Stormhawks disappeared in plumes of white flame as lasers and intercept torpedoes struck
out of the dark to cut them down. The remaining four bombers snapped left and right to
widen their approach pattern, and forcibly diverted even more of the incoming fire.
Commander Patrick “Karnage” Hawke winced as he saw his two wingman
incinerated by the barrage, and targeted the first of the heavy cruisers ahead of him. “Still
with me back there, Karl?” he asked his back-seated Weapons Officer.
- 111 -

“Yep, Relaying target to the squadron,” he replied coolly. “Weapons are hot and
tracking.”
Hawke jinked the lumbering bomber around a loose roll as the distance closed. Five
thousand... Four thousand...
His thumb covered the trigger as the Heavy Cruiser loomed out of the darkness
ahead, hesitant to pull it until the very last possible moment. It was the only way to
guarantee the possibility of a kill. The numbers turned red as the bomber hit two thousand
feet, and Hawke depressed the trigger firmly as his HUD indicated a point-blank lock.
The fighter burst upwards with blinding speed as two massive anti-ship torpedoes –
the stable HMB-12 2000-pound “Slammers” – that rocketed away in to the dark, and
slammed in to the helpless Octavian at more than six hundred knots. Four more followed, all
of them breaking through hull plating to lodge themselves deep in the ship‟s broken
framework.
The Stormhawks were already gone by the time their weapons detonated exactly two
and a half seconds later. The chain reaction happened in slow motion, beginning as the hull
shifted and expanded, rippling in and out five times as its hull plates buckled and fell away.
Bubbles rose from a thousand tiny holes in the ship‟s pressure hull as it started to settle in to
the murky black before the inevitability of physics took hold. In one titanic, echoing crash, the
hull was crushed and what little remained of the mangled corpse rapidly disappeared in to
the depths of the Pacific.
Sensing the death of their remaining support, the Menzies and Deakin, along with
their last remaining cruiser rapidly started to recede in retreat as torpedoes from the
Monarch and Repulse rained in without pause. For their lone remaining escort, the decision
to go after the UEO bombers proved to be just as costly, as the sheer weight of ordnance
started to overcome her. First only a few torpedoes got through. Three, then four weapons
fired by the UEO and NSC battlecruisers struck home against the side plating of the
Octavian, knocking out power relays, maintenance sections and other minor systems. A
trickle became a deluge, and then the ocean itself became a tidal wave of ordnance.
Deprived of support, disoriented and outgunned, nothing could save the cruiser as it
attempted in vain to blow her ballast tanks and rise to the surface of the ocean. A few
launches and support craft managed to leave the ship‟s small hangars, but few of her crew
could have survived what followed. Two dozen torpedoes, perhaps more, exploded at fullyield
and engulfed the hull in fire. The conflagration obscured sight and sensors alike, and
when it cleared, little was left that could ever identify the ship for what it had once been.
Monarch and Repulse never paused in their advance as they crossed through
Commonwealth and Reverence‟s port flank, the latter warships heeling around hard to settle
in to a line abreast of their saviours. For a moment, the pair of Alliance carriers, and the lone
heavy cruiser beside them seemed an insignificant obstacle for the line of UEO
battlecruisers. As Repulse and Reverence took pause, Commonwealth and Monarch never
relented, pausing only a moment for their CICs to coordinate a combined strike from their
total weight of batteries. Targeting data was exchanged as the Alliance carrier tried futilely to
back off: its intercepts cutting down what few weapons were fired from Commonwealth‟s
escorting battlegroup.
At the exact same moment as the weapons officers aboard the UEO cruisers saw
their guidance locks turn green, the last Macronesian cruiser pulled out of formation and
began a final charge toward the UEO battle line. A salvo of torpedoes fired from
Commonwealth‟s forward batteries, the cruiser coming about again to put her bows straight
in to the barrage. Intercepts shot from tubes across her hull, screeching out to destroy the
UEO torpedoes precisely and aggressively until not one of the weapons remained. The UEO
battlecruisers continued undeterred, the Monarch adding to Commonwealth‟s fire with a
rippling cascade of torpedoes bursting from the ship‟s batteries to home in towards the
Alfred Deakin. In one last act of defiance, the last Alliance cruiser suddenly ploughed hard to
starboard, her bows plunging across the UEO line, directly in to the path of the hell storm
laid down by the UEO flagships.
- 112 -

It was a shocking, but deliberate act of supreme sacrifice the likes of which Ainsley
had never seen. An uncountable number of torpedoes buried themselves in to the massive,
exposed keel of the winged heavy cruiser, ripping it asunder piece by piece. So many
torpedoes tore in to it that she flooded completely and instantly, and didn‟t even have time to
implode as had her sisters. The missile strikes continued, the ship stubbornly lingering for
several seconds that all but saved the carriers beyond. Those officers on the UEO side felt
something stir in them as they witnessed the actions of those who knew they could not win,
and had given everything to make their deaths matter.
Matter it did, as the two Alliance carriers continued to pull away with ever-increasing
speed, the sacrifice of the cruiser and the fighters that stubbornly remained behind to
continue their futile duels against the combined forces of three UEO Carrier Sea Wings.
“We‟ve lost guidance lock on the carriers, Captain,” the tactical officer reported.
“Attempting to reacquire-”
“Belay that,” Banick cut in. “What‟s the status of those Chaodai cruisers?”
The tactical officer looked up from his console and shook his head, the shadow of his
brow casting a telling a darkness over his eyes. “Still coming. They‟ve assumed battle
formation and have deployed fighters.”
Admiral Ainsley was staring blankly at the plot, and the fading sonar return of the
dead Macronesian cruiser. “The Chaodai never retreat, Captain... Mister Jones, what was
the name of that heavy cruiser?” he asked, raising his voice over the din of the CIC‟s combat
chatter. The officer in charge of the operations post looked surprised as the Admiral called
for him, and hesitated for several seconds. The Admiral then looked up. “I asked you a
question, Lieutenant,” he snapped impatiently.
“I... I don‟t know, Admiral,” replied the operations chief apologetically.
Ainsley straightened, and Banick took a step back to look at the officer before adding
firmly, “Then find out, Lieutenant.”
Banick forgot about it quickly as he looked back at the fast-approaching Chaodai war
cruisers. “Helm, bring us about to zero-seven-zero, steady at six-two knots.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Roberts couldn‟t believe her eyes as the groans of tortured hull metal, tearing and
contorting, continued to ring throughout the sea around her. The massive Alliance heavy
cruiser still reeled in its death throes as the four UEO juggernauts passed silently overhead,
the great silhouettes standing out starkly against the light of the ocean‟s surface. It had been
a slaughter, but it was not over as her fighter continued its long run back through and around
the UEO taskforce. There were now dozens, if not close to a hundred subfighters assuming
formations around the great battlecruisers – the combined weight of three battle groups, plus
those that had arrived from the nearby seaQuest and Enterprise. She took a breath as the
rest of the VF-107 Rapiers settled in around her fighter, and then led them up to come back
around on the UEO fleet – slipping in to place effortlessly at the head of the fighter formation.
She looked across at the black-hulled fighter next to hers and saw the number
beneath the canopy.
“Bouncer; Deadstick - what‟s your count?”
After a moment, the radio crackled in her ear. “Deadstick; Bouncer – no casualties.”
Roberts nodded in relief and then looked back at the approaching mass of Chaodai
subfighters on her sonar, just two miles distant and closing fast.
“This is Roulette – bingo fuel. Returning home. All flights be advised, Warseer is
assuming battlefield control. Good hunting.”
Roberts felt a small rush of relief with that news, but nonetheless keyed her radio
again. “Understood, Roulette. Thanks for the help. See you back at the barn.”
“This is Warseer to all strike units. Tally-Ho on thirty-five bandits, closing on heading
zero-seven-zero at speed one-five-zero knots. All fighter group commanders assume attack
formations and engage. Cover the taskforce until ordnance delivery has been achieved. This
is going to get loud.”
- 113 -

Roberts rolled her neck and it cracked noisily under the weight of the helmet that felt
like it had been on her head for hours. Resettling herself in the seat, she slipped the helmet
visor up to wipe the sweat from her brow before returning it to its down and locked position
to take hold of the throttles again. Pushing them up, the engines whined and the fighter
shuddered forward. “Warseer, this is Sword-One, good to hear you. Throttles open,
engaging on zero-seven-zero. Halo, Cavalry groups - on my six. Pick your targets.”
Ainsley continued to watch as the line of fighter squadrons advanced from the cover
of the battlecruisers and bore down on the approaching Chaodai fighter fleet.
“Range?” he asked.
“Two miles, shooting solutions acquired; relaying targeting data to the fleet. We‟ll
have guidance locks and target solutions in one minute.”
Banick nodded his approval as he walked around the plot, his hands clasped at the
small of his back. “Tactical – magazine stocks?”
“Forty percent, Captain. Ninety six weapons loaded, fifty seven on the racks.”
Ainsley winced. Their attempts to sink the carriers had cost them over half of their
ordnance, and he doubted that the Reverence was in a much better position. “What about
secondaries?”
The tactical officer winced at the prospect. “If we start taking from the interception
stores, we could be in trouble sir. Intercept stocks are at thirty percent – eighty eight
weapons remaining.”
The Admiral shook his head. “Instruct the fleet to hold fire until ordered,” Ainsley held
up a hand. “We can‟t afford to make this protracted.”
The next minute passed painfully slowly as the two fleets of cruisers closed. The
Chaodai were committing themselves to suicide – five Komodo class strike cruisers were not
a match for four UEO and NSC Battlecruisers, but the enemy was undeterred by what faced
them, and continued to advance, dispersing only slightly to try and break up the barrage they
would inevitably face.
“For God‟s sake,” Banick shook his head in amazement, whispering in awe.
“Withdraw...”
Roderick swallowed a lump in her throat as she watched the stubborn Chaodai
advance. “They‟re not pulling back,” she said to herself inwardly.
“Gavin told me a story once,” Richards said to her quietly as the giant formation of
UEO fighters prepared to engage their most dangerous foes.
...Commonwealth took the lead as the formation of UEO battlecruisers steadily
assumed an overlapping wedge formation. The batteries across the fleet opened their outer
doors one by one, their targeting sweeps finished as the final guidance locks were
transferred to torpedo warheads.
“Guidance lock achieved, Admiral,” the tactical officer reported coldly. Ainsley
nodded, although his back was to the officer as he paced thoughtfully in front of the plot.
Richards bowed his head. “...The Royal Gurkha Rifles, from India, back in the Third
World War, apparently marched fifty miles in one single night to try and retake an airfield
from the Russians.”
Ainsley finally turned on a heel and nodded to the tactical station quietly, his voice
soft, and a single word: “Fire...”
“When they got there the following morning - the enemy just surrendered. They didn‟t
want a fight any more than the Gurkhas wanted to draw their war knives.”
...As one, the combined fleet of UEO Battlecruisers opened fire. One by one, the
batteries locked in to place and fired, before the next tube would rotate in to position and fire
again. The sight was akin to a fountain – a single, growing, cascading wall of whitewash
pouring from the protruding, jutting bows of the four great warships. In the first volley alone,
sixty four torpedoes entered the water with a high-pitched scream that reverberated for
twenty miles in every direction. A second later, and sixty more weapons entered the sea...
Two seconds after that, the number of weapons bearing down on the Chaodai cruiser line
had passed two hundred. Then two hundred and fifty... and then three hundred.
- 114 -

“...The Russians had heard stories that should a Gurkha ever draw their blade, it
could not be sheathed before it had drawn blood.”
...Three hundred and seventy five torpedoes from four battlecruisers bore down on
the Chaodai fleet with a tremendous howl. Facing the inevitable, the great wall of Chaodai
subfighters did everything in their insignificant power to stop the flood, attempting to shoot
down what they could, and when that failed, throwing themselves one by one directly in to
the missile‟s paths. The detonations started like a drum – a warsong that would be
remembered for the rest of the war as dozens of Chaodai pilots gave up their lives to defend
against a force that could not be resisted. The cruisers added their own weights of intercept
fire, shooting down swathes of the weapons as they began their terminal phase.
For the UEO fighter pilots in the water, the sight was unreal as the Chaodai fleet
continued to advance as one – their pilots destroying themselves in insane acts of ritual
suicide as a wall of fire washed over them to crash in to the fleet they protected.
Richards took a breath “...It was a lie.”
Two hundred and five torpedoes found their marks against barely five enemy
warships. The first string of impacts turned the ocean in to a maelstrom of destruction – the
sea becoming a single, massive, turbulent shockwave that obliterated scores of smaller
subfighters that were unfortunate enough to be within the blast radius. It continued for five
long, painful seconds as every set of eyes in the UEO fleet watched in horror and awe at
what their ships had wrought. Of the five heavy cruisers that stood against them, none
remained. Of the subfighters, there was no sign.
Richards sighed, his breath a harshly drawn underscore to the symphony of
destruction that even aboard the Commonwealth, echoed down the halls and carried to the
deepest recesses of the ship. “The Gurkhas took the airfield without ever firing a shot,” he
concluded. “That‟s the power of myth, Quinn.”
Absolute silence hung in the CIC for long seconds after the barrage finished. The
UEO fleet was silent now as it approached the mass grave it had created, and every face
was set hard in stone. Banick didn‟t say a word as Ainsley paced around the table, his eyes
locked on the wall ahead of him as he took a deep, hesitant breath. “Status?”
Silence followed for long seconds as the tactical officer looked back down at his own
displays. “...Targets destroyed.”
“Begin recovering our fighters,” the Admiral replied distantly. “Leave the CAP, but...
bring the rest in.”
“We‟ve got a new set of contacts to the west, sir,” the weapons officer offered again.
“Alliance IFF... three launches, light fighter escort.”
Ainsley looked at Banick for a moment as he considered it, only for the Captain to
stare back to the deck. Ainsley nodded once, and then slowly shook his head. “Search and
rescue teams. Leave them be. There‟ve been enough deaths today.”
The operations officer straightened. “Admiral... I have the name of that heavy cruiser.
I checked our acoustic log with battlenet records – she was the ANS Brisbane, sir. Crew of
one hundred and eighty officers and men.”
Ainsley nodded again, and then straightened to his full height before correcting his
uniform. “Thank you, Lieutenant...”
He paused, and then turned with wide gait to address the entire CIC. “What you just
saw, you may never see again,” he said solemnly. “Take a long, hard look. Your enemy is
human, and capable of every heroic and noble action that defined the greatest fighting spirits
in the history of warfare. Do not take that for granted.”
He let the statement hang heavily for a moment, and then bowed his head. “A
minute‟s silence, for the officers and crew of the ANS Brisbane.”
Ainsley‟s words were heard on every bridge from the Commonwealth to the Fall
River and Repulse. Without question, for the next sixty seconds across an entire taskforce of
two thousand seven hundred and forty one officers and sailors – not one said a word.
It was past midnight by the time the final orders of battle were resolved in the UEO
fleet. The last flights of exhausted fighters returned to their flight decks, damage control
- 115 -

teams tendered their last reports, and rostered crews slowly started to be relieved after
laborious shifts that had persisted for hours past when they had been scheduled to finish.
Admiral Ainsley finally walked out of the CIC at exactly three minutes past twelve,
almost swiping a steaming mug of coffee from an aid that had done the rounds as he walked
through the folding French doors and stepped on to the command deck for the first time in
nearly eight hours. The Admiral rolled his neck, eliciting several sharp cracks before rolling
his shoulders and uncomfortably loosening the zip at his jumpsuit‟s neck.
Aside from the stars on his shoulder, there was nothing remarkable about an
Admiral‟s uniform. It was the same basic pattern that it had been for the previous thirty years
– a black mandarin-collared jumpsuit over a white T-shirt or turtleneck. Ainsley was now
hugely regretting his decision at the start of the day to wear a turtleneck in lieu of his usual
garrison uniform.
Banick looked over his shoulder from the command plot, sensing the Admiral‟s
departure from the CIC and then excused himself to Callaghan before walking back to meet
him before he could leave. “Admiral, the final casualty report,” the Captain reported, handing
Ainsley a datapad with a short list of names.
Ainsley swallowed the mouthful of coffee with a painful and unprepared gulp as he
read the names, and then nodded. The fleet had gotten off lightly. A dozen pilots had been
killed, ten more had managed to eject, and Commonwealth had escaped with only a handful
of wounded. Reverence herself had fared the worst, with Captain Ford reporting the loss of
fifty seven of his ship‟s crew, and many more wounded. The maimed battlecruiser still limped
alongside the Commonwealth – she would keep her company only for the next few hours as
the flagship continued to head west, eventually rendezvousing with her own battlegroup that
would see her safely back to Fort Grace.
“Has engineering tendered their report?” Ainsley asked in turn.
Banick nodded. “Our damage was light. Our hull skin has already sealed the
breaches, and hull siphons have cleared those sections of flooding. I don‟t imagine we‟ll be
using the C5 access way any time soon, but... we should be able to get those torpedo
batteries operational again in a few days.”
The Admiral nodded as he handed the pad back to Banick and reached the top of the
stairs, stopping to turn and lean against the command deck‟s railing. “We‟ll need to resupply.
I don‟t want to be going through enemy lines without a full magazine. What‟s the nearest
fleet tender?”
Banick pursed his lips. “Admiral, we‟ve just taken a beating and it‟ll take us nearly
half a day to link up with a fleet tender and complete a full underway replenishment. I‟m not
sure if going through with this is wise.”
Ainsley nodded nonchalantly. “Maybe. Maybe not. But we can‟t be sitting on the
border without weapons, Captain, and the nearest friendly colony is nearly two hundred
miles away so I suggest we get a hold of Fleet and arrange a rendezvous, quickly.”
Banick sighed, seeing the Admiral‟s point without much point in arguing and then
looked up at one of the overhead charts on the command deck monitors. “The Lake Huron,
Third Fleet Logistics, could probably link up with us in about three hours,” he said.
“Best clear it with them,” Ainsley said as he checked to see whether the incoming
Officer of the Deck had arrived. “Lieutenant Galen?”
“Admiral?” asked the fresh-faced arrival happily.
“Have the Monarch and Repulse finished taking on wounded?”
The Lieutenant stopped at that, having not finishing going through the status reports
since his arrival. He quickly scanned his computer screen, and then nodded. “Just finishing
now by the looks of things.”
“Alright. Send my compliments to their captains, and then have them released. Signal
the Reverence that we‟re breaking formation and lay in a course west towards the Jarvis
colony. Best possible speed.”
“There is one more thing, sir,” Banick added, holding up another data slate.
Ainsley took the offered padd and reviewed it quickly. “The after action report?”
- 116 -

Banick nodded. “With your permission, I‟d like to forward it to Alliance Central
Command in Melbourne. It details the actions of the Brisbane, sir.”
Ainsley paused for a moment before nodding solemnly. “A superb thought. Please
see that it‟s done.”
The Admiral disappeared from the bridge soon after, leaving Banick alone with
Callaghan on the upper deck of the Battlecruiser‟s bridge. “You didn‟t ask him,” said
Callaghan quietly.
“I‟ll see him in the morning. We all need time to think right now, Ryan.”
“He explained it to you, yet?”
Banick shook his head. “Not a single word.”
Rapier Eight was the last of the Commonwealth‟s fighters to return to the ship as the
VF-108 Cavaliers finished launching to relieve the veteran squadron from its overwatch
CAP. Cunningham tossed a salute across the way to the last of the departing Cavaliers as
she finished clambering down the ladder that had been propped up against its side. With a
deep sigh, she removed steadied herself against the fighter‟s nose gear as she sat down,
and then lay on the deck, letting the helmet she‟d been wearing for the last seven hours roll
out of her hand. Closing her eyes, she let the exhaustion finally wash over her, her head a
swimming mess of every manoeuvre, every evasion and every kill. That had been
bookended by a six hour Combat Air Patrol as the fleet picked up its survivors, secured the
region and then completed a sweep of whatever forces the Alliance had chosen to leave
behind. “Happy Birthday, Sarah,” she muttered unhappily to herself as she unzipped the
front of her flight suit.
She continued to lie there in silence for several minutes until she felt the decks shake
slightly under her as a heavy pair of boots approached and sat down next to her. Her head
lolled over to look at the side-ways pilot next to her, squinting as she thought aloud. “My
head hurts.”
Lieutenant Samuel Rogers smiled a little as he played with his gloves, straightening
the fingers, and trying to press out the creases that time and wear had left in them. He said
nothing at first, instead putting his feet atop his own helmet. “So apparently, Richards came
through,” he said.
“Yeah, I got that,” Cunningham replied as she rubbed her tired face, feeling her
hands slick with the grease and muck that had gathered on her cheeks and forehead over
the course of the last six hours. Rogers stood up slowly after a minute or two, gathering his
helmet from the deck to stuff the gloves inside. He‟d already started to walk away when
Cunningham called out. “You gonna help me up?”
He stopped, grinning slightly as he turned and looked down at her. “That‟d be about
right. I‟m always pulling your ass off the floor.”
She rolled her eyes as he extended a hand. She gripped it, and he heaved her up off
the deck, his other hand steadying her as she stood. The two Lieutenants turned after a
moment to see Lieutenant Commander Wilhelm Schrader, Rapier Two, approaching quickly
from the holding bay‟s doors. He was a tall man, heavily built with a chiselled, brick-jaw and
short-cropped blonde hair. They straightened as he approached, his flight gear still underarm.
“You two alright?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” Rogers replied sharply. “Problem?”
“Debriefing, five minutes,” he ordered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
As quickly as he‟d entered, the squadron XO left again, his gait wide and his stride
long – showing none of the exhaustion that was still rife in the two junior pilots.
“How does he do that?” Cunningham asked as she picked up her own gear.
Rogers smiled. “German efficiency.”
~
- 117 -

V
T H E G H O S T S O F O UR P A S T
UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110, the Marianas Sea. April 11 th , 2043…
By Oh-Seven-Thirty, the squadron commanders of the First Carrier Sea Wing were
standing in the Flight Operations Centre, having been called in as soon as they‟d reported
for duty a half an hour earlier. The smell of freshly brewed coffee was a common scent in the
FOC during the waning hours of any shift, and that was especially true at the start of the day.
Red-eyed flight directors sat slouched around a gaggle of freshly showered fighter pilots with
no comprehension as to why they‟d been called there, and all of them wanted to be relieved.
Roberts and Coyle, along with Mikhail “Cossack” Buran of the 108 th “Cavaliers” and
the unfortunately promoted Lieutenant Commander Nathan “Killjoy” Tannen of the 173 rd
“Griffons” were the four fighter squadron commanders on the Commonwealth. Standing with
them were the commander of the Battlegroup‟s only SEWACS squadron, Commander
Rebecca Raincastle and her operational chief – an unremarkable man bearing blue fleetdivision
rank slides and the squadron patch of VAW-2, the “Longshots” – Commander
Jackson Allenfort. He was better known to those present by his callsign, “Warseer”.
The gathered officers heard a door close noisily as voices drifted up the corridor,
inaudible above the hum of the ship‟s engines and radio chatter from the control pit of the
FOC below them. A few seconds later, and they watched as Captain Corinn Roderick
stepped in to the room, with Ed Richards walking awkwardly at her side.
Both officers looked exhausted, as though neither had slept throughout the entire
night – but more to the point, Roberts‟ eyes were drawn up to the man‟s collar to the rank
slides he wore, and narrowed them slightly as she saw the change almost immediately. Two
stars, flanking a pair of „kissing dolphins‟, set over two gold bars: the insignia of a Wing
Commander.
“Good morning,” Roderick said as she sipped from a well-worn black mug. It still had
the word “CAG” printed across its front, although the letters had long since begun to fade.
Roderick looked haggard – the appearance of dark rings under her eyes lending some
degree of credit to the reputation of her spectacular, deep brown eyes being able to
famously burn holes in whoever they stared at. Lately, those eyes hadn‟t had the same
spark of fire, and that morning, they were dull and emotionless.
“Ma‟am,” they all replied in various tones and manners.
“Congratulations, sir,” Roberts said, looking at Richards and glancing momentarily at
the dolphins on his shoulders.
Richards flashed a quick smile, but hid it just as fast under his own mug. Roderick
looked at him, and then back at Roberts and the other gathered commanders. “That‟s the
first thing I called you here for,” she explained. “Admiral Ainsley cleared it last night. As of
today, Wing Commander Richards will be assuming all responsibilities for the
Commonwealth‟s arm of the First Carrier Sea Wing.”
The gathered pilots nodded their approval, and Roderick went on. “As you probably
guessed, Admiral Ainsley‟s recent arrival has changed my immediate plans. My orders to
leave for the Constellation have been rescinded indefinitely and I am to coordinate all
taskforce fighter operations.”
“Taskforce?” Allenfort asked with a raised eyebrow, his arms folded in front of him as
he sat on the plot table.
Roderick nodded. “Admiral Ainsley is forming a new task group under the orders of
the Fleet Command. I‟m afraid I can‟t give you mission-specific details at this point, but for
the time being... we have more immediate problems to deal with.”
She looked around the FOC, and then ushered them in to the officer‟s briefing room
next door. The commanders obediently filed in, and Richards closed the door behind them
as they took seats around the big, polished Piano-black table in the middle of the room.
- 118 -

Roderick walked around them all to go to the head of the office and the seat that sat in front
of the wall chart. “What‟s the issue?” Coyle asked as he settled back.
“The Admiral‟s sending the ship to the Tongan Prospects.”
Allenfort and a few others sat forward in surprise, suddenly very aware of what had
just been said. The Warseer commander‟s jaw was open. “That‟s over five hundred miles
behind enemy lines,” he said. “Inside Atlas range.”
Richards remained silent although Roberts recognised the tight line he‟d pulled his
lips in to as being a repression of an altogether bitter thought. The Captain just nodded.
“Yes, it is. That‟s not something we can really do anything about, but it does present us with
something of an opportunity.”
Roderick keyed in something to the console on the desk where she sat, and the
mirrored, black table surface warped and started to glow as a holographic map was
projected above it, showing a vast area of water north of New Zealand – the Tongan Trench.
The so-called “Tongan Prospects” were a string of heavily populated and industrialized
colonies that dotted the areas surrounding the trench itself, and were infamous as being
symbolic of the Macronesian Alliance‟s industrial might. The massive mineral wealth found in
the area had made the Alliance rich, and turned the loose political alliance in to a military
superpower. Over seventeen million people inhabited the prospect‟s colonies – the vast
majority of them related to some of the largest seafloor mining corporations on the planet.
The map highlighted an area of the Pacific not far from that expanse, a single tiny
island – the Macaw Bank.
“Some of you might have been hearing whispers about attacks on Alliance military
vessels in this region, and that we have absolutely no idea who is behind them, why, or
where they came from. It‟s not much of a rumour considering that we lack first hand
intelligence, but... the reports have been coming up with multiple Wing Commanders in the
Third Fleet.”
“Ghost stories,” muttered Tannen. “So no one‟s witnesses an attack first hand, we
have no idea where the rumours came from, and whoever did start reporting on it has no
explanation as to who, where and why it‟s happening? That‟s... a big leap, Captain.”
“He has a point,” Coyle agreed.
“Normally, I‟d agree with you both. I don‟t like scuttlebutt anymore than the next
officer on this ship, but something came up with the Admiral that got me thinking. A set of
latitude and longitude coordinates, which specifically pointed to this location.”
“Where did he get that?” Roberts asked,
“That‟s the interesting part,” Roderick explained. “Every report I‟ve read on these
attacks has come from somewhere in fleet intelligence. Usually those reports are pulled only
hours after they‟ve been put online. The only explanation I‟ve ever got from that was that the
report was inaccurate, and redacted pending correction – anything else I asked them was
flatly rebuked. When I asked the Admiral where his information came from, he dodged the
question.”
“And by dodged,” Coyle started slowly, “You mean he told you to keep it to yourself.”
Roderick blushed a little. “The Admiral didn‟t give me an order to do any such thing.
He merely requested that I keep things quiet, but his implication was clear enough.”
“That‟s why we‟re going to the Prospects, isn‟t it?” Roberts nodded slowly.
Roderick smiled. “Wherever Ainsley got his information from, it was enough for him to
go beyond the orders of our current mission to order this ship across five hundred miles of
enemy lines to have a look. That said, given what we‟ve heard... I have to treat those reports
as credible.”
“So, the Admiral‟s keeping us in the dark?” Allenfort asked.
“The world is too big for coincidence of this sort, Commander,” Roderick replied
coolly. “I can only assume that whatever Ainsley is expecting to find, it‟s related. Starting
now, I want a double CAP with SEWACS support twenty four hours a day.”
“...So we want to find these people?”
“No,” Roderick shook her head with surprise. “But Admiral Ainsley does.”
- 119 -

Even at ten o‟clock in the morning, there was very little to tell the time of day on a
submarine. In a calm sea, in tropical waters, it was still possible for some things to be seen
outside of the ship‟s view ports even at depths of about a thousand feet. No turbidity or
currents, in a sheltered basin, aided by the ship‟s own flood lamps could provide illumination
for nearly a hundred meters, at times making for some truly spectacular sights. The
darkness in the Admiral‟s office that day was telling of the conditions outside. A massive
storm now raged above Commonwealth, belting the eastern Marshall Islands with a force he
hadn‟t seen in a very long time. Somewhere out the windows, past the murky fog that had
settled in the archipelago, Ainsley knew the Reverence still kept company, and would
continue to do so for several long hours to come. Occasionally, he‟d look up as the room
shook while a unit of subfighter passed by the battlecruiser‟s flank, but otherwise, the only
sound that permeated the room was that of Sonata No. 14 in C Minor, Opus 27, No. 2.
In front of him, a pile of sixty nine letters remained unsigned as he continued to listen
to the sonata, idly working his way through the fleet reports that had been tendered by the
captains of the taskforce. The pile looked unremarkable at first glance – all of the letters
being worded exactly the same way, bearing the seal of the UEO Pacific Command, printed
in duplicate, with the names of sixty nine individuals whom he had never met. It was a cold
and cruel way of dealing with the loss, but this was the way it had always been.
After a time, Ainsley turned to his computer and brought up the four dates again to
stare at them in curiosity. The final one was that which held his attention the most. 090941 –
The Ninth of September, 2041. Banick had been correct in his assertion that the date did
not, as Ainsley initially suspected, relate to the sinking of the Atlantis. With that realization
had emerged a pattern that had since preoccupied the Admiral since he‟d „broken‟ the riddle
– it was Annie.
Each number, a date corresponding to a specific event in the development of
Artificial Intelligence, bore a significance that ultimately led back to the Atlantis AI. Only the
third number – that of a date in 2039 – remained a mystery; and Ainsley suspected many of
his answers lay within its solution.
The door chimed, and he looked up from the monitor, a hand subconsciously moving
to hit the escape key which in turn hid the dates from view. “Come in.”
The door to the office cracked open, allowing light from the bright corridor outside to
spill through and almost silhouette the person entering the office. James Banick had never
been the most remarkable of figures, being neither heavy in build or particularly imposing in
stature, and in that, he was recognisable.
Ainsley leaned back. “Captain?”
Banick stepped out of the shadows and in to the soft lights provided solely by the ring
of studio lights that illuminated the desk from the ceiling. “We‟re about to clear the Marshals
AOR,” he said flatly. “Thought you might want to know we‟ve finished replenishment
operations with the Huron.”
“Good,” Ainsley ordered. “Then we should be at Macaw in the next day... Was there
something else, Captain?”
Banick continued to stare ahead, shifting slightly where he stood. “Yes sir.
“I was hoping I might speak to you about this mission, sir.”
Ainsley put the pen in his hand back down on the desk and looked back at his old
executive officer with a wary gaze. “You‟re still not happy, are you?”
Banick just shook his head, staring at the deck. He was hesitant. “Admiral, you‟ve
already made yourself quite clear. I‟m not here to question those orders, but I‟d appreciate it
if you could put in to context how it‟s going to help us take back Pearl Harbor.”
Ainsley worked his jaw for a moment as his eyes burned in to the Captain before him.
In truth, he wished he had an explanation. At the very least, Banick deserved one – but
Ainsley didn‟t know what to tell him. “I can‟t tell you that, Jim,” he said quietly.
Banick stepped forward, wrapping his hands over the back of the chair opposite the
Admiral. “Admiral, with respect, you‟re ordering me to place my ship in a position that puts
both her and her crew at extraordinary risk. You‟ve offered me absolutely no explanation as
- 120 -

to how this action can contribute in any meaningful way to the recapture of Pearl Harbor. If
you were in my position... what would you do?”
Admiral Ainsley allowed an inward, half-smile. There wasn‟t a day that went by where
Ainsley didn‟t recall vividly the destruction of the Atlantis, and Banick knew it. “You already
know what I‟d do,” Ainsley countered firmly. “I followed my orders, irrespective of the cost.”
“Even though you knew full-well what those orders might mean for your command?”
Ainsley turned, and stared through the dark viewports at the black ocean beyond. All
he saw, though, was his own reflection in the glass. “Twenty four hours,” Ainsley sighed.
“That‟s all I want.”
“And if we haven‟t found anything by then, you‟ll return to the mission?”
Ainsley rounded on the Captain, restraining himself only at the last second as he
raised an accusing finger, and then stopped. “...We haven‟t left the mission,” he said with
acid. “Even I have my orders, Banick. Try not to forget that.”
“We‟re out here chasing rumours and shadows,” Banick snapped back. “You have
absolutely no way of knowing that message you got wasn‟t a trap. For all we know, that‟s
exactly how we lost the Aquarius.”
Ainsley snapped. “I want answers!” he spat, his voice shouting through the darkness
and silence to make the Captain step back. “Aquarius, Atlantis, seaQuest – all of them gone
and not one of them for a single explanation that makes any sense, or has given me a single
reason to sleep better at night. We were used, and now whoever did those things is using us
again. I want them, Banick. And by the time I‟m done, I will have their hide nailed to my wall!”
Ainsley‟s fist slammed in to the desk hard, making the china set on the side rattle
noisily, a teacup sliding off the table and smashing across the floor. Banick‟s eyes glanced at
it for a moment, and then locked back with the Admiral – the man‟s grey eyes cutting a hole
through him with a look he‟d only seen a few, dark times. “Do you really think that now, after
so long, we‟re any closer to knowing the truth than we were when we started?”
“We have to be,” the Admiral rasped - his knuckles cracking as he squeezed his fist
closed. “Get us to Macaw, Captain. Best possible speed.”
~
T H E G I R L A T T H E E N D O F T H E W O R L D : III
One hundred miles off the west coast of Africa, August 9 th , 2030...
Anne Ballard stared at the computer monitor, trying to force her eyes to focus. It had
been three days since she last slept, her mind still a swimming mess of disjointed thoughts,
concepts and realizations that made her ache. The results of the last test were impossible to
read any other way – the last introduction of the catalyst had caused a cascading decay of
neurological functions in 95% of subjects.
...Including Subject One.
It had taken forty six hours of constant genetic chemical analysis to find a solution to
that problem, but the possibility existed that it may well exacerbate the issue. The mapping
of the human genome was well known, but the strain of DNA used in the catalyst was still a
complete mystery. The compartmentalization of the project team meant that not one person
knew everything there was about the engineered properties of the strain, and she was
beginning to doubt if there was anyone who knew anything at all.
The possibility existed in her mind that the strain hadn‟t been engineered at all, but
Thecus van der Weer had since disappeared – taking all of his notes with him. If anyone
knew, it would have been him.
This brought Ballard back to her original hypothesis, and a gamble that would either
advance the project well beyond its expected outcome, or leave everything in ruin. The
decay in the genome brought about by the catalyst‟s introduction was a result of the strain‟s
- 121 -

dominant nature over human DNA. Over time, the process of human cell reproduction was
being „re-programmed‟ with the information of the strain. Brain chemistry changed, neural
activity increased, but without a control agent, that process would eventually lead to a
terminal failure of the body‟s most basic functions.
It had taken nearly three years, but Ballard finally had her smoking gun. The vial on
the desk in front of her, loaded in to the back of a long, hypodermic needle, was the answer.
Like pieces of a puzzle – every advance in the catalyst‟s structure had added a new level of
complexity to the equation, but the equation thus far had made no sense. One plus two, plus
three, plus four, in this case, only made nine. There was always something missing.
Yet, every experiment needed its control. There had to be something by which to
measure the weight of results. Introduced to a subject who had already undergone four or
five stages of genetic manipulation, this one would produce little more than another bracket
to the maths. She had to know what it could do on that which was „clean‟.
Ballard squeezed her hand hard she looked at the syringe again, and closed her
eyes. It had been seven years since she‟d been diagnosed with her condition and it had
never – to this point – interfered with her work, but the parallels could not be denied.
She was dying. Over time, her neurological functions would inevitably fail as they
continued to misfire and decay. Ten years at best, is what they had told her. And the end
would be painful. She experienced some of that even then as chronic migraines, headaches
and pains pulled at the insides of her skull.
The vial in front her might not cure her condition, but it might slow it down enough to
give her a little longer. Five years ago it might have been enough, but the damage was
already done.
She took a breath as she stood and removed her coat, hanging it from the hook on
the wall. She wore little more than a tank underneath, and she grabbed the alcohol swab
and dabbed her arm before grabbing the needle.
Priming it, she drew a breath sharply and felt fire lance through her arm as she
squeezed the syringe. The sensation was unreal as it coursed through her veins, and her
vision started to blur. Her head spun as she removed the needle, and let it drop to the desk.
Anne Ballard felt the world turn as her eyes continued to blur and fade. She stepped
back from the desk after a moment, and began to wonder if she had made a terrible mistake.
Finally, the headache returned – hitting her like a hammer on the inside of her skull. She
never even realised what was happening as she passed out, and collapsed to the floor.
Nine Days Later, August 18 th , 2030...
The girl threw herself at the mirror, a violent „crack‟ as the glass splintered making
Doctor Ballard wince as the retched soul continued to thrash around the cell, losing her
mind. She put a hand to her mouth as Sanaa eventually collapsed to the floor, the
convulsions and spasms slowly subsiding to leave her sprawled – bruised, shaken and
exhausted – across the white, tiled floor. The display had lasted over half an hour, and the
entire time, Captain Samuel Ezard had simply watched in silence, emotionless, and
seemingly uncaring for anything except a result.
He regarded the doctor, unimpressed, but didn‟t say a word. Ballard took a breath
and shook her head. “She‟s been like this since we administered the treatment,” she
explained. “She won‟t eat, sleep or talk. She just starts these tantrums, repeating the same,
unintelligible nonsense over and over again. Eventually she just collapses, from sheer
exhaustion. It we don‟t find a way to stop this, she‟ll probably enter synaptic shock... and
then we‟ll lose her.”
“The subject‟s survival is paramount, Doctor,” Ezard said dryly, his voice grinding
over the words like gravel. “Find a solution, by any means.”
Ballard looked uneasy. “Captain... We‟re running out of patients. We lost twelve more
in just three days from the last stage of the catalyst. That‟s twice what it was at stage four.
This isn‟t working.”
- 122 -

“And if it doesn‟t work, then everything we‟ve done here in the last six years is going
to be for nothing,” Ezard snapped.
“You don‟t need to explain it to me,” hissed Ballard, refusing to bow to Ezard‟s
demand. “I know what she represents. What I need is flexibility.”
Ezard stopped, looking back at the girl on the floor as she retched again, dry hacking
an empty stomach on to the floor. Her eyes burned in to him through the glass again, and he
turned back on the doctor. “You have whatever you need.”
Standing behind them both, having not said a word, Ryan Callaghan continued to
look on at the freak show before him, nodding curtly as Ezard brushed past and disappeared
in to the hall. Callaghan folded his arms and breathed deeply as Ballard shook her head
again. Quietly, the Doctor forwarded out of the room the way Ezard had, but stopped at the
bulkhead frame, casting a guilt-full eye at the Lieutenant. “Wait thirty seconds. You‟re
already cleared, and the guards won‟t interfere...” she whispered, reaching in to her pocket.
“You‟ve got five minutes.”
Ballard produced a small needle – its canister loaded, hidden from the view of the
room‟s cameras by her own hand. She slipped it in to Callaghan‟s hand as the Lieutenant
looked at her with understanding. “What‟s this?”
“I didn‟t tell Ezard,” she said. “He can‟t know. Not now.”
“Doctor,” Callaghan stopped her with a hand firmly on her shoulder before should
could leave. “What is it?”
She looked at him, her eyes pained. “It‟s the stage six catalyst.”
“Doctor, the stage six doesn‟t work. If we give that to her now, it‟ll kill her.”
“It works,” she promised.
“And how do you know that?”
“Wait thirty seconds,” she said again. “Then do what you have to. Trust me, Ryan.”
Ballard continued walking, and Callaghan stood in silence for several long seconds at
the girl in the cell, through the two-way mirror. He felt the vial in his hand as he continued to
wait, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. There were no cameras in this room – Ezard
had been deliberate in that decision. The best way to ensure security was to make sure
something simply didn‟t exist.
He walked to the door to the cell and put his hand on the scanner. It hummed for a
moment and the door unlocked with a heavy „clack‟ that vibrated through the deck. He
opened the door slowly, exhaling as he smelt the sterile, disinfected air. The girl‟s head shot
up, her face obscured behind a veil of matted, unwashed hair, and he held up a cautioning
hand as he walked towards her slowly, keeping the vial out of sight. She was already wise to
it as her eyes locked on his hidden hand, and she steadily backed away towards the wall.
Could she have seen...?
Callaghan stopped, and slowly nodded his understanding. “Hello, Sanaa,”
She scrambled backwards until she was against the wall, and he slowly produced the
needle so she could clearly see it. “I want to help you.”
Her eyes went wide for a moment as she saw the syringe, filled with the familiar, offwhite
liquid that she had endured so many times before. Callaghan took another step
forward, the glimmer in the fierce eyes at the end of the room speaking of the enormous
intelligence that dwelt therein. He could use that, but after so many years he had to wonder if
there was anything left of the girl‟s mind at all.
He looked around and found the plain chair next to the mattress, upturned and
unused. He carefully walked to it, and pulled it back up right to sit down slowly. “They never
use your name do they,” he asked quietly, his question drawing nothing more from the fierce,
brilliant eyes. “You probably don‟t even know what a name is...”
“Sanaa...” she whispered, the sound escaping her lips as little more than a note of
recognition.
“Yeah, that‟s what they told me. You remember, don‟t you?”
She looked down, her brow trembling slightly as she slumped forward.
“You know, Doctor Ballard wants to help you,” he said. “She thinks this... will make it
stop hurting.”
- 123 -

Callaghan held up the syringe again, twirling it in his fingers. Seconds were ticking
down that he didn‟t have, and he leaned forward. “I‟m Ryan-“
-She rambled. “-Callaghan. UEO Section 7 serial number A-151205. Assigned to
command staff of Nycarus project, 2024. Date of enlistment-“
“Wait, stop,” he said, sitting up again in shock. “How do you know all this?”
“You always listen,” she whispered again, looking at him quietly, her eyes finally
meeting his. “They said they couldn‟t take the catalyst because I was different and that it
would kill them. All the others... they‟re dead. But I‟m not. I listen, too...”
Callaghan stared at her in amazement as she looked down at the floor again. “Yes...
but I never mentioned any of that,” he said softly.
She looked up again, her arms hugging her knees close. “I listen,” she said again.
“Files, names, talking... All just puzzles. They can be solved.”
He nodded, but didn‟t know what to say. She continued to stare at him.
“They call it the catalyst...” she said, eyeing the syringe in Callaghan‟s hand again.
“But they‟re all dying...”
“Yes,” he said truthfully. “They‟re all dying.”
“But not me,” she said. “I‟m not allowed to die.”
“Will you let me help you?” he asked, drawing a slow breath.
“You have to,” she said. “I‟ll only get sick if you don‟t. Just like the others.”
He nodded, and then got up to walk over to her where he sat down, and gently took
her arm. He swallowed and exhaled slowly as he pulled up the girl‟s sleave to reveal the
bruised railroad tracks on her arm, and momentarily closed his eyes.
He squeezed a small amount of the fluid the syringe after he uncapped it, and then
found the vein.
“It‟s not your fault,” she said, staring in to the distance, beyond the cell walls.
He shook his head as he worked. “There was a time I believed in this,” he said. “But
seeing everything here...”
“They didn‟t tell you,” she said. “But I know.”
“What do you mean?” he asked her in turn.
“They‟re all dying,” she said simply, turning to face him again, her eyes wide and
alert.
“A few survived,” Callaghan sighed. “Several thousand, maybe... They‟re all ok, now,”
he tried. “Ngunntini, the rebellion... it‟s all over.”
“No, it‟s not,” she shook her head. “I listen. I hear things.”
“What do you mean by that?” He asked her again. “I don‟t understand.”
She looked away again. “All dying. Only the answer, never the solution.”
Callaghan allowed himself a small inward smile as he capped the syringe and
pressed the cotton to her skin. “On that one, I think I agree.”
He stood slowly as she continued to stare across the room. “I‟ve got to go,” he said,
looking at the clock on the wall. “I‟m sorry, Sanaa... I wish there was something more I could
do.”
“All dying...” she whispered again as Callaghan walked for the door.
“No solution... only the answer.”
~
Callaghan pushed through the doors of the Proteus‟ science labs and marched
straight through to Doctor Ballard‟s office, several of the working scientists turning to look at
him strangely as he strode through purposefully, trying hard to ignore the rows of sick and
dying patients who never had names. Only numbers.
And those numbers went in to the tens of thousands.
He brushed the plastic screen aside as he left the „clean‟ area of the lab and entered
the administration wing, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of the Doctor. One of the
- 124 -

other senior researchers caught his gaze and pointed to her office, gaining a curt nod in
reply. He walked to the door, but didn‟t knock as he pushed his way through again, and
closed the door behind him.
“What the hell was that?” he asked the Doctor demandingly, finding her sitting behind
the desk again, her coat on the wall behind her. Ballard looked up, meeting the Lieutenant
distantly.
“You‟re going to have to be more specific, Lieutenant.”
“The girl. You know exactly what I‟m talking about, Anne.”
“The stage six catalyst works,” Ballard said simply, leaning forward in her chair and
swivelling the monitor around so he could see it.
Callaghan looked at the graph. He‟d seen a similar one before, but the decline across
its length had spoken volumes to the project‟s problems. This time, it had plateaued – still in
decline, perhaps, but at a much slower rate. There were no details as to who the graph had
been measured from, but it clearly showed tissue growth and catalyst levels were reaching a
level that could almost be called equilibrium.
“I don‟t understand,” Callaghan pressed. “Why didn‟t you tell the Captain?”
Ballard scoffed. “If Ezard knew about this, he‟d take control and all this would be for
absolutely nothing, Callaghan. We‟re on the verge of solving some of the biggest questions
of genetic science, and all we need is time. He‟s watching me too closely. Sanaa is the
answer. Do you think Ezard has any use of the practical science behind this project? He
wants a weapon.”
“Where did this come from?” Callaghan asked, nodding at the display.
Ballard hesitated before she answered. “A patient.”
Callaghan stared at her blankly. “Sanaa is the only one who has shown any
continued signs of stability in the entire program, and it couldn‟t be from her – so who was
it?”
Ballard swallowed, and looked down for a moment. She nodded, and then looked
him in the eye. “It‟s me.”
“What?”
Ballard shook her head. “I had to have a control agent, Callaghan. I had to know
what it would do.”
“Jesus Christ,” Callaghan reeled, turning on his heel. “Anne, you... Do you have an
idea what you‟ve just done?” He pointed accusingly at the rows of gurneys outside. “How
many people has this project killed already? Are you insane?”
“That‟s why I couldn‟t risk it,” she said sadly.
Callaghan looked back at the graph, and suddenly it clicked. The decline in the graph
had started before the catalyst was introduced. “Wait... Have you done this to yourself
before?”
She smiled. “With some of the „results‟ we‟ve had to date? No, of course not.”
“Then how can that graph be from you? You‟ve got so many of the markers the
Nycarus patients do it isn‟t even funny. You‟d have to be-”
Callaghan stopped, and Ballard smiled weakly as she looked back at the monitor. “I
had to try it,” she said. “It was my only chance.”
“I‟m so sorry,” he said finally, his voice softening. “...How long?”
“After this? Ten years, tops. It‟s a sight better than what I had ten days ago, Ryan.
I‟ve known about my „condition‟ for about seven years.”
“You‟ve never told anyone?”
“No, of course not,” she said. “There‟s nothing that can be done, so there‟s no point
in fussing about it. In ten years, probably less, my nervous system is going to fail, and
there‟s nothing I can do about that. I guess I figured if I can help what‟s happening here, then
maybe... I‟d have a chance.”
She swallowed, and pressed her hand to her chin uncomfortably as her eyes began
to well. “I guess it didn‟t quite work that way.”
She sniffed slightly, and then got up quickly to excuse herself. “I‟m sorry, I can‟t talk
about this.”
- 125 -

“No, I‟m sorry,” Callaghan said again. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Just keep it to yourself,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“Do you think it‟s going to help Sanaa?”
Ballard sighed. “...I hope so.”
UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110, Mata’utu, west of the Tongan Trench. April
12 th , 2043…
~
“All hands, man your battle stations. Rig ship for silent running,” announced the 1MC
across the ship. The atmosphere on Commonwealth‟s bridge was tense once again as the
command staff considered their position. Five hundred miles behind enemy lines, sitting
barely a hundred miles from the most heavily populated Macronesian submarine colonies,
no one even wanted to sneeze.
Admiral Ainsley rolled his knuckles as he examined the plot. SEWACS had already
picked up no less than twenty Alliance patrols since they‟d entered the Tongan Prospects,
the ship‟s helmsmen having manoeuvred the battlecruiser through the sonar-masking, dense
island chain with a level of skill and precision he‟d not seen since he was on the Atlantis.
Banick‟s crew were well-drilled, and he was counting on that now more than ever as they
took every possible action to avoid the Macronesian fleet... and a lethal barrage of Atlas
ballistic missiles that would be only minutes behind them. Crossing open water in
Macronesia was a recipe for disaster for any ship trying to reach the southern ocean as a
vast network of proximity sensors, sonar buoys and patrols identified virtually everything that
traversed the sea lanes. Terrain was difficult to use properly, but remained the only option
for anyone attempting to avoid detection. It was easy to use such techniques in something
as small as a speeder or attack submarine, but the reality was that a Reverence class
battlecruiser displaced sixty thousand tonnes, and did not come to new headings and
speeds with the response one would expect of a subfighter. It was like balancing on a knife –
a single mal-adjusted course correction or poorly anticipated change in speed would make
the ship show up on sonars for miles in every direction.
Ainsley traced a line from the tiny island of Mata‟utu north-west through the shallows
of the Waterwitch Bank and Adolph Seamount, finding the Macaw Bank barely two hundred
and sixty four miles away. At her present speed of sixty knots, Commonwealth would reach it
in a little over four hours. While she could undoubtedly get there faster, it wouldn‟t be without
the risk of her massive aqua-return drives betraying their position.
Banick looked apprehensive at the Conn, and Ainsley left him to his thoughts. He
regarded Ryan Callaghan across the chart table with a knowing smile. Silent running was
almost a joke on a submarine of Commonwealth‟s size, and the best they could hope for
was to simply reduce its acoustic signature by locking things down and shutting off any
„essential‟ systems – from backup reactors through to the galley stoves. Conversation would
additionally be limited purely to what needed to be said. Orders, reports and
acknowledgements would continue as normal, but the fact of the matter was that with a
roster of seven hundred officers and crew, the din created by so many conversing ship
mates would produce as much noise as a small rock concert.
Callaghan exhaled slowly as he felt the temperature rise. Another uncomfortable fact
was that the air conditioning plant on a ship of this size produced a substantial amount of
noise as well, and it had to be shut down. In a little as a half an hour, they‟d know which of
the bridge staff had forgotten to put on extra deodorant before they‟d reported for duty.
“Instruct the CAP to push on ahead,” Ainsley ordered quietly. “About fifty miles.”
Callaghan nodded, and relayed the order through to the FOC. In the end, her
escorting fighters could be even more of a problem as their powerful engines screamed
- 126 -

through the deep, drawing any manner of attention to their location – and by extension – any
ship that they were travelling in company with.
“Helm, status?”
“Steady on course three-one-five, speed sixty knots,” the helmsmen replied flatly.
“ETA four hours.”
Ainsley nodded, and then looked across to Banick. “Start the clock.”
He looked up to the top of the chart table and watched as the digital clock there
reset, and started counting down from “-03:59:00”. Drawing a breath, Ainsley sipped his
coffee again, and settled in for the long haul...
...Jane Roberts stuck close to the seafloor, the fighter skipping over embankments of
dead coral as it completed a long circuit around the battlegroup perimeter. Like sharks, the
twelve Raptors of her squadron circled Commonwealth, watching, waiting and looking for
trouble. She sighed as he stomach grumbled unhappily, and contemplated the chocolate bar
sitting in her jumpsuit‟s breast pocket. Before she had a chance to reach for it, the radio
cracked in her ear.
“Sword, this is Warseer. Orders from Actual – Proceed fifty miles north-west and
begin screening their approach vector. Roulette will provide local EW.”
“Wilco, Warseer. All flights - spread out... one mile separation. Proceed to Waypoint
Delta independently. Let‟s try not to give the Macs an easy target.”
“Agreed,” Warseer added. “Be advised – weapons are free. We cannot allow any
confirmed enemy contact with Actual under any circumstances. If they manage to get her
position, it‟s over. All targets are legal.”
Roberts nodded slowly. She‟d expected that when she‟d asked the deck chiefs for a
full weapons load. At that moment, her fighter was nearly a full tonne over its missionstandard
weight, sporting four ASF-8 “Cobra” torpedoes, and an additional two, heavier,
thousand-pound BM-9 “Harpoons”. This was in addition to a thousand rounds of 25mm
“DUSEX” explosive depleted uranium slugs. The rest of the squadron was much the same.
Pushing her throttles up, she cleared her wings left and right before finishing her
circuit to come around tight under the ventral hull of the massive Commonwealth. She
looked up at it as she passed, feeling the cold of darkness as its huge bulk cast a shadow
that blocked out the sunlight from the surface just a few hundred feet above. In waters this
shallow, any engagement was going to be tight...
The next two hours passed in total silence. Even the Rapiers dared not say a word,
fearful that any off-the-cuff radio chatter might and could well be heard from any number of
nearby bases. Roberts knew from the official board of inquiry that it had been that which
ultimately doomed the Atlantis – an innocuous remark from a Dark Angels pilot, picked up by
a hovering Alliance SEWACS that traced its origin, and with it, the identity of the pilots in
question. It hadn‟t taken long for them to put two and two together, and Atlantis was gone
just hours later.
Roberts never even saw the unit of fighters that shadowed her for the next eighty
three miles, watching, examining, and studying every move. The squadron commander
regarded the Rapiers carefully, instructing his own fighters to hold well back as they
shadowed them on their way to the Macaw Bank. The sleek, dark sea-blue hulls of their
strange, yet familiar subfighters blended perfectly in to the sea - once even managing to get
close enough to the Rapiers to make out the markings on their tails. They were all but
invisible to the UEO sonars, and if they had wanted to, they could have destroyed the entire
UEO squadron in seconds before departing without a trace they had ever been there.
Not a single marking was born on any of the shadowing craft – not squadron, number
or nation being discernable from even the closest of inspections. They simply didn‟t exist.
But this was not common even of mercenaries – that is, assuming they were.
Mercenaries, pirates and criminals typically bore falsified markings and paintwork to obscure
their origins and evade civil law enforcement. At the same time, the likelihood of a private
organization having such uniform craft was utterly unheard of.
- 127 -

For eighty three miles they watched and listened, steadily identifying each and every
one of the UEO Raptor II‟s... and inevitably, their origin. The pursuing fighters were all-too
aware of the Battlecruiser that trailed them, but no message was transmitted. Once their
business was done, the twelve, shadowy craft simply melted in to the fog and disappeared...
leaving as silently as they had arrived.
Thirty minutes after this, an Alliance patrol en-route to the Macaw Bank about
seventy miles west of the UEO battlegroup inexplicably disappeared. Four SA-33
Broadswords of the Macronesian 4 th Fleet‟s 243 rd Fighter Squadron had only enough time to
broadcast their location before they were utterly eradicated, their attackers remaining
unknown.
...The alert reached the Commonwealth‟s CIC and bridge communications stations
minutes after the distress call had gone out, leaving both tactical and operations officers
scratching their heads in confusion. Whatever had happened, it had been enough to pull
almost every major Alliance warship out of position to respond for forty miles in every
direction. What this meant for Commonwealth remained unclear.
Ainsley walked in to the CIC moments later to receive the report, and he didn‟t even
need to ask as the CIC watch officer handed him a sheet of paper with the print out.
Roderick and Richards stepped in to the room behind him as he turned to lean against the
main plot. He read it quickly, and then passed it to Roderick without a sound.
Taking one look at it, Roderick pursed her lips and walked to the flight operations
station on the upper level. “Captain Banick, please report to the CIC,” Ainsley said as he
keyed the intercom to the bridge. A few seconds passed during which the Admiral took in the
battlegroup‟s disposition. Roberts‟ fighters still led them by a good fifty miles, and the report
on Macronesian fleet activity had everything moving well away from the battlecruiser‟s
projected course.
Banick entered the CIC a few seconds later and approached the tactical plot in
silence. “What do we have? He finally asked quietly as he stood next to the Admiral.
“Another happy coincidence,” muttered Ainsley, gesturing to the board that showed
the projected courses of the Alliance patrols away from the carrier group. “Report from a few
minutes ago had an Alliance patrol forty miles west sending a distress call. All they got off
was their position, and then they just... disappeared.”
“Just their position?” asked Banick with surprise. “That‟s a little... convenient, isn‟t it?”
Ainsley smiled. “...I thought so.”
Roderick and Richards watched the board, the location of the attack being
highlighted on the display and she traced the line of Commonwealth‟s advance to that of the
attack. She frowned as she saw a pattern, and then looked at the original courses of the
Alliance patrols around that radius. Within half an hour, Commonwealth would have had to
manoeuvre through at least four of them if it had any chance of getting to the Macaw Bank
without being detected, else she be forced to break across a vast stretch of basin north of
the Adolph Seamount. If she‟d planned it herself, a better diversion could not have been
orchestrated.
“Something wrong, Captain Roderick?” Banick asked her, catching her deep frown as
she ran through the numbers.
There was. The only approaches to the attack‟s location intersected the flight path of
their CAP. They could not possibly have hit it without having come within spitting distance of
Roberts‟ pilots, and their supporting SEWACS. Commonwealth‟s own sensors,
supplemented by her WSKRS and WSPRS probes were good to at least thirty miles in every
direction, and would have surely detected such an encroachment.
“I don‟t think this was coincidence,” she said.
“In that case we agree on something, Captain Roderick,” Ainsley nodded, bringing up
an enlarged version of the former-Wing Commander‟s working notes on the plot before him.
“The Rapiers would have had to have crossed them...”
“SEWACS reported nothing,” Banick said, narrowing his eyes. “We couldn‟t have
missed it.”
- 128 -

Ainsley nodded slowly. “How far are we from Macaw?”
“Sixty miles, Admiral,” Richards noted.
“Get a hold of Roberts, and tell her to do a full sweep of that seamount. I want it
cleared before we get there. I don‟t know how long those Macs are going to be busy, but I‟d
prefer not to give them too much leeway.”
“Rapiers, this is Warseer. Be advised. Drop to the deck and increase speed to target.
Sanitize the area of any contacts and continue patrol until Actual arrives. ETA is forty five
minutes.”
Roberts obediently pushed the fighter down to the seabed, the eleven other
members following her down as they approached the seamount known as Macaw Bank. The
giant submarine structure loomed on her sonar like a black pillar, blocking out everything
beyond. The sea floor was a sheered rift valley, falling and rising like sweeping hills, the
Raptors ducking over and around them as they tried to mask and interfere with their
approach, denying whatever passive guidance locks might have been tracking on their
positions.
Behind her, Sarah Cunningham smiled a little as she settled in to a rhythm with the
seafloor below her, finding every hill and ravine both quickly and precisely as she pressed
her fighter closer and closer to the embankments, feeling the floor beneath her feet shudder
slightly as the huge amount of turbulence beneath her wings kicked off the seabed and
enveloped the Raptor. Rounding the next turn, something glinted in the shallower waters
above her, and her head shot up to see the shadow pass. It had almost looked like...
“Two Birds to Lead,” she called in. “I‟ve got a possible tally-ho on a bandit at eleveno‟clock
high, bearing three one five.”
...Roberts checked the bearing, both eyeballed and on sonars, but saw nothing. “You
sure about that, Two Birds?”
Cunningham strained to make out the shape again, but saw nothing. “Negative, can‟t
confirm. Request permission to pursue?”
Roberts hesitated for a long moment, and then swore. This wasn‟t something she
could take a chance on. “Granted, Eight. Nine, cover her.”
Obligingly, the two Raptors on the end of the formation peeled off and howled
towards the surface, Cunningham‟s eyes darting through the shadows faster than her fighter
could keep up. Her sonars continued to return nothing more than the black shadow of the
seamount ahead, which had started to cast a long, cold shadow through the water as the
sun sank lower on the horizon. The glare being kicked off the surface was painful, and her
eyes watered as she squinted to make out shapes through the gloom just beneath the
surface. Something sharp glinted ahead of her again, and quickly disappeared once more...
but her sonars continued to lie.
“This is not good,” she whispered inwardly.
“Two Birds this is Warseer. I have negative contacts. Area seems clear.”
Cunningham thought for a minute as the waves above her head continued to fly
passed. She looked again at the shadow on her sensors, and kicked the fighter over to close
with it. “Warseer, do you have any coverage on the back side of that seamount?”
“Negative, Two Birds. Macaw Bank is too shallow – we‟re completely blind northside.”
“Damn it,” she muttered again. “Request permission to make a high speed pass.”
Roberts looked up at the shadow of Cunningham and Rogers‟ fighters above her
head, and then looked forward to the looming seamount on her sensors, still several miles
off. “Do it.”
Cunningham didn‟t need to be told twice as she threw her throttles forward, and was
pressed back hard in her seat, chasing the shadow in to the rising mountain. Her sonars
continued to return little more than the haze of the distant fog, and her finger slowly came to
cover her guns as the fighter began to move in to the dark-side of the bank.
“Covering your six o‟clock, Two-Birds,” Rogers reported flatly.
- 129 -

Rounding the apex of the mountain, the sensor returns on the rest of the squadron
steadily dropped off, one by one.
“Ghost stories,” she repeated to herself as she steadily rounded the embankment.
“Wonderful...”
Cunningham‟s eyes went wide as the sonar went berserk, returning a contact less
than half a mile in front of her. She swore as she pushed the nose of the Raptor in to a steep
dive to the sea floor, the massive bulk of the object flying by at better than three hundred
knots. “What the fuck,”
Her head snapped around in time to catch the ominous, black hull melt in to the
darkness behind her. “Rapier Nine!” she barked, “Get the hell out of here!”
Commonwealth approached the bank slowly as every alarm in the Flight Operations
Centre and CIC started blaring. Both Cunningham and Rogers had emerged from the
shadow of the mountain again, but they were not alone as the massive, unmistakeable bulk
of a warship pulled out of its hiding place to sweep around the ridge line to meet the UEO
battlecruiser.
The order for the rest of Commonwealth‟s fighter squadrons had already gone out as
Ainsley finally saw what the WSKRS returned to the ship‟s screens. Tactical officers were
calling out shooting solutions and firing orders to every one of the ships batteries as he,
Callaghan and Banick stood in silence watching in amazement.
“Batteries one through twelve are tracking, guidance locks in ten seconds!”
“Laser batteries armed. No IFF!”
“Firing-point procedures, all tubes – target designated Master Forty Three...”
All three of the officers recognised the lines of the vessel before them, appearing
from the shadow of the mountain like a ghost straight from their past. Ainsley‟s voice rose
above the din sharply.
“Belay those orders!” he cut in. “Stand down all weapons!”
“Admiral?”
“Do it, Lieutenant!” Banick added, his eyes not breaking from the ghostly image on
the screen in front of him.
The ship was in full view now, stem-to-stern being easily as large as Commonwealth
herself at around two hundred and seventy meters. Her lines were similar in many ways, if
perhaps a little unrefined by customarily „organic‟ UEO standards.
But this surprised none of them. Vessels of the North Sea Confederation were
typically bulky, utilitarian designs, and the Escort Submergence Vehicles were absolutely no
exception.
“I‟ll be damned,” Roderick whispered to herself, her mouth gawking in shock.
“Still no IFF,” repeated the tactical officers as they ran the schematic. “...Design is
consistent with North Sea Confederation Polaris class DSV. There‟re a few anomalies I can‟t
work out.”
“Don‟t bother,” Ainsley said, shaking his head. “That‟s the NSC Vengeance,
lieutenant. You won‟t find her in any fleet rosters.”
“She‟s hailing us,” Banick muttered.
“I thought she might be,” Ainsley replied, suddenly feeling a very familiar and very
sickening feeling in his gut. “...Put them up.”
Ainsley watched as the CIC‟s main screen dissolved to black, and then cut back in to
show the stern, chiselled face of a man he thought had been dead for two years. Captain
William Stiles bore a lop-sided grin, his straight-cut, black uniform being lost against the dim,
blue light of his ship‟s bridge behind him.
“Captain Smith,” Ainsley drawled slowly, deciding to use the name Stiles had tried
posing with last time they had met. “I saw you die.”
“So did the Alliance, Admiral,” Stiles countered wryly. “I‟d appreciate it if you
instructed your subfighters to stand down.”
Ainsley held that thought for a moment, as the idea crossed his mind that his silence
might very well cause the Rapiers to save him a great deal of pain and effort. After a
- 130 -

moment, he looked off to Roderick and nodded once before turning back to the screen.
“Captain... Without putting too finer point on it, what are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” Stiles said simply, as if the answer were obvious. “You took your
time, I might add. We couldn‟t have waited much longer. Keeping the Alliance patrols off
your trail‟s been not the easiest of tasks.”
Richards and Roderick exchanged a wary glance, but Ainsley pressed on. He‟d worry
about the details later. “I think given circumstances, Captain, you‟d better come aboard so
we can discuss this in person.”
“Agreed,” Stiles nodded. “I‟ll be there in five minutes.”
His image disappeared, and Ainsley pointed at the operations officers opposite the
chart table. “Tell Captains Hayes and Barker I want them over here as soon as they can,” he
ordered. “Captains Banick, Roderick, Commander Callaghan, meet me in the wardroom in
five minutes. And let‟s keep this one off the battle net, people... Just for the time being.”
Commonwealth and Vengeance kept company with each other closely in the shadow
of the Macaw Bank, the cruiser Tripoli and SSN Fall River next to them being utterly dwarfed
in scale. For the next several minutes, fighters and shuttles transferred between the four
vessels, and the Rapiers settled in to a closely guarding holding pattern around them. Of the
shadowy subfighters who had followed them there, there was no sign.
Ainsley and Stiles walked down the long port side passage of the Commonwealth‟s
forward decks on their way from the hangar until they came to the bulkhead sealed just aft of
the thirtieth frame. Ainsley stopped there as he remembered the damage Commonwealth
had taken just two days prior. “You still didn‟t answer my question, Will,” Ainsley said as he
took the cross corridor towards the battlecruiser‟s starboard side. He didn‟t say it of course,
but he had deliberately taken the port side corridor knowing he‟d have to reroute down a
longer passage in order to get to the wardroom. That would give him more time alone with
Stiles, who he knew would try to dodge the questions at every possible turn. “And I‟d really
like to know what happened after Marinduque.”
Stiles shook his head. “We survived, but our orders had us headed elsewhere. I wish
I could tell you more than that, Ainsley, but I‟m afraid there‟s a lot that‟s still classified.”
Ainsley was dour. “Why do I get the distinct impression I‟m about to feel like I‟m
beating my head against the missile bulkheads?”
Stiles regarded the Admiral with a knowing smile. “You know me that well?”
...Roderick and Richards entered the wardroom before anyone else by several
minutes, having wasted little time in leaving the bridge after Ainsley had given his orders.
Roderick entered first, and Richards closed the door behind him before rounding and
almost exploding. “What the hell is going on, Quinn!? Who is that guy? And what‟s with his
ship?”
Roderick shook her head, exhaling sharply as she wiped the sweat from her brow.
The ship was still sweltering, and she reached in to her pocket for an elastic band with which
to tie back her hair that was now matting at the back her neck. “About two years ago,” she
explained. “When Hitchcock led the assault on Marinduque Island, we met up with a North
Sea Confederation DSV named the Vengeance. That‟s her outside. At the time, we thought
she‟d been destroyed when the whole island went up with that subduction attack. By the
time we recovered, she was just... gone.”
“Why didn‟t I hear about this?”
“This is when you were still out after The Abattoir, Ed,” Roderick elaborated on
Richards‟ brief stand-down from duty in 2041. “And Intel omitted everything about the
Vengeance from the reports. NSC command didn‟t want anyone getting wind of her before
they‟d committed to the war officially.”
“Great...”
The door to the wardroom swung open again and Banick, Hayes, Callaghan and
Barker entered, looking at the two fighter pilots with a measure of surprise.
- 131 -

“Captain Roderick, I‟d remind you that what happened at Marinduque is still
classified,” Banick berated her sternly, having heard her from outside.
She flushed a little, and nodded apologetically. “Yes sir. Sorry sir.”
“It‟s alright. I‟m eager to find out just what the hell is going on as much as you are, I
don‟t blame you. But as the Admiral said... let‟s try and keep things quiet for now.”
“Do you have any idea what‟s going on, sir?” Madeline Hayes asked, having seen
nothing of what had transpired on Commonwealth‟s bridge.
“I wish I did,” he grumbled. “Coming out here was a mistake. I just hope the Admiral
is more forthcoming about things now that this little mess is out in the open.”
The officers were waiting only a few minutes before Ainsley led Stiles in to the room,
the two officers circling around the table as the rest of the staff stood up and waited for the
Admiral to take his seat. The sat down only when he did. “Before I arrived on the
Commonwealth,” Ainsley started slowly, “I met with Admiral Anise von Schrader in London,
the head of the NSIS. A few months ago, my office in London received several messages
from an unknown source, and what I didn‟t know at the time was that these messages
contained a series of numbers that – with Captain Banick‟s help – I only recently worked out.
They were dates, attached to a broken set of latitude and longitude coordinates leading to
this location.”
No one said a word, and Ainsley finally turned to Stiles, his tone suddenly taking on
an accusing note. “...Prior to that, I had the NSIS looking in to a personal matter of mind as a
favour. All Admiral Schrader told me was that some „professional colleagues‟ were looking in
to it, and that I‟d be hearing from them in a few days. It now dawns on me, Captain Stiles,
that the timing of all this is a little too good to be true.”
“I thought his name was „Smith‟?” whispered Captain Barker to Hayes beside him.
The Commander of the Fall River smiled in return. “It‟s a long story.”
Stiles sat in silence for a moment, a small smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “I
concede the point, Admiral,” he admitted with a curt nod. “Admiral Schrader did contact me,
and I am the one who was sent to meet with you – on both matters. The personal matter she
asked me to follow up for you we can discuss later, but for the time being, there is a larger
issue.”
“I don‟t believe for a minute, Captain that the NSIS didn‟t know what those messages
meant. It took me only three days to work it out when your analysts had it for weeks. What
was the purpose of it?”
“We need your help,” he replied plainly. “Recently some things have come to light for
the NSIS that have left us... in a difficult position. I regret that I am not able to discuss that
much further for reasons of security, but you will learn of it in due course... For the moment,
I‟m asking you to trust me. Our goals are very much in line with one another.”
“Those goals being?” Ainsley pressed.
“Your orders are to destroy the Atlas missile battery presently being constructed at
the former UEO Naval Base of Pearl Harbor,” he explained in an effort to supplicate his
presumption. “In truth, the NSIS knows as little about the origin of the messages you
received as you do. By now you have doubtless worked out that the encryption used in the
message‟s cipher originated from a command protocol that was used exclusively on UEO
DSVs – specifically by so-called “Human A.I.” sentience. The solution to this cipher is
dependent on knowing both where and when the signal originated, something of a
Heisenberg principle, if you will, that prevents enemy Signals offices from intercepting and
reading such transmissions. This is knowledge the NSIS does not have.”
Roderick cocked her head. “So how did you break the cipher if you didn‟t have the
information?”
Stiles hesitated, and looked at Roderick with a face that betrayed next to nothing.
“...It was given to us.”
“By who?”
“Something else I can‟t say,” he confessed. “The important thing is that we didn‟t
send the message, and we have reason to believe that both you, Admiral Ainsley, and we,
were meant to receive it.”
- 132 -

“Are you saying we were manipulated in to meeting here?” the Admiral concluded
grimly.
“Something to that effect, yes.”
Roderick smiled inwardly, but didn‟t say a word as she bit he tongue and looked
away.
“Something the matter, Captain?” Stiles asked her.
She looked at him for a moment, and then flashed a glance at Ainsley, whose
expression was as unreadable as Stiles‟ had been only moments before. “Yes, as a matter
of fact there is.”
“Speak your mind, Captain. The table‟s open,” Ainsley suggested.
“Captain Stiles, I‟m not in any way as well connected to the Intelligence community
as you are, but I do know a bluff when I see it. For weeks, I‟ve been getting reports of
attacks on Alliance convoys in this very region, specifically, the Macaw Bank. What you said
before, on the bridge, strikes me as a little odd, sir, because such an attack happened just a
little while before we found you... conveniently less than a hundred miles from here.”
Stiles levelled with her, accepting her challenge calmly as he met her icy gaze.
“Captain Roderick. Believe me when I say, I wouldn‟t know about the nature of those attacks
any more than you seem to. I‟m aware of them, but I fail to see what relevance that has to
this discussion.”
“Respectfully sir, I believe you do know.”
Admiral Ainsley stared her down from behind Stiles, but the NSC Captain simply
smiled, refusing to take the bait. “I‟ll rephrase, if you prefer something more direct, Captain. I
make it my business not to know. Plausible deniability in my line of work is an important
thing to keep in perspective, and as I made no secret of when we began – there are things I
am not at liberty to discuss.”
“But why here, sir?” she urged, making her point more directly.
“That‟s what we‟d like to know, Captain, and that‟s why we‟d like your help. I will not
deny, for the sake of your curiosity, that we have been running combat operations in these
waters for some weeks, but that someone else knew that is what concerns us. We need to
find out how they knew, and how we can fix that.”
“So you have a leak?” Barker suggested.
Stiles smiled again, straightening his cuffs. “As I said... it‟s something like that.”
“You said our interests are aligned,” Ainsley tried “I presume you want something in
return?”
“Admiral Schrader suggested that I should take you to meet someone,” Stiles said.
“She said that once you saw for yourself, you would be more willing to discuss our options.
All I‟m asking at this stage, sir, is that you do as the Admiral has suggested, and follow us to
that meeting. Once there, I can also provide you with answers to the questions you asked
her to examine for you.”
Ainsley leaned forward, his eyes darkening. “Are you seriously trying to blackmail
me, William?”
He shook his head. “No, Mark, if I wanted to do that I simply would have threatened
to expose your position to the Alliance if you didn‟t follow me, and would never have come
aboard. I‟m just explaining how this can work.”
Banick chuckled inwardly, looking at Callaghan with a knowing smile. “...He‟s starting
to remind me of Keelan.”
Stiles eye flickered at that, and he regarded Banick coolly. “...If it helps, Captain, she
sends her regards.”
Banick and Callaghan were unsettled by that, and Ainsley cut in before it went any
further, eyeing-off each of the officers carefully. “Ok, that‟s enough. We‟re on the same side,
last I checked. Captain Stiles... right now the real situation is this – we‟re sitting five hundred
miles behind the enemy front line, at the base of a seamount, in the middle of a rift valley.
Whether we follow you or not this is not the best place to be. We‟ll follow you, but at the end
of it, we‟re going to expect answers.”
Stiles nodded in agreement. “And I promise you, sir... You will have every last one.”
- 133 -

...Sarah Cunningham looked down through the canopy to the massive shape of the
NSC “ESV” below. She‟d heard whispers of the North Sea Confederation building their own
„Deep Submergence Vehicles‟ supposedly named the “Polaris” class, but nothing concrete
had ever surfaced. As best she knew, Polaris herself was the only active ship of the class,
and it left her feeling very uneasy about the one now beside her. The lines were a curiosity –
a tapered, arrowhead bow heading back to a narrow „neck‟ separating the forward planes
from an enlarged mid-section that had to be the ship‟s hydrosphere.
To say it was a ringer for the seaQuest DSV was an understatement.
“Rapiers - Warseer. Be advised we‟re mobile. Orders are to escort Commonwealth
and Vengeance, waypoints and nav data pending. Flight Ops is coordinating with the
Vengeance CIC presently. Stand by.”
“More escort, fantastic,” moaned Rogers over the radio. Cunningham allowed herself
a small smile as she waited in anticipation for the inevitable rebuke from Roberts.
“Rapier Nine, cut it.”
There it was.
Cunningham continued to wait as she watched the two massive submarines slowly
heel about, the escorting Tripoli and Fall River pulling back momentarily to allow them
passage. There had been no more shuttles moving between the flotilla of warships since
Stiles, Hayes and Barker transferred to the Commonwealth herself, and whatever was
happening... it was clearly being decided from a single place.
“Rapiers, heads up. Transferring navigational data to you now. Assume flank escort
immediately.”
The squadron immediately broke up in to three groups, with Roberts leading the first
flight to the head of the fleet. This left Schrader on the fleet‟s right, and put Tomlinson‟s flight
three – including Cunningham and Rogers in their positions to Vengeance‟s immediate port
quarter. Cunningham cut her throttles to twenty percent, feeling the fighter decelerate
rapidly. Nav data had the fleet moving off at a speed of seventy knots, and she matched it
easily before coupling the waypoint data to her autopilot, letting go of the controls.
She watched as Jeffrey Tomlinson‟s Raptor slipped in to formation ahead of her, his
engines visibly winding down as the trails of cavitation steadily disappeared from his wake.
The flight leader waggled his wings twice, and continued to sit at her ten o‟clock at a
distance of barely fifteen meters. Cunningham double checked that her fighter was slaved to
Tomlinson‟s own autopilot system, and then sighed. This, by definition, was hands-free BFM,
and from here out, all the twelve pilots could do, was wait.
That was until Roberts decided otherwise.
“Very sloppy,” the squadron leader observed. “All units disengage your autopilots. I
don‟t know when you forgot Basic Flight Manoeuvres, but this isn‟t good enough. We‟ll do it
by the numbers, until you get it right.”
“Oh, fuck that,” a voice replied. Cunningham wasn‟t sure, but it had sounded like
Rapier Ten, the American Lieutenant J.G. Edwin Bruckmeyer.
There was silence for an awkward moment, and Cunningham cringed – just as she
was certain every other pilot in the squadron was doing – as she imagined the storm cloud
brewing over Rapier One‟s cockpit.
Cunningham watched as the communications status display showed Roberts
disappear from the squadron frequency momentarily, undoubtedly referring it to the nearby
SEWACS. As Roberts‟ signal returned to the board, it was Warseer that gave the order.
“Roadrunner, you are ordered to break formation and return to base.”
There was silence for another moment, and then Rapier Ten responded. “...Yes sir.
Breaking formation, RTB...”
Roberts watched in her rear-vision mirror above her head as the Raptor that was
trailing her broke away, and peeled off towards the Commonwealth. No one said a word, but
the implication was clear, and Cunningham just shook her head as she obediently took hold
of the throttle and stick again, and disengaged the autopilot with a quick flick of her right
- 134 -

index finger. “This is eight,” she reported flatly, feeling weight return to her controls. “Orders
acknowledged. Hands-on, throttle and stick.”
For the next hour, every one of the squadron‟s pilots were made to hold their
formations, calling every turn, manoeuvre and course change as they happened, never
straying more than a few feet from their relative positions. It was hard work, requiring a level
of focus and concentration uncommon for most pilots. For Edwin “Roadrunner” Bruckmeyer,
it would be a lot worse than that.
Admiral Ainsley was still in the CIC reading the waypoints that were being steadily
relayed to the ship by Vengeance‟s bridge when Captain William Stiles strolled through the
clam doors on to the bridge, garnering several unsure looks from the UEO staff. Most of the
Commonwealth‟s officers were still in their tan „shore‟ uniforms in deference to the usual
black jumpsuits, and that contrasted starkly with the black-clad NSC officer who now stood
amongst them. The uniform was braided in silver, and he wore the blue, white and gold
roundel of the NSC – 12 gold stars of the European Union, surrounding the old white
compass used by the long-since defunct NATO. It didn‟t take long for one of the junior
offices to notice him and his rank insignia, directing him through the glass doors on the port
side that led straight in to the adjacent CIC.
Stiles thanked the officer, and quickly passed otherwise unnoticed over the command
deck, crossing in front of the ship‟s great crest, and entered the glass-walled combat
information centre.
He stepped lightly down the short, three-step drop to the chart floor and sidled up
next to the Admiral slowly. Ainsley‟s eye drew a cautious gaze from the chart back to his old
comrade, and he raised his brow. “Bill, where exactly are we going?”
Stiles pursed his lips for a moment as he looked at the plotted course of the
impromptu battlegroup that steadily weaved its way east, further from the Alliance patrols,
but drawing ever nearer to the Tongan Trench. “Sorry, Ainsley.”
“This is one hell of a limb you have me out on,” the Admiral muttered. “If you were
anyone else...”
“Having doubts?”
“Doubt isn‟t the word I‟d use,” Ainsley countered. “Concerns, yes. You still haven‟t
told me who you‟re answering to. I don‟t believe for a minute that Schrader has a hand in
this.”
Stiles chuckled lightly. “Mark, you know Anise just as well as I do. There isn‟t a thing
that happens on this planet without her knowing about it. She knows a lot more than she lets
on.”
“Yes, but this isn‟t her style,” Ainsley argued. “Come to think of it, it isn‟t even your
style.”
William Stiles smirked. “If it makes you feel any better, we should be arriving in about
an hour. Vengeance has already made arrangements with our contacts.”
“Yes, I‟m sure she has.”
“So how have you been, Mark?”
The Admiral scoffed. “It‟s been two years, Bill. I thought you‟d died. How about you
start with the stories?”
Stiles looked affronted. “Mark, we both picked our careers. I‟m only following my
orders, just like you. I‟m sorry we had to meet again under these circumstances, but... right
now we can‟t exactly afford to be sentimental about this kind of thing.”
“The law holds no meaning when following it defeats the spirit of its intent,” Ainsley
growled. “There‟s a reason I don‟t trust black ops.”
A few of the CIC staff were beginning to look at the two officers with curiosity, and
Ainsley eyed each of them before ushering Stiles in to Banick‟s office, next door.
He held the door as the NSC captain entered, and then let it latch shut. He hadn‟t
even turned around when Stiles shook his head. “Do me a favour and listen, or at least hear
what they have to say. There‟re things going on in the world right now, Mark, that aren‟t
doing your war any favours.”
- 135 -

“You don‟t think I know that?” he replied flatly. “Why is it ever since I‟ve got back
everyone‟s turned in to some kind of idealistic jackass? Banick‟s barely speaking to me,
Richards is half way to mutiny, Roderick wants to throw in the towel and topping it off, you‟re
suddenly making about as much sense as a Nycarian on ice.”
“Well that‟s a scary thought,” considered Stiles with a worried frown. “...Point being,
this war has gone on a long time, Ainsley, and it‟s going to continue a while longer at the rate
its going. I can‟t blame your staff for being on edge. Everyone has an opinion on how this
war should be run... Bloody hell, you‟re about the most idealistic person I know, the only
thing they can never work out about you is how that changes every time you have an
argument.”
“Am I that predictable?”
“Well, put it this way, not many people have time for „shades of grey‟ anymore. It
either is or it isn‟t, and nothing in between.”
That stopped Ainsley, and he narrowed his eyes as he attempted to work out what it
was that his old friend was trying so hard to hide.
“Banick‟s not made this easy, has he,” Stiles fronted.
“No, he hasn‟t. I don‟t ever remember him being so stubborn.”
“Not since he lost Natalie...”
“I didn‟t realise you were aware of that,” Ainsley noted poignantly. When Stiles had
disappeared, it had been only minutes after Natalie Canebride had been killed in action.
“You didn‟t think I‟d come here without doing my homework on the man did you?”
“I suppose not.”
“Banick‟s been caught out by indecision before. It‟s only going to be natural that he‟ll
put his back to that now,” Stiles argued.
“Being flexible does not mean you need to be indecisive,” Ainsley grunted, shaking
his head as he started to pace.
Now the NSC Captain grinned. “Perhaps you should tell that to your Secretary-
General.”
“You gave him to us,” Ainsley snidely drawled, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
“And you can keep him!”
At that, Ainsley finally laughed.
Ryan Callaghan signed off on the report filed by engineering maintenance and put
aside with the rest so the Yeoman could collect the pile on his next round. He settled back in
his seat and picked up the lukewarm mug of coffee from the small side table before taking
an awkward mouthful. He grimaced, and put the coffee aside again.
The worst thing about following the NSC Vengeance was that he had no idea where
she was leading them, and minutes had seemed liked hours as each waypoint passed them
by, leaving another in its place.
It was tedious, but it was the anticipation that he found most frustrating. The course
taken by the small flotilla of allied warships was a weaving and unpredictable path, but one
that was heading towards a place that most of Commonwealth‟s crew would care to forget.
The only bright side, he thought grudgingly, was that it would take them back towards
friendly waters. Callaghan signed another report as a familiar stride of boots shook the deck
slightly under his planted feet, not overly heavy, but nonetheless marked and precise –
audibly walking a fine line that brought a slight smile to his face. A gentle hand traced his
shoulders as it passed behind and sent a chill down his spine. There would, of course, have
been a problem if Ryan hadn‟t learnt the patterns and rhythms of his wife after so long.
Madeline beat a professional retreat as she rounded the chair and came to stand
next to the Conn‟s control consoles, a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips, matching
his. “How‟re you doing?” she asked quietly.
Ryan met her confidently enough, but his eyes betrayed the uncertainty there, and
she tore through the veil of silence with all the subtlety of well-swung sword.
- 136 -

Callaghan got up from the chair and smothered his face in his hands, beginning to
pace in front of his chair distracted and unsure of how to resolve his predicament. He
muttered it under his breath. “This is going to get worse before it gets better, Madeline.”
“You really don‟t see this ending well, do you?”
Ryan paused and looked around at some of the other bridge officers. None of them
had seemed settled since the arrival of the Vengeance. Lieutenant Commander Phillips‟
gaze met his from communications awkwardly, and the Commonwealth XO was forced to
look away.
“I was hoping Stiles might have been able to mediate this,” he suggested. “But until
they start trusting each other, and stop leaving us in the dark...”
Ryan‟s frustration showed, prompting Hayes instinctively to reach out with her hand.
“Hey,” she purred. “We‟re all on the same side. For whatever differences the Admiral and
Jim have, they know that as well.”
“Madeline, you weren‟t here when we pulled Reverence out of the fire. Jim was
questioning every second order that the Admiral issued. We can‟t afford that and you know it
– not when we‟re out here alone.”
“That‟s not what I‟d heard,” she parried. “But if the Captain needs reminding of where
he stands – you should be the one to tell him – not the Admiral.”
“That‟s not going to go down well...”
“He‟s stubborn, and has been for a very long time, Ryan. It‟s going to take someone
closer to him to remind him of that. Jim‟s bucked authority his entire life, and right now, the
Admiral is about the last person on earth who‟d be in a position to tell him.”
Ryan was silent, and Hayes looked around before dragging him in to the corner of
the command deck, out of sight. “This isn‟t the time,” he hissed sharply.
“Damn it, Ryan!” she spat. “You know I‟ll support any decision you make. But
someone needs to make a stand in this. Be it the Admiral or the Captain, one of them needs
to clear their head here, and that might mean taking sides.”
Callaghan paused, and rounded on her with fierce eyes. “I didn‟t realise there were
sides to choose from.”
Madeline stopped at the implication and looked hurt. Callaghan regretted his words
immediately as he watched her back away, all the while faintly aware of the wandering eyes
that pried from the open Combat Information Centre behind him. “That‟s not what I meant,
and you know it,” she said quietly. “I should go.”
Hayes had already turned and taken three paces before he called out to her. “Please
wait,” he asked gently. It had been a suggestion, and not an order, and it brought her about
on a heel.
“I‟m relieved in twenty minutes,” he offered. “Meet you in the mess?”
There was a flicker of a smile at the corner of her mouth, and she nodded. “You
might want to notify Fall River I won‟t be back for a couple of hours,” she suggested as she
turned to leave.
“...and make it your quarters, not the mess hall.”
“They‟ll want to know why,” he countered, folding his arms.
She turned her head to look back at him, her shoulders slowly following the
deliberate, guided and almost sultry movement as she started backwards. “...That‟s
classified.”
~
It had become almost instinctive for Sarah Cunningham to feel uneasy whenever her
fighter sat in its holding bay, its engines not even idling as the only power being fed to it
came from the APUs. She had reckoned that it wasn‟t a healthy reaction by any means, as it
had come from acclimatizing to an unending schedule and circus of drills and combat, where
the only times she would sit in or even see her fighter would be when it was prepped and
- 137 -

waiting for her on the flight line, fuelled and armed, with its engines snarling and growling at
her with all the malicious intent of an angry cat - hungry, and baying for blood.
The silence and stillness of the fighter as she sat in the cockpit felt tardy, unprepared
and vulnerable. It felt wrong. It would take several minutes to bring its systems to full power,
and even longer to shift it to the drop bays where it could be of any use should the call come,
and this made her uncomfortable.
In the short time she had spent in the fleet, the fighter had become an extension of
her. It represented more than a weapon – it had become the one, undeniable truth of her life.
The fighter would never lie to her. The reality of combat, and the way the Raptor responded
to her deft instruction and command was felt in every vibration, rattle, whine and jolt of its
fuselage. In its own way, it told her everything it felt, and she felt the pain of every wound
inflicted on its hull, and the sense of betrayal that came from failing to protect it, when it had
done so much to protect her. Neither could function without the other, and the loss of either
in battle would undoubtedly kill the companion.
The Raptor never lied.
This was its creed.
And yet Cunningham continued to sit, staring at the sensor logs, faced with evidence
that the fighter had, in fact, lied. The SF-38 was not a perfect creature, with flaws like any
other fighter. One of those flaws was a small, blind gap in its sonar coverage to the fighter‟s
aft, just below the centreline. It was here that the turbulent wash of the two engines
interfered with the craft‟s ventral array, and it was normal not to be able to pick up any
definable sonar signatures in that area.
This fact had nearly cost Captain Corinn Roderick her life two years previously when
a skilled enemy pilot had exploited that flaw, blindsiding her to shoot her down in the deep
South Pacific near Tierra Del Fuego. Pilots were now painfully aware of the shortcoming,
and took measures in combat to minimise the risk of such an incident being repeated.
But this was something else entirely.
The sensor logs were incomplete. Even in the absence of solid returns to that blind
spot, there should have been a registration of the fighter‟s own engine wake, noise and
general interference, and true to expectations there was - but for a single, anomalous „hole‟
in which nothing had been recorded at all.
“Chief,” Cunningham asked, disquieted by the find. “I thought we realigned the
number three array on Friday?”
The fighter crew chief assigned to VF-107 looked up from his work on the exposed
bow sensor dome, the fighter‟s nose cone standing upright on the deck beside him. “What?”
“It‟s out of alignment by at least half a degree,” she explained, cross checking the
telemetry from the flight log to the test data the fighter was now giving her.
“You‟re kidding,” he said, his shoulders deflating after having spent nearly two hours
of his day working on it.
“Wish I was,” Cunningham sighed, handing him the data pad that she‟d wirelessly
linked to the FMC.
The Chief‟s mouth was open as he looked at the inexplicable data. Cunningham‟s
was the third of the squadron‟s Raptors that had returned exactly the same result.
“That‟s the third bird today,” the Chief said, his mood rapidly turning sour. “How the
hell can three sonar arrays get knocked out of alignment so quickly? Have you checked
number three‟s acoustic array?”
It had taken a while, but Cunningham had finally started following suit from the
squadron commander. For years, Jane Roberts had made it her business to remain as
involved with her fighter‟s maintenance as she could, although her promotion to squadron
CO had drastically reduced the time she could dedicate to it since. Still, despite having been
in the routine for at least a month, there were aspects of the fighter‟s mechanical and
electrical operations that she had barely begun to understand. The crew chief‟s knowledge
of the fighter was thorough and comprehensive, with not a single system being unfamiliar to
him.
- 138 -

Cunningham obediently pulled up the sensor logs for the secondary, slaved acoustic
array that was tied to the main hypersonar and compared it with the first log. Any subfighter
pilot understood the basic concepts of acoustic navigation and targeting, and in this case,
Cunningham didn‟t see the point of the Engineer‟s request – all the secondary systems
should have registered would be the noise of her own engine baffles.
As expected, the log was perfect.
“That‟s not right,” the Chief said, sitting down on the stripped-down Hades cannon
that had been removed from the fighter‟s nose. The gattling gun was as large as a park
bench under his not-inconsiderable weight, and it didn‟t even budge.
“What do you mean?” she asked, moving on to the rest of the Raptor‟s systems.
“The whole point of slaving the acoustic sensors to the Hypersonars is that we only
need to align each array once,” he explained. “All our active and passive sonars are
directional acoustics, and only have sensitivity on the same bearing as the laser they‟re
slaved to.”
Cunningham stopped what she was doing and frowned. Standing up from the cockpit
chair, she planted her leg on the dorsal fuselage. She slid down the starboard canard as if
she‟d been wearing skates, and vaulted to the deck softly before ducking under the nose to
look over the engineer‟s shoulder.
“Then... Shouldn‟t we be seeing the same gap in the acoustic data?”
The chief nodded. “Well, sound isn‟t going to leave the same marker as the laser
data, but yeah, for the most part I would at least expect to see a loss of sensitivity in the
same area of the sweep. But this is a clean log – according to this, there is absolutely
nothing wrong with the system.”
“Mechanical fault?” she suggested.
“On three fighters?”
“...I take your point.”
“This isn‟t right, Lieutenant,” he said grimly. “I‟ll do a full work up on the array, but... I
can‟t really explain this.”
Cunningham idly turned to her fighter and examined a small scuff on the edge of one
its panels. “Can we run the log through the ship‟s CIC and see if they can do a full profile
breakdown? Isolate the different frequencies?”
“What for? That could take hours, Lieutenant.”
The Chief‟s voice was more distant than it had been seconds before, and when
Cunningham turned, he found the man lying prone, his head disappearing inside one of its
opened ventral torpedo bays.
Cunningham exhaled slowly as she swung under the bulk of the fighter‟s
considerable nose, and knelt down next to its port intake. “Chief, this could be important.”
The crew chief held out his hand blindly from where he lay. “Would you pass me that
torque wrench, please?”
Cunningham looked around, noticing the tools sitting on the case of 25mm
ammunition beside her. She passed it down to him, and he began adjusting something
unseen inside the weapons module. “So, aside from working out that you‟ve wasted hours of
the CIC‟s time chasing ghosts, what do you think they‟ll find?”
“I‟m hoping nothing at all, chief. Just a ghost, like you said.”
“Great. Now can you pass me that rag?”
Cunningham shook her head, and walked away.
~
The thrum of the ship‟s engines deep below was the only sound to disturb the quiet
of Commonwealth‟s evening watch. In the hangar deck out the windows adjacent to her
desk, Corinn Roderick could see the last of the alert fighters being secured on the drop bays
while others were tagged, lashed to the deck and covered for the night‟s duration. Tools
were stowed, the deck was swept, and crew chiefs signed off on their day‟s work.
- 139 -

The only other sound was the steady scratching of her pen on the paper in front of
her – the endless stream of thought and consciousness spilling out in neat lines of
spectacular, swirling running writing. The computer on the other side of the desk was turned
off, the daily report slates having been reviewed, signed and tendered.
The tea that simmered in the black, porcelain mug bearing the faded letters “C.A.G.”
was cold, and she‟d long since forgotten about it in the quiet din.
Roderick continued to write, the page in front of her possessing her complete and
undivided attention. It was almost unheard of that one could sneak up on someone whose
life and senses had been twisted to become an almost perpetual state of subconscious
reception. Her instinctual ability to kill someone with the motor-reflexed twitch of a finger
upon the trigger of a Hades gattling cannon was cruelly juxtaposed to an almost empathic
connection to everything and everyone around her. It was a rare trait possessed by a socalled
„elite‟ few subfighter pilots who had the skill, ability and most of all, luck, to have
survived the worst that combat could muster.
Despite her desk posting, those senses were as sharp as they had ever been, and it
was doubtful they would ever truly dull.
It was the knowledge of this facet of the Captain‟s life that surprised Edward Richards
most as he knocked for a second time on the door frame, and then receiving no invitation or
acknowledgement, cautiously walked in to the room and slid the sealed envelope on to the
wooden desk before her.
Roderick had heard his approach when he was still walking up the hall outside her
office, and in her own very particular way, had acknowledged him simply by ignoring him.
“I‟m sorry,” Richards said after long seconds of silence, and continuing ignorance of
his commanding officer. She‟d simply kept following the words she wrote, never once looking
up to even meet his polished boots – let alone his eyes.
The former Rapier commander turned on his good heel, and began to walk out
before she finally put down the pen and looked up. “You think this will solve anything?” she
called after him, picking up the plain envelope and spinning it on two delicate fingers.
In spite of himself, a half-smile escaped Richards‟ lips. “You haven‟t even opened it,”
he countered.
“I don‟t have to. The only thing I didn‟t know was when you‟d finally decide that
moody tantrums weren‟t enough to get your point across. As bad habits go, this is one of
your more melodramatic ones.”
Richards rounded sharply and raised a hand to point at her accusingly, stopping
short of the final motion when he saw the cautiously raised eyebrow on the Captain‟s
otherwise unmoved features.
“You were ignoring me,” he said plainly.
Roderick shrugged, and then leaned back in her chair before tossing the envelope,
spinning like a Frisbee, across the room. Without ever having broken her gaze with
Richards, and with a slight rustle and thump, the letter landed in the waste paper bin next to
her office door, drawing Richards‟ gaze in unexpected bewilderment at the accuracy of the
missile.
It had cleared all twenty feet cleanly, and with all the grace of a landing swan.
“If ignoring you makes you tender a resignation, perhaps I should‟ve saved us all the
immaturity and had you discharged months ago?” she asked, shifting her weight and waiting
expectantly for him to finally decide to sit down.
A familiar part of Richards started to return, and realisation set in that he‟d been
bore-sighted and was now staring a missile lock in the face. She was reading him like an
open book, and it made him uncomfortable.
“What did you think this would achieve?” Roderick asked him. “You think you can just
quit every time you feel like it‟s too much for you? And expect, like last time, that once your
little vacation is over you can just come back in that door and pretend nothing ever
happened?”
“This is different,” he hissed. “I‟ll never fly again. Even if I was capable of it, Reed
would never pass me on physical. You know that as well as me.”
- 140 -

Richards started to pace, not sure where to turn and what to look at. The frustration
boiled in his veins – he wanted to hit something, hard.
Roderick eased off on her attack. “You know for just a few minutes the other day
when we were in the CIC, you had me convinced you could do this, Ed. What‟s going on?”
“For god‟s sake, Quinn, it‟s happening again,” he dismayed. “I can‟t watch this a third
time. First the Rangers, then the Rapiers... I should be with them. Not hobbling around like a
cripple.”
Roderick didn‟t look sympathetic. “And feeling sorry for yourself? You really think
you‟re the only pilot in the UEO to have a lost a squadron?” she asked bitterly. “What about
everyone else on this ship? How do you think we‟d be if I accepted every resignation that
crossed my desk?”
Richards twisted his face in to a scowl in a return of the bitterness she clearly
showed. “Coming back was a mistake.”
Roderick continued to lock eyes with him as her hand reached down behind her desk
and pulled open one of the drawers. Without looking, she removed a pile of unopened letters
and began laying them down on the desk, one at a time, each one hitting the timber with a
dull slap. She read each of them in turn. “Shalders, Harker, Seabury, Pickford, Anderson.”
“What, you‟re going to try and guilt me with next-of-kin letters now?”
“They‟re letters of resignation,” she returned flatly. “I rejected every single one of
them.”
“What are you talking about? I never heard anything about any of them tendering
resignations.”
“Then pull your head out of your arse and smell the roses, Richards, because this is
the reality of where you are! Two thirds of the people on this ship have tried the same thing
at one point or another, myself included. We can‟t just quit. This is a god damned war and
we are losing it, so I suggest you get your shit in to gear and stop acting like a child.”
“Will that be all then, Captain?”
“You‟d better hope so, or the next time you try this, then the only thing you‟ll be
resigned to is a month in the ship‟s brig. Am I perfectly clear, Wing Commander?”
He straightened, swallowing the seething rage in his throat. “Crystal, ma‟am.”
“You‟re relieved of duty. I‟m transferring command of the sea wing to Commander
Coyle until further notice. I am also ordering you to see the ship‟s counsellor, every day, until
I am satisfied that whatever „issues‟ you might have aren‟t going to affect your duties as they
have to this point.”
Richards‟ lip twitched, but he remained silent.
Roderick stood up behind the desk and nodded to the door. “You are dismissed.”
~
- 141 -

VI
T R U T H I N L I E S
UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110, the Polynesian Trench. April 13 th , 2043…
The bank of monitors across the rear wall of battlecruiser CIC contained every piece
of tactical information for an entire battle group‟s worth of warships, from individual torpedo
stock and munitions load outs to the duty rosters of each and every tactical officer, and even
standby target logs for the taskforce‟s not-insubstantial arsenal of nuclear SLBMs.
The appearance, then, of a single sensor profile analysis request was rare, and the
watch officer of station CC12 did a double take when it appeared in his inbox. By all rights,
the request was more deserving of the Commonwealth‟s maintenance department than the
combat systems command.
“Ensign Parish?” repeated Commander Callaghan for the third time over the rattle
and hum of the busy control deck, glaring at the operator with impatient malign.
“Still a few minutes away, sir,” the ensign replied, watching the sonar track on the
mysterious contact that had been watching them silently from the trench ahead, slowly
pulling back so as to stay out of the cruiser‟s more powerful high-band sweeps. Whoever
they were, they had been happy to be detected, but were refusing to be identified.
“Let me know when you have him,” Callaghan ordered.
“Aye, XO.”
Parish‟s partner-in-crime at CC12, Petty Officer Jeong Osbourne, gave him a
knowing smile as she lifted one of her ear phones away to whisper to him. “I think he‟s
having one of those days,” she idly probed.
“I think the Captain is having one of those days,” Parish countered, his voice a
gravelly sneer so it couldn‟t carry.
Osbourne‟s smile cracked in to a wide grin. “Exactly.”
Parish shook his head as curiosity started to get the better of him, and he opened the
request in his inbox to read the attached maintenance report. That in its self struck him as
odd – only an engineer or a crew chief would have attached such a form, and it probably
wouldn‟t have been forwarded to the CIC unless a supervisor had thought it necessary.
A newbie‟s mistake, Parish considered, before reading the signatures and frowning.
It had been signed twice – once by Crew Chief Adams, and a second time by Commander
Jane Roberts, CO of VF-107.
Parish fumbled with the thought of what to do with it for a moment, and had started to
forward the message to the CIC‟s watch master when his status displays reset – his inbox,
work space and the report he‟d been processing all disappearing to be replaced by a
constant stream of tactical data and weapons tracking reports.
He looked at Osbourne next to him, and didn‟t get a chance to ask the question
before the rest of the CIC started to lock down. The gentle blue lighting evaporated as a
wash of crimson settled over the command centre, and Callaghan started barking – his voice
somehow managing to rise above the whine of an alert klaxon.
“TACREP?”
The watch master turned in his pulpit and gripped the railings. “Contacts bearing onenine-five,
range: fifteen miles.”
“That‟s almost on top of us. How the hell did they get through our sensor perimeter?
Sound General Quarters, get Captain Banick and Admiral Ainsley up here.”
...The Admiral was already working his way through the port side access corridors of
D-Deck when the call came through, stepping aside occasionally as marines thundered
down the halls, their weapons and kit clattering loudly as their boots panged off of the grates.
They paid him largely no heed as they secured the ship for battle, with only the Corporals
and Sergeants offering a nod of recognition as they hustled their fireteams.
- 142 -

“...Captain Banick, Admiral Ainsley, please report to the bridge,” the 1MC echoed.
Ainsley ignored it a he continued his long walk to the bridge, and before long, had
become aware of a figure shadowing him, his paces steadily drawing him closer. He figured
by the gait it would be Banick, the slightly off-beat rhythm of his step having been a
noticeable quirk he‟d picked up since his femur had been shattered two years previously by
a Chaodai bullet. The bone had been replaced by a synthetic bionic, but he had never quite
had the same bounce to his step.
Ainsley‟s PAL chirped from his belt as he rounded the top of the staircase on C-Deck
and slapped the call button for the Mag-Lev carriage. He held the door for Banick just a few
steps behind him, and then answered the page. “Ainsley, speak.”
“Admiral, it‟s Callaghan. We‟re not exa-“
Static filled the channel rapidly, and the XO‟s voice dissolved in to a sea of noise.
“Callaghan?”
The static continued, and Banick regarded his former Captain nervously. “Jammed?”
Ainsley was incredulous. “On internal communications?”
Banick pulled out his own PDA and tried connecting to the ship‟s intranet. After a few
seconds, it gave him a curt time-out error.
“How the hell would does someone jam our internal communications?” Banick asked,
countering Ainsley‟s query.
The Admiral‟s face was dark. “I‟m less concerned about the how, and more worried
about the why at this point, Captain.”
At last, the Maglev doors hissed open and the two officers exited the carriage outside
the main bridge. The marines stationed outside the massive clam doors saluted as they
passed through the portal and walked across the command deck to the CIC.
“Admiral on-deck!” barked the Officer of the Watch.
“Captain Banick has the bridge. As you were,” Ainsley dismissed them, deferring
authority to the man immediately behind him. Both officers approached Callaghan at the side
of the CIC, noticing that the XO had put his headset down and had since picked up a
hardline next to the main navigation table. Neither Banick nor Ainsley interrupted whatever it
was he was engaged in, and continued to wait until Callaghan pursed his lips.
“Get them launched,” the XO ordered down the line. “Communications be damned, I
want them in the water. We‟ll use point-to-point relays if we have to. Bridge out.”
Callaghan put the phone back on its cradle and sighed. Neither the Captain nor the
Admiral needed to ask the obvious question and Callaghan wasted no time in offering his
explanation. “All wireless communications are down. We don‟t know how, or why. Hard lines
are down, and FOC is doing the best it can to get our birds launched. Still waiting on target
information.”
“You mean we have no idea who‟s attacked us?” Banick cut in.
“You‟re assuming we are being attacked, Captain,” Ainsley returned. “I imagine if
they were trying to board us, we would have known about it by now.”
“Captain!” called Lieutenant Phillips from the communications station. “I‟ve managed
to track the source of the jamming – it‟s internal, but it‟s not coming from us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Still confirming sir, but... I think it‟s Vengeance. She‟s flooded her uplink with a
packet storm, and its being replicated across every system.”
“...He‟s got our command codes.” Banick‟s face turned dark as he uttered it.
“Stiles?!” Ainsley spat. “Point-to-point on the WSKRS relay. Now. Get me that ship.”
“It‟ll take me a minute to set up, sir.”
In the darkness, Commonwealth continued to close the distance with the shadows –
blind, deaf and impotent. Vengeance remained off her port quarter, despite the narrowing
confines of the submarine trench ahead, but for the few subfighters that slowly began to
spew from the battlecruiser‟s open launch bays, it was a grim picture.
„Bouncer‟ checked his sensors as soon as he was clear of the battlecruiser‟s shadow,
and felt his stomach run cold. Commonwealth was surrounded. Ahead of her, a single,
- 143 -

massive contact loomed in the darkness – sitting quietly, waiting and watching, and not
giving off a single recognisable signal. Hypersonar was next to useless at range, and they
were running silent - making the craft‟s sensors job of returning a solid ID virtually
impossible. Further to the problem, closing at a slightly more open distance of eighteen
miles, a cluster of even more contacts was drawing nearer from the intersecting Tongan
trench.
Factoring in the Vengeance herself, sitting like a threatening dagger on
Commonwealth‟s flank, and it became very clear that the UEO battlecruiser was being
herded, and explanations were few as to why. The Dark Angel leader‟s stomach continued
to twist in to a knot as he considered the limited options open to him, but was at least
reassured by the appearance of the rest of the squadron surrounding the ship‟s fore quarters
in a protective shield.
He simply prayed it wouldn‟t be needed.
A rumble from outside his fighter rattled his cockpit and he looked left, over his
shoulder, to see the full-canopy HUD illuminate the trace outline of a second Raptor pulling
alongside. After a few moments, data began sprawling up next to it, identifying it simply as
„“SWORD-01:DDSTK‟
It was Roberts, and the first of the Rapiers. He bumped up the HUD-assisted
illumination and made out the figure of the Rapier commander staring straight back at him,
signalling with her hand. This made him smile, despite the circumstances, as he watched her
signal „Two flights – deploying forward. Will cover at four miles.‟
He gave her a simple thumbs up, and then watched as Rapier One, along with 7
other fighters advance in to the gloom ahead – their engine trails lighting up the abyss for
only a few moments before they disappeared in to the black.
„Commonwealth to Dark Angel Lead, please acknowledge.”
Coyle breathed a sigh of relief as he saw his computer acknowledge the nearby
WSKRS satellite that had begun painting him with a laser. “Good to hear your voice,
Admiral. Does someone mind telling me what‟s going on?”
...Ainsley toggled a switch next to the phone and piped the fighter group commander
through the CIC speakers. “Likewise, Commander. All radio frequencies are jammed. At this
point, consider Vengeance to be hostile. We‟re trying to get a hold of them, but they‟ve not
exactly made this easy. If it‟s any consolation, they‟re as deaf as we are. Point-to-point is as
good as we‟re going to get.”
“At least it‟s something, Admiral. What are our orders?”
“Sit tight, Commander. We don‟t want to turn this in to a shooting match, and frankly,
I don‟t think they do either... Or else we would have probably heard it by now.”
“Sure do wish I had that in writing, sir.”
Ainsley smiled despite his own misgivings, and gave Lieutenant Phillips an urging
glance. “Let‟s give them the benefit of the doubt for the time being. Do not engage unless
you are fired upon, and that‟s an order.”
“Understood, Admiral.”
“Ainsley, out.”
The Admiral sighed as he set the handset back in its cradle and appealed pleadingly
with Phillips. The Lieutenant nodded affirmatively as the last of his WSKRS probes settled in
to their relay positions and Banick gestured to the main screen.
Phillips punched up the hail, and the command staff continued to stare in anticipation
at the blank wall at the front of the command deck. The communications officer tried a
second, and then a third time, and then finally regarded them all with forlorn defeat.
“I‟m sorry, sir. Vengeance isn‟t answering out hails.”
“Damn it, Bill,” muttered the Admiral beneath his breath, thumping the railing in front
of him.
Long seconds passed before the sensor chief swivelled in his chair. “We‟ve got
something. One shuttle and two SF-38 Raptors, no IDs, dead ahead and closing at one-fivezero.
No targeting sweeps, no weapons locks.”
- 144 -

“Open the outer doors,” Corinn Roderick ordered as she walked quietly up the
command deck stairs. “Send down marine fire teams to the flight deck, with your permission,
Captain?”
Banick gave Roderick a momentary, icy stare before he caught Ainsley‟s affirming
gaze through the corner of his eye. “Do it.”
“Commander Callaghan, you have the bridge,” the Admiral muttered again. “Captain
Roderick, Captain Banick... Come with me.”
~
Major Adrian O‟Shaughnessy sniffed the air slightly as he followed his marines in to
the hangar decks, service pistol holstered and safed as the heavily armed troops fanned out
and assumed firing positions around the hangar. Several members of the squads armed with
slightly longer variants of the M31 rifle clambered up catwalk steps to take elevated positions
along the width of the deck, their weapons trained on the moon pool‟s recovery ramp.
O‟Shaughnessy was not a man easily put on-edge. He‟d seen some of the worst
things that the war could throw at the UEO, and had walked away on his own legs to tell the
tale every time. Some members of the Commonwealth‟s marine detachment considered the
man blessed, and equally, others saw him as the bearer of a curse with all he‟d been
through. He was one of a good portion of the battlecruiser‟s crew to have come from the
survivors of the Atlantis DSV, and had brought with him the best and worst kinds of
experience.
He was an unassuming man by the standards of the troops he accompanied – each
a brick-jawed, trunk-necked monstrosity with grim, sharp features that had probably never
once broken a genuine smile. For all his pragmatism, Adrian O‟Shaughnessy was a cautious
man who never liked surprise, and that was why he had called for Commonwealth‟s single
platoon of Force Recon.
It was a true oddity then that he wore the same skull, wings and diamond as they did
– a well-worn and weathered badge of his own service with the secretive elite of the UEO
Marine Corps so many years before.
The waters of the moon pool bubbled and surged as the bulky, hawk-nosed launch
rose from the carrier‟s submerged hydrosphere to set the decks awash when it broke the
surface, the two Raptors that had accompanied it on its brief journey nowhere to be seen. Its
identity as a UEO shuttle was clear as soon as it broke the surface – its smooth flanks and
clean topsides an obvious contrast to what he knew to expect from agricultural and utilitarian
Macronesian launch craft and shuttles. His eyes scanned the hull of the launch instinctively,
but could find not a single mark of identification. It had been stripped clean of all numbers,
insignia and names.
It took long, uncertain seconds for the craft to settle on the deck as it was pulled
clear, by which time Ainsley, Banick and Roderick rounded the corner of the hangar
entrance and approached the line of marines. Pilots and deck crews had started to mill
around the pool, waiting and watching in uncertain anticipation.
...In the great, endless black, the tiny squadron of WSKRS probes fanned out and
settled in to a long life line between the Commonwealth and her unknown shadow nearly a
dozen miles ahead. Their probing eyes locked on to the mysterious vessel and painted it
with a thousand different kinds of identification calls, sensor sweeps, acoustic pings and
communications challenges, their small but sophisticated AIs swiftly eliminating the many
possible mathematical calculations until they cross referenced each of their findings, and
profiled it to their on-board databanks.
The single laser communication it took to relay all this back to the Commonwealth hit
the CIC like a bolt of lightning as the tactical plot in the centre of the CIC processed the data
in turn. The large, holographic red delta marked “UNKNOWN” that occupied the virtual
trench ahead of CVBN-110‟s position was updated with countless lines of scrawling data and
- 145 -

information before its visual model took on a new and completely unexpected form. A quick
flash of haze and shimmer of light, and the delta shimmered away. The image that replaced
it ripped the air from Ryan Callaghan‟s lungs.
The eyes of the CIC directors went wide as they saw it too - completely dominating
the centre of the board as a thousand alerts and data flags prioritized the massive vessel
and began disseminating the information all over the Combat Information Centre. The ship‟s
unseen AI acted on the data long before the computers coupled to it could finish their
categorization of the log. Encryptions fell in to place, and the entire combat database of the
ship‟s most sensitive control room was firewalled from every one of Commonwealth‟s other
systems. No one outside the room would have seen it.
Callaghan‟s mind raced, and then understood why the Vengeance had jammed their
communications capability. “Full sensor and communications black out!” he barked, pointing
at the watch master.
With a swift stroke of his hand, the watch master confirmed the data log request that
isolated the information to the CIC, and the glass doors connecting them to the bridge folded
closed as the photovoltaic crystals that made up the panels dimmed and turned completely
black.
“Until we hear from the Admiral,” he said to the shocked staff, “What you just saw will
not leave this room.”
...The hatch on the sea launch continued to drip as the officers watched, and the
marines‟ rifles kept a trained bead. O‟Shaughnessy looked at Ainsley through the corner of
his eye, and the Admiral stepped between two of the soldiers in front of him and straightened
– Banick and Roderick not two steps behind him.
A sharp hiss of equalizing atmosphere preceded the hatch breaking its seal against
the smooth, flush hull and it swung away before a pair of soldiers appeared inside the door,
each of them staring at the line of commandoes that waited for them. The soldiers‟ uniforms
were black, and their weapons not a standard UEO issue. Like their shuttle, they wore no
insignia or names, but seemed otherwise unmoved by the marines outside.
After a moment, one of the two soldiers stepped back from the door and disappeared
back in to the cabin, ahead of a new figure that quickly replaced him to step out to the top of
the boarding ladder.
Absolute silence ruled on the hangar deck for three long seconds before Ainsley
started walking forward, and waved down the raised rifles of the marines who surrounded
him. A second, and then third figure emerged from the shuttle and Ainsley studied them both
with equal suspicion and anger. General Henry Adamson – former Chief of the Macronesian
military was flanked by a nervous aid that he recognised as Captain Thomas Blake. It was
the first of this trio that held the Admiral‟s attention, and he locked eyes with the short,
blonde woman, his throat choking with rage, and his stomach churning over bile.
Captain Lauren Hornsby, alive and well, stopped as she reached the bottom of the
ladder and regarded the man before her with a very particular smile.
“Hello, Mark.”
UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110, the Polynesian Trench. April 13 th , 2043…
~
She hung in the abyss as a threatening visage of other-worldly power, the spotlights
of her accompanying WSKRS probes beating down in long, rippling god-rays that draped
obsidian shadows from massive, winged flanks like curtains billowing in an icy breeze. The
bright blue spotlights that threw operatic, even orchestral shadows over her dramatic lines
gave the appearance of a ghost.
- 146 -

And a ghost she was.
The UEO Aquarius DSV-8200 dwarfed the battlecruiser that sat in the shadow of her
giant arrowhead bow, the Vengeance having settled back in Commonwealth‟s wake to
create an uncomfortable blockade which wouldn‟t allow the UEO cruiser to leave.
It was the third contact that had illuminated Commonwealth‟s sensors that had kept
her on her toes. Despite the position the UEO battlecruiser now found herself in, it was that
cluster of contacts that had risen the most eyebrows in the CIC. They hadn‟t moved since
their arrival, and had continued to sit silently, waiting and watching, as the bizarre
rendezvous unfolded.
Callaghan stood at the Conn of the CIC in silence, continuing to stare down at the
monolithic, holographic form of the Aquarius, the stream of sensor data continuing to pour
out next to it. The jamming from Vengeance had continued, but the WSKRS were steadily
confirming that neither the NSC vessel, nor the massive DSV above them, had any
immediate hostile intentions. There had been no targeting sweeps and torpedo tube doors
remained closed.
And still, there she was. 242,000 tonnes of ghost. Something snide was nagging at
Callaghan‟s mind. No distress call, wreckage or debris had ever been reported, and after an
exhaustive search lasting two months, no trace of the great warship could be found. Naval
command had officially declared her lost with all hands, and Callaghan, Banick, Ainsley and
the surviving crew of the Atlantis had gone to Arlington to lay them to rest.
That nagging slowly turned to a sense of betrayal, and his fists balled as he
restrained himself from hitting the glass pane of the navigation chart beside him.
The handset at the side of the Conn rang loudly, and Callaghan‟s balled fist shot out
and lifted it from its hook, only too grateful to have something to grasp with other than his
own frustration. “Combat,” he answered sharply.
“Callaghan, it‟s Richards... Situation?”
“Full lockdown, Wing Commander,” he replied under his breath. “We‟re standing by
pending word from the Admiral.”
“I‟m on the bridge. There‟re a few nervous people out here, Ryan.”
Callaghan looked out the corner of his eye to the folding, opaque doors.
“Coyle‟s in charge and you‟ve been relieved,” he said bluntly.
“Yeah, well, Coyle isn‟t here. I am.”
Callaghan nodded hesitantly to a marine who stood inside the frame. The soldier
kept his hand on his sidearm as he opened the side door and carefully watched the Wing
Commander walk in, his leg still noticeably dragging in his wake. The door latched shut
behind them with a snap-hiss.
Richards‟ jaw twitched, hiding his clenched teeth as he walked down the short flight
of stairs to the combat floor, his arms folded as he stopped next to the plot. A long, trembled
sigh finally wheezed from his lips as he stared at the map and the massive form of the
Aquarius.
Richards said nothing as he exchanged a knowing look with Callaghan and pulled on
a headset from the rack before him. The Wing Commander‟s cold eyes locked with those of
the communications officers. “Put me through to the CAP.”
“We‟re under lockdown, sir. No communications in or out,” replied the watch officer,
interjecting before the radiomen could even open their mouths.
Richards rounded on the officer and shot him a look that he had used only a few
times in his life. Those who had been on the receiving end of this expression had gone on to
regret it. “Have you ever seen what a hotshot pilot without orders and a loaded magazine
can do for international relations, Lieutenant?”
The sweat that was beading across Roberts‟ forehead was beginning to run down
her face and in to her eyes. She blinked it away beneath the visor as she repeated the silent
prayer in her head. Aquarius was virtually on top of them, and the entire squadron could only
wait for the word... one word or another, at this point, none of them cared which. Anything
was preferable to sitting there with targets being painted on them from almost every angle.
- 147 -

The combat sonar blared target track warnings from multiple sources – some of them
obvious, and others being almost untraceable as the computer struggled to triangulate their
positions. With communications down, every broadband laser channel that the squadron
used to coordinate their sensor net was utterly scrambled. In the pitch black of the abyss
outside, it was about the worst situation any of them could imagine. Target feeds lagged,
sonar tracks were outdated by the time they were processed, and their lack of wireless
comms had forced them in to a holding formation that made the entire unit a sitting duck. At
any moment, either the DSV before them, or the myriad of shadows that tracked them from
the darkness could swat them from the deep... and with the state of their sensors, they‟d
never even see it coming.
“Sword, Halo... this is Minstrel. Please acknowledge,” said the scrappy, virtually
unintelligible voice.
Roberts keyed her radio so quickly she almost disengaged the safeties on her
fighters cannons. “This is Deadstick!” she barked. “What the fuck is going on!?”
Static filled the line for several, long moments, but it was not the type of white noise
that Roberts knew came from a dead line. It was the sort of sound she expected to hear from
a garbled background as someone kept their thumb on the key.
“Deadstick,” the voice said finally. “Count it out.”
It took a moment for the Raptor pilot to process the order as her eyes darted over the
instrument panels. Despite its terse, garbled tone, Roberts could hear the calm, collected
nature in which the instruction was made. Realisation began to set in as she exhaled slowly,
and routine took hold.
“Devils Five,” she reported, beginning with the depth gauges. “Fuel: two point five,
Payload: six stowed, two hot, one thousand rounds.”
“Say your heading.”
She blinked again. “Two-eight-zero, holding pattern alpha, one point five miles on
bearing two eight zero. Steady at one-five-zero.”
“State your situation.”
The world began to slow as Roberts mind turned over. Her pulse slowed, her grip on
the stick slackened, and the terror slowly made way for cold, objective logic. Unknowns
became variables, hard targets became objectives. Something, somewhere in the very core
of her psyche, clicked.
Richards kept watching the plot as his squadron suddenly changed. Its awkward
defensive posture shifted only slightly, but it was enough to bring a smile to his face. The
twelve Raptors came about, bearing back on the big DSV, now below them, and the flanks
of the wide „flying-V‟ of Raptors fanned out to bracket the ESV in her wake.
“This is Rapier Lead,” Roberts returned, her voice now a cold, dead pan. “Target
confirmed on heading zero two zero, range one point five. Possible bandits at six miles and
holding, intentions unclear.”
Richards didn‟t notice the wry smile that cracked at the corner of Callaghan‟s lips,
and those of several others around the CIC. Richards nodded his approval. “Deadstick, I
doubt very much they want a fight. If they did, they‟ve had plenty of opportunity before now.
Hold your position, keep your head cool, and stay on mission. You‟ll be the first to know if we
get the word.”
“Understood, boss.”
“Good hunting. Minstrel out.”
Richards took the headset off and continued to stare at the main plot, his eyes fixing
on the squadron of Raptors and darting to the other clusters of unknown contacts beyond
Commonwealth‟s identification range. Callaghan slowly moved from his position at the CIC
Conn down to Richards‟ side, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “Nicely done,” he
muttered quietly.
“She just needed to be reminded.”
“WSKRS relayed that to all flight leaders via SEWACS, Commander,” Parish
reported. “Warseer reports the CAP has responded and is awaiting your orders.”
- 148 -

Callaghan pursed his lips. The laser relays aboard Commonwealth‟s WSKRS probes
were getting the word out well enough, but if the situation became dire, quick and efficient
command and control would be almost impossible.
Callaghan and Richards‟ eyes shot up to the door as it hissed open, giving way to
five figures. Banick walked in first, giving his XO an icy stare before Ainsley and Roderick
followed him, stepping aside quickly next to the marine whose hand tensed over the trigger
of his rifle. It was a subtle gesture. Soldiers on guard would typically cover the grip of their
firearms with their index fingers well clear of the trigger. The quick shift was barely
noticeable, but it didn‟t take Callaghan long to see the reason for it as a black-clad man in
the uniform of an Alliance General walked through the door. Its red and gold eagle insignia
had been removed, leaving only his rank pins, service ribbons and crest of the ANS
Reprisal, but even Henry Adamson‟s unexpected entrance could do nothing to prepare the
UEO officers for the last of them. Captain Lauren Hornsby‟s eyes quickly found Callaghan
and his companion before an uneasy smile crept on to her features. Her steps were
confidant, but markedly guarded as she walked down the flight of steps and approached the
plot.
“Commanders,” she greeted casually, picking up the headset from in front of a
deathly silent Richards. His face had twisted in to a sneer as Hornsby put the headset on
and adjusted the microphone. “Communications, I‟m routing my radio protocols to you,”
Hornsby said as she typed in her command codes. “Please use them to hail the
Vengeance.”
Parish and Osborne gave Banick and Ainsley an uneasy glance across the CIC, and
the Captain hesitantly deferred to the Admiral. Ainsley looked uncomfortable as he offered
only a curt nod.
“Osiris to Vengeance-actual,” she said coolly, her radio callsign drawing a raised
brow from the senior staff. She wasn‟t waiting long.
“Vengeance-actual. The word?”
“The word is given,” she replied. “Stand down.”
Hornsby removed the headset, turned cautiously on her heel, and eyed Ainsley. “I‟ve
held up my end,” she said.
“Your end of what?” Banick interjected, stepping forward. “Admiral, I‟d appreciate an
explanation here.”
Ainsley ignored him for a moment as he turned to the operations desk. “Ensign?”
Osborne‟s hands flew over her controls, and Ainsley eyed the overhead monitors as
she switched her sensor and communications feeds live to the CIC deck. “Jamming is
easing, sir. Their outer doors are closed, no targeting sweeps detected.”
“Stand down from general quarters, secure all stations and isolate our sonar data
from the battlenet. I want a complete blackout on all non-secured long-range communiqués.”
“Admiral!” snapped Banick, walking across the CIC briskly before lowering his voice
to a harsh whisper. “With all due respect, you have no authority to-“
The Admiral didn‟t miss a beat as he locked eyes with the Captain. “Special Order
sixteen: „Any and all matters communicated to or from the operating fleet command
pertaining to operational secrecy or taskforce security will be the sole responsibility of the
flag officer‟. And make no mistake, Captain, as long as I remain the flag officer, and as long
as Aquarius is part of this fleet, no communications traffic in or out will be relayed to UEO
command without my consent. Am I perfectly clear?”
Banick straightened. “If that‟s how you‟ll have it, sir, under Article 1024 I will require
this order in writing.”
Ainsley smiled slightly as he calmly reached to his pocket, and unfolded a piece of
paper which he lay on the chart table.
“You wouldn‟t happen to have a pen, would you, Captain?”
Banick was astonished as he read the order on the page, marked notably by the
letterhead of the Aquarius DSV. He shot Hornsby an icy glare before turning back to Ainsley.
“I‟d like to lodge a formal protest.”
- 149 -

“Your protest is noted, Captain,” Ainsley said in a manner far-too-kind. “I‟ll be sure to
report it next time I speak with CINCPAC... which considering our situation, might not be for
quite a while.”
Banick went to speak, his lip curling in to a sneer before the Admiral interjected.
Banick wouldn‟t have known it, but Ainsley was trying his hardest to do the Commonwealth‟s
commander the biggest favour of his career. “If you have a problem with that, Captain, you
are most welcome to spend that time with Captain Hornsby in the ship‟s brig.”
Hornsby wheeled like the hammer of a gun, and all eyes met Ainsley as the Aquarius
captain‟s jaw gaped. “I‟m being detained?”
“Master at arms,” called Ainsley, ushering the senior NCO of the marines over.
“On what charge?” Hornsby challenged urgently as the burley marine held her hands
behind her back and removed his handcuffs.
“As soon as I work out what the hell is going on, Captain, I‟ll let you know, but in the
mean time, maybe you‟ll contemplate the legal statutes surrounding desertion in a time of
war,” Ainsley mused. “Sergeant Major, take Captain Hornsby to the brig.”
~
The puzzle began to unravel quickly after that. An immense wealth of sensor data
had started to pour in to Commonwealth‟s computers when the jamming ceased and data
links with the surrounding WSKRS, WSPRS and SEWACS were restored. The murky sea
appeared to open as solid returns were made on the Vengeance, Aquarius, the escorting
fighters, and – more interestingly – the shadowy group of unknown submarines that had
been waiting at distance. They‟d watched and waited throughout the entire, terse exchange
before the word had been given to stand down, and then they had slowly closed the distance
and were now manoeuvring in to formation behind the trio of comparative-dreadnoughts.
Their long, segmented, even dated hulls – jet black beneath layer upon layer of anechoic
tiles – were in opposition to the great, sleek forms of the UEO and NSC vessels they
accompanied, and only one of their number came even close to matching them in size. Their
appearance was rag-tag, and the majority of the flotilla appeared to have been cobbled
together from submarines as old as the dissolution and Third World War before it.
The New Australian Resistance, otherwise proudly calling themselves the „Republic
Navy‟, were probably all that remained of those organized forces who had been willing to
stand up to the dictatorship of Alexander Bourne.
General Henry Adamson was a career military officer, and at one point had been one
of the single most loathed names in the meeting rooms of the UEO command. The former
head of the Alliance military, Adamson had become the defacto leader of the resistance
almost on strength of character alone. He was a figurehead, and an easy one to rally
around. Whatever job propaganda had done to elevate his position didn‟t take away from his
history. Ainsley was certainly not about to contest the point, having crossed swords with the
man personally.
Adamson followed Ainsley down the port side access corridor of Commonwealth‟s
command deck towards the briefing room. It was a walk made in complete silence, far more
awkward for the General than it was his UEO counterpart. After a while, Adamson turned to
look at Ainsley. “I can understand your hesitation,” he said.
“Hesitation to what?”
“Trust her. I can‟t say I‟d react any differently if our positions were reversed.”
Ainsley stopped in his tracks, and wheeled to face the General squarely. “And what
exactly, General Adamson, is your position in all of this?”
“You‟ve seen my fleet,” the Australian countered. “I‟m using Collins-class boats, for
Christ‟s sake. I can‟t fight Bourne by myself, and from what Hornsby tells me, neither can
you.”
Ainsley huffed as he continued walking. “Now there is something we can agree on.”
- 150 -

“I think you should listen to her, Ainsley. There is more going on here than you
realise.”
Now the Admiral laughed. “Yep, and I‟m going to find out just what the sum of that is
before I do another damned thing. I wonder if you could do me a favour, and have that
bastard Stiles get over here.”
Ainsley continued down the hall, leaving Adamson watching in his wake. “And where
are you going?”
“To make a call.”
UEO Aquarius DSV-8200, the Polynesian Trench. April 13 th , 2043…
~
Lieutenant Commander Davis Akara had watched the movements of John Razak‟s
boots as he continued to pace the upper bridge deck, the slight „clank‟ as boot heel met steel
grating having all the precision of a well-made watch. It was a nauseating rhythm, and
minutes had passed like hours. The XO‟s eyes looked downward, tracing the lines his feet
followed where two of the deck gratings met along a frame, well astride.
“Is something the matter, Davis?”
Akara smirked. “Nothing at all, XO.”
“Damn it!” Razak smashed his fist against the small, holographic pedestal on the
conn. “This was foolish, she should never have gone over there...”
“Commander...”
“-At the very least, we should have sent a full detachment of marines with her, or
brought Ainsley to the Vengeance.”
Akara got up, and climbed the stairs from hits tactical station to the command deck.
Lieutenant Mackenzie had been standing silently behind Razak. “John,” Akara said quietly.
“Captain Hornsby knows what she‟s doing. You need to give her time.”
A shrill chirp from communications brought all three officers around. Mackenzie
finally sighed in relief. “Communications, your report?”
“Ma‟am, it‟s the Commonwealth. She‟s hailing.”
“About bloody time,” Razak muttered. “Put them up.”
All three officers turned and faced the massive, curved view screen at the front of the
DSV‟s bridge. The image of a man more worn than any of them remembered filled it, tellingly
wearing the gold tridents of a UEO captain.
“Commander Razak,” James Banick said with uncertainty. Akara sensed a
discomfort there as well, as if something had transpired that had pulled the rug from under
his feet.
“Hello, Captain Banick... It‟s been quite some time, sir.”
“Indeed. Commander, and I look forward to hearing about exactly where you and
your ship have been, but for now, I require the Aquarius to stand down all weapons and
sensors.”
Akara didn‟t need to hear Banick twice as he moved to the tactical station, and
checked the ship‟s weapons. He looked at Razak, waiting for the word.
Razak frowned, and walked down the stairs to take a position next to Akara‟s bank of
tactical monitors, risking a sideways glance to check the loadings on Aquarius‟s forward
batteries. “I don‟t understand, Captain, who‟s giving this order?”
“Admiral Ainsley, and if I were you, Commander... I wouldn‟t spend too long thinking
about it.”
“I see...” mused Razak, moving his hand from view behind the console to where he
could indicate the WSPRS controls and intercept tubes. “Where‟s Captain Hornsby?”
Banick‟s jaw tensed. “Captain Hornsby has been placed in custody.”
“What? Why?”
- 151 -

Banick‟s expression didn‟t soften. “When she‟s charged, I‟ll let you know.
Commonwealth out.”
The screen returned to the forward WSKRS view, and Razak thumped the console
again. “This was a mistake.”
“You‟re in command, sir,” Akara nodded. “Your orders?”
The XO sighed as he rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. “We do what the man
says. Stand down weapons and combat sensors... But keep intercepts on standby, and set
all WSPRS forward.”
“Yes sir.”
Razak was heading for the door when Lieutenant Kathleen Mazkenzie turned to him
sharply. “XO?”
Razak spun on his heel. “Kat?”
Mackenzie looked at the note on her screen again before returning her gaze to
Razak unsurely. “I think you should look at this, sir.”
The XO marched across the deck and planted his hand on the back of Mazkenzie‟s
chair looking at the display over her shoulder. It didn‟t take long for his heart to skip a beat.
This was his „out‟, and reading the command ID attached to the message, a small smile
slowly started to appear. “Lieutenant Mackenzie, please send the CAG to my office.”
UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110, the Polynesian Trench. April 13 th , 2043…
~
“Bullshit,” Riley baulked, his face twisting in to the bemused look of a bad smell.
Mark Ainsley smirked.
The Fleet Admiral stared through the holoscreen in silence for long seconds, his jaw
working in a slow, circular motion. “Is she intact?”
“Very much so, sir. Wherever she‟s been for the last nine months, Hornsby‟s not
saying.”
Riley let out a long, relieved sigh as he collapsed back in to his chair. The man
looked exhausted, and this had come as the best news he‟d received in as long as he could
recall. “Sweet Jesus... Aquarius... after all this time?”
“Admiral, I need guidance,” Ainsley urged. “I‟ve already tried calling Admiral
Schrader, and no one seems to know where she is. I wager someone in Intelligence knew
what was going on down here well before Commonwealth picked up the trail, but we‟ve run
the course and I‟m flying blind.”
“We need to tread carefully, Mark,” Riley said slowly. “Has this been reported?”
“Absolutely not. I‟ve ordered a complete lockdown on all incoming and outgoing
traffic without authorization. Commonwealth is off the grid.”
“Keep it that way. We‟ve just been handed an ace, and the quieter we can keep that
piece of information, the better. As long as we have the Aquarius, and the longer we can
keep the Alliance knowing that, the better off we are.”
“What about Hornsby?”
“Speak with her and find out what she knows. I doubt she could have done this by
herself.”
“I‟ve remanded her to the brig, Admiral,” Ainsley explained. “Until I know who she‟s
been answering to, I have little choice but to consider her AWOL.”
“Then take command of Aquarius if you must, but so long as Commonwealth is off
the radar, I need you as my eyes and ears. Our plans might well have changed... but it
would be best if we restricted the flow of information as need-to-know. And that includes the
Secretary-General.”
“Shall I assume I have your authority to do what may be needed in this, Fleet-
Admiral?”
- 152 -

Riley noted the pragmatic use of his rank, and nodded sagely. For a moment, his
honed, experienced air of command appeared to show a weakness that was more than
uncommon and betrayed his burgeoning apprehension. “To its full extent, Admiral.”
Ainsley let out a sigh. Riley was sticking his neck out further than most in the General
Staff would ever be willing, and he suspected that the weight of consequence that might
come with that initiative might well cost the man more than just his standing. Whatever Riley
was expecting to come from this, he was willing to keep Ainsley – and the Commonwealth -
as far away from the epicentre as possible.
“Good luck out there, Ainsley,” Riley said at last - finally allowing a small hint of a
smile.
“You too, sir.”
~
Jane Roberts marched down the long access corridor from the hangar to the
stairwell, and took each flight by double-steps as she bounded up two decks on her way to
the B-deck flight command centres. Her webbing and gear still dangled from her flight
harness and she wiped a matted lock of black hair out of her eyes as she spun in a waltzstep
around a clerk who was taken off-guard by her ascent to rapidly step aside.
Dustin Coyle was only a few paces behind her, himself still pumping with adrenaline
that was only being further fuelled by an anger of what his squadron – and the Rapiers - had
just endured. The two officers rounded the final junction and paused for a moment for a trio
of flight controllers on their way out of the command centre who in turn saluted as they saw
the pair before quickly disappearing down the hall.
Standing in the centre of the FOC, Commander Rebecca Raincastle looked haggard.
She was the commander of the battlegroup‟s SEWACS squadron, and was still struggling to
take stock of the strike wing after the debacle that had just passed. Coyle tensed as he
passed her on his way through. While he knew it wasn‟t her fault, the lives of twenty four of
the best pilots in the fleet had just bee pressed against the wall for reasons no one seemed
able to understand or explain, and he desperately wanted answers.
“Roberts, Coyle,” she said quickly as the storm-bearing fighter pilots forded through
the command centre.
“Not now,” Roberts hissed.
“Sorry, Jane... Captain Banick wants to see you both in his office as soon as you‟re
done.”
“Yeah, I bet he does,” Roberts shot back as Raincastle fell in step beside her. “What
the fuck happened out there?”
“We still don‟t know,” Raincastle acknowledged. “Admiral Ainsley has a full
communications and sensor blackout in effect. Bridge hasn‟t said a thing.”
Roberts stopped abruptly and almost collided with the SEWACS commander in the
process. “Well maybe you should find out!” she snapped. “Your birds dropped the ball out
there, and our people almost died for it. So get out of my way, and do something useful.”
Raincastle‟s mouth fell agape as Roberts turned and headed for the briefing rooms.
Coyle put a firm but reassuring hand on her shoulder as he followed her out, looking back
apologetically as he passed.
Coyle didn‟t say a word as the two pilots strode in to Roderick‟s office to find both the
Captain, and Commander Richards, waiting near the end of the room.
“Captain, we sure would like to know what‟s going on,” Roberts cut in sharply.
“Stand easy, Commander,” Roderick ordered, raising a steaming, black mug bearing
the razor-winged crest of the Dark Angels. She sipped it as she walked back to her desk and
sat down, letting Richards remain at the side.
Roberts and Coyle attempted to relax, but failed to wipe the tension from their sweatcovered
brows. Richards smirked slightly as he pulled a towel from the sideboard beside him
and tossed it across to Roberts. The pilot snatched it from the air and offered him a half
- 153 -

smile of thanks as Roderick pushed aside several files. She stared at them both for several
long seconds, and then offered an approving nod. “Good job, both of you.”
“Thank you, ma‟am,” they replied sharply in unison.
“Few other pilots would have kept their heads in that situation... And we probably
wouldn‟t be having this conversation, otherwise.”
Roberts and Coyle didn‟t break their gaze and Roderick glanced sidewards at
Richards. “Now... Speak your minds.”
Roberts gave Coyle and assuring nod to take a lead, and the Dark Angels‟
commander pursed his lips. “Ma‟am, despite the communications blackout, we know what
we saw. It‟s going to take a small miracle to prevent this getting out.”
Roderick nodded. “I expect as much... But I‟m going to have to ask for some
discretion just the same. This situation is delicate, and I can‟t have you throwing fuel on this
one.”
“Captain, it might be too late for that,” Richards said dryly. “If Ainsley is siding with
Hornsby-“
Roderick glared at Richards icily, and then eyed the two officers on the other side of
her desk. “I want all of you to understand: we aren‟t choosing sides.”
Richards bit his lip, and Roderick looked at each of them again before sighing in
resignation. She knew Richards was right. The rift between Ainsley and Banick was clear,
and Hornsby‟s appearance had only fanned the flames. A dangerous game was being
played out by someone who had so far been content to remain in shadow – and everyone,
including Banick, Hornsby, Ainsley and even Adamson - was being used for an end that had
been concealed.
The only thing that has become clear was the level of mistrust that was steadily being
rooted within the highest levels of Ainsley‟s supposed command. “I admit,” Roderick
continued, “The tensions between some of this fleet‟s staff are looking like we‟re going to be
put in to a position of some difficulty-“
“-You mean we‟re going to be asked to choose sides,” interrupted Roberts
sardonically.
“It is my intention, commander, that we won‟t need to. I have to assume that Aquarius
is still operating some kind of a sea wing, and that means she has a CAG.”
“You want to find out who?”
A light rapping came from the Roderick‟s office door, making the captain smile as the
other pilots‟ heads shot around to meet the noise. A junior ensign, one who Roberts and
Coyle were not familiar with poked his head around the door frame nervously and saw
Roderick sitting in the desk chair between the two fighter commanders.
“Should I come back at another time, Captain?” the ensign asked apprehensively.
Roderick shook her head an ushered him in with a wave of her hand. The officer
marched up beside Roberts and saluted sharply, which Roderick again returned casually.
“Ensign Jules Parish, reporting as ordered, Captain Roderick.”
“Stand easy, ensign,” she said coolly. “Your timing is good, thank you.”
Parish nodded politely before regarding Roberts, Coyle and then finally Richards with
a nervous smile. Roderick produced a data slate from beneath a pile of papers, and set it in
front of her.
“Ensign Parish is assigned to Ops in the CIC,” Roderick explained. “Commander
Roberts had Chief Adams lodge a service request for some sonar data the Rapiers logged
during their last sortie.”
Roberts nodded, an eyebrow raising curiously as she eyed Parish with a measure of
suspicion, having nearly completely forgotten about the find in the chaos of the last day. It
impressed Roberts that Parish had actually managed to follow it up as quickly as he did.
“Sufficed to say, I asked the Ensign to meet you to discuss what he found. Mister
Parish?”
The ensign looked taken aback by the unexpected invitation and after a moment‟s
hesitation and an impatient shuffle from an increasingly irritant Commander Richards, he
nodded and gestured to the monitor at the side of Roderick‟s office. “May I, Captain?”
- 154 -

There was no objection, and Parish made a quick key stroke on his data slate that
soon resolved on the display. The slowly spinning roundel of the Commonwealth dissolved,
and was promptly replaced with an uplink to Parish‟s CIC station, and the associated sensor
log, which appeared initially as little more than an audio wave form.
“It took me a little while to isolate the distinct frequencies in your logs, Commander
Roberts,” he explained briefly. “But to spare you the details, I eventually cross referenced the
individual tracks to fleet records that displayed similar anomalies.”
Parish made another adjustment to his slate, and the wave form split in to three
different patterns before isolating the top-most track. Parish zoomed in on the required time
code, and highlighted a section that was nearly completely devoid of data – a sensor hole,
filled with nothing more than ambient noise. Making another stroke on his instrument, the
sonar track was super-imposed on what appeared to be a three dimensional representation
of a UEO Raptor subfighter, mapped to its sonar arrays and associated data bearings.
Parish then tapped his pad, and let the data play through. The wave form jumped, spiked
and changed slightly as the timeline progressed, but all four pilots noticed the „hole‟ that was
missing on the fighter‟s 180-degree bearing. Parish rotated the display, and overlayed the
second and then third sensor tracks which resolved above and below the first, completing
what had effectively become a spherical map of the fighter‟s sensor recordings, on every
bearing. In some places, Roberts could clearly make out what appeared to be the shadows
of adjacent subfighters, or the rolling topography of the trench around it – but once again –
the hole just below the fighter‟s tail remained.
The title slug at the bottom of the screen identified the Raptor as belonging to Rapier
Eight – Lieutenant Cunningham. As best Roberts could see, the data that Parish was
showing them was the original log that had been sent to the CIC.
“This is a full map of the fighter‟s hypersonar logs,” Parish explained. “In real time.”
“So?” Roberts asked, so far unimpressed. “This is the same thing the Lieutenant
found when she was working with the Chief.”
The ensign regarded the Rapier commander apologetically, and then looked at
Richards and Coyle respectively. “Yes, ma‟am, it is... I thought I would display it in a more
understandable manner for the sake of Commanders Coyle and Richards,”
“Please continue, ensign,” Roderick suggested gently, giving Roberts a warning
glance.
Parish nodded curtly, and then swiped his hand across the slate again, the display
wiping a new overlay, highlighted in blue, across that which was already playing. “To
compare, sirs, this is the same time code on the parallel acoustic array.”
They all noted that the hole had now been filled. The missing data had returned, and
Coyle‟s eyebrow started to rise slowly. Parish went on. “...The problem with this data is that I
have cross checked the alignments of both the primary, and the slaved sonar arrays, and
there is no question they are matched to an extremely accurate degree. There are, as best I
can tell, only two possibilities that remain that explain the absence of data on the laser
bands. The first, is that the hypersonars on three, independently maintained subfighters
have suffered the exact same electronics failure on their aft detection grids, on the same,
matched bearing...”
“...Which is impossible,” Richards noted.
“Well, nothing is impossible, Commander... but a better explanation is that the
acoustic data, too, has to contain a measurable, matched anomaly along the same axis.”
Parish again wiped his hand across the slate, and the hypersonar data – along with
its „hole‟ disappeared, leaving only the acoustics. Parish highlighted the corresponding
equivalent and isolated it from the rest of the track. “This portion of the acoustic sonar log
shows everything you would expect from a functioning array. If you were to break down the
different tracks, you‟d be able to identify engine, enrivonment, contact and ambient logs
without a problem. By all rights, the data is „complete‟.”
Parish paused for a moment, and then expanded his selection to include the adjacent
data. “That data is a reflection,” he concluded.
“A reflection?” Roberts frowned. “As in... an active return, right?”
- 155 -

Parish smiled coyly. “Not... exactly. If it were an active return from the fighter‟s
acoustic array, then a contact would have been identified. This is more like... an echo. In
effect, the sonar is picking up the correct noise, but when compared to the same profiles
from other bearings, it is... delayed, but the very smallest of margins, as if someone was
transmitting the ambient noise of the fighters engine back to the sonar, second-hand. If I‟m
right, then it explains, almost perfectly, why the data on the hypersonar is missing.”
Coyle smirked, and nodded his approval at the ensign. “‟look for the place with no
noise...‟” he mused.
Parish frowned. “Sir?”
The Dark Angels leader shrugged. “There was an old adage among sonar operators
in World War Three that the best way to pick up a missile submarine was to quite literally
search for the point in the ocean that was too quiet, because it was easier to detect their
absence than their presence... so to speak.”
The ensign beamed. “Essentially perfect, sir.”
“So it‟s a stealth fighter,” Roberts dawned darkly.
“At least one, probably more,” confirmed Parish. “I only discovered it after I cross
referenced the theory with what we know of Macronesian SA-35s.”
Roderick stood up and briskly walked to the sideboards of her office next to Richards,
pouring a fresh lot of coffee in to her mug. “The interesting part of that, Commander Roberts,
is that the log would suggest you were being shadowed for as long as half an hour before
they withdrew.”
Roberts sneered, feeling as though a finger of blame was being levelled at her.
Something inside her roiled in silent fury at the possibility she – and her unit – had been
used. Roderick appeared to notice this, and placated her with another, calm smile. “...And
half an hour after that, Commander, is when that Alliance patrol went missing.”
“Ghost stories my arse,” Coyle growled.
Roderick grinned, and it was genuine, probably for the first time in a while. “I‟m glad
we‟re on the same page.”
She let the sentence hang for a moment, and regarded Ensign Parish with a grateful,
gentle smile. “Ensign, I‟ll but putting a note of commendation in with your superior. Brilliant
work.”
Parish beamed, and snapped his heels with a sharp salute. “Aye, ma‟am.”
Roderick saluted in return. “Dismissed.”
The Captain watched, and waited, as Parish left the office and closed the hatch
behind him. She traced his shadow through the frosted glass of the office front and waited
until he had disappeared from view before turning back to her officers, her face was darker
again as she eyed each of them. “I intend to find out who it is who is shadowing us, and I‟m
hoping we might already know who that is. If I‟m right, then we can hold every card that
matters.”
“How are you going to do that?” Richards asked.
Roderick smirked. “I‟ve sent a note to the Aquarius CIC,” she admitted. “Give it a day.
If we‟re lucky, they‟ll come to us.”
Coyle eyed Richards suspiciously, his gaze cold, and untrusting. “Then the only thing
we need to work out is what side we‟re going to choose.”
~
- 156 -

T H E S U M O F T H EIR P A R T S
One hundred and fifty miles off the west coast of Africa, December 24 th , 2030...
Ryan Callaghan smiled broadly as he walked down the starboard C-deck corridor of
the Proteus on his way to the forward project facilities. He kept the flat, colourfully wrapped
box, adorned in indigo ribbon at just the right angle behind his back so as to keep it from the
prying, watchful eyes of the marines who patrolled the corridor, turning as he clear each
patrol with a slight smile, all the while keeping his back away from them.
Section 7 had a policy of „admonishing‟ its personnel on the subject of interpersonal
relationships. Over the years they had operated quietly from the Proteus, Ezard had become
notorious for upholding the institution, and more than one officer had been transferred from
the post for pushing the tolerances of that strict mandate. Where those officers wound up, no
one would dream of asking. It was the territory that came with such a post, and something
they had all come to simply accept. Callaghan had skirted the edge a few times, but even he
was not stupid enough to cross „that‟ line.
He broke step as he entered the main medical facility, striding past Doctor Ballard‟s
office and flashing a slight, knowing smile as he headed for the holding wing. Ballard looked
at him with disapproving, tired eyes and a curt shake of her head, but was unable to repress
a smile as she saw the little package behind the man‟s back.
Callaghan stopped at that, pulling up short to turn on his heel and knock lightly on the
frame of the Doctor‟s office. She rolled her eyes as he side stepped through the door, eyeing
the small package in his hands with a disapproving look of resignation.
“You know if Ezard saw that, he‟d put you on report,” she berated him lightly, still
unable to keep the hint of a slight smile from her face.
“Then lucky for me the Captain is busy... Did he tell you what it was that was so
important before he left?”
Ballard shook her head, rolling her eyes once more. “Do you goons ever tell me
anything to do with security?”
“Point,” he grinned.
Ballard looked skyward again before her eyes were drawn back to the brightly
coloured package in Callaghan‟s hand. Quizzically, her eyes interrogated his with a slight
turn at the corner of her lip, and she folded her arms across her chest tightly. “You got them,
didn‟t you.”
It was a statement more than a question and the Lieutenant nodded. “Took six
couriers and three transfer offices, but yes, I did.”
“Why?” she begged incredulously. “Is it that important to you?”
Callaghan‟s cold, calculating eyes warmed for a moment at the question, and his
shoulders appeared to slacken. “Anne, seriously, it‟s Christmas Eve.”
Her lips pursed. “Do you think any of them realise that?”
“I think they realise more than we know.”
Ballard paused, and pulled out a data slate from her desk that she slipped across the
bench to Callaghan. “This might interest you,” she said with another, surprisingly warm smile
creeping across her face again.
Callaghan picked up the slate and reviewed it quietly, his jaw widening slowly as he
read it, and his eyes gradually taking Ballard in with astonishment. “When did you get this?”
he asked.
“About ten minutes before you entered,” she said with a broad smile.
Callaghan‟s cathartic relief showed as he exhaled sharply, an open, almost boyish
smile meeting hers. “The stage seven catalyst?” he asked again, his eyes hopeful for the
first time in months – perhaps even years.
- 157 -

“Works,” she whispered, her stature seeming to grow, proudly. “Every marker, every
gene sequence... Stable. None of the decay is evident, and that‟s from a third generation
control.”
Callaghan looked shocked, and he walked to Ballard quickly as he threw his arms
around her. “You did it,” he rasped, his eyes almost welling with tears.
For years, they had hidden away at the very end of the world, working, hoping for
something that would end the brutality. Thousands had died through what Thecus van der
Weer had wrought in his work, and it had weighed heavily on Anne Ballard‟s soul that she
had not been able to save more. This moment came as a more meaningful step than any
other she had ever taken – and ensured that millions more would live, not just then, but in
the decades that followed. Ballard would not live to see that, and what was more is that she
knew it. But for at least one of those hurt and displaced children in her care, it finally had a
meaning. The cycle could end.
They could go home.
Ballard pulled back from Callaghan, her own eyes starting to well. “Ryan, I know
you‟ve put yourself on the line a few times for this,” she said quietly. “I just want you to know,
I appreciate it.”
The Lieutenant smiled weakly. “I only did what I could, Doctor... I‟m just sorry I
couldn‟t do more.”
Ballard nodded, looking down at the package still in Callaghan‟s hand. “You should
see her,” she said. “I think she‟d like to hear it from you.”
...Samuel Ezard sat in silence at the desk near the end of the darkened room, deep
within Proteus‟s bowels. Few people knew of the secluded office that served as his personal
sanctum aboard the submarine, and those who did knew better than to speak of it. The only
light in the room at that moment came from the soft, warm yellow glow of the desk lamp at
Ezard‟s side, and beyond the thick glass pane behind him the ocean loomed as a great,
infinite black. There was no soft blue reflection from the sub‟s own running lights off its great
hull to spill in to the room, as she didn‟t even have any. For the unassuming officer in front of
the Captain‟s desk, the sight should have been nauseating. The first time he had stood in
front of that desk some years before, the vista of emptiness, impenetrable through the
reflection of Ezard‟s sole desk lamp had sent shivers up his spine. Like staring out of a glass
window on a moonless night – all he was ever met with was his own reflection. The abyss,
as it were, had stood as a monumental unknown that unsettled him every time he stepped in
to the room. It had always been a curiosity that Ezard sat with his back to that window,
although there had been times when the man had entered to find his commander staring in
to the vast beyond.
That had since been lost on the officer – who also, as it happened, wore the tridents
of a navy captain - with the days-on-end that he would deliver his simple report and time
estimates to the senior Captain before him. The soft ticking of an old clock that had kept
Ezard company for so many years didn‟t register to him any longer. He merely stood in
silence, waiting for the man‟s always frank and short appraisal of the delivered report. It had
become an efficient affair with little banter and no pleasantries. Ezard‟s second-in-command
simply delivered the slate, waited for his summary, and then carried out the Captain‟s
instruction.
That day, on Christmas Eve in the year 2030, was very different.
Ezard had re-read the report in his hand three times to be certain, eyeing the man at
the conclusion of each pass as if searching for something that had escaped his notice and
then silently placed the report on his desk before swivelling in his chair to stare out at that
vast window. He sat motionless for several long minutes, and more than a few times, the
officer opened his mouth to speak – silencing himself at the last possible moment. The
Captain sensed this each time as he glimmered the image of the marine in the glass pane in
front of him, and finally let out a long, drawn breath.
- 158 -

“So, Ballard is sure, then.”
The other captain nodded. “I pulled this from her personal files just minutes after it
was logged. I believe she is preparing a more formal report for your review, but it would
appear the science division is ready to proceed to a full stage of augmentation.”
Ezard nodded slowly. “The Doctor is impetuous, and probably expects to keep this
from us until she has contingencies in place,” he mused.
“Likely, Captain,” he nodded slowly.
“...And in your medical opinion?”
The man hesitated. Ballard was a recognised expert in her field, and while his own
knowledge of genetics research had gained him the position he now held at Ezard‟s whim, it
was the first time he had ever been asked to stake his reputation on it. Samuel Ezard was
not a patient man and did not take failure lightly, but it was clear that this is what his years of
efforts had been working to, and time was no longer something he would could treat as a
mere frame of convenient reference.
“...In my opinion, Captain, the final catalyst that the Doctor has completed may be
viable,” he said slowly, measuring each of his words. “But there is no way to tell without a
practical exposure. Previous iterations of the serum have proven terminal in eighty three
percent of cases. The remaining seventeen percent have not recovered, and remain in cryo.”
“So you are certain that an introduction of the agent would stabilize the final
augmentation of the remaining subjects?”
He paused on that question before nodding once, definitively. There could be little
doubt in the findings. “Yes, it would.”
Ezard stared blankly across the room for several long seconds before regarding the
captain coolly. “Then you know what to do.”
Lieutenant Callaghan opened the cell door slowly - a snap-hiss and „clunk‟ as
magnetic locks disengaged doing little to disturb the occupant inside. He‟d done this often
enough, but still stepped in to the maw with a carefully guarded, sidewards step – the bulk of
his weight being balanced on his hind leg. On more than one occasion, Callaghan had been
virtually bowled over as the door was thrown back in his face, a blur of balled fists and wild,
tangled hair just moments behind it as she screamed, clamouring for what was just another
dead-end beyond the ante-room, in the arms of waiting, trunk-armed Marines.
Today, she simply met him with a warm, even welcoming smile and Callaghan did his
best to hide the grin that so desperately wanted to cover his face. Sanaa sat at the table, still
wearing the black UEO-issue jumpsuit he‟d given her just a few days before. It still looked a
size too big on her thin frame, but the brightness in her eyes disarmed him long before he
closed the door in his wake.
She looked healthy now - the long shadows beneath her once-gaunt eyes having
disappeared over much of the last month, replaced only with full, gorgeous cheeks, and a
smile that managed to take the chill out of clinically sterile air.
“Honṙ Groets, Ryan,” she said lithely.
Callaghan frowned, but it was clear from his face that the berating guise was entirely
forced. “Hello, Sanaa,” he said in response, “You know you‟re supposed to speak English...
If Doctor Scheider heard you, he wouldn‟t be very happy.”
Sanaa grinned. “That‟s only because he doesn‟t understand the dialect,” she played
before looking at him mischievously, adding finally, “En vey, tru.”
“Yes, I do,” he replied, pulling aside the second of the chairs to straddle it in front of
the desk before her. He took a moment to look around at the walls, once-white, now covered
in a mosaic of wallpaper that was made entirely of hundreds, if not thousands of drawings
that had been created by the tiny, unassuming hands of the girl in front of him. Each would
not have looked out of place in an art gallery, and Ezard had threatened on multiple
occasions to have them removed and destroyed. It was only the intervention of Doctor
Ballard that had allowed the girl to keep the works, citing only that they provided an
additional avenue of observation and study for the behavioural staff.
- 159 -

“There is a very old tradition where I come from,” he said, showing her the brightly
wrapped box. “Just for the one, same day, every year.”
“Christmas,” she said, her eyes brightening.
Callaghan nodded, being unable to repress his smile. “You know,”
“Of course,” she countered, as if it were obvious. Callaghan looked around the room
again, noting the absence of any clock or calendar, and his smile broadened again.
“You‟re brilliant,” he marvelled.
She didn‟t reply to that, instead choosing to study his eyes intently as he put the
small package down in front of her. “This is for you,” he said quietly. “Don‟t worry, there‟re no
tricks or catches. It‟s yours.”
The corner of her lip curled slightly as this, and she clasped the package in her hand
slowly, examining it as if it were the single most fascinating thing she‟d ever seen. She
smiled at the ribbon, running her fingers over the surface of the box slowly, feeling every
surface. She stared at it intently. “Approximate weight of two hundred and thirty five grams,”
she said scientifically. “Hard, slightly malleable outer casing of twenty one centimetres by
twelve centimetres, and a depth of one point three centimetres,” she mused again.
Callaghan regarded her with astonishment as she turned the package over and ran a
finger down a line of folded wrapping paper. He watched as her eyebrow twitched at the
slight rattle of noise from inside the box, and she paused, eyeing him curiously. “Unfastened
contents of the casing number precisely one dozen objects, arranged crossways.”
The amazed Lieutenant smiled again, this time in resignation as he leaned back on
the chair and sighed. “I don‟t even know why I bothered wrapping it,” he muttered.
The girl giggled, her cheeks flushing for a moment as she ran a finger under the fold
of paper and began to carefully and delicately unwrap it, pausing at each suture of tape to
ensure the colourful paper was not damaged in her endeavour. “I like that you did,” she said,
staring at him with unmatched wonder. The paper fell away as she peeled back the last fold,
and she didn‟t even look at the tin of artist‟s pencils as her eyes found him again with a
smile. “Thank you,” she said.
Ryan grinned again. “You‟re very welcome.”
Sanaa turned the box over, opening the box of watercolours and running her hand
over them lovingly. It dawned on Callaghan at that moment that the simple gift had become
the sole splash of colour in the entire room, with each and every one of the incredible
drawings that adorned the walls being shaded in dull blacks, greys and whites.
“There‟s something else,” Callaghan said more seriously. “Doctor Ballard wanted me
to tell you, she‟s finished synthesizing the final catalyst. Do you understand what that
means?”
Sanaa looked up at him, her eyes now filled with uncertainty. Before Callaghan could
finish explaining, he suddenly realised that her eyes were staring through him, beyond, and
past the massive mirror that looked on to the chamber. He frowned. “What is it?”
The girl said nothing as her hand tensed on the edge of the table, her knuckles
turning white. Only then did Callaghan hear what she did – the sound of raised but muffled
voices beyond the door. An argument, loud, and approaching quickly.
Callaghan stood up just as the door to the room burst open, and six black-clad
soldiers muscled their way in, rifles raised at arms, ahead of an explosion of shouting that
Callaghan recognised as being the voice of Doctor Anne Ballard. The captain entered the
room ahead of her, holding up a hand that tried to silence the enraged scientist in his wake.
“Oh, really!?” Ballard yelled, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “Well then you can
go back to the Captain and you tell him-“
“This is not open to debate, Doctor!” the man hissed. Callaghan noted that the
captain, who was unfamiliar to him, wore a white lab coat over his black Intelligence
jumpsuit, and slowly came to face him fully, deliberately stepping to the left just enough to
put himself between the man, and the girl at his back.
“What‟s going on?” the Lieutenant asked sternly, brazenly overstepping his mark with
the unknown officer.
“Stand aside, Lieutenant. This is not a concern of yours,” said the man grimly.
- 160 -

“I have no idea who you are, sir, but I am making it my concern.”
That stopped both the man and Ballard, who looked at Callaghan incredulously. After
a long, icy stare, the captain nodded. “I am taking control of this project, effective
immediately. Doctor Ballard has been instructed to hand over all of her data, and Captain
Ezard has instructed me to proceed with the introduction of the stage seven catalyst...
immediately.”
Callaghan‟s fists balled, the gorge in his throat rising venomously. Ballard stepped in
front of the intelligence officer, blocking his path. “You can‟t do this.”
The man remained cool. “But I can, Doctor, and I will.”
“We aren‟t ready!” she snapped. “We need to run hundreds more tests, the catalyst
doesn‟t yet work!”
The captain smiled, but it was predatory as he stepped forward slowly. “Respectfully,
Doctor, that‟s not what your logs stated.”
Ballard looked appalled as her shoulders dropped. She‟d just lost, and she knew it.
“...You‟ve been reading my logs?” she whispered in shock.
The man brushed the accusation aside. “You are to be commended on your work,
Doctor Ballard. Your solutions for the stage seven formula were nothing less than a
breakthrough of genetic science. Rest assured, my final, formal report to the Captain will be
favourable.”
“You son of a bitch!” she growled as one of the marines held her back.
Callaghan stepped forward, threatening close to the captain as he approached
Sanaa, and hissed in his ear. “Why now? Do you have absolutely no decency?”
“I have a duty to perform, Lieutenant, as do you.”
The captain pushed past Callaghan towards the girl, who stood defiantly, and made
no attempt to move. Before he walked two paces, Callaghan pulled his shoulder around, and
smashed him across the face. The man sprawled across the floor, and Callaghan lurched
forward just a moment before the watching Marines fell upon him.
The air was crushed from his lungs as two hundred and forty pounds of soldier,
weapon and armour pressed him in to the ground, his arm being wrenched behind his back
painfully. Something cracked in his shoulder, and he stared in rage at the captain who was
staggering to his feet. The Lieutenant sneered as the man went to hold his bloody, displaced
nose, watching as blood poured down his face to stain the pristine white tiles at his feet.
“Enough!” snapped a new voice from the door. Callaghan didn‟t see who it was until
the marine on top of him hauled him to his feet and held him firm, feeling the cool,
uncomfortably familiar brush of metal against his wrists as he was cuffed.
Samuel Ezard stepped in to the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Take the girl,”
he instructed the soldiers calmly.
Callaghan watched silently as two of the marines gripped the girl by the shoulders
and pulled her away from the desk, the distress in her eyes clear as she looked pleadingly
with the Lieutenant. He could hear her cries as she was pulled down the hall, but it wouldn‟t
be the last time they would meet.
“The rest of you, leave the room,” Ezard ordered, looking at Callaghan with cold,
unfeeling eyes. The inference was clear, and the Lieutenant didn‟t move.
Ballard jerked away from the marine who held her by the arm, and marched out of
the room, the soldiers obediently following suit without further word. Ezard waited until the
door had fallen shut again, and then sighed deeply.
“Five years,” the Captain whispered. “That‟s how long you‟ve served this program,
Ryan. In that time, I came to trust you.”
“This isn‟t right,” Callaghan rasped. “You know that just as well as I do.”
Ezard‟s eyes narrowed as he began to walk around the cell, removing one of the
drawings from the wall. He studied it as he spoke. “Right or wrong has little to do with this,
Lieutenant. You‟ve known that from the beginning.”
“Then my only regret, sir, is that I can no longer afford to ignore that distinction. I
won‟t do this anymore.”
- 161 -

Ezard smiled weakly as he looked up from the drawing. “Oh but Lieutenant, you will.
You‟re far too close to this now.”
Callaghan remained silent, daring not to break his gaze with the cold, depthless eyes
before him.
“I have just one question, Lieutenant,” Ezard mused, gesturing to the empty room
around him. “...Has she been worth it?”
An icy rush of contempt filled Callaghan‟s stomach with that question, and he finally
looked away. There had been many times he‟d asked that question, and each time he did,
the answer was edging closer to a part of him he found entirely repulsive. Finally, Callaghan
stared back at the abyss. “...For the price we paid?” he asked in return. “Nothing is worth
that.”
Ezard smiled, perhaps even warmly, for the first time in as long as either of them
could remember. The Captain knocked on the door frame, and a few seconds later the
Marine sergeant who had cuffed him entered the room.
“Hence the expression, Lieutenant... „Every man has his price.‟”
Ezard looked briefly at the marine, and then began walking to the door, not once
looking back at the Lieutenant in his wake. “Sergeant, take him.”
~
...The light in his face burned shadows in to every other corner of the room, masking
the faces of those who held him firmly against the upright gurney in silhouette. Callaghan
fought them, his muscles aching as he tried to tear at the strong grip of the men that pinned
him down. Sweat dripped down his chest as his hands clawed at the sides of the table, the
shadows moving to secure his wrists in leather binds. He felt the calm, sterile touch of
gloved hands against his upper arm as something was daubed there, cold, and wet. He
tensed as he fought the restraints in vain before a face came in to view, a surgical mask
hiding all but their rueful, tired eyes. The voice whispered to him as he began to sense what
they were doing, his breathing becoming sharp and panicked. The needle glinted in the
intense glow of the light above his head, and he tried to look away – finding only those eyes
again.
“I‟m sorry, Ryan...” she whispered.
...Pain.
Intense, burning fire seared through Ryan Callaghan‟s veins as every muscle in his
body contorted and spasmed at the sharp prick inside his elbow. He couldn‟t breathe – the
sounds of their voices growing more distant as the world seemed to close in. Only when the
pressure on his lungs made him feel as though he would burst, did he surrender. Callaghan
opened his mouth, so desperately wanting to scream, and all that could come from his throat
was a hoarse, tortured cry.
But there was something else too as he fell deeper in to that abyss, his mind slowing.
She was there, too. The warmth of her smile, the brilliant intelligence in her eyes, from some
recess in the very back of his mind, something started to fire, and she heard her again.
Sanaa sat alone on the precipice looking back at him. Before her, a vast plain ran out
to an endless horizon as far as the eye could see. “No more questions,” she whispered to
him. “Just one answer.”
A single tear rolled down Ryan Callaghan‟s face, and the world turned to white...
~
- 162 -

VII
A N G E L , G H O S T , H A R P & S W O R D
UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110, the Polynesian Trench. April 14 th , 2043…
Lauren Hornsby sat stripped to her undershirt on the bench, the black jumpsuit pulled
down to her waist as she stared out from the cell in to the second block of Commonwealth‟s
brig. To some extent or another, she had left room for the possibility of this outcome, but
even she had not expected it to happen so quickly. For nearly twenty four hours, she‟d
stared at the infuriatingly dull bulkhead, waiting for even the smallest hint of news.
It shouldn‟t have taken Mark Ainsley this long to work it out and it was getting to a
point where Hornsby was starting to believe she was being strung out by the bull-headed
Vice Admiral solely for his amusement. Above all other possibilities that bothered the
Aquarius captain however, was that which she had not truly expected at all: the friction
between Ainsley and James Banick was so tense that she doubted neither man could make
any decision without causing problem for the other. This had come to a head when Hornsby
had willingly walked in to the middle of them, and left both men aching to bring her head to
Admiral Riley on a silver platter.
She found it more than slightly ironic that it was the only thing Banick and Ainsley
had agreed on since she arrived. Part of her half-expected Commander Razak or Captain
Stiles to enter and explain what had happened, but that, she had long since decided, was
unlikely. Stiles had his own orders, and Razak was smart enough to keep his head down,
lest he find himself in the exact same position.
Hornsby stood up and walked curiously to the bars as she heard the hatch at the end
of the long corridor crack open with a hiss, shadows playing across the room with the light
from the hallway outside. She saw the two marines on duty there snap to attention as a
figure dismissed them, ordering them to stand outside. Only once they departed did Mark
Ainsley stop outside her cell, his arms folded as he looked her up and down with a shake of
his head. “I didn‟t expect this from you.”
“Christ, Ainsley,” she spat. “This isn‟t what it looks, and you know it.”
The Admiral turned on his heel for a moment and ran a hand over his chin. Hornsby
heard the quiet sound sandpaper, and knew from his eyes that he hadn‟t slept. “Do I?” he
asked impatiently. “Because I keep trying to find out what‟s going on, and no one seems to
want to give me the courtesy of an explanation. That‟s why you‟re in there. If you want to get
out of that cell, maybe you‟d be so kind as to fill me in.”
Hornsby hesitated and folded her arms, feeling the chill of cold air rush up the
corridor from the other end of the cell block. “It‟s complicated,” she said, pursing her lips.
“I have time,” he challenged. “Do you?”
Hornsby stared at him for several long seconds before finally nodding. “You‟ve been
lied to,” she said simply. “The entire fleet, in fact, has been lied to.”
Admiral Ainsley stared at her sceptically for some time before he turned on his heel
again and started walking back towards the door.
“I‟m not finished!” she called, stopping him.
“Then start talking, Lauren, because I am about thirty seconds from drawing you up
and giving you to Banick. And trust me, that‟s very tempting for right now because he‟d
finally get something he wants, and would give me five minutes of peace.”
“You‟ve been given a mission you know is going to fail,” she said, eyeing the hallway
again for a moment. “You know as well as I do that an assault on Pearl is going to fail if it‟s
rushed to the timeline they want.”
Ainsley straightened. Hornsby smiled. Now she had his attention. “How do you know
about that?” Ainsley asked, his eyes narrowing accusingly.
- 163 -

“Like I said, you don‟t know half of what‟s going on. You think I‟ve deserted, run to
the hills and taken up some kind of... mercenary campaign, but it‟s not that simple. I‟ve got
orders too, Ainsley, and we are still on the same side.”
“Who is your commanding officer?” he asked bluntly.
Hornsby hesitated before answering. “...Admiral Jason Hargreaves.”
Ainsley pursed his lips for a brief moment as he again considered walking out before
he realised, grimly, that her eyes were truthful, and he nodded for her to continue. “Go on.”
“...Aquarius has been working with a small group of Intelligence officers, both UEO
and NSC, to combat Section 7. You‟ve already dealt with them, in fact.”
“Keelan,” Ainsley said bluntly.
Hornsby nodded. “Commander Keelan is one of those officers, yes, Admiral. We
don‟t have the resources of a multinational fleet behind us and what we do have is very hard
to replace. I‟m sorry we had to draw you out like this, but it was the only way to make sure
we weren‟t discovered.”
“You keep saying „we‟, Lauren. Are you working for Intelligence now?”
Hornsby looked away and again hesitated. “No, not exactly. My orders do come from
the military chain of command, but... Aquarius no longer has any connection with the Fleet
Command. I would have said that CINCPAC doesn‟t know we exist, but something tells me
you and I wouldn‟t be having this conversation unless you‟d already spoken to Riley.”
Ainsley nodded, but remained silent.
“...And I am also assuming that Riley is hoping to use Aquarius as his ace to try and
take Pearl by the first of August.”
Again the Admiral nodded, and Hornsby‟s eyes turned to plead. “Mark, I can help
you, but Aquarius isn‟t going to be enough. Not if we want to stop the Secretary-General.
Speak to Hargreaves, and-”
Ainsley narrowed his eyes and held up a hand, stopping her mid-sentence, her last
sentence ringing in his head. “Wait, stop. You said stop the Secretary-General... What do
you mean?”
Hornsby did stop, and looked at Ainsley in bafflement, her eyes narrowing as they
studied his. Slowly, her heart sank as she realised what was happening. “Oh Mark... No...”
“Lauren!” he snapped. “Tell me what‟s going on!”
“That son of a bitch,” she whispered, her eyes cold before finally drawing up to meet
his. “Cathgate must have kept it from you, because he knew an attack would fail. I am so
sorry, I should have thought.”
“What does Cathgate have to do with this?” Ainsley urged, stepping closer to the
titanium cage. “What hasn‟t he told me?”
When Hornsby told him, Mark Ainsley wanted to be sick, and without another word,
marched from the cell-block and slammed the door.
~
...The man in the black flight suit stepped off the unmarked personnel shuttle on to
the flight deck of the Commonwealth and looked up at the banners above his head with a
slight smile. The flags of the Rapiers and Dark Angels stirred something nostalgic inside him
that he hadn‟t felt in a while, and a pang of missed opportunity that he knew full well would
never come again.
Several wary eyes meet the man as he walked across the deck, each of them noting
the ghost-shrouded insignia of the Aquarius DSV with suspicion and muted whispers. His
stripes were those of a Wing Commander, although the rank slides that adorned his uniform
were not the sky-blue that was so common of the fleet command. They were black – a tone
used by only two organizations, the enigmatic, wanted rogue arm of UEO counterintelligence
known only as Section 7, and the mistrusted spooks of Intelligence.
- 164 -

The fact that an intelligence officer would be wearing such rank sparked instant
rumour as to his identity, but while his post and rank were clearly and proudly displayed – his
name was not.
While the rainbow wardrobe that manned the battlecruiser‟s flight deck hesitantly
regarded the man‟s division with malign suspicion, the marines who guarded the ship saw
only the dolphins on his collar, and snapped to attention without so much as a tremor.
The man returned their salutes sharply and with all intended respect, paying no heed
to the crewmen in his wake. Lieutenants Sanjei Kasumiko and Alejandro Chavez of the Dark
Angels were on their way to the flight deck to begin the day‟s second patrol when they both
stopped dead in the hall way, their mouths agape as they watched the man disappear up in
the stairwell. The two officers looked at each other in shock as though a ghost had just
walked straight through them.
The man smiled at that. He remembered them well, and was still deeply indebted to
the Dark Angels and their commander in a way he wasn‟t sure he‟d ever be able to fully
repay. The message had come in a manner none of Aquarius‟ senior staff had been truly
prepared for. A simple message, text only, buried within the carrier signal of a transmission
sent from Commonwealth‟s CIC when James Banick had informed Commander John Razak
that Captain Hornsby had been placed under arrest. The message had contained six words,
and had been signed only with the initials “Q.A.R.” Truthfully, the man was surprised he
hadn‟t received the note earlier when Razak had told him.
He rounded the last corner heading in to the Commonwealth‟s FOC, pausing briefly
as he realised the layout was slightly different from that which he recalled of his previous
posting. Checking the signage of the corridor, he made a quick right and walked head-on in
to the middle of the battlecruiser‟s flight operations centre.
A woman standing at the middle of the chaos with her arms folded tightly shot him an
accusing gaze as he entered the room, suspiciously looking him up and down from head to
toe. He didn‟t know her, although her Commander‟s rank slides and the squadron patch of
the 2 nd Electronic Warfare Squadron gave the man an ample indication as to her position as
Flight Operations Director. He narrowed his eyes as he saw the name „R. Raincastle‟ on the
right breast of her uniform, a flicker of recognition and remembrance of the callsign
„Stormtide‟ crossing his mind.
Her eyes widened slightly as she finally noticed his rank insignia and the badge of
the Aquarius across the left side of his chest. “Something I can help you with, sir?”
“I‟m looking for Wing Commander Corinn Roderick,” he said.
The woman straightened. “Captain Roderick is in her office, sir. Down the hall, third
door on the right.” She picked up a headset and started to dial in a number. “I‟ll see if she‟s
available, Wing Commander...?”
Wing Commander Gavin Mackenzie shook his head, dismissing the suggestion with
a slight wave of his hand. “If you don‟t mind, Commander, keep this one off the channels for
the time being.”
...Corinn Roderick stood silently at the window of the office, staring out across the
vast hangar deck below. She‟d seen every moment of the unmarked shuttle‟s arrival, which
now sat at the holding area being tied down and secured by EVA ground staff. The man who
had exited the craft and disappeared in to the adjacent corridors was too distant to recognise
by face, but his stride and gait were not something she could easily forget. Absentmindedly,
her hand drifted to her own arm, trying to recall something soft and warm that now seemed
so far in the past that it was like trying to reassemble shards of splintered glass. It had only
been nine months prior, she knew, but so much had happened in that time that any shared
ground there counted for little then and there. He‟d made a choice, and it would a long time
before she could reconcile that, and understand why.
She sensed his shadow in the door frame long before he decided to enter the office,
closing her eyes to let out a slow, uneasy breath. She‟d prepared all morning for this,
rehearsing almost every word, mentally preparing herself to take a stand and make an
- 165 -

inflexible, rational position that would force his hand, but the confusion and conflict she felt at
that moment had blown that apart with all the force of a great storm.
“Hello, Quinn,” Mackenzie said, stepping inside quietly before closing the door gently
behind him.
Roderick swallowed a lump in her throat, and continued to stare across the hangar,
her teeth clenching tightly for a moment that dragged on longer than either of them felt
comfortable with. Finally, she turned.
Gavin Mackenzie‟s heart skipped a beat as he saw her again, managing a weak
smile as he saw the gold tridents adorned upon her collar, and the way she stood – still
proud – behind the great oaken desk. This was what he always knew she was meant for,
and it filled him with a silent gratification that she could so then and there, despite what was
going on behind her tortured eyes at that moment. He knew the look well...
Devastation, betrayal... and love.
Roderick finally snapped back to reality, and began to march slowly around the desk
toward him, studying him the whole way before stopping several feet from him – daring not
to approach any further.
“I‟d come to accept that you died a long time ago,” she managed finally.
“Would it be easier if I were?”
She stared at him again. “Part of me wishes that, yes,” she said truthfully. “It would
be easier to accept that you‟d died nine months ago, than to even entertain the possibility
you could have betrayed that uniform.”
Mackenzie‟s jaw tightened. “...You mean to think that I might have betrayed you,” he
corrected.
Roderick wanted to slap him, hard, but that was why she had stopped so short of
him. Opening her mouth, she instead opted to step back silently and take a seat.
“You wanted to speak with me,” Mackenzie suggested finally, folding his hands
behind his back.
“Yes,” she replied bluntly. “I suspect you know what about, too,”
“Quinn,” he said lightly, “I‟d appreciate it if we could get to the point. I doubt you
wanted me to come here just to hear you say you are disappointed in me.”
Roderick straightened - her lip turning. “And I would appreciate it, Commander, if you
would do me the courtesy of using my rank.”
Mackenzie stiffened, nodding slowly. „So,‟ he thought silently to himself. „That‟s the
way it is, then.‟
“Understood.”
“Thank you.”
“So, Captain... What is it you wanted to discuss?”
~
“Tell me you didn‟t know!” snapped Ainsley at the monitor, his hands planted on the
desk like a bull ready to charge, steam billowing from an enraged snout. “Of all the stupid,
brain-dead ideas that moron has tabled, tell me this is one you did not support!”
Fleet Admiral Jack Riley pulled his lips in to a tight, thin line at the outburst, his
cheeks flushing. Few people had the position or cause to scream at the highest ranking
officer of the UEO armed forces, and even fewer would consider such an action a positive
career move, but Ainsley did not care.
The outrage was clear, and Riley – for his part – understood it perfectly. Ainsley
wasn‟t the first officer of his command to voice „displeasure‟ at the plan, and now he almost
certainly wouldn‟t be the last. The revelation had come like a bolt of lightning from a clear
blue sky, and Mark Ainsley was staggered beyond belief that it could have even been
suggested, let alone approved.
“Mark, I‟m sorry. I wanted to tell you, but Cathgate‟s orders were clear on the matter.
My relationship with the Secretary-General is already strained, and I couldn‟t risk it.”
- 166 -

“So instead the bastard wanted to risk my life and the crew of the Commonwealth,”
he drawled bitterly. “How ignoble, and how naive was I.”
Riley stared icily through the monitor. “Remember your place, Vice Admiral,” he
reminded Ainsley coldly. “Whatever you might think of Cathgate, just remember that the
whole reason I wanted you for this assignment is because I do believe you can prosecute
the operation to avoid a catastrophe.”
Ainsley softened, but his annoyance was still clear. “Cathgate knows the odds,” he
said. “This mission is a lip service, and now we both know it. What I can‟t believe is that
Hornsby was right.”
“Hornsby told you?” Riley interjected, his shock slowly becoming apparent.
“I didn‟t believe her, Jack,” he sighed, “but now I‟m beginning to wonder if she was
right about a lot more.”
“I‟m more concerned over how she could have known at all,” the commander-in-chief
speculated. “Did Hornsby tell you anything else?”
Ainsley thought about it for a second. At that moment, it was rapidly becoming
apparent to him that he may have known more than Riley did, and the last thing the supreme
commander of the UEO‟s Pacific Fleet needed was to be any more attached to the scandal
than he already was. There was only one alternative, and they both knew it. “Jack,” he
appealed gently. “You don‟t need this on you and right now I feel like I need every ally I can
get. I can‟t do this without help.”
Riley hesitated for a moment, and then finally nodded his approval. “Alright, so
Hornsby isn‟t in the picture,” he smiled. “Vice Admiral, I need you to understand... I can only
support you to the end of the orders I have given you, and I will do so for as long as I can. I
will do everything I can to keep the Secretary-General on the tether, but if you do this...”
Ainsley nodded gravely, the recourse he was facing himself with becoming clearer
with every passing moment. “I understand, Jack,” he smiled, the weight on his shoulders
amounting to more than his thirty six years of service could ever account to. “For what its
worth... I‟ll get it done.”
“I know you will, Mark,” Riley confided. “And to you to, it might go against everything
you‟ve ever believed but, well...”
The Fleet Admiral couldn‟t bring himself to admit it. But the words „it was the right
decision,‟ seemed to hang between them both, which made Ainsley smile.
“What about Banick?” Riley asked. “If you do this, you and I won‟t be the only ones
on the firing line.”
Ainsley nodded slowly. “Banick‟s a good officer, he just needs a little time to realise it.
I‟ll take care of it.”
~
Ryan grinned at Madeline as she leaned in again and whispered in her ear, which in
turn made her giggle. She leaned in and kissed him slowly, one hand on his waist while the
other – still cradling the champagne – rested lightly behind his neck. “You pirate,” he
managed mischievously in a short break from her lips, putting his own glass down on the
window ceil to run his hand down her side, only stopping at her waist.
“Sweetheart, I‟m only joking,” she said, pulling away lightly.
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “That‟s not what you said last time.”
Madeline‟s mouth hung open for a moment before she twisted it in to a smile. “You‟re
still not sure they‟re going to work it out, are you?”
Ryan Callaghan exhaled from his nose slowly and swallowed the mouthful of
champagne he still held in his mouth. Madeline looked at him with increasing concern. “I
know that look,” she said.
He looked out the window again, staring across Commonwealth‟s great port side
flanks in to the murky darkness. Her face was pale in the blue glow of the battlecruiser‟s
- 167 -

unning lights outside, her Mediterranean eyes glimmering brilliantly under the shimmering
eddies of light that played across the walls of the XO‟s quarters.
“I‟m trying not to think about it,” he admitted hazily. “But you might have been right,
before. I‟m sorry I snapped like I did...”
She wrapped her hand around his shoulder and cocked her head slightly. “Hey,
you‟ve made your brownie points back.”
He smirked again. “That‟s the champagne talking, darling,”
She shrugged, and kissed him again. “Doesn‟t mean I don‟t mean it.”
There was a sharp rapping from the door to Callaghan‟s quarters, and his he closed
his eyes, head snapping around sharply. “What is it?” he snapped, gently letting go of
Madeline.
No reply came, and Callaghan sighed sharply as he stormed across the room,
leaving Madeline to look back out to the sea. “Yes?” he repeated, pulling the hatch open
impatiently.
His eyes immediately flared and he straightened as he saw the man waiting in the
hall. Admiral Ainsley immediately noticed Hayes behind him, and smiled apologetically.
“Sorry to disturb you, Commander.”
“Admiral, no, please - come in.”
Ainsley hesitated before stepping through the hatch, nodding curtly to Hayes.
“Commander,” he greeted her with a coy smile, noting the piled plates atop the table near
Callaghan‟s small kitchen, pots piled out of the basin. “I‟m sorry,” he flushed. “I didn‟t mean
to intrude,”
“No time is ever going to be ideal around here, sir, I understand.”
Ainsley looked apologetically at her again before eyeing Callaghan with an unsure
gaze. “I‟m truly sorry, Commander Hayes... I need to speak with your husband privately, if
we may?”
She nodded silently, regarding Ryan with a smile as she started walking to the door.
She didn‟t get far before Callaghan stopped her. “No, stay here,” he said. “This way,
Admiral...”
Ainsley entered the small study next to Callaghan‟s quarters setting a data pad down
on the desk, and closed the door behind him before peeling off his jacket. “I‟m sorry again,
for this, Commander, but it‟s not something I could afford to wait on until morning.”
“I understand, Admiral,” he dismissed, settling in to a chair beside the desk.
“I will level with you, Ryan,” he said. “I am fronted with a position that I am not certain
I can win Captain Banick‟s support on.”
Banick‟s XO hesitated. “Admiral, I appreciate your position, but this may not be an
appropriate conversation.”
“I‟m I don‟t have the luxury of courtesy, Commander... I need your help.”
For the next half an hour, Ainsley explained everything, down to the finest detail.
Throughout it all, Callaghan said nothing and simply stared, listening, as the colour gradually
drained from his face. When Ainsley finally explained what he intended to do, Callaghan
simply stood hesitantly, and looked out the window again. The Vice Admiral had just handed
him the fate of his career to do with as he felt necessary and in doing so, had tied
Callaghan‟s to his. Through action, or inaction, they would both damned.
“Why?” Callaghan asked painfully. “Why ask me this?”
Ainsley stood, motionless. “Because you are the one person on this ship who has
any kind of appreciation for what Hornsby is doing, and you know exactly why.”
“You realise what you‟ve just done,” he said flatly.
Ainsley smiled sadly. “My career was over no matter what course of action I chose to
pursue, Commander. What you, however, choose to do with the same information is up to
you.”
Ainsley picked up the data pad he‟d left on the desk and turned to leave before
Callaghan turned from the window. “Sir, I have a question.”
“Anything.”
- 168 -

Callaghan looked down. “If it were not for my apparent history with Section 7... Would
you still have told me this?”
“I don‟t know,” Ainsley admitted. “But there were five million people living in San
Diego who could probably give far better reasons than I ever could. I do not intend to add
five million more to that list for the sake of my own career.”
Ainsley opened the door to the office and had taken only one step before Callaghan
looked up at him again, his eyes cold. “Just one more question, Admiral... how will I know?”
Ainsley looked over his shoulder and smiled. “You will know. That much, I know I can
trust.”
~
The night watch aboard the Commonwealth was one that passed in nearly
unbearable tension for just a handful of officers. James Banick spent the majority of the night
on the bridge, unable to sleep as he absorbed himself with a pile of department reports.
For Corinn Roderick, it was a long walk amongst the rows of terminally damaged or
ruined subfighters that filled the aft of the hangar, her hand running across the nose of each
craft as she read the names of pilots who she would never meet again.
Ryan Callaghan stood at the window of his quarters quietly gazing in to the dark
beyond, his wife Madeline stretched out upon his bed, her arm lying across where he himself
should have been.
For Lauren Hornsby, the sun sat low against the waves, the sea before her glistening
in a far and wide eastern horizon. She basked in its warmth and smiled, gazing out at the
distant city of San Diego before three more suns rose beyond. The city began to fade as a
wall of fire washed over it, her hair beginning to bluster and billow in a summer gale that
blew across the bay from the three giant, dusty-shrouded pillars rising on the horizon,
blocking the sun and casting long, black shadows over the earth below them. She awoke
with a start just moments before the searing shockwave obliterated her and everything for
miles in every direction. Hornsby shivered in the dark of her cell, her breathing quick and
shallow once again as she realised that her „sunrise‟ was in fact the door to the cell block
opening again. The tall, dust-shrouded figure in the darkness threw shadows across the floor
of the block, and she sat up slowly to reach for her uniform jacket.
The figured approached silently, standing outside the cell again, his arms folded in
front of him. Hornsby looked Ainsley over again, noticing the tired, dark lines beneath his
eyes. “Couldn‟t sleep?” she asked him quietly.
“No,” he admitted. “But I can‟t say I‟ve tried very hard. Too much on my mind.”
She sat up against the bulkhead, goosebumps forming on her upper arms as her
bare shoulders met the cold metal. “I can imagine. It‟s... a lot to take in over just one day.”
Ainsley nodded, pulling up a stool from next to the cell to take the load off of his
aching feet, his shins still protesting their exhaustion.
“I take it you spoke with Riley?” she asked.
The Admiral nodded, but said nothing.
“I‟m sorry, Mark,” she said again. “It... wasn‟t an easy decision for me, either.”
Ainsley met her eyes sadly, a slow smile finally starting to show. “You seem to think
I‟ve already made up my mind,” he said.
“You‟re a good man, Mark, and always have been,” Hornsby said quietly. “I wouldn‟t
have come to you if I didn‟t believe that.”
Ainsley was silent again as he leaned back in the small chair, a thousand questions
still spiralling, out of control, through his mind. “I had another question,” he said softly.
“Of course.”
Ainsley already knew the answer before he‟d asked. “Tom Parker,” he said. “Is he
ok?”
Hornsby nodded once. “He is.”
- 169 -

Now the Admiral chuckled, running a hand over his face. “Then Schrader knows,
doesn‟t she... About the Aquarius.”
“She does.”
A long, broken, hoarse and exhausted sigh escaped Ainsley again. His throat choked
up as the news slowly sank in, his eyes welling as months of apprehension finally broke
through the surface of the hard, distanced veneer he had spent decades perfecting. The
news that his son-in-law was alive, after nine months of silence, was bitter sweet. Joy of
course prevailed first, but there was another, deeper and bitterer sense of anger there that
he would not be able to push away for a long time to come.
Parker had run from a wife and child in pursuit of what he believed, evidently what
they both believed, and still he couldn‟t find reason to forgive the act.
“Did you know,” he rasped, fighting back tears, “He has a son?”
Hornsby‟s pained expression was unreadable as Ainsley went on. “My god, Lauren...
Do you have any idea how hard this has been?”
“I‟m not a parent,” Hornsby reminded him gently. “I could never pretend to
understand what you‟re feeling.”
The man took a moment to compose himself, drawing several deep breaths while
wiping his eyes clear. Hornsby looked down, contemplating her next thoughts carefully as
she pulled her jacket over her shoulders. “There‟s a lot more I need to tell you,” she admitted
quietly.
“I know,” he replied, almost laughing in spite of himself at the clear obtuseness of the
statement. Hornsby wasn‟t moved by this, and edged forward.
“Mark, listen to me,” she said sternly. “I know this is going to be hard to take in, but
aren‟t you the least bit curious as to how you found us?”
“I know how the message was decrypted, Lauren,” Ainsley observed dryly. “Now that
I know Schrader is involved, there‟s not much left to know.”
Hornsby shook her head. “You‟re right that the message was meant for you, but we
didn‟t send it,” she said coldly.
Ainsley looked at her, his stare vacant. “What do you mean you didn‟t send it? It
came from a DSV – the ciphers can‟t be replicated.”
“It didn‟t come from a DSV,” she cut in. “It came from an AI.”
Something uneasy started to stir inside the Admiral as he considered the possibility.
It was outside the bounds of possibility that a full DSV‟s Strategic Operations Centre could
be replicated to minutely, the Sentient AIs used aboard the vessels were a different
technology entirely.
“How?” he asked plainly, his impatience clear.
“Nine months ago,” Hornsby explained, “Aquarius suffered a massive systems failure
– very similar in nature to the one you reported on Atlantis. The date was August 9 th .”
Ainsley narrowed his eyes. “The day you were reported missing...”
Hornsby nodded again. “The only difference was, it was deliberately triggered, and it
was controlled. Ari was in the middle of doing a sensor analysis of the wreckage of the
Atlantis, and we were... I guess you could say „spiked‟.”
Ainsley slowly got up, an icy chill running down his spine. “Atlantis,” he repeated
coldly. “Hornsby, you‟re making no sense. What does the Atlantis have to do with any of
this?”
The captain of the Aquarius DSV swallowed a lump that had risen in her throat, and
her next words took the air out of Ainsley‟s lungs.
“The message wasn‟t sent by the Aquarius, Admiral. It was sent by Annie... And
she‟s still alive.”
~
- 170 -

UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110, the Polynesian Trench. April 15 th , 2043…
“We don‟t have much time,” Ainsley said, striding quickly down the starboard corridor
of D-deck, Corinn Roderick close at his side and Gavin Mackenzie just inches behind them.
Roderick wasn‟t convinced by Hornsby‟s claim – and Ainsley didn‟t blame her, despite the
insistence of Mackenzie behind them. “With respect, Admiral, are you sure you want to go
through with this now?” Roderick asked him. “If we simply had time to check Aquarius‟ SOC
records...”
“The longer we wait, Captain, the harder it‟s going to be to do this at all,” Mackenzie
countered sharply. “With any luck, the Ghosts are already wet... They‟ll make sure you get
cover.”
“Ghost stories...” Roderick muttered inwardly to herself, the curiosity of the statement
going unnoticed by her companions.
“I hope that‟s more than just idle conjecture, Mister Mackenzie,” Ainsley snapped
sourly. “Or this is going to be the shortest transit of my career.”
“Standing orders, sir. Captain Hornsby anticipated something like this before she
came aboard. If they aren‟t there, then I‟ll be just as surprised as you.”
“You fill me with warm and fuzzy confidence, Wing Commander,” observed the
Admiral, dryly. “Rest assured, I‟m holding you to it.”
Ainsley didn‟t see the broad grin on Mackenzie‟s face as he rounded the final
intersection and stepped on to the hangar deck, the unmarked shuttle having the last of its
tethers removed by the ground crew before it was moved to the launch ramp.
The group stopped momentarily as Ainsley turned and faced Roderick with a sigh.
Roderick nodded her reassurance. “I‟ll make sure you‟re cleared, sir. By the time the Captain
even realises you‟ve gone, you‟ll be well on your way.”
“What about Hornsby?” Mackenzie asked, frowning. “We can‟t just leave her here. As
soon as Banick realises what‟s going on, this is going to get messy.”
Ainsley smiled confidently. It was a rare outward display that made Roderick grin as
she turned to leave. “I‟ve already taken care of that,” Ainsley assured him. “I just wish I could
give you the same promise.”
“I‟ll bear it in mind,” Mackenzie smirked as he finished pulling on his gloves and
hauled his helmet up under his arm. The shuttle‟s assigned crew chief waved at him as
ground staff in purple jumpsuits unhooked and withdrew the umbilical fuel lines. A small
number of other crewmen were beginning to assemble around the launch ramp, and Ainsley
nodded to Mackenzie sharply.
“Lead on, Commander.”
Roderick entered the FOC with a small smile to Commander Raincastle as she
approached the control deck overlooking the hangar deck below. She felt uneasy about what
Ainsley was doing – but trusted that Mackenzie had taken the appropriate measures of
precaution. The FOC was a buzz of constant radio exchanges for clearance, report and
request. The numerous flight traffic control officers barely registered those around them as
they kept a constant check of their EVA assignments and nothing within twenty miles of the
battlecruiser was permitted to operate in, out or around her without their knowledge. If it did,
then it was treated as hostile without exception.
Rebecca Raincastle‟s job was little more than administration as she watched in total
silence from the raised parapet of computer banks and monitoring consoles behind the
control staff. The vast bulk of operational coordination happened between the FOC officers
in front of her and the two SEWACS craft – at that moment, Warseer and Blackout -
somewhere beyond Commonwealth‟s defence perimeter.
“Commander, I‟ve got an unscheduled departure request from shuttle Eight-two-zerozero-delta,”
one of the control officers reported, pulling off his headset for a moment to face
the Flight Director behind him.
“The launch from Aquarius?” Raincastle clarified with a small frown.
“Aye, ma‟am. They‟ve called it in on Vice Admiral Ainsley‟s personal clearance code.”
- 171 -

Roderick stepped in. “Clear them, and leave it off the log, Petty Officer,” she
instructed sharply.
“Belay that, and tell them to standby,” Raincastle replied with surprise, turning to face
Roderick darkly. “May I have a word, Captain?”
The two officers stepped to the back of the room, beyond earshot of the flight control
deck before Raincastle purposefully sidestepped to block Roderick‟s view of the command
deck, her arms folded tightly in front of her.
“Respectfully, Captain... You‟re out of line.”
“Commander Raincastle, I gave you an order,” Roderick replied coolly.
The Flight Director narrowed her eyes. “Do you at least want to tell me where he
thinks he‟s going?”
Roderick paused and locked eyes with her. “Admiral Ainsley intends to assume
command of the Aquarius,” she said, eliciting a smirk from her counterpart. “And you‟re
going to give him clearance, and you‟re going to leave it off report.”
“You know it won‟t take long for Banick will find out, Quinn,” Raincastle smiled.
“I gave the order, Rebecca,” she whispered. “I‟ll take responsibility.”
There was a long pause and finally Raincastle dropped her arms again - her
shoulders slumping with a long sigh, raising her voice. “Priority clearance for Eight-Two-
Zero-Zero-Delta is granted,” she said crisply. “Secure the log entry, as per Captain
Roderick‟s order.”
“Understood ma‟am... Launch clearance is granted.”
Roderick remained in the FOC for several minutes after the order was given,
watching in apprehensive silence as the sea launch was moved on to the ramp and slowly
lowered in to the hydrosphere below decks. Amber warning beacons flashed amid the din of
commotion elsewhere on the flight deck as the craft disappeared in to the dimly lit shadows
of the moonpool. She continued to watch as the craft slowly sank in to the shaft, its running
lights coming to power to illuminate the waters in a ghostly grey while the pressure doors
above hissed closed with a „thump‟ that was audible through the glass.
Raincastle watched too, although neither officer suspected that the tension they felt
stemmed from the same quiet hopes. Roderick nodded her silent thanks to the Commander
and spun on her heel, quickly heading for her office.
...The sea launch emerged from the massive sea doors quickly and silently – the
great shadow of the battlecruiser Commonwealth hanging above it for long, precarious
seconds as the craft accelerated away in to the darkness of the sea. Gavin Mackenzie
blocked out any thought of the vessel as he focused on putting the shuttle on to a casual but
expedient heading for the Aquarius DSV that he knew hovered somewhere in the darkness
ahead, illuminated only as a faint outline on his heads-up display.
For Ainsley, seated in the co-pilot‟s position beside him, the trip was made in far
greater tension as his eyes kept marking the navigation plot to watch the activities of the
battlecruiser in their wake. Commonwealth, however, remained silent as the range opened
and the shuttle passed clear in to the abyss and continued downward in to the relative safety
of the narrowing trench. Mackenzie knew that somewhere outside, his Ghosts trailed them
quietly in shadow – none of them daring to break their radio silence. Ainsley prayed he was
correct.
Somewhere on Commonwealth‟s bridge, a small, shrill alert chimed at Ops. The
operator narrowed his eyes at the contact that was slipping away from him, noting its IFF
and ID and then cross-referencing it to the registered EVA traffic that surrounded the carrier.
It came up as a bogey – neither registered nor cleared by the CIC, and he quickly thumbed
his comms. “Ops to Combat,”
“Banick Here.”
“Captain, I‟ve got what looks like an unscheduled departure. IFF shows as a Launch
registered as DSV-Eight-Two-Zero-Zero, dash Delta. No matching flight logs with FOC.”
- 172 -

A few moments later and James Banick emerged from the open glass doors of the
CIC to double-time down to the command deck. He looked up at the bank of monitors with
his arms folded as he approached Ops and frowned. “You‟ve confirmed the ID?”
“As best I can, sir. WSKRS has a track now and confirms she‟s the shuttle that
docked last night, but nothing was logged that cleared her for launch.”
Banick leaned over and toggled the radio with a flick of his thumb. “Shuttle Eight-
Two-Zero-Zero-Delta, this is Commonwealth-Actual. Your EVA is not authorized. State your
identification.”
They waited a few seconds before the Chief of Operations shook his head negatively,
and Banick repeated the message, this time ensuring that the channel was guarded to the
CIC.
“No response, Captain,” the Chief confirmed, and Banick sighed.
“Someone get the Admiral up here and launch the Alert-Five,” he ordered. “I want
that launch back here, now.”
“Aye-aye.”
Banick stormed back across the command deck and took his seat at the centre of the
Conn, loosening his collar as he looked across at the tactical stations. Something was very
wrong and before he had even asked the question – he knew that Admiral Ainsley would not
be found, because he knew that he was no longer aboard the ship. It had been a moment
that he had feared since the man had come aboard and now his hand was being forced.
“Lieutenant Pirelli, Sound General Quarters.”
Commander Roberts‟ heart began to pound as soon as the call came in, the order
being underscored just seconds later by the shrill, jarring klaxon of a Red Alert. Buckling her
boots and fastening her gloves, she was out the door of her office a second later when Coyle
appeared from the access corridor and fell in step beside her, his own webbing dangling
loosely from his flight harness. While Roberts would be among the Alert-Five, she‟d noted
the night before that for a reason that no one had dared to discuss or even question, the
Dark Angels, and their Commander, had been rotated from stand-down to take the place of
the Alert-Ten.
Roderick was already moving her pieces, and she started to wonder just how far the
game would go before Banick or Ainsley realised that the rug was slowly and quietly being
pulled out from beneath their feet. “Jane,” Coyle greeted her with muttered enthusiasm.
“Dustin,” she replied, equalling his apparent displeasure.
“I sure hope Quinn knows what she‟s doing,” he said quietly as they continued down
the passage toward the hangar, sidestepping a group of marines that thundered towards
them before turning down a corridor that he knew led to the armouries.
“It‟s not the Captain Roderick I‟m worried about,” said Jane nervously. “Did you brief
the Dark Angels?”
“I briefed the flight leads,” he nodded. “I‟m trying to keep this as close to the chest as
possible.”
They came up to the stairwell that led down to the main hangar access and Coyle
stopped as he realised she wasn‟t taking it. “Jane?” he called from the ledge.
“I‟ll see you down there,” she said gruffly. “I need to take care of something.”
...Roberts rounded the final corner and stepped inside the pilot prep room, finding the
Rapiers gathering the last of their gear. They all snapped to attention as she entered, and
she waved them aside. “You all know what to do,” she said plainly. “I won‟t mess around with
speeches, but just remember we‟re all on the same side, regardless of who we take our
orders from.”
A chorus of nervous acknowledgements met her, and she nodded her approval,
noticing through the corner of her eye the quiet, unsettled way that both Cunningham and
Rogers fidgeted in their flight gear. That was what she had been afraid of. “Good hunting,”
she said curtly.
Roberts waited at the door as the squadron forwarded out and headed to the hangar,
noticing that the two Lieutenants appeared to be delaying in picking up their helmets and
- 173 -

gloves, instead continuing to fiddle with the assortment of buckles and straps that dangled
from their shoulders. When they finally picked up their gear under her watching gaze, she
stopped them both. “A word,” she said, closing the door and barring their exit.
“Ma‟am,” they both snapped.
Roberts‟ eyes softened as she looked at them both. There was sympathy in her gaze,
but also an understanding that what she was asking of them would be one of the defining
moments of their careers. “I know this is probably going to be difficult to understand,” she
started, “but there isn‟t much of a chance that we‟re going to get out of this with a clean
conscience.”
Cunningham swallowed a lump in her throat. “We do understand, ma‟am.”
Roberts shook her head. “I don‟t think you do, Lieutenant. What I‟ve asked of you will
amount to treason if it goes the way I believe it‟s likely to. I am giving you the option now to
sit this one out.”
Cunningham and Rogers looked at each other for a moment before straightening to
attention, both of them locking eyes with the Commander. In perfect unison, they recalled
the squadron‟s creed. “‟One Sword At Least,‟” they snapped.
Nothing else they could have said would have filled Roberts with as much pride as
she felt at that moment, and she saluted them both sharply in respect. “‟Thy Rights Shall
Guard‟,” she finished.
“It would be a privilege.”
Banick‟s stomach turned in anger at the report that was handed to him by the ensign
before looking at Commander Callaghan who walked quickly through the bridge‟s heavy
clam doors just moments before they thumped shut to the sound of wailing bells.
“Admiral Ainsley is no longer aboard the ship, Captain,” his XO reported as he
walked up the short flight of steps to the main command deck. Callaghan stood next to the
Conn with Banick, looking over his shoulder at the main chart display and the highlighted
tactical data that was pouring out next to the holographic shape of the Aquarius, and the
small shuttle that drew ever nearer. By Callaghan‟s estimate, it would be no more than ten
minutes before that shuttle docked. The XO lowered his voice to a whisper. “FOC reports he
boarded a shuttle less than ten minutes ago.”
Banick handed him the slate carelessly and walked back to his chair. “I know,” he
said bluntly.
“Shall I call the Flight Director to the bridge?” Callaghan asked, reading the shuttle‟s
departure clearance and noticing its authorization had been redacted from the log.
“I‟ll find out what happened down there later,” Banick hissed. “Ops, where are my
fighters?”
The chief of operations switched something to his live feed and relayed it to the
command deck monitors. Banick watched the rapid egress of the VF-107 Rapiers and
pursed his lips. “Get me Commander Roberts, direct,” he snapped, pulling the headset from
his shoulders. “...And make sure it‟s an open channel. I want the other fighters – and that
shuttle – to hear me.”
He waited until the Chief gave him a thumbs-up and then walked to the chart table
again, noting the rapidly-closing distance between the lead flight group of the Rapiers and
the shuttle. “Rapier One, this is Commonwealth-Actual.”
“Commonwealth, Rapier One,”
“Commander, your orders are simple... Intercept that shuttle, and force it to return. If
you are unable to achieve a negotiated resolution, then I am authorizing you to treat it as
hostile.”
Callaghan shot Banick a look – one that was shared by several of the bridge officers
who were near enough to hear the order. By the silence that followed on the channel,
Callaghan knew they were not alone in their reservations. Static followed for several, long
moments – the sound of a thumb being held on a radio toggle, but with no words to follow.
“...Commonwealth-Actual, please repeat your last order.”
- 174 -

Callaghan stepped up quickly, lowering his voice to a growling whisper. “Captain,
Admiral Ainsley is aboard that shuttle...”
Banick was flustered, ignoring his first officer. “Rapier One, Commonwealth-Actual. I
say again – you will intercept the launch and force it to return to the Commonwealth. If they
do not heave-to, you are ordered to shoot them down.”
Callaghan‟s heart skipped a beat, his jaw clenching until his teeth started to ache. It
was the reply from Roberts that astonished them both.
“Negative, Commonwealth,” said the voice. “We will not engage.”
Banick‟s mouth was agape as he looked at his first officer in shock. The Captain took
a moment to compose himself. “Rapier Two,” he said, changing tack, “You will relieve
Commander Roberts and assume command of the Rapiers. Do you understand my orders?”
“Your orders are clear, Captain,” replied the pilot confidently. “I am therefore relieving
myself of command.”
Deadly silence followed that message, and Banick removed his headset calmly and
set it down on the plot before sitting down in his chair in silence. He rubbed his face slowly –
the murderous glint in his eye speaking volumes for his unspoken rage. Callaghan stepped
up to the Conn, almost bravely considering the Captain‟s mood, drew his finger across his
throat with a sharp look to the Chief.
Once the chief had nodded, he sighed. “Launch the Alert-Ten,” he ordered.
“Aye sir,” the EVA station reported. “The Angels are launching now... They‟ll be clear
shortly. Intercept should be in about one minute and forty five seconds.”
Banick looked up suddenly, a glint of revelation in his eye. “The Dark Angels?” he
asked curiously. “I thought the Alert-Ten was rostered for the Griffons?”
“It was, sir,” confirmed the EVA station. “The roster was amended last night.”
“Who gave that order?”
“Checking...” the EVA liaison said distantly, pulling up the roster on his screens with a
cursory flick of his hand. “...Signed last night at zero-one-thirty hours by Captain Corinn
Roderick, sir.”
Banick had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he picked up the data slate he‟d been
given at the outset, and re-read the shuttle‟s launch clearance. The authorization had been
redacted by a command-level officer... but the clearance was issued separately by
Commander Raincastle. The Captain picked up his headset again and dialled in an ID
extension before pulling up the flight roster himself.
...Rebecca Raincastle continued to watch the flight deck as the last of the Dark
Angels fighters was pushed in to position on its launch rack. The black, polished hull of this
fighter appeared older than the others that had preceded it – its pilot arriving on the flight line
just as the squadron‟s CO, Dustin Coyle, disappeared in to the drop shaft.
The new pilot received a few coy smiles and respectful nods as they climbed in to the
cockpit of the craft and strapped themselves in with the aid of the ground crew. The phone
beside Raincastle‟s station chirped and she picked up the handset quickly, her eyes not
moving from the scene on the hangar deck. “Raincastle,” she said sharply.
“Commander, this is Banick... I want the Dark Angels pulled from the flight line,
immediately.”
“The Dark Angels have already launched, Captain,”
“Is Captain Roderick with you?”
Raincastle hesitated a moment as she watched the pilot on the deck pull their helmet
on and adjust the last of her instruments before giving the plane captain a quick thumbs up.
“No, Captain, she is not.”
“I want her detained, Commander,” snapped Banick.
Raincastle continued to watch as the pilot on the flight deck prepared the fighter‟s
systems in a final checklist, its engines whining up to power as it prepared for launch.
“I believe she went to brief the Dark Angels before their sortie, Captain,” Raincastle
explained truthfully. “I will notify her as soon as she returns to flight operations.”
- 175 -

“Good. I also want the Griffons readied for launch,” the Captain continued. “...As soon
as you can.”
“Understood.”
“Bridge out.”
Raincastle replaced the handset and nodded to the traffic control officers with a half
smile. “Captain Roderick is cleared for launch,” she said slowly. “Get her wet... She‟s holding
up the flight line.”
...Banick cursed as he took off the headset once more and shot a look at Callaghan
hopelessly. “Get me the Aquarius,” he said finally.
The captain of the Commonwealth paced across the command deck for several long
seconds as the communications officers did their best to raise the massive DSV. When they
finally did turn and indicate their success, Banick turned to face the screen squarely, his
arms folded in front of him.
The face that resolved on the main screen of the Commonwealth was one that
James Banick had not seen in over two years. Commander John Razak had served capably
as the DSV‟s first officer since the fall of Pearl Harbor in 2041, and to see him in the context
of that situation angered as much as it did pain him. Banick noted the eerily familiar scene of
the Aquarius‟s bridge – a design he associated dearly to that of the Atlantis before it, and
saw that Razak still occupied the seat of the first officer. The chair of the captain – that of
Lauren Hornsby – was still noticeably empty and Banick was certain that Razak was using it
as a deliberate statement of his intent.
It was an inference that Banick could not have appreciated less at that moment.
“Commander Razak,” the Captain greeted coldly.
“Captain Banick,” Razak returned – the upbeat inflection of cheer in his tone only
grating at Banick‟s increasingly sour mood. “What can I do for you?”
Banick gritted his teeth for a moment, staying his tongue from lashing out at the
Aquarius XO. They both knew the reason for the call, and to draw out the pleasantries only
served as a delay. “Commander, I need your help. You‟ve no doubt detected the shuttle that
is on an intercept course with the Aquarius.”
“Yes, of course,” Razak noted with a half smile. “That‟s... quite the escort she‟s being
provided with.”
“Indeed,” Banick sneered sourly. “I‟ll do you the courtesy of being frank, Commander.
Admiral Ainsley is on that shuttle, and I intend to detain him. Should you offer him safe
harbour, then I warn you – I will hold you to even account.”
“And what charges will you be laying, Captain?” Razak asked curiously.
Banick frowned. “Gross dereliction of duty occasioning insubordination if he is lucky,”
“Well, we‟ll certainly keep it in mind,” Razak smiled, turning slightly in his chair. “...But
as we‟ve been unable to reach that shuttle, I‟ll have to keep you appraised.”
Banick pointed at Razak. “Don‟t you dare, Commander!”
Razak merely smirked, cutting the Captain off. “Aquarius, out.”
The image of the DSV‟s bridge disappeared from the screen to be replaced by the
main tactical plot, and Banick turned desperately to his XO.
“Commander Callaghan, this is untenable,” he muttered.
“That shuttle will dock with Aquarius in less than two minutes, Captain. We aren‟t
going to stop him.”
Banick‟s murderous gaze was short-lived. He knew his XO was correct: without the
Rapiers, they would never stop him. “...Hornsby,” Banick sighed. “Ainsley would not have
done this without reason. I need to know what she told him...”
The XO regarded him sceptically, but before he even voiced his doubt, Banick cut
him off. “And if she can‟t, then she is the best leverage we have, and I suspect Razak will
know that.”
“...You will know. That much, I know I can trust...”
- 176 -

Callaghan‟s gaze drifted off to the far bulkheads for several, long seconds as Banick
continued to explain, the Captain‟s eyes finally finding the distraction in his own. “...Ryan?”
Callaghan nodded sharply. “I understand, sir.”
Banick smirked in spite of himself, slapping him on the shoulder. “Good. You had me
worried for a second. At this rate everyone on this crew is going to be in the brig, and we‟re
going to have to run this ship ourselves.”
The XO smiled and turned to leave. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know...”
...The Launch broke the surface of the moon pool quickly, the urgency of its arrival
answered by a flurry of ground crew that scrambled across the flight deck to secure it. Water
continued to drip from the craft‟s topsides as the engine turbines whined down from idle.
Inside the shuttle‟s cockpit, Mark Ainsley continued to stare out ahead vacantly as Gavin
Mackenzie ran his hands across the multitude of control consoles in front of them, securing
the transport‟s systems and going through his post-flight checks as quickly as he could
manage.
Ainsley subconsciously unbuckled the five-point harness, barely registering the eerie
hangar deck of the ship outside. Something inside him was deeply unsettled by the
experience, although his mind was moving far too quickly to settle on the possibility that the
sweeping, vaulted walls of the hangar outside were identical to those of the Atlantis DSV.
The Admiral paid no heed to the pilot behind him as he climbed his way through the
narrow cockpit hatch to the passenger area and paused before the sealed hatch, hesitantly.
For the first time, the full gravity of what he was doing started to emerge in his head – the
faces and names of those he was leaving behind seeming to leave less of an impression in
the face of the philosophical conundrums which challenged everything that defined him.
Mackenzie emerged from the cockpit a moment later, pausing as he saw the pained
expression across Ainsley‟s face. He stopped short of opening the hatch. “Admiral? Are you
alright?”
Ainsley drew a slow, steady breath. “Lead on, Commander,” he affirmed.
Mackenzie waited for no further invitation as he disarmed the door and hit the release
valve with a closed fist. There was a sharp, snap-hiss of air in the cabin and a whine of
hydraulics as the door swung outwards, water dripping steadily from the rubber seals as the
two occupants stepped out on to the artificial daylight of the hangar deck of the Aquarius
DSV.
Only then did the Admiral‟s heart strings twist painfully – every corner, bulkhead and
facing echoing what he had buried literally and figuratively eighteen months prior. It was a
feeling he would never get used to – and one he had felt before. The man who met them
was flanked by two soldiers who wore black, unmarked uniforms and carried non-standard
assault rifles, both heavily modified and significantly stripped down. Neither soldier bore the
eagle globe and anchor of the UEO marine corps, nor did they wear any distinguishing rank
or ID.
Lieutenant Commander Davis Akara had served as the Aquarius‟s chief tactical
officer since the day the great ship had been launched, and Ainsley met him with a cursory
stare that looked him over before finally returning the man‟s sharply-presented salute.
“Admiral Ainsley, welcome aboard the Aquarius.”
The Admiral was already walking for the exit in long stride, paying little attention to
the short-statured man‟s platitudes. “What‟s our status,” he said gruffly.
Akara looked uncomfortable as the trio of officers exited the hangar and stepped
inside the Mag-Lev carriage opposite the main access corridor. “To be frank, sir, it would
have been nice if you‟d let us know you were coming aboard,” he suggested.
“Bridge,” Ainsley ordered.
There was a short lull in the Mag-Lev‟s start up sequence as a polite, female voice
announced over the intercom - “Identity confirmed as Ainsley, Mark Andrew. Bridge access
authority now instated. Welcome aboard, Admiral.”
Ainsley looked momentarily astonished at that, having virtually forgotten the small
nuances and quirks of his old command. He then gripped the hand rail as the carriage
- 177 -

hummed to life and accelerated to a brisk coast down nearly two hundred metres of ducted,
magnetic rail towards the submarine‟s bow. He looked at Akara again sourly. “I‟m short on
time and patience, Commander, I‟d appreciate it if you got to the point quickly.”
Akara was a man known for his cool under fire, and this was no time of exception.
“Our last resupply was over eight weeks ago,” he professed. “Torpedo batteries one through
seven are fully loaded, but our fighter wing has been reduced to nineteen.”
Ainsley closed his eyes as he felt the Mag-Lev carriage begin to slow, and the
sudden desperation of his situation feeling far more apparent. The Atlantis class DSVs were
the largest ships the UEO had ever built and were supposed to represent floating fortresses
that bristled with torpedo tubes, and contained close to a hundred subfighters each.
Aquarius, however, was quickly proving to be toothless.
“Seven batteries?” Ainsley repeated incredulously. “Out of thirty six?”
Akara shook his head. “As I said, sir... We weren‟t exactly expecting a shootout.”
“What‟s the count on the magazines, then,” Ainsley asked.
“Seventy five warheads accounted for,” Akara confirmed confidently. Ainsley almost
chocked on the figure as he ran through the numbers in his head. Each of the Aquarius‟s
RAFIT batteries contained six torpedo tubes, giving a possible total of two hundred and
sixteen loaded tubes at any one point in time. At that very moment, Aquarius had an arsenal
that barely matched that of a squadron of subfighters – let alone the battlecruiser that now
stared them down just a few miles away.
“Bridge,” the female voice announced again cheerfully, the doors of the darkened
carriage sliding open with a hiss. Ainsley, Akara and Mackenzie had travelled half the length
of the ship in just over twelve seconds, and stepped on to the great submarine‟s command
deck just a few moments after that. The heavy clamshell pressure doors on the bridge‟s port
side remained open, and Razak was still seated on the upper command deck – standing to
attention quickly as he sensed Ainsley‟s approach.
“Admiral on deck!” he snapped.
Uniformly, and with a precision that took Ainsley off guard, every one of the DSV‟s
bridge officers stood as one, snapping their heels together sharply to render honours as his
quick step slowed in surprise. The vast command centre of the Aquarius, split over three
decks was nearly identical to that of the Atlantis, and it took a conscious effort on the
Admiral‟s part to remind himself that it was not his ship – the wraith-winged angel of the
ship‟s avatar, painted up on to the rear bulkhead by an array of architectural spotlights,
standing as an eerie reminder to that fact.
“As you were,” he said, walking up a short flight of stairs to stand beside the Conn,
just a few feet from Hornsby‟s chair. Razak and Akara both exchanged a look as they noted
the Admiral‟s deliberate avoidance of the chair, Razak himself fighting back a small smile.
“Status, Commander Razak.”
“Captain Banick has ordered that you surrender yourself immediately, Admiral,”
Razak smirked. “Now that I have conveyed that message, I feel it only fair to mention he also
gave the Rapiers orders to shoot you down, if you did not comply.”
“I heard,” the Admiral muttered, looking across the deck to the long-haired brunette
who stood at Ops. “Tactical situation, Lieutenant Mackenzie.”
Ainsley remembered Kathleen Mackenzie well, as he did every other officer sitting on
that bridge. She was the brother of the Wing Commander who stood beside him, and it had
been fate – more than design – that saw them both serving aboard the same command. She
looked surprised at his recollection of her name as she checked the operations board. It
came more as dismay to the Admiral that the news she had did not fill him confidence.
“We‟re returning passive weapons tracks from the Commonwealth and one squadron
of Raptor-class subfighters, identified as Victor-Foxtrot-One-Seven-Three, callsign Griffons.”
Ainsley was silent as Akara returned to his station below the command deck, bringing
up his full tactical layouts. “I‟d recommend we perform an active targeting sweep for all
batteries, Captain. Commonwealth has no way of knowing our current munitions payload.”
- 178 -

Ainsley‟s shoulders slumped with a raised eyebrow, hands planted firmly against the
command deck‟s guard rail. “We were never going to win this by shooting out way out, even
if we were in a position to,” he observed quietly.
Ainsley worked his jaw, his eyes boring a hole in to the deck ahead of him before he
finally straightened his uniform and stood to his full height. “I want each and every one of you
to understand me very clearly,” he called aloud. “Irrespective of their motivations – that ship
out there is still one of ours. They‟re our friends – our blood. You‟ve fought and bled for them
when it mattered, and they in turn have bled for you. You‟re fighting for the same thing; there
are no sides in this. We will take no action that will place their lives in danger, nor will I
endanger yours. I am sorry that circumstance has brought us to this crossroad, but I‟m going
to have to ask you to trust me.”
There were a few smiles and murmurs at that, and Ainsley looked at Mackenzie
again. “Get me Captain Banick,” he ordered.
The Admiral paced across the command deck as the uplink was established, and
then looked at the gaunt, tired reflection of James Banick on the main display. He never
even had a chance to speak before the man stood up and glared at him icily. “Vice Admiral
Ainsley,” he said formally. “I am ordering you to relinquish command of the Aquarius DSV
immediately, and prepare to be boarded.”
Ainsley pursed his lips, his gaze lowering. “Am I to understand I am being arrested,
Captain? On what charge”
“Under article eighty-one of the UEO UCMJ, citing conspiracy to wilfully undermine
the chain of command, to ends in violation of article ninety-two of that same code: dereliction
of duty and failure to observe orders.”
Ainsley raised an eyebrow, folding his arms in front of him. “The penalties for falsely
accusing a staff officer of such a crime, Captain, are severe. I might ask you under what
authority you ordered the Rapiers to fire on an unarmed shuttle, without prior provocation.”
“You know damn well what this is about!” he hissed. “This is your only warning.
You‟ve got two minutes to give me your answer.”
The channel was terminated abruptly leaving Ainsley staring at a bare bulkhead
behind the holographic screen. He inhaled deeply as he continued to stare before a motion
in the corner of his eye drew his attention. Ainsley turned, finding the young woman waiting
silently just inside the bridge‟s great pressure doors. Razak and Mackenzie had walked
down to meet her and exchanged a few words quietly, but Ainsley didn‟t recognise her. Her
uniform, on the other hand, was unmistakeable. A long, black straight-cut tunic, lined in gold
pipping and buttons down the chest below a high collar – the diamond-shaped, buckled
chevrons on her shoulders being those of a Nycarian Captain, although she could not have
been a day over thirty... Not that any UEO logic could have ever been appropriately applied
to age and associated achievement within the Nycarian military.
The Captain looked at the woman curiously as he approached before raising an
eyebrow at Razak. “Commander?”
“Admiral Ainsley, this...”
Razak was cut off abruptly as the Nycarian stepped forward, offering her hand
smartly. The motion seemed to surprise the two UEO commanders beside her, but Ainsley
simply smiled and took it with a slight bow. He remembered that which he‟d been told by the
Nycarian Chancellor nearly two years prior – in contrast to most militaries, for the Nycarians
it was perfectly customary for senior officers to salute the lower ranks. Her grip was firm, and
her fierce, grey eyes didn‟t even blink as they met his.
“...I am Captain Anniel Rhodes, Admiral,” she introduced herself in sharp, flawless
English. “Fleet Viceroy Narius Rhodes sent me to here to assist Captain Hornsby... An offer I
feel would be appropriate to extend to you, in these circumstances.”
Ainsley cracked a half-smile at her name. “Your father.”
“My relationship to the Viceroy is unimportant, Admiral,” she replied curtly, drawing
further surprise from the two commanders. “If you will allow the observation, I do not believe
now is an appropriate time for the customary introductions favoured by the UEO diplomatic
- 179 -

corps. Captain Banick holds a distinct tactical advantage over this vessel, and I believe I
may be able to assist you.”
Razak leaned in to Mackenzie stiffly. “How insightful,” he whispered, unable to avoid
an edge of sarcasm.
Rhodes eyed them both for a moment before choosing to ignore them to straighten
formally in front of Ainsley, her poise being neither bothered nor interrupted by the comment.
“I would like to hail the Commonwealth, if you will permit it, Admiral.”
Razak seemed to regret his comment as he pursed his lips and turned. “Sir, we‟re
wasting time. I can have marines ready to leave in five minutes.”
Ainsley shot Razak a warning glare. “And do what, Commander? Board the
Commonwealth and start shooting our own people?”
Razak‟s lip trembled. “I want my Captain back, sir. And respectfully, nothing Banick
can throw at me will stop me from trying.”
Rhodes continued to ignore Razak as she looked up at Ainsley. “Your marines are
not necessary,” she disagreed with unerring certainty.
Ainsley eyed both of them for several long seconds, his eyes finally coming to rest on
Razak‟s as he slowly turned toward the Nycarian Captain. “Then you have five minutes to
make Banick change his mind.”
Rhodes nodded her gratitude before ascending the small flight of stairs to the upper
bridge deck. Ainsley ordered Lieutenant Mackenzie to hail the Commonwealth as he eyed
the daughter of Narius Rhodes with a curious and apprehensive gaze. The air of authority
that the short, unassuming South African exuded as she stood astutely before the view
screen, hands folded neatly at the small of her back was unquestionable, and made most of
the UEO bridge officers smile inwardly.
As he resolved on the screen before them, Banick‟s face quickly turned from
determination to shock as he recognised the black uniform of the Nycarian officer and stood
from his chair, making an awkward attempt to straighten his own. He was at a loss for words
as Rhodes took a step forward.
“Captain Banick, I presume?” she inquired politely.
“Yes,” he said plainly. “You would appear to have me at a disadvantage.”
Razak smirked at that, but noted quickly that Rhodes failed to see the irony as her
eyes locked squarely with Banick‟s through the screen, undaunted and confident in equal
measure. “My name is Captain Anniel Rhodes. If it would be convenient, I would like to come
aboard your vessel so that we may discuss the terms of a mutually agreeable resolution to
this juncture.”
Ainsley held out a low, warning hand to Razak as he watched in fascination, the
Aquarius First Officer becoming visibly uncomfortable at her suggestion. Banick seemed just
as uncertain. “Captain Rhodes... It has been my experience that the Nycarian Empire does
not choose to involve itself in foreign conflicts. May I ask why you are aboard that vessel?”
Rhodes was succinct. “The Empire is in a state of civil war, Captain. While my
presence aboard this ship should not be interpreted as some form of endorsement of the
United Earth Oceans Organization‟s war against the Macronesian Alliance, we have
accepted that we can no longer continue to ignore it.”
Banick cocked his head. “You said „we‟, Captain. Do I assume you represent the
interests of the Nycarian government in this?”
“I represent the Fleet Viceroy Narius Rhodes, on behalf of the Chancellor, Reisson
Bauer.”
Banick seemed to consider the proposition for a moment before looking offside, his
eyes locking with those of Ainsley who stood on the lower deck. At that moment, it couldn‟t
have been more clear who was making the decisions. “Admiral Ainsley,” he called.
He stepped up next to Rhodes intently. “Captain?”
“I will agree to the Captain‟s terms,” he said. “On the sole condition that you will
accompany her back to the Commonwealth.”
Razak stepped forward. “Absolutely not! Admiral, if you go back...”
- 180 -

“Agreed,” snapped Rhodes, cutting him off sharply much to Ainsley‟s surprise.
“Expect us.”
Rhodes nodded to Lieutenant Mackenzie who quickly terminated the channel before
the Admiral regarded her suspiciously with a silent, raised brow. Rhodes was already
walking for the bridge doors. This made Razak smile before offering a silently bemused
Wing Commander Mackenzie an approving nod. The fighter pilot looked apologetically at
Ainsley and excused himself before disappearing from the bridge as silently as he had
arrived.
Razak sighed. “I‟ve put up with that for six months.”
...Lauren Hornsby paced like a caged animal inside the cell, her heart pounding in
her chest. The shouting of marines as they thundered down the corridors outside and a wail
of alert klaxons had shaken her from her daze. It wasn‟t coincidence that it had only been a
few short hours before that Mark Ainsley had left the brig in a bewildered stupor without
uttering a word. Now, her two watchmen stood alert, their rifles held high and safed across
their flak vests – fingers notably covering the trigger guards. One of the marines stood at the
entrance to the brig, watching the corridor outside with shifting, alert eyes. The other paced
the length of the detention wing, his eyes only occasionally watching her through the bars.
“What‟s going on?” Hornsby asked, hearing the quiet, garbled sound of noise in the
earpiece of the sergeant at the door.
The marine turned to her quietly, unsure of how to treat his charge. Both soldiers had
remained silent during their watch, paying her little attention between their irregular
exchanges of banter. Indeed, Hornsby wasn‟t sure how she would have handled it if the
situation were reversed.
The Sergeant, she noted from his unit patch, was a member of Charlie company of
the First Marine Division‟s 3 rd Battalion. It was the unit commanded by Major Adrian
O‟Shaughnessy, who had formerly been assigned to that same unit aboard the Atlantis DSV.
It had never even occurred to Hornsby to think that many of Atlantis‟s former crew had
probably found their way aboard the Commonwealth – the battlecruiser‟s launch roughly
coinciding with Atlantis‟s respective loss some eighteen months prior.
That made the situation even more difficult. The command crisis aboard the
Commonwealth plainly began with Ainsley and Banick but there was no way to tell how the
crew would react.
“Sergeant, I asked you a question,” Hornsby repeated, straightening to face the two
marines through the bars.
The soldier turned, his grip on the rifle loosening just slightly. “Captain Hornsby,
please remain silent,” he said as respectfully as he could manage. “You will find out shortly.”
As it happened, she was not waiting long as a long, gaunt figure stepped through the
door way and exchanged several quiet words with the Sergeant. After a few words, the
Sergeant snapped to attention, and ushered the other marine out in to the corridor, leaving
Commander Ryan Callaghan alone in the dim light of the hall to stare down at Hornsby‟s
cell.
His boot steps echoed lightly off the walls as he approached, his hands folded behind
his back neatly as his eyes peered through the dark to find Hornsby‟s tired gaze. “Is it true?”
he asked quietly.
Hornsby took a step forward. “It is.”
Callaghan made a long sigh. “Ainsley‟s already left for the Aquarius,” he said flatly.
“I‟m not sure he intended for you to join him on this one, Captain,”
“He understands the urgency in this,” she countered sharply. “If he‟s already aboard
the Aquarius, then there really isn‟t anything more I need to do.”
Callaghan‟s head raised an inch, his brow raising as he examined her. “He didn‟t
even try to take this to Banick,” he pointed out curiously. “Why?”
“Because he‟s not stupid,” she spat back. “Banick‟s given Ainsley no reason to think
he could be trusted with what he knows. And given it is you who is standing in front of me,
and not Banick, I can only assume that you were the only one he could trust.”
- 181 -

Now it was Hornsby‟s turn to examine him as she drew up close to the bars, her eyes
narrowing. “But you haven‟t made your decision yet, have you?”
Callaghan‟s PAL chirped from his belt before he could answer. He unclipped it and
keyed the call button. “Callaghan,” he snapped.
“Ryan, it‟s Banick... Bring Captain Hornsby to the wardroom. Ainsley‟s returning...
and he‟s bringing company.”
Callaghan frowned. “Company?”
“Nycarians.”
The XO stopped – a rush mixed of dread and uncertainty flowing through his veins.
For the second time in as many years, it appeared that someone had made the choice for
him, and he sighed. “Sergeant,” he called. “Open the door.”
Hornsby paused to look at him in wonder. “You‟d have done it, wouldn‟t you?”
Callaghan appeared wounded with the presentation of that question. “I‟ve already
been party to the deaths of far too many innocent people, Captain,” he confessed. “I may
have no memory of those actions, but I have no intention of repeating them.”
Callaghan barely registered the small but grateful smile that met his reply as the burly
marine stepped in front of him and released the heavy door locks. The two of them walked
briskly down the cross-corridor, the two marine guards never more than a few feet behind
them as they made their way towards the bridge. All the while, one question burned at
Hornsby‟s mind. “I‟d thank you for releasing me, Callaghan, but you still haven‟t explained
what exactly is going on.”
He grimaced, having already thought of it. “The Admiral asked me to trust him,” he
replied. “I‟m just hoping this is what he meant.”
Dustin Coyle‟s fighter fell in on the wing of Rapier One swiftly and closely, the two
fighters forming the ends of their respective formations. The twenty one fighters of the Dark
Angels and Rapiers had drawn a physical line between the two carriers. Commonwealth and
Aquarius now sat at opposite ends of a killing field that was ten miles wide, nose-to-nose.
The combined hails of the Fall River, Vengeance and Tripoli had gone largely ignored by
both sides, and all of them had uniformly stood down their weapons and signalled their
intentions to take no side in the growing feud.
For Coyle and Roberts, the challenge was trickier as the last of Banick‟s fighters
launched and fell in to formation with the fighters of the VF-173 Griffons. Every attempt the
Dark Angels and Rapiers had made to raise them had been flatly rebuked, and now the
Griffons, too, were forming a long line in front of the Commonwealth.
For the second time in almost as many days, it was Raptor against Raptor, and pilot
against pilot as they spiralled closer and closer to a realm of true stupidity. Roberts thumbed
her radio again desperately. “This is Rapier One to SEWACS Warseer, I say again – we
need instructions.”
Once more, it was silence that met them. It wasn‟t that they weren‟t being ignored,
but the fact that the command sub appeared to have simply disappeared and opted to close
every operating channel. Warseer wasn‟t playing ball, with either group of fighters. It was a
gesture of solidarity that at any other time Roberts might have smiled at. This was not one of
those times as she reminded herself just how many pilots amongst the Griffons she counted
as friends – and how many torpedo tubes the Commonwealth had bearing on each and
every single one of them.
“Rapier One, this is Ghost Leader,” said an unfamiliar voice as cold shadow fell over
her from above. “You are ordered to withdraw to the Aquarius immediately.”
The eerily familiar, yet strangely striking silhouette of a subfighter that blocked out the
sun for just the smallest fraction of a second rattled her cockpit as it pulled ahead and settled
in to the lead position of the staggered line that had been formed by the UEO fighters.
Roberts could scarcely believe her eyes as she checked her sensors and confirmed that
which she already suspected – the fighter didn‟t appear to exist, the pilot‟s chosen callsign
becoming an unsettlingly well-suited identity. The radio IFF returned as „friendly‟ on her
communications monitor, although it possessed no associated squawk ID. Whoever was
- 182 -

flying the mysterious subfighter did not want to be recognised, and she could easily
comprehend why.
In the short moment it had taken the strange craft to overtake her and assume the
lead, she had caught enough of its unmistakeable lines to know it was a Raptor. It was a
type unlike any she had ever seen – longer, wider and sleeker than her own supposedly
„cutting-edge‟ craft – but it conformed in every way that mattered to the iconic UEO
mainstay. Its sharp, hooked nose swept back over two blended canards that quickly
diverged in to a pair of swept wings either side of its tails, its black fuselage appearing to
absorb the light of the surface world above and melt in to the sea around it.
She hit her comms again. “Ghost leader, Rapier One, identify yourself!”
Another voice, this one being unmistakeable in its slurred, sing-song lilt of Captain
Corinn Roderick. “You‟re ordered to withdraw to the Aquarius, Rapier One. Copy on all
Rapier and Dark Angel flights – withdraw to the Aquarius immediately.”
Roberts watched as Roderick‟s Raptor appeared from the same vector as the
strange Ghost and settled in on the alien fighter‟s wing ahead of her. This time her sensors
made a positive return – her ID and callsign lighting up the board prominently.
“Captain Roderick?” Roberts nearly yelped in surprise. “Please confirm your last
order.”
“You heard me, Commander. You are ordered to return to the Aquarius immediately.
We will take it from here.”
Roberts was the last of the UEO fighters to break formation as the remainder of the
Rapiers and Dark Angels obediently broke away by flights and began speeding back
towards the Aquarius. Jane cursed inwardly as she followed them, noting only briefly the
emergence of more shadows from the fog that silently fell in to formation with Roderick and
her mysterious wingman.
A shuttle that appeared on Roberts‟ sonar moments later came as another surprise in
the increasingly intriguing exchange. Slipping away from the Aquarius DSV silently, the
assault speeder made good pace as it caught up with the mysterious fighters and settled in
on Roderick‟s aft quarter.
“This is Dragon Six-Two-Alpha,” the shuttle‟s pilot reported. “We‟re clear, Archangel.
You are authorized to ingress.”
James Banick‟s patience was at the end of its tether as he watched the high-speed
pursuit shuttle steadily draw away from the DSV that was hanging off his bow. His world felt
like it was ready to implode, and he felt impossibly alone on the command deck as he
continued to pace, waiting for word.
Banick had always admired Mark Ainsley, both as a friend, and as an officer. It
saddened Banick however that Commonwealth – and her first Commanding Officer, Captain
Jasper Edsall - had been the things that had taught him that. It seemed to Banick that
Ainsley had done little more than undermine that command ever since he had arrived. Why it
had come to this he couldn‟t yet bring himself to ask.
Banick‟s head shot around like the hammer of a pistol as his communications officer
faced him. “Captain, I have Commander Tannen for you on a secure channel.”
The Captain nodded silently as he pulled the headset back on. Banick had formally
promoted Nathan Tannen to command of the Griffons in the wake of Commander Harker‟s
death, and at the rate they were going, it wouldn‟t be long before he took command of the
entire sea wing. “Killjoy, this is Banick,” he announced, nodding to his ops officers as he
patched the channel through to their station.
“Captain, we‟ve got something strange out here,” Tannen replied, the noise on the
channel causing Banick to press the headphone closer to his ear.
“Time is a luxury you do not have, Commander,” he pressed.
“The shuttle has only one escort,”
Banick looked at the plot, tracking the movement of the speeder as it drew ever
closer – a single Raptor following in its wake.
“It‟s Captain Roderick. The Dark Angels and Rapiers have broken off their escort.”
- 183 -

Banick had already noted the fighter‟s identification. Roderick had a history of
emotional decisions that had come close to costing her more than just her career, but even
this did not strike Banick as the act of a „desperate‟ officer. With unquestioned command of
the Rapiers and Dark Angels, Roderick could have had Tannen‟s own pilots outnumbered by
nearly two to one.
The fact that those two squadrons were worth six of any other unit by themselves just
made her decision to apparently withdraw them even more bizarre. “She‟s not alone,” Banick
said slowly.
“That‟s the problem, sir. Several of the Griffons have reported they‟re being...
followed. No sensor contacts registered, nor any reply from Warseer.”
Banick started pacing again, looking at his operations officer for some kind of
confirmation. The ensign nodded gravely in agreement with Tannen. “No response from
Warseer or Blackout,” he confirmed. “And I can‟t detect any other contacts within six miles of
the Griffons.”
Banick gritted his teeth. “Commander, bring the shuttle in... If Roderick were planning
to shoot something, she would have already done it. But keep your eyes open. We‟ll be
watching.”
“Understood, Commonwealth, we‟ll keep you appraised. Killjoy-out.”
Banick watched the holographic chart table for a few minutes longer in silence, all the
while being painfully aware of the amount of torpedo tubes he had trained on the DSV on the
other side of that table. Whatever Ainsley might have thought of him for his decisions that
week, he never once relished the prospect of what now sat in front of him, and the prayer
that repeated in his head for the young Nycarian Captain to defuse the situation wasn‟t
stopping.
“Lieutenant Gillan, you have the bridge... Bring that shuttle in to airlock three – I don‟t
want it anywhere near my flight deck. Have Major O‟Shaughnessy meet them there.”
UEO Headquarters, New Cape Quest, Florida. April 15 th , 2043…
~
The headquarters of the United Earth Oceans gleamed against the long Floridan
sunset, its shadow stretching toward a distant horizon. Waves gently swept across the lowlying
docksides as soldiers milled under the shade of rows of well-kept palms. Set against
the great skyline of New Cape Quest, the building that stood half way around the world from
the front lines of the war was steadily becoming the front line of a new kind of war; a political
war that broiled and flared between the most influential powers of the UEO.
The days of unquestioned western supremacy had passed. The once-great United
States of America had faded in the shadow of the greatest war that humanity had ever
faced. Devastation that respected neither borders nor innocents, wrought by the use of
nuclear weapons, had given rise to the Confederations. Militaries were dissolved, reformed
and aligned within the framework of the ashes of global economies. The UEO represented a
solution to that fractured, unpredictable upshot – but it was a fool that called it perfect. Intraconfederate
politics still reigned supreme at the highest offices of the General Assembly,
with perhaps the greatest tragedy of all being that it fell to the most honourable of servants to
accept the responsibility of another‟s deluded, ignorant or self-serving actions.
The trio of Naval Intelligence officers that strode down the eastern wing of the
building that day may as well have been the executioners of that notion. One ensign and a
lieutenant commander followed a commander wearing the three-starred deltas of a captain,
a briefcase held closely at her side as they turned down seemingly endless and winding
carpeted corridors guarded by black-clad UEO – and since the appointment of James
Cathgate as Secretary-General – NSC marines.
The trio approached the end of the corridor, and the great wooden double doors that
were guarded by two more soldiers, both of them NSC. They locked eyes with the
- 184 -

intelligence officers before noting the black deltas on their rank insignia and the four stars
upon the captain‟s collar. Without inquiry, the marines snapped to attention as the officers
opened the doors and entered the wardroom.
Secretary-General Cathgate sat at the end of a long table, surrounded by seven
officers of the UEO general staff and looked up at the three new arrivals without much
surprise, cutting off a Vice Admiral with a raised hand.
“Captain, thank you for coming,” he said, rising to his feet quickly and eagerly.
The officers approached the table, the ensign and lieutenant commander remaining
near the lounge area at the far end of the room in respectful silence as their commander set
down her brief case and unlocked it with a key that had been hidden away in her trouser
pocket.
The captain, her blonde hair pulled back in to a tight pony tail at the back of her skull,
said nothing as she pulled out the brown folder, stamped „classified‟ and handed it to the
Secretary-General with a polite nod. Cathgate took it with one hand as he looked around at
the other staff officers. “I‟m sorry, Gentlemen... We‟ll continue this shortly. I need a moment
alone with the Captain.”
The gathered Admirals looked affronted at the instruction to leave in deference to a
lowly intelligence Captain, with more than one of the present Marine Corps Generals looking
at the three intelligence officers in abject disapproval. The lieutenant commander only
offered them an apologetic smile as they left the table to head in to the adjacent ante room.
Cathgate had waited until they had departed to open the folder, looking at the captain
before him with a raised eyebrow. The woman didn‟t wait to be prompted any further. “We
received this report a little over an hour ago,” she said flatly.
The Secretary-General‟s eyes disappeared under a deep frown, his jaw pulling in to a
troubled and nearly twisted scowl. “Through what means?”
The captain paused at presentation of that question. “I‟m afraid, Mister Secretary,
that was not a detail I was briefed on. Compartmentalization, sir. OPSEC.”
Cathgate studied her for a long, silent moment. The captain didn‟t even blink. This
seemed to satisfy the Secretary-General, and he sighed, putting the folder aside before
walking back to the great desk. He dialled in an extension on the intercom. “I need to see
Jack Riley,” he said tersely.
“Mister Secretary, the Fleet Admiral is in a staff briefing at the moment.”
“I didn‟t realise I was asking,” he snapped. “Interrupt him if you need to, and send him
up here. Now.”
It was only ten minutes later when the UEO‟s military commanders-in-chief walked in
to the room. Ten stars between them, Fleet Admirals Jack Riley and Travis Sinclair were the
most senior officers in the military – bar none, tasked with the supreme commands of the
Pacific and Atlantic fleets, respectively.
Cathgate stood at the window at the end of the room, the sun still sitting low against
the western horizon beyond. The intelligence officers still stood patiently in the lounge area
next to him, the captain regarding Riley with an expression that betrayed a ruefulness and
sense of apology. Riley then saw the folder that was clasped behind the Secretary-General‟s
back, and felt a sudden rush of anger.
“Fleet Admiral Riley,” he said in a tone that was perhaps too comfortable for either
officer‟s liking. The intelligence captain squirmed at the motion, and something clicked in
Riley‟s mind. He‟d met her before, almost exactly two years before, when he‟d understood
that she worked for a man who he wished he‟d shot when he still had the chance: Samuel
Eugene Ezard.
Captain Amanda Keelan turned away when she saw the flicker of recognition in the
Admiral‟s eye. This drew a scowl from Sinclair as he started to realise what was happening,
and Cathgate‟s smile evaporated in to a dry, weathered and cynical smirk – a face that Riley
hadn‟t seen since the man was still an Admiral attached to his general staff. It was a
predatory expression; one that Cathgate reserved for when he had a very particular point to
prove. In the view of a junior officer, it would have been „I told you so.‟
- 185 -

“Mister Secretary,” Riley replied courteously without pretension. This in itself pleased
Cathgate – as it meant Riley had his back firmly planted against the wall. “You asked to see
me?”
“Yes,” Cathgate said, sipping tea from a delicate china cup. “I was not expecting you,
however, Admiral Sinclair.”
“It seemed appropriate given the unusual timing of your request, Mister Secretary.
You did interrupt a sitting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”
“Indeed,” the Secretary-General admitted, slapping down the folder he held on to the
great table, and sliding it across with his free hand. “Jack,” he said, almost in inquiry. “You
are welcome to review this in order to offer me an explanation, but I would be just as happy
to accept your resignation now, so as to save the trouble of unwanted embarrassment.”
Jack Riley didn‟t move, but Sinclair‟s curiosity was enough for the Atlantic fleet
commander to take the file from the table slowly, flicking it open casually to review the
contents. It held several print outs of visual sensor data, ostensibly identified as belonging to
the strike cruiser Tripoli, and a full summary of its associated sensor records. The
shadowed, unmistakeable silhouette of an Atlantis-class DSV dominated each and every
photograph – the sonar logs identifying it without doubt as the Aquarius.
Riley stiffened as Sinclair slowly turned to face him, his expression unreadable
behind a veil of shock. “The Office of Naval Intelligence moves quickly, Captain,” Riley said
dryly to Keelan. “I‟m sure Admiral Hargreaves is impressed.”
Keelan said nothing, and didn‟t need to as Cathgate frowned and took a step in her
direction defensively. “I would appreciate it, Jack, if you‟d direct your comments to me. There
is no need to shoot the messenger.”
Riley continued to stare at Keelan a few moments longer before looking back at
Cathgate. “Mister Secretary, the need for secrecy was – and remains - paramount. I‟ve
known about the Aquarius for less than thirty six hours. As Commander-in-Chief of the
Pacific fleet, it‟s my prerogative to compartmentalize information as I see fit for the ends of
operational security. Aquarius represents a very real chance for Ainsley to achieve the
objective ahead of the deadline. I had to take all possible precautions to ensure that
information remained confidential.”
Cathgate shook his head. “Your reason is accepted, but your motive is not.”
Riley‟s lip twitched at that, feeling a sudden compulsion to plant a sharp right hook in
to his face. “My only motive, Mister Secretary, was to prevent a geopolitical catastrophe.“
Cathgate cut him off quickly, all the while being mindful of the stone-faced Keelan
beside him, and the presence of Sinclair next to Riley. “My instructions to you were clear
enough – I expected daily reports on this operation, and you took it upon yourself to withhold
from me what is likely the most significant development of the war for the last nine months. I
want to know why.”
The Admiral first regarded Keelan coldly before expanding his gaze to her two silent
aids. “You‟re dismissed, Captain.”
James Cathgate could scarcely believe the order. He opened his mouth to
countermand the instruction before catching a knowing glare on Riley‟s face: the recognition
of mutually-assured political destruction. The order hung in the air for a moment before
Sinclair exchanged an apologetic look with Riley and eyed Keelan for good measure.
Silently, Sinclair, Keelan and her company departed the room, all the while Riley continuing
his long, bottomless gaze on the Secretary-General of the UEO.
Riley circled the room, his cap almost dangling from his hand as he neared the
conference table and unfastened his collar to loosen his tie. Throwing the scrambled-eggladen
hat on to the table, he turned his back on Cathgate to uncap a crystal bottle that had
been sitting on the bookshelf behind him, pouring two even measures of bourbon in to a pair
of glasses.
The Admiral sighed heavily, offering the second glass to the Secretary-General.
Cathgate took it as Riley sat in a high-backed chair and sipped his own, feeling it burn
satisfyingly down his throat. “And so here we are,” Riley uttered quietly.
- 186 -

Cathgate turned his back once again to stare out the window at the rapidly
disappearing sun. “Yes we are. This isn‟t easy, Jack,” he admitted, pausing before pushing
back the dark, burning liquor.
“This war has dragged on too long, James,” the Admiral said. “We‟re at a very
dangerous crossroads, and I urge you to consider this carefully. For whatever you might
think of my decision, all I have ever done is to hold this organization to account on that which
it holds most dear – the defence against humanitarian crisis, in all its forms, no matter the
personal or political cost.”
“Then on the basis of that code, you would suggest then, that we surrender to
Alexander Bourne, and allow him to bring about the complete dissolution of the United Earth
Oceans organization?”
Riley sipped his drink again before putting the high-ball glass down on the table
heavily. “What I had hoped, Mister Secretary, is that through my actions I might have given
you a third option... „At any personal cost‟, sir.”
Cathgate slowly started to turn as he realised what Riley had done. The enormity of
the gesture left him almost sorry of the unavoidable outcome. Sitting in the chair, his tie
loose, his cuffs unclasped, and his eyes dark, Jonathan Riley looked frail for the first time in
his career. The war had left the man with just two choices – to surrender, or to plunge the
world in to a firestorm that defeated everything he had ever fought for. Riley had known he
couldn‟t win when faced with the conventional wisdoms of politics, and had instead chosen
an altogether different path – a dead man‟s gambit. That gambit was Mark Ainsley.
James Cathgate saw it differently.
“The scale of infraction, in such instance, seems secondary to the point, Admiral. The
law does not remain silent.”
“Then secondary, and respectfully to your law, sir, I‟m not so certain the alternative
would balance that scale.”
Cathgate stared at him for long seconds before finishing his bourbon in one mouthful.
He set the glass aside, a good foot from Riley‟s. “That was never your decision to make.”
Jack Riley stood slowly, gathering his hat and folding it neatly under his arm. “Then
my conscience is clear.”
The Secretary-General closed his eyes. “Then you have a choice. Your alternative is
that you will immediately order that Admiral Mark Ainsley be placed under arrest on the
charge of conspiracy, and that Captain Banick will escort the Aquarius DSV back to Fort
Grace for repair and refit.”
Riley stared past Cathgate to the twilight horizon. “Then I have twelve hours to make
a decision?”
The Secretary-General nodded.
“Then you may expect my resignation on your desk, first thing tomorrow.”
Cathgate watched silently as Jack Riley left the conference room for the final time
and let out a long, held breath. His chest had knotted over much of what the man had said,
and his stomach, in equal measure, had turned in disgust. He hit a single button on the
conference phone in the middle of the desk, and thought for a moment. “Please send
Commander Prescott in,” he ordered coolly. “I need to get a message to the
Commonwealth.”
UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110, the Polynesian Trench. April 15 th , 2043…
~
The tension that came with the waiting in Commonwealth‟s briefing room was
palpable, the assembled senior staff anxiously and expectantly keeping an eye on their
Captain at the head of the table. Banick was visibly distracted as he went about a report on a
data slate held casually in front of him, the man so enveloped by his task that the awkward
silence settling around him had apparently not even registered in his mind. Callaghan and
- 187 -

Hornsby stood behind him, never daring to make contact for fear of igniting even the
suggestion of an opinion. To their right, seated immediately next to the captain sat a pensive
Commander Ed Richards, and beside him were the captains of the Fall River and Tripoli –
Sean Barker, and Madeline Hayes.
Richards was a wildcard amongst the UEO officers. Banick had already considered
the possible course of events that may play out if Ainsley forced them to choose sides, and
while he was fairly certain he could count on the support of Hayes, Barker and Callaghan,
Richards had been notoriously difficult to predict. His misgivings about Ainsley‟s mission
were on record, as were his emotional clashes with Roderick. More than anything, it simply
made the man an unstable element in an already fractious equation.
Then there was Roderick: conspicuously absent along with the other fighter
commanders after having apparently sided with Roberts and Coyle in their own decision to
support Ainsley. Her action was something that didn‟t so much surprise Banick as it did
upset him. Roderick was renowned as one of the Subfighter Corps‟ most emotional leaders
just as she was one of the most skilled and celebrated, but the fact that she had allowed that
emotion to guide her so demonstrably represented a monumental failure of command. This
alone unsettled Banick, as it brought with it the very real prospect that he had been partially
to blame – and the infuriating aspect of that was that Ainsley had gone out of his way to
warn him of it long before it had even happened.
Rounding out the officers sat a concerned and nervous group of Alliance military
personnel – General Henry Adamson and his senior staff, including the captain of his
flagship, Captain Thomas Blake. To Banick‟s surprise, the General had been the first of his
„guests‟ to arrive that evening, just minutes after Banick had finished speaking with the
Nycarian captain. Adamson was a visibly patient man, with years of service under the
despotic leadership of Alexander Bourne to temper it. Of the impromptu armada they had
managed to assemble, it was the Reprisal, Banick knew, that was having the most difficult
time of the UEO political intrigue. Literally caught in the middle, the General had been able to
do little more than watch and hope that sense would prevail between the warring UEO
leaderships. Any other man in his position would have simply turned around and sailed away
until the situation had been resolved, but something had kept him there, and that frightened
Banick more than the Aquarius herself ever could. Adamson knew more than he was letting
on, and it was a thought that had lurked in the back of Banick‟s head ever since he had
arrived.
William Stiles was the next to arrive, entering the briefing room quietly and with only a
curt nod to Banick who barely even registered his entry. Stiles was the one Banick distrusted
the most. Puppet or puppeteer; whether or not Stiles was ultimately responsible for the chain
of events behind them was beside the point that this was the man who on two occasions to
that moment had driven the Commonwealth to crisis points. Nonetheless, the NSC captain
took a seat at Banick‟s left side in silence, pausing as he did to straighten his uniform and
pour himself a glass of water.
„You pragmatic, self-assured son of a bitch,‟ thought Banick inwardly as he watched
the man for a few moments. Stiles was well aware of the eyes upon him, but didn‟t dare give
Banick the satisfaction of a response.
It was a few more minutes before Captain Rhodes entered the room with Mark
Ainsley close in tow. Banick saw the unease with which the marines outside reacted then the
pair of them passed, and hesitantly came to his feet. It was a motion that slowly rippled
around the conference table when the Admiral entered, but none on the UEO side appeared
to carry any energy with it. Rhodes was unreadable as Ainsley took a moment to draw a
breath and looked at Banick. “I wish to make one thing clear,” he stated slowly. “I don‟t like
any of this. Each and every one of us has been used, lied to and manipulated.” Ainsley
made each point by looking deliberately at Stiles, Hornsby and then Rhodes. “I don‟t know
what game the NSIS and ONI are up to, but the majority of the people in this room are
soldiers, not spies, and there are no gains in allowing such gross deception to rule our
decisions. That will get people killed, and one way or another, it ends now.”
- 188 -

Banick nodded once silently as Rhodes stepped forward. The Nycarian Captain eyed
Ainsley reassuringly as he sat down. There was a lot to cover, and no one seemed
especially sure on where to begin on the intricate web of intrigue they found themselves
pulled in to. "Six months ago, I received an encoded message," Ainsley explained. "You all
know the nature of that message, and by now you know that that message has brought us
all here for reasons that until a short time ago, were not all that clear. All we knew was that
that it had to have been decoded by the Artificial Intelligence of a DSV, and again, we
assumed it had been the Aquarius."
Ainsley continued without much pause. "The problem is that the message also had to
originate from an AI, but nothing we checked to Descartes on the seaQuest matched - the
command protocols are nearly three generations apart, using an entirely different base
encryption, nearly identical to that used by the Aquarius herself, but of course... that isn't
possible, is it, Captain Hornsby?"
Hornsby looked up to see Ainsley staring squarely at her. His gaze was piercing, and
all eyes were now turning to her. She drew a breath. "ONI had nothing to do with the
transmission," she confirmed. "We know this because we know exactly when and where it
was sent."
Banick's head slowly turned, his mouth falling agape in disbelief. It wasn't the
statement itself that bewildered him, as it was Ainsley's attitude to something that was
sounding increasingly ridiculous. "Atlantis. You want to go after her, don't you?"
"Annie's alive, Banick," Hornsby countered. "She sent that message, and damn near
killed Ari to do it."
James Banick shot back at Hornsby. "You're telling us Atlantis is intact, Captain.
That's not possible. The sinking would have crushed her - there is nothing left."
"I promise you, Captain, there's more down there than just a wreck."
"This does nothing to solve the immediate problem. Captain Hornsby, I don't know
what's driven you to this, but it's become an obsession, and does not excuse a conspiracy to
commit mass-desertion. I swear to you that you will both find yourselves in my brig unless I
start hearing answers!"
Rhodes simplified that problem. “Admiral Ainsley is here as my guest,” she said
bluntly. "And unless you wish to detain an official representative of the Nycarian government
with him, then you will be permitted to do no such thing."
Banick was stunned. "Admiral Ainsley is an officer of the UEO fleet, and answers to a
uniform code. I don't frankly care what self-absorbed pretext he's come aboard with. You
said you wanted to discuss the terms of an agreement, and I strongly recommend you move
on to those points."
Rhodes appeared surprised by the hostility, but took it in a calm and eloquent stride.
"I would like to stress that the Nycarian government‟s only interest here is to mediate a
solution that is beneficial to all concerned.”
“So you mentioned, Captain,” Banick replied dourly. “Now what do you propose?”
“Proposition has little to do with the terms of our agreement,” Rhodes countered.
Banick cracked the hint of a small smile as he leaned forward in his chair. For just a
brief moment he believed he had the upper hand. “The term then would be „demands‟?”
“I neither demand nor propose anything, Captain. My sole purpose here this evening
is to inform you – acting as a representative of the UEO Navy - of my position. The Nycarian
Empire considers the current position of the United Earth Oceans government to be
untenable. Within the definitions of our foreign policy, and our formal relationship with your
government, there is currently little ideological distinction between the United Earth Oceans
and the Alliance of Macronesia.”
The gathered UEO officers on Banick‟s side of the table opened their mouths in
shock, and Adamson and Stiles exchanged a look of bafflement. Ainsley remained
completely silent. Banick noted this, and looked over his shoulder at Hornsby before
regarding the Nycarian with an icy stare. “You would appear to know more than I would,
Captain.”
- 189 -

Rhodes turned to Ainsley with a nod. “Admiral, I believe you would be in the most
suitable position to explain.”
Ainsley nodded up at her grimly before looking back at the gathered officers. He was
blunt, and brutally direct. “In the event that the navy is unable to destroy the Atlas missile
battery by a deadline no later than August 1 st , Secretary-General Cathgate has signed an
order authorizing the unrestricted use of nuclear weapons against the Hawaiian Islands, and
every Alliance-occupied command base in the eastern Pacific.”
There was utter silence.
James Banick looked down at first, quickly swallowing a bulge that had suddenly
choked his throat. Adamson and his staff gave no outward reaction, although they all shared
a glimmer of grave consequence in their eyes. For the other UEO officers, save Lauren
Hornsby, there was only unapologetic shock.
“That‟s... an incredible claim, Vice Admiral,” Adamson said after a moment.
“Cathgate wouldn‟t,” Banick seconded, although the hoarse rasp in his voice
immediately betrayed the doubt of his own words.
Ainsley stared past both of them to lock eyes first on Hornsby, and then Stiles. Both
of them hadn‟t reacted to the suggestion in the slightest, which still managed to make the
hairs on Ainsley‟s neck stand uncomfortably on-end. Hornsby closed her eyes and nodded in
admission. "It's true."
Banick stood sharply, beginning to circle the desk towards Ainsley. "For what
possible reason?"
"Because on August 2 nd , that battery goes online," Ainsley continued. "And Bourne
will have the capacity to hit any base or city from Tokyo to San Francisco."
"Irrespective of the outcome, the Nycarian Empire would view such an attack as
unwarranted," Rhodes said with masterful understatement. "As a matter of policy, we hold
that the ends do not justify the means."
"This is an affair internal to the UEO," Banick snapped, turning his head sharply. "I
will not have you dictate policy on this ship. Irrespective of Cathgate's eventual goals, my
orders in this situation are abundantly clear."
"Bullshit," Ainsley returned. "You swore to uphold the same oath as I did. Cathgate's
issued an illegal order, and you know damn well not to follow it."
"And what do you suggest we do, then?"
"If I may, Admiral," Hornsby cut in quietly in the intervening silence. "Captain Banick...
You've assumed this entire time that Aquarius and her crew - myself included - have been
somehow acting outside the chain of command. That's not entirely true."
"ONI?" Banick asked immediately, his eyes widening.
Hornsby shook her head. "ONI is aware of it, but we are outside their command, just
as the navy always has been."
"We answer to the Security Council, and the office of the Secretary-General," Stiles
finally said, breaking his silence.
This time, the look of shock on Banick's face perfectly mirrored Ainsley's beside him.
The other UEO officers' eyes had glazed over long before, with only Richards and Callaghan
maintaining any keen interest in the discussion. "Cathgate?" Ainsley asked incredulously.
Stiles shook his head. "As part of the NSC's agreement to enter this war, there were
conditions set out for the formation of a joint task force, composed equally of UEO and NSC
officers, whose primary objective was the prosecution of the rogue Counter-Intelligence arm
known as Section Seven."
Schrader, Ainsley thought, closing his eyes as the final pieces began to fall together.
"That order was signed by Secretary-General Nathan Hale Bridger, and it is to his
office that we answer to."
"Nathan Bridger is no longer the Secretary-General of the UEO, Captain Stiles,"
Banick pointed out needlessly. "It was Section Seven that shot him."
"And after what I just told you, you're actually surprised?"
- 190 -

"Cathgate would have to know," Ainsley followed. "If that office is the authority, then
you answer to him."
Hornsby smiled. "Bridger understood the need for plausible deniability. Our mandate
is sanctioned, but we are under no obligation or need to brief the Secretary‟s office on our
operations. With Atlantis and Aquarius, we can turn the tide, Captain. But you know as well
as I do that Commonwealth stands no chance if you do this alone. There is no point in
throwing your life away."
"This is why you're assigned to the Aquarius, isn't it?" Ainsley asked, looking directly
at Anniel Rhodes. The Nycarian captain nodded.
"Captain Hornsby advised my government of this operation when she contacted us
for help. Although officially, our policy to oppose the use of nuclear weapons must stand, the
need to support alternative measures outweighs any unofficial justification."
Ainsley wasn‟t sure if he entirely trusted the Nycarian motives for involvement,
although it was Ed Richards that took the most vocal exception. “This is insane,” he
snapped. “Black operations, secret orders authorizing the use of nukes on our own soil? Do
you have any proof?”
“I second that,” Banick nodded.
Stiles didn‟t keep them waiting long as he produced a small memory card and set it
on the desk. He ignored the bitter fighter pilot entirely, and pushed it across the desk
towards Banick. “Ari intercepted a message between Cathgate‟s office and Fleet Admiral
Riley‟s flagship, Constellation. It‟s all there.”
Banick took the card and twiddled it in the palm of his hand silently. Richards wasn‟t
done, however, and looked at his captain in disbelief. “If you have the order, why not simply
release it? Force him to back down. It has to be better than what you‟re suggesting.”
Stiles huffed back an unimpressed laugh with folded arms. “Because telling the world
that the UEO is prepared to drop nuclear weapons on its own member states is a fantastic
way of winning hearts and minds. Tell, me, Wing Commander, what do you propose we do
after NORPAC tells us it‟s withdrawing from the treaty? Or when Bourne uses the
information to justify another „San Diego‟?”
Banick looked at the memory card for several long seconds before hesitantly
reaching over the table and handing it gently back to Stiles. The Captain sighed as he
looked at Ainsley, for the first time appreciating the impossible situation he was faced with.
“We‟re soldiers, not spies.” He repeated the Admiral‟s words slowly, mulling on them from a
new perspective. “I need time to think about this.”
The finality to those words got most of the assembled officers to their feet, and they
all quietly shuffled out of the room. Only Ainsley, Rhodes and Hornsby remained.
James Banick‟s shoulders were slumped heavily, a hand held to his mouth as a deep
and troubled frown creased his tired eyes. For a few seconds, the man appeared fifteen
years older, and maybe even a little bit wiser. Ainsley had little sympathy.
“Captain Hornsby,” Banick called after another moment. “You should return to the
Aquarius.”
She hesitated after the invitation, looking with uncertainty at Ainsley opposite her. He
gave an assuring nod, before eyeing Rhodes silently. The inference was clear enough, and
the Nycarian disappeared through the door in Hornsby‟s wake.
Banick and Ainsley were alone in the great conference room, the Captain standing at
the window to stare out at the sea beyond. He eyed the shifting eddies and shimmers of light
that the Commonwealth‟s flood lamps kicked off the hull as if hunting for something through
the fog.
Everything now made sense; perhaps more than either officer had truly wanted. For
Ainsley it had been simple – even easy – to follow his conscience and make a decision. For
Banick, the problem was quickly becoming an effort to ignore that same conscience to do
not what he knew was right, but what he was sworn to. It tugged at his mind that the two
were no longer the same, as he had always managed to convince himself they were.
A moment more and the Captain released a long, laboured sigh. “You could have told
me,” he said quietly.
- 191 -

“Would you have changed your decision if I did?”
“Probably not,” Banick admitted. “But I might have understood yours.”
Ainsley nodded. “And where does this live us?”
Banick smirked and finally turned from the window to plant himself back on the chair
he‟d left. “I would imagine right back where we started,” he admitted again. “Trying to
understand why you did it.”
Ainsley frowned deeply, his face blank and devoid of an answer, and entirely
unknowing of the question.
“My promotions board, nearly two years ago, right before we lost the Atlantis,” Banick
reminded him. “You scrubbed me, and for the life of me, I‟ve never been able to understand
why.”
Mark Ainsley closed his eyes as he realised what Banick was talking about and
sighed heavily. They‟d both sharply avoided the subject ever since he‟d arrived, and
Banick‟s hostility was now beginning to make some degree of sense.
“I don‟t know what to tell you,” he said simply. “You weren‟t ready for command. It
was that simple.”
“You kept it from me, Admiral,” Banick continued in a manner that was calmer and
more collected than he‟d been for the entire mission. “Whatever you thought, you hid your
concerns from me. Maybe I was grossly mistaken, but I thought I had your respect. Was I
wrong, Admiral?”
Ainsley sat down slowly as he started to remember. Banick‟s breakdown on the
bridge of the Atlantis nearly eighteen months before had gnawed at him ever since: the
culmination of a loss so great that it had driven the man over the edge. He‟d hit rock bottom
when Ainsley had needed him most, on the command deck, just as the great ship slowly
died around them. The look in the Commander‟s eyes that day had been a vacant and
lifeless thousand-mile-stare that Ainsley had witnessed more times during his career than he
cared to recount.
He recalled the doubt he held over Banick‟s well-being even before that penultimate
fall, and how just a few short months prior to that day he‟d been presented with the
endorsement papers from the promotions board in New Cape Quest that carried Banick‟s
name. Not only did he refuse to sign them, but he wrote back to the board and explained
why.
As it happened, his call had been correct. But now that Banick knew, even Ainsley
couldn‟t quite understand why he had never brought those concerns to him. Perhaps it was
the three decades of experience that had taught him the importance of professional
detachment, but even that felt like a pale excuse for the man that had, for the vast majority of
their service together, served with extraordinary capacity and faithfulness as his executive
officer.
“I‟ve always respected you, Banick,” he admitted. “If it‟s a reason you‟re after, then
I‟m not certain I have one that will satisfy you. At the time, you weren‟t ready, and we both
know that.”
“And what about now?” he pressed. “Is that the reason you didn‟t tell me about
Cathgate? That you didn‟t trust me?”
Ainsley shook his head. “It‟s not that simple. You have a responsibility to seven
hundred people on this ship. If it were a decision that affected you alone, then I would have
come to you long before now.” His gaze drifted off, which in turn drew Banick‟s attention
again. “As for my own actions... I can only apologise. I‟m sorry I didn‟t bring my concerns to
you. I‟ve grown far too accustomed to detachment, and I doubt that‟s ever going to change.
But for what it‟s worth, you got to where you are now on your own merits. Captain Edsall had
one hell of an XO, and he‟d be proud of you now. Just as I am.”
Banick was astounded. For two years, all he had ever wanted was an apology, and
had prepared himself for the mother of all battles to get it. Without a fight, Ainsley had given
it unreservedly. The feeling was underwhelming, and the Captain started to wonder if it had
ever meant as much to him as he thought it did. The hostility he‟d shown Ainsley had been
unbecoming and now that they had come to that place, there wasn‟t much left to say.
- 192 -

“What do you plan to do?” Banick asked him.
“Hornsby has never given me any reason not to trust her. If Annie is alive, then there
are still a few things I need answers to, and I hope she can provide me with them.”
“And then?”
Ainsley exhaled the breath he‟d been holding for much of the last sentence. “One
billion people,” he said. “That‟s how many died in the last war. I‟m not going to be the one
who allows that to happen again. One way or another, I‟m doing exactly what Riley ordered
me to. I‟m taking Pearl.”
UEO Aquarius DSV-8200, the Polynesian Trench. April 15 th , 2043…
~
Corinn Roderick wrapped her boots around the ladder next to her subfighter and slid
to the deck. She didn‟t even register the crew chief next to her as she pulled each glove off,
finger at a time before removing her helmet and stuffing them inside. She was running
completely on autopilot as she ran the would-be engagement through her head again.
Untwisting the winding hose of her oxygen mask absentmindedly, she looked up and paused
uneasily when she remembered exactly where she was.
This wasn‟t the flight deck of the UEO Commonwealth. It was a ghost ship she hadn‟t
seen in a long time. Eerily familiar, and strikingly recognisable, her heart skipped a beat as
she caught the ship‟s angel-winged crest emblazoned proudly on the bulkhead at the end of
the hangar, dramatically lit by floodlights cast from the Flight Operations Centre above. The
banner of the Second Carrier Sea Wing still hung proudly beneath that crest, along with the
banners of squadrons she thought lost many months before.
Central among them was the crest that hauntingly echoed that of the ship itself – a
hooded wraith, its wisp-like shroud of winged tendrils draped around a black and red roundel
and set upon a twisted honour roll that read “VF-123”, and a motto: „Until hell calls our
names...‟
Roderick turned on her heel to stare down the flight line. What few members of the
Aquarius‟ ground staff remained working to exhaustion to tie down nearly three dozen
fighters. She overheard several of the mechanics and technicians complaining that they
didn‟t have the supplies or equipment to tend to so many subs at once, and then saw the
man he was voicing it to.
Wing Commander Gavin Mackenzie did his best to placate the flustered crewmen,
but eventually locked eyes with Roderick and simply dismissed them gruffly. Roderick
approached him with a slow, purposeful step as she saw his fighter clearly for the first time.
Substantially sleeker and about twenty percent larger than a Raptor II, the craft was
possessed of the same swooping nose that fell back on to twin canards and wings with four
blended vertical stabilizers, each angled outward at around forty degrees above and below
the fuselage. It lacked the characteristic bulge on the dorsal hull that gave the Raptor II a
sense of „balance‟, but the design lineage and commonality was undeniable. What struck
Roderick as she continued to examine it was the cockpit: hinged back and open, the canopy
wasn‟t any kind of design she was even familiar with. A reinforced titanium-composite
canopy, completely opaque, that was indistinguishable from the materials that composed the
fuselage. As best as she could tell, this fighter had a completely sealed and reinforced
cockpit, with absolutely no view of the world outside.
Behind Mackenzie‟s own craft sat eleven others – identical in all respects – finished
in buffed-down sea-gray and bearing that same haunting wraith motif on their flanks. The
VF-123 Ghosts were very much alive, and in condition that made Roderick‟s own Dark
Angels – and even the Rapiers – look utterly second-rate.
The Wing Commander snapped to attention as she approached, but Roderick‟s gaze
was unbroken from the remarkable craft ahead of her. “At ease,” she said with audible
distraction.
- 193 -

“Not exactly what you‟d call fleet-standard, is she?” Mackenzie teased, turning on his
heel and falling in to step beside her. Roderick cocked her head as she looked up at the
craft, running a bare hand across its smooth, unmarked flanks in practical envy. It was cold
to the touch, but there was something about the material that was entirely unfamiliar –
feeling more like plastic than metal.
“Not exactly a Raptor, you mean,” she replied finally, pausing at the gaping maw of
the fighter‟s starboard intake.
Mackenzie smiled. “Oh she is. Just not the one you know. SF-41/A, Raptor-III.”
Roderick turned in puzzlement. “I thought the fleet wasn‟t going ahead with the
design contract?”
“They aren‟t,” Mackenzie confirmed. “And there have been a few changes since then,
too. Completely stripped out the glass cockpit, improved the combat sensors and up-rated
the engines. Outer hull is even the latest generation of composite stealth tech.”
“...Which would be why we couldn‟t see you,” Roderick muttered.
“They aren‟t specification even by the original tender standards.”
“How many do you have?”
“Nineteen, including ours, and more coming... Although it‟s taking longer than we‟d
like with the design changes. Integration issues are still teething.”
Roderick frowned. “Integration with what?”
They turned as a spray of sea water erupted from the moonpool and covered them
both in a shroud of mist. The launch heaved and surged as it settled on the surface, the
whine of the hydraulic lift below audible as it lifted the shuttle to the deck.
A pair of officers entered the hangar a few moments late as a tractor lashed a tow bar
to the shuttle‟s undercarriage and started to haul it clear. Lieutenant Commander Davis
Akara looked shockingly tired, thought Roderick as he approached, although the second of
the pair she knew only by reputation. Commander John Razak had taken up the post of first
officer well after she‟d transferred to the Atlantis and they‟d never personally met in the time
since.
The two officers seemed to notice the fighter pilots and headed for the flight line,
muttering something to each other that was lost amidst the hectic milling of ground staff
around the hangar. They needed to stop three times to let red-jacketed enlisted men hurry
past wheeling trolleys laden with torpedo and cannon munitions. Roderick knew the drill well
– rank meant nothing on a military flight deck. The only thing that truly mattered was the
colour of your uniform. It came with some surprise, however, that the ground staff on the
Aquarius still tended to those duties with purpose and discipline – even having been almost
completely bereft of any subcraft to service for much of the prior six months. Looking around,
it was painfully clear that the Ghosts remained the only full-strength combat unit left on the
ship. The few units that remained of other squadrons littered the hangar in various stages
and degrees of dismantlement or maintenance.
For a quiet, entirely somber moment, Roderick wondered if those fighters even had
any crew left.
Akara smiled broadly as he saw Roderick, Razak maintaining a degree of
pensiveness that the captain found hard to measure. “Job well done, Wing Commander,”
Razak said flatly, looking directly at Mackenzie as if Roderick were not even there.
The Wing Commander shrugged. “No job to speak of, John. Very uneventful.”
Razak cracked a wry smile. “We like uneventful.”
“It‟s been a long time, Captain,” Akara noted, nodding at Roderick‟s oaks and
tridents. She smiled. “How have you been, Davis?”
“Laying low, as always. We owe you one for what you did today. Thanks.”
Roderick nudged Mackenzie gently with an elbow. “What he said. Just doing our
jobs. We‟re on the same side.”
Razak looked uneasy as he looked Roderick up and down. She was shorter than he
expected – barely above five foot – but still every inch the alluring firebrand she was
reckoned as. Despite himself, he smirked, and offered his hand. “Glad to know it,” he said.
“Commander John Razak, XO.”
- 194 -

“Corinn Roderick,” she said flatly, taking his hand without familiarity.
“I hope I‟m not jumping the gun in assuming you‟ll be here a while, Captain,” Razak
observed, his eyes flicking back to the launch that had now settled on the deck as stairs
were moved to the access hatches.
“I honestly can‟t answer that,” she turned, looking back at the shuttle. “That all
depends on what happened aboard the Commonwealth.”
The shuttle‟s airlock finally cracked open silently, the loadmaster‟s helmet emerging
from between the breach to look around the deck and then down at the stairs. Satisfied, he
pulled the door out completely and disappeared back inside ahead first of Anniel Rhodes
and then Lauren Hornsby.
Rhodes waited at the bottom of the stairs as the Captain sauntered on to the flight
deck, her jacket slung over her shoulder across locks of frayed blonde hair. She looked tired,
pausing only briefly to say something to Rhodes before walking across the deck to meet the
small crowd of officers.
At the same time, Roderick noticed Coyle and Roberts making their way from the line
of Dark Angel and Rapier fighters, still wrapped in their flight webbing and their eyes locked
firmly on the mysterious subfighters of the Ghosts. Coyle looked impressed, although
Roberts couldn‟t keep the disdain from her face, her eyes narrowed as she studied the
fighters, and then their pilots. The Ghosts themselves were milling around and under a
fighter bearing the number „001‟, which Roderick knew would have belonged to Mackenzie‟s
second-in-command, Commander Thomas Parker.
The unease between those pilots and her own didn‟t surprise her. As a rule, the pilots
of the Rapiers didn‟t trust anything they didn‟t know – and it had been a largely healthy
discipline that her own Dark Angels had learned to pick up within weeks of arriving on the
Atlantis. There was a clear but unspoken chemistry between Roberts and Coyle, in many
ways the Dark Angel‟s commander was the proverbial parry to Roberts‟ foil. When they
clashed, there were sparks, and when they saw eye to eye, their pilots quickly knew to fall in
line.
“Mackenzie,” nodded Coyle in a single-word greeting. The Ghost nodded back, and
Roberts said nothing as she looked at Roderick.
“It‟s good to see you both,” Roderick smiled slightly.
“Ma‟am.”
Gavin Mackenzie frowned. “Have I done something to upset you, Commander
Roberts?”
The Rapier commander looked back at him with an unreadable expression, an
intended answer apparently hanging there for a long moment before she lifted her chin
slightly. “It‟s nothing personal, it‟s just a lot to take in and I need time to sort it out.”
“Fair enough.”
Hornsby reached the group of officers, and in time that would have made marines
envious, the four pilots and her two staff snapped to attention and saluted. Their boots
panged loudly off the deck grates in unison which drew eyes from the other squadrons.
“At ease,” the captain breathed. “Your report, Captain Roderick?”
Corinn‟s eyes widened beneath a raised brow and noted the surprise that was
spreading on Mackenzie and Razak‟s face. “All secured, Captain,” she replied. “What
happened over there?”
“An agreement, I hope,” she confirmed, looking at Rhodes beside her.
“Captain Banick understands his position,” the Nycarian explained. “I don‟t believe he
will carry out his indicated actions.”
“What of the Admiral?” Akara asked, flinching uncomfortably as he eyed Hornsby
again.
“He needs to get his affairs in order. This isn‟t an easy decision, but he knows time is
short.”
“Did you tell him?” Razak asked, narrowing his eyes at Rhodes.
The Nycarian hesitated. “I told him what he needed to know.”
- 195 -

Razak looked uneasy with the answer, being consciously aware of the scrutiny that
was upon him from the Commonwealth fighter pilots. Tensions between them were already
high without clouding their mission, and he wouldn‟t be the one to undo what Hornsby and
Rhodes had already achieved. In time, he was certain, Hornsby would tell them the rest.
“Then with your permission, Captain, I‟d like to make preparations to get under way.”
Hornsby nodded her consent before Razak and Akara headed for the doors.
Roderick watched them with uncertainty for a few seconds before looking at Hornsby
expectantly.
“It‟s good to have you back, Quinn,” the Aquarius captain smiled. “Get your pilots
debriefed. I think we‟ve all had enough of the lies.”
Without another word, Hornsby led Rhodes away in silence. Coyle and Roberts
slowly started to circle the Raptor III much as Roderick had done just moments before, with
Roberts pausing behind the sleek craft to peer down through the maw of its gaping turbines.
“So,” the Rapier commander said; her voice a muted echo from inside the sizeable
engine outtakes. “When do we get our hands on these?”
~
- 196 -

VIII
T I T A N D E P T H S
UEO Commonwealth CVBN-110, the Polynesian Trench. April 16 th , 2043…
Banick still clutched the paper printout in his hand tightly as he left the
Commonwealth‟s bridge, his position now even more uncertain than it had been five hours
before. His eyes burned, his bad leg ached, and his mind was still swimming through a
murky cloud of reason and consequence. It was nearly 0300, and his exhaustion had
reached a point that he had long since stopped being tired, and was beginning to feel ill. He
sipped the lukewarm mug of coffee in his off-hand, slapping the call button at the mag-lev
station, all the while running the words on that piece of paper through his head once more.
He wasn‟t really sure what angered him more – the tone of the order, or where it had
come from. Someone, somewhere under his nose, was feeding information to sources that
he had tried very hard to keep out of the loop. The timing of it, too, seemed to only throw a
further shadow over the situation after Ainsley‟s stunning revelations just a few hours before.
The door slid open, but another shadow fell over him before he could step inside the
carriage. Banick turned to find Callaghan, looking no more rested than he, just feet away.
“Captain, may I have a minute?”
Banick nodded, gesturing to the mag-lev as he stepped inside and held the door. His
XO followed him, and the two officers gripped the hand rail above their heads tightly as it
started to accelerate away. “You‟ll need to make this quick, Ryan,” he sighed.
“Is that what I think it is?” Callaghan asked, looking at the page in the Captain‟s hand.
He knew the only communications traffic that still went out on paper was the sort that was
considered too important even for the CIC‟s secretive command protocols. Whoever had
sent it, it was from high office, and of the most sensitive subject.
Banick looked up at the page, still clasped in the hand that was wrapped around the
guard rail. “Even I don‟t know what it is, Ryan,” he said.
“I thought you should know,” the XO continued on pace. “Ainsley came to see me last
night, before he boarded the Aquarius.”
Banick‟s head turned slowly, his eyes dark, and his frown deep. “Halt mag-lev,
authorization Banick-seven-three-six-Canebride,” he said sharply, the carriage lurching to a
stop. He dropped his hand, turning to face the commander fully.
“What?”
Callaghan drew a breath. “He told me everything that he just said in that meeting,
and asked me to help him.”
Banick felt a stab of anger deep within his gut, scarcely believing what he was
hearing. “And you‟re telling me this now... why, Ryan?”
“Because I think he was right, and I wanted you to know before I made my decision.”
“By the sounds of it, you already have. What did he ask you to do?”
“I sent the message to UEO command,” Callaghan admitted. “I told them about
Aquarius.”
The confession hit Banick like a truck. His eyes were cold as he drew a long,
thoughtful breath. “Why?”
“I intend to go with him.”
“That doesn‟t answer my question.”
Callaghan nodded. “Ainsley wanted to keep Intelligence off-balance. The only way he
could do that was by keeping this timeline short. As long as Schrader believed she had time
to orchestrate this, she held all the cards.”
“God damn it, Callaghan!” Banick spat. “How does this at all help me? Or even
Ainsley, for that matter. This has effectively ended his career, and mine‟s hanging by a
thread.”
“It gives you a choice.”
- 197 -

Banick exhaled slowly and swallowed. “Your timing in telling me this couldn‟t have
been more ill-timed,” he muttered through nearly gritted teeth.
“For what it‟s worth, I don‟t regret my decision. I‟m telling you because I feel I owe
you that as a friend.”
“And what do you expect me to do?” snapped Banick, his patience wearing thin.
“Whatever you feel is appropriate,” Callaghan confessed. “I didn‟t decide this for the
Admiral‟s sake, but for my own. There are things I need answers to - things I probably
should have told you about long before now, but I‟m never going to find the answers here.”
“So you‟re trying to rationalize this? You want to get me to say that I understand your
motives?”
“No sir. I only wanted you to know I am prepared to accept responsibility for my
actions.”
Banick huffed. “Alright. You said you were looking for answers... Answers to what?”
Callaghan took an uncertain breath. For the next ten minutes, he detailed every one
of his startling finds aboard the DSV Proteus nearly two years before, explaining how every
face, memory, feeling, smell and recollection of his supposed service in the UEO Special
Forces in the year 2031 had been a complete and baffling fabrication of his mind. He told the
most painful truth of all – that he had been, in that year, and perhaps longer, an officer of the
Counter Intelligence organization named Section Seven.
All the while, James Banick stood and listened in silence – unsure of what to think,
say or do, letting every word wash over him. He felt pain with every revelation of what
Callaghan had hidden for so long, to all but one man. Admiral Mark Ainsley.
When Callaghan had finally finished, Banick looked away from the most faithful man
he had ever known, and regretted asking the question.
“I‟m sorry, Jim,” Callaghan sighed.
There was a long and uncomfortable silence before Banick looked back at him.
“Does Madeline know?”
Callaghan nodded. “Not everything, but she knows enough. She understands.”
Banick stepped forward, studying his eyes intently. “Is that enough? That she
understands?”
Ryan Callaghan smiled. “After all this, I have to believe it is, because I don‟t have a
whole lot left.”
“...You‟re on your own now, Mark. I‟ve done all I can.”
Ainsley closed his eyes slowly. Before him on the monitor, Jack Riley was a picture of
exhaustion, the dark lines and dulled glint in his eyes adding another ten years to the man.
The Secretary-General‟s reaction was something they had both expected, but that didn‟t
make it any easier to accept. Riley had ridden the line for his entire career, and had been
praised for those initiatives. Times were changing, as those same actions – decisions he had
once been rewarded for – had now broken him.
Frankly, reflected Ainsley darkly, if the UEO fleet truly had become a political
instrument of the Secretary-General and his agenda then he no longer wanted to be a part of
it.
“How long?” the Vice Admiral asked coolly.
“He expects the letter on his desk in a few hours, and I imagine it will be immediately
effective. I‟m meeting with the Joint Chiefs in a few minutes but I wanted you to know,
privately, you have my support. I‟ve already briefed Andrew, but I wouldn‟t expect much
official endorsement on this one. The JCS have their collective heads down after what
happened last night. Cathgate is cleaning house.”
“I understand,” Ainsley nodded. “But if that‟s the case, then is it wise to keep Admiral
Hayes so close to this?”
“The responsibility lies with me,” Riley affirmed. “Cathgate knows that, and needs
support to keep his decision credible. Hayes knows that as well, and he‟s already assured
- 198 -

me that he‟ll support Cathgate‟s decision – publically, at least. What he thinks privately is
none of the Secretary-General‟s god-damned business.”
Ainsley shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “I‟m sorry it‟s come to this, Jack... And I
apologise for what it‟s cost you. Although frankly, I‟m not sure much of what I can say is
going to make it any easier.”
Riley waved a hand dismissively as he sat back in his chair. “Keep your apologies,
Ainsley. I would have been disappointed if you had decided to do anything less.”
“Yes sir.”
“Just do me a favour and keep your head down out there. You can trust Hargreaves,
but the Office of Naval Intelligence has the kind of reputation that gives men in his position a
bad name.”
“I‟ll keep it in mind when next I speak with Schrader,” Ainsley smiled. “And what
about you?”
Riley laughed. “I‟ve got a ranch in Wisconsin. I figure I‟ll lie low for a while until this
whole thing blows over. Lord knows, Emma needs to get away from it all. Don‟t you worry
about me.”
“That sounds outstanding,” Ainsley beamed, smiling approvingly as some of his own
problems momentarily evaporated at the thought. “I wonder if you might do me another
favour and check in on Sam for me... I‟ll tell her what I can, but, she could use the support.”
“I‟ll have Schrader sort out the details, but you have my word, we‟ll take care of her.”
“I appreciate it.”
The two officers stared across the comm. link for several, long moments afterwards.
Ainsley knew full well that it would be the last time he would ever speak with Riley as the
commander of the Pacific fleet – a fact he sorely regretted. Riley then leaned forward.
“I‟ll see you after the war, Mark. I‟ll buy the drinks.”
“I will hold you to that,” Ainsley smirked.
“Riley out.”
The image of the Fleet Admiral evaporated quickly, leaving Ainsley staring blankly at
his own reflection in the monitor. He got up slowly and looked around his now-empty
quarters in silence, seeing the two bags next to the lounge. Something flashed from the
corner of his eye, drawing his head slowly around to find the other officer on the wall staring
back at him. Ainsley narrowed his eyes at the image, examining the form of his own
reflection in the mirror quietly. He couldn‟t remember the last time he‟d ever paid attention to
the „fruit bowl‟ of ribbons adorning the left hand side of his chest, having become something
of an asymmetrical inconvenience that commanded more maintenance than it deserved. At
that moment, he wasn‟t even sure if he deserved them at all. He sighed as he accepted the
inevitability of that, and removed the three stars from his collar to set them gently on the
bench. He held the second set in his hand for a moment longer, feeling the weight and
coolness of the metal before that too, was consigned to the table.
A knock from the door drew him away from that reflection sharply. “Come in.”
James Banick appeared in the hatch way a moment later, pausing at the foot of the
small staircase that led down from the raised corridor outside and pushing it closed with a
solid „thump‟. Like Riley, Banick looked exhausted - his jumpsuit zipped down, his sleeves
rolled up, and his shoulders sagging far below the line of his collar.
“I‟m surprised you‟re awake,” Ainsley said, sipping the glass of water he‟d set neat
his rank pins. “It‟s not exactly top of first watch.”
“I‟m not tired,” Banick truthfully lied. Of course he was tired – he‟d just stopped feeling
it.
“Can I get you something?”
“No.”
The Admiral nodded silently as he removed a small, velvet box from the side of his
bag and opened it to place the two rank pins inside. Banick caught a glimpse of its contents
for only a moment before Ainsley snapped it shut again. He recognised the blue ribbon
inside instantly, hooked up and behind the velvet backing from a wreathed medallion
- 199 -

stamped in the crest of the UEO. The medal of honour – the highest military decoration the
UEO could bestow.
“Fleet Admiral Riley has resigned,” Ainsley said flatly as he tucked the box away in its
pouch. “It will be effective in about six hours.”
Banick took a few, slow steps forward. “Your shuttle should be ready within in the
next few minutes,” the Captain observed. “I imagine you‟ll be leaving soon.”
The Admiral‟s eyes looked Banick up and down for several seconds, his mind made
up but otherwise uncertain of the Captain‟s intent. He sighed, allowing for a small but
defeated smile. “No doubt Secretary-General Cathgate has given you your orders, then.”
Banick was silent, but his face affirmed the estimate well enough before his hand
slowly disappeared in to his pocket to retrieve the folded sheet of paper. “It came in a few
minutes ago, yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
Banick shrugged. “I can‟t go with you.”
Ainsley smiled. He‟d expected that answer, and anything more would have been
hoping for too much. “I would have been surprised if you did,” he admitted.
“I‟m sorry, Admiral,” Banick smirked. “I‟ve spent most of the last two years putting my
life back together and making sense of what I still have. I couldn‟t throw all that away and
I‟ve still got a lot to make up for.”
“It‟s alright,” Ainsley assured him. “You know as well as I do this is still probably a
one-way trip. You‟ve got a crew to think about – and a good one at that.”
The smirk turned in to a smile. “Something tells me we‟ll see each other again,”
Banick told him. “Whether you‟re here or not, my mission hasn‟t changed. For what this is
worth, I‟ll do everything I can to help.”
“Cathgate will ask why you didn‟t arrest me,” Ainsley reminded him cautiously. “What
do you intend to tell him?”
Banick shrugged. “The truth. A Reverence class battlecruiser isn‟t a match for a
DSV.”
Ainsley pursed his lips before folding his arms, narrowing his eyes to stare the
Captain down. “You would have fired, wouldn‟t you?”
“Some things will always remain a mystery.”
“Probably for the best.”
Banick nodded slowly as Ainsley extended his hand. It occurred to him that it was the
first time he‟d even tried to offer it since landing, and he was entirely unsure how, or indeed
if, he should accept it. The captain of the Commonwealth stared at the hand for three whole,
long seconds before finally gripping it firmly. He didn‟t say a word as the Admiral gave him
an approving, encouraging nod, drawing a breath.
“Take care of this one,” Ainsley nodded to the ship around him.
Banick grinned. “I intend to.”
~
Madeline Hayes was a rare breed of girl: the kind who would wait until the ends of the
Earth if she felt it right to do so. While her wait at Commonwealth‟s number three starboard
airlock had hardly been apocalyptic, it still felt right as she twiddled the ring around her left
four-finger and continued to look down the main corridor nervously, the nervous habit
appearing to agitate the Nycarian captain behind her.
Rhodes and Hayes were not alone though, with two of the ship‟s marines standing
next to the hatch – their rifles folded neatly in front of them. They seemed relaxed, or even
casual in their watch as a general and renewed sense of purpose had steadily settled on the
ship. It had been a subtle change in the mood of the crew, but Hayes knew exactly where it
had started.
She froze as she saw the three men round the corner at the end of that long corridor,
their pace slow and steady as they strolled up to the airlock. Despite their present juncture,
- 200 -

none of them appeared in any rush. Ainsley and Banick walked side by side, their hands
folded behind them as they chatted quietly with Callaghan keeping pace just a foot from
Ainsley‟s side in silence.
Hayes‟s heart skipped a beat as she saw that and was quickly reminded of his
decision. It occurred to her then just how Banick appeared so relaxed, even erring on the
side of jovial when faced with the loss of his first officer to a man who was about to be
branded a deserter.
Whether there was a perverse joke in there that she had missed, Hayes was
uncertain, but his decision did not surprise her. His eyes met hers as they approached the
junction, a small but wry smile forming at the corners of his mouth. Hayes loved that smile –
cheeky, smug and unquestionably dirty when he wanted it to be, and couldn‟t help but grin in
return. “...Cathgate‟s going to send hell after you, you know,” she heard Banick remark, his
voice rising as they cleared the hall.
“Then I hope a head-start isn‟t too much to ask,” grinned Ainsley back at him.
Banick‟s return smile was insincere, but nonetheless sly. “Your clock started ticking
as soon as I received the orders, Admiral. I wouldn‟t press your luck.”
One of the marines by the airlock, an unlit cigar clenched lightly between his teeth,
stepped forward to greet the officers with a cocky, lazy half-step before removing the stick
from his mouth and eyeing Banick expectantly. Ainsley saw the golden oak leaves beneath
his collar before he saw the man‟s face under the brim of the heavy Kevlar helmet. Major
Adrian O‟Shaughnessy hadn‟t changed much in the time since they‟d last met, his shoulder
still appearing to swing in to every step under the weight of his characteristic Irish chip. The
man‟s rifle was slung lazily over his shoulder, the safety still on and without the magazine
attached. He smiled. “Admiral, your shuttle‟s ready, but your pilot‟s not here. If you like, I‟ll
arrange for one of mine to get you the rest of the way.”
Ainsley smiled at the major before looking around the hall. “We‟re early, I‟ll give him
time.”
“Aye, sir.”
O‟Shaughnessy turned slowly on his heel and nodded dismissively at the second
soldier next to the door. With a return nod, the marine secured his weapon and headed back
down the access corridor towards the barracks, leaving the major to lean against the
bulkhead nonchalantly and check his watch impatiently.
Hayes gently ushered Callaghan aside with an apologetic smile to Banick and
Ainsley before dragging the Commonwealth XO behind a jutting frame at the corner of the
cross junction. The subsequent, heavy and jarring „thump‟ against the bulkhead behind it
was enough to draw their gaze away to the marine major, Banick‟s awkwardly pursed lips
mirroring those of Ainsley beside him.
“Where will you be headed?” Banick asked quickly, his mind caring not to wonder
about what was transpiring just meters to his side as he turned away from the hall to look
squarely at the airlock.
“I‟m not certain,” the Admiral replied, tugging on his cuff. “Hornsby wouldn‟t give me
details, but I have a few ideas. I need to find out just how involved she is with this
Intelligence business before I can make much of a move.”
“Both eyes open,” Banick agreed.
“Mmm,” grunted the Admiral, his eyes still locked on the airlock.
...Hayes pressed herself in to Callaghan deeply, her lips still locked around his as she
inhaled the smell of his aftershave once more with a quiet, pleased moan. He held her tight,
his eyes still closed as he gently pulled away and took a slow, deep breath. “Damn you,” he
whispered under his breath.
“You didn‟t think I‟d make the decision easy, did you?” she returned, her voice low
and husky as she peered up at him with a sultry smile.
“I‟ve already made the decision,” he said, kissing her again lightly as his hand moved
down to her waist. “You‟re just making me regret it.”
“Good,” she said, burying her head in to his chest. “Just tell me you‟re coming home.”
- 201 -

Callaghan‟s hand moved to the side of her face feeling her warm, soft cheeks again
as she gently lifted her head to look her in the eye. “I promise,” he said. “I will come back.”
Hayes‟s smile was forced, the sadness in her eyes betraying her scepticism. “I‟m
holding you to that.”
“Come with me,” he urged her again.
Hayes let go a long, deep breath as she pulled back, her frown deepening with a pout
for good measure. “I can‟t follow you,” she said. “I might not agree with that‟s happening, but
I can‟t give up. Banick needs me, and he needs to know he‟s not alone.”
Callaghan‟s jaw twisted half-way in to a smile of his own. “Just keep him out of
trouble,” he said.
“He will come around, Ryan,” she smiled back. “He just needs time.”
Callaghan leaned in again, kissing her a second time and brushing a loose lock of
deep, brown hair from her eyes. “Don‟t keep me waiting long,” he whispered, his eyes closed
as he inhaled the scent of her perfume.
“I promise, I won‟t.”
“And don‟t keep me waiting, will you, Commander?” asked a new voice as a shadow
fell past them, the long, broken footsteps that so clearly clanked up the grated hall having
never been heard by either of them, so deep had been their distraction.
Callaghan watched the tall, staggering form of Commander Ed Richards slump past
them in to the airlock juncture, the flicker of a smile forming at the corner of the pilot‟s mouth.
Hayes rolled her eyes as she steadily broke away from her husband, her hands slipping
down his arm as she let out one final sigh.
Callaghan, Hayes, Ainsley and Banick all turned to find Richards in full flight gear as
he dropped his duffel bag on the deck and saluted the Admiral sharply. With uncertainty,
Ainsley returned the salute before looking him over slowly. Richards‟ prosthetic left leg
remained hidden behind the fabric of the flight suit and the boot that occupied its end. Banick
saw the flicker of pain in his eyes as the man struggled to remain at attention, but unwilling
to show his weakness. „Minstrel‟ had a ill-earned reputation for too-vocally lamenting
problems, both personal and those that affected his work – but for Banick, there were few
sights as devastating as that of a broken soldier who had lost everything except their pride.
Emotionally, he knew Richards felt a hollowness that could have only been created through
the most traumatic of losses. Material and personal losses could at times be painful, and the
death of a colleague or loved one was a fact of life that everyone who ever lived would have
to face soon enough. Even these „losses‟, however, didn‟t hold a candle to the sort which
Richards had endured – the sort which changed life on a fundamental and core level,
stripping a man bare of his strength, support and will to lay him naked before the world to be
judged.
Ed Richards was a creature whose entire life amounted to fiery independence and
strength of resolve: the ability to stand tall in spite of the beliefs and principles of all others to
back and hold what he believed for himself. He was a warrior of a very rare kind, and all of
that had been turned on its head. Independence became reliance, resolve became doubt,
and pride was left to stand alone on a dusty shelf devoid of and ill-placed with nothing left to
be proud of. This move, Banick knew, was something that could have only come if he had
resigned himself to the truth of his situation: that he could no longer be alone.
“Permission to disembark, Captain?” Richards asked sternly.
“Aren‟t you grounded, Wing Commander?” Banick asked in reply, measuring every
inch of Richards‟ reaction. The pilot betrayed little of the discomfort he felt, trying
unsuccessfully to deter the captain‟s inquisition by straightening to his not-inconsiderable full
height.
“Can‟t say much for my ability to fly stick,” Richards dodged the question. “But I think
I can handle a shuttle.”
His eyes shifted a second time to find Ainsley at the side. “…Assuming you‟ll have
me, sir. There isn‟t much left for me here.”
There was a flicker of a coy smile at the corner of the Admiral‟s mouth as he looked
at Banick. There wasn‟t much to argue – the Rapiers and Dark Angels had gone, taking with
- 202 -

them Corinn Roderick and a swathe of the fleet‟s most senior pilots. Richards was now a
squadron commander with no one to command, and nothing to fly. For a moment Banick
looked at his own XO, Ryan Callaghan, considering the parallels that he and the fighter pilot
now shared, and finally gave a curt nod.
“You‟d better start moving, Commander… The Admiral is on a tight schedule.”
Richards nodded, offering only a terse, disagreeable glance to the Admiral beside
him before he picked up his bag and stepped through the airlock door in to the cabin of the
shuttle.
The four remaining officers watched him disappear, their silence lasting for some
time after the pilot had disappeared through the maw. “You‟ll have trouble with him,” Banick
warned Ainsley, folding his arms with a long sigh.
“Give him time,” Ainsley mused.
“Admiral, I don‟t want to push, but if we‟re going to leave… We should do it now,”
Callaghan piped up from behind, Hayes still clinging to his heels.
Ainsley seemed to pause at this before looking down at his feet. “Go on,
Commander. I‟d like a moment with the Captain.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hayes stayed with her husband as he walked to the airlock, and bade his final
goodbyes. Major O‟Shaughnessy had disappeared silently in to the shadows of the corridor,
his silhouette still lurking against the backlights of the main junction further down the way.
Ainsley picked up his own duffel bag, swinging it over his shoulder before looking around the
Commonwealth one last time. “Jim, I‟ll do everything I can to see this through, but I‟m going
to need help.”
Banick nodded, his lower lip disappearing behind his teeth. “This needs time to blow
over, Admiral,” he said hesitantly. “I can‟t promise much, but you know I‟ll do what I can.”
Ainsley smiled weakly, the confidence in his own decision taking a final turn for
uncertainty. Nothing he did to assuage those nerves seemed to work, and he doubted it
would get any easier.
“Good hunting, Admiral,” Banick said finally.
The captain of the UEO Commonwealth watched the airlock for several minutes after
the hatch had closed, all the while conscious of Major O‟Shaughnessy and Commander
Madeline Hayes lurking in hall behind him. Only when his PAL buzzed from his belt did he
turn on his heel and head briskly for the bridge. “Banick here.”
“Captain, I have a priority message coming in for you from Fleet Command. It‟s
Admiral Hayes,”
“Make sure the Admiral‟s shuttle is cleared, and I‟ll take the call in my office, Ensign.
I‟ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Aye, Captain.”
…By the time Admiral Hayes had reissued Cathgate‟s instructions to detain Admiral
Mark Ainsley, the shuttle had disappeared. For the next several hours, Andrew Hayes would
come to dwell on the peculiar smile that had covered Banick‟s face when he received his
orders and all that Secretary-General Cathgate would know was that his instructions had
simply reached the battlecruiser too late.
Cathgate‟s legendary tirade to the General Staff of the UEO Fleet that day was well
in to its twentieth minute by the time the Commonwealth had received further orders to come
about and give chase, but it, too, was an order that had been sent long after the dust had
settled: the Aquarius had simply vanished in to the nethers of the Polynesian Trench as
quickly and quietly as she had arrived.
~
- 203 -

A T H O U S A N D P O I N T S O F S H A D O W
Ninety seven miles off the coast of Sierra Leone, June 8 th , 2031...
It was a peculiar realisation, he decided. That a perfect darkness could have such a
tangible feel and depth to it fascinated him. Holding his hands in front of his face, the world
around him was so completely black that he couldn‟t even see his fingers if they were a
mere inch from his nose. The more his mind turned over this idea, the more detail he could
discern as the empty, infinitely dark room slowly moulded in to shapes and forms of clarity in
his head. It was a particularly beautiful if incomprehensible complexity that offered him a
level of appreciation in that place that he had never experienced before.
„Before‟ was a simple enough word of course, inferring a passage of time, events and
circumstances that didn‟t really seem to matter as much then and there. Fear had long since
given way to questions about that lonely room, and those questions – endless and oddly
unusual – had become, in a quirky sense of the absurd, a welcome company.
That the occupant could assemble these thoughts in his mind in the time it took him
to blink put in to perspective something else that he was far less conscious of – time. How
long had he been in that room? It could have been days, months, or even a year, he just
simply wasn‟t sure – nor did it seem to matter. There were still far too many important
questions in his head to worry about such a trivial detail like time. It meant nothing in that
room.
The air of the room was dry, but smelt of absolutely nothing. Even that was peculiar,
because „nothing‟ was still easier to contemplate and understand than, perhaps, the stink of
oil that could have dripped in to the main vents of an air conditioning plant in some place
unseen. Then there was the silence, also perfect, and devoid of any ambient sound. He
started to consider the possibility that such a place might have been what death felt like – an
absence of sound, light and smell – were it not for the cold feeling of metal beneath his
hands. „Nothing‟ and „nowhere‟ were equally cold to the touch, it appeared, although he had
no recollection of when he had first noticed that fact.
He sat with his legs folded in the corner, his fingers tracing circles on the invisible
floor in front of him, each stroke filling his mind and being translated in his visual memory as
paths of, well, anything he liked, really. He could have painted a perfect replica of the Mon
Lisa and retained it as a mental photograph... until he realised, that is, that he had absolutely
no idea what the Mon Lisa was, or where he even got the name. Nonetheless, the eyes in
that portrait that was burned in to his head were off, somehow. They didn‟t seem to belong to
the woman in the painting – the unfathomably deep, rueful pain being utterly an utter
mismatch to the coy, unreadable smile that covered the painterly lips. The man tried first to
correct the lips to the more proper arrangement in his mind but that too seemed wrong,
making the composition in his head seem even less sensible.
Something echoed distantly, making the occupant of the dark, cubical room look up
and around, the sound reverberating off the masonry just enough to give him a sense of
direction. It had come from the door, of course – the cold, metal door that had gone
unopened in as long as he could recall. Not that he could see the door, he simply knew it
was there. At some unimportant juncture he had explored thoroughly every inch of that
perfect cube of a habitat on his hands and knees over the long, arduous course of several
minutes. One hundred and forty nine seconds, he had reckoned, it took him to case every
inch of the room, absorbing every detail and every wall panel until it simply fell together in his
mind with all the precision of... a square wall panel within a cubical room. It had taken an
eternity to come to that simple conclusion; an eternity lasting one hundred and forty nine
seconds.
The noise was clear now. Footsteps: mid-paced, deliberate and steady, with a pause
before the door. The man got up quietly, taking a few steps forward at the sound of whirring
locks and the tapping of a keypad. His world turned to a blinding, withering pain a moment
later – the lance of an approximated daylight flooding the room. His hands shot up to shield
- 204 -

his face as he stepped back, bracing himself against the cold of the bulkhead with fluid
welling under his eyes. He struggled to squint painfully through the glare at the figure that
entered, silhouetted starkly against the bright light behind him.
“Ryan,” the figure spoke softly, his voice flicking a switch in the occupant‟s head that
made every sense, feeling and recognition snap in to life. He knew now, where he was. He
knew much more, too, although for reasons he was now utterly incapable of explaining.
“Do you know who I am?”
Ryan Callaghan‟s eyes continued to adjust as the man stepped forward. He held a
data padd in his hand, braced on the inner sleeve of his elbow, and wore a long white coat
and the black jumpsuit of the intelligence service. The gold tridents embroidered on to his
collar gave his rank as a naval captain. His face was familiar, a name feeling as though it
were on the very tip of his tongue, but evaporating in to a thousand shards of distant
memory each time he felt the word start to form.
“No,” Ryan Callaghan said to the man. “I don‟t.”
“Do you know why you‟re here?”
Callaghan frowned, a look of frustration beginning to spread over his face at first,
followed by confusion, and then finally anguish. “I can‟t remember...”
“I‟m the captain of this ship,” the stranger said. “You‟re aboard a UEO submarine,
and you‟re safe. You‟re with friends.”
Callaghan narrowed his eyes, his lip curling in near contempt of the confusion he was
now experiencing. “UEO submarine?”
“Yes, that‟s right. A... cruiser if you want to know. The UEO Reunion. Do you
remember your name?”
“Yes,” he replied distantly. “Ryan Callaghan... Lieutenant, UEO Navy Special Forces,
first battalion, third company.”
“Good,” the captain replied as he made a quick note on the padd. “I know this is a lot
to take in, but I need you to concentrate,” he urged, holding out a hand reassuringly. Despite
the motion, there was something irritatingly familiar in the captain‟s face that unsettled him
deeply. “What‟s the last thing you remember?”
Callaghan‟s mind flashed a hundred different images before he winced and held his
side instinctively. He didn‟t know why – only that he recalled the sudden shock of pain, the
smell of IMR, fire and the sounds of screaming. He choked on the vivid, fractured image, and
looked at the man in front of him pleadingly. “I don‟t know,”
“Try!” he whispered in a half hiss.
“I was in combat, against the Alliance. It was... an island. The Philippines?”
“That‟s right. You‟re doing very well, Lieutenant. Tell me more...”
Callaghan felt faint as he tried to push the vague memory in to a clear image, but the
harder he tried, the more his head started to spin. Something felt very wrong. Images and
feelings that weren‟t his own – some far off land, laid waste by decades of war, and the cold
soul-less eyes of a man whose name was...
The pain that flared and seized the insides of his skull was intense, every ray of light
searing like fire against his eyes. Tears rolled down Callaghan‟s face as he looked up at a
woman with long, blonde hair, emerging from that blaze gracefully with a reaching hand. A
name lashed itself to his tongue, inescapably familiar and warm. Artful.
“Sanaa.”
...Anne Ballard frowned and shook her head as she rolled Callaghan on to his back,
his eyes flickering and lolling back in their sockets. She was shocked when she put her hand
to his neck and felt the rapid, erratic pulse. “Jesus,” she said. “He‟s having a seizure.”
“Can‟t you do anything?” the captain behind her asked coldly.
“Get the hell out of my way!” the Doctor bellowed as she unclipped her PAL from her
tunic. “This is Ballard, I need a medical team to isolation, now!”
Samuel Ezard watched in silence on the monitors of the darkened command
chamber, all the while only too aware of the brick-jawed giant of a thug standing just a few
feet behind him, his arms folded high on his chest.
- 205 -

“If this is your idea of „progress‟, Samuel, then you will find me eminently
disappointed,” said the thug in a thick, guttural cant. Raoul Saed. That was his name. It was
the only name that Ezard knew amongst the group of three South African observers standing
in his command centre, and he was the only one that had cared to introduce himself.
Captain Ezard understood and respected that, at least. Within their very particular line of
service, a name was nothing less than a liability and at most the beginning to an indelible
trail of breadcrumbs that could lead the curious to any number of facts or discoveries that
were never intended for their eyes.
Saed had to be given a measure of credit, as he had learned of Ezard‟s name
without even having to ask. The only recourse for him after that was to play the part of the
nonchalant host, being completely unwilling to give Saed just the hint of success. For much
of the last two years, Ezard had quietly hoped that Mbotmi Ngunntini‟s red militia would have
been wiped out by their Nycarian captives after Section Seven had taken the precise and
deliberate measure of leaking information to the test subjects. It had been just enough for
the hapless patients to lead a revolt against their captors and in the ensuing chaos, Ezard
and his colleagues simply melted away in to the shadows never to be seen again. The
Nycarians remained none the wiser, of course, but there were always aspects of a plan that
never quite unfolded as expected. Raoul Saed was just one of those things, because Saed
was not a member of Ngunntini‟s militia – he was a Nycarian.
“Our results are more than that second-rate warlord could have hoped for should he
have had an entire decade to achieve the same,” Ezard retorted. “We got rid of him while
your so-called Government deluded themselves in to an understanding they had won some
kind of victory. Frankly, Saed, I‟m surprised you seem to have forgotten that.”
The tall Nycarian narrowed his eyes for a moment before looking back up at the
screen, and he man who lay sprawled on the floor, tended to by the Section Seven medics.
“Who is he?”
“Someone of incidental consequence who needed guidance,” Ezard mused
carelessly, stroking his stubbled chin. “Selective memory suppression is simple enough, but
the treatments are complicated by previous genetic therapy. Engrammatic association is
difficult when it is linked directly to the memories you‟re trying to suppress, but there are
alternatives.”
“What does any of this have to do with your program?” Saed queried him, fidgeting
impatiently.
Ezard turned, matching the man‟s gaze and appearing completely undaunted by his
virtually intimidating gait. “Knowledge of the human brain, and how it processes and stores
information is critical when dealing with genetic modification,” he said. “That same
knowledge base is applicable to this kind of rehabilitation. You would be surprised how many
uses it has.”
“A sideshow, nothing more,” Saed sneered. “Playing with the mind something even a
capable psychologist can do. You‟ve had two years.”
“Yes, I have,” Ezard agreed, turning back to the monitor.
A few moments passed before a man wearing a coat entered the room, a slate
tucked neatly under his arm as he walked past the Nycarian officers and stopped short of
Ezard. The captain that had tended quietly to Callaghan for much of the preceding six
months paid the visitors no heed as he handed the slate over to Ezard. “I‟ve completed my
study,” he said simply. “Without the complete introduction of the stage seven strain, the
Lieutenant‟s condition will remain unworkable.”
“Based on the sample introduction?”
The captain shrugged. “Samples aren‟t sufficient. There was improvement in neural
stability with the introduction of those controls, of course, but without a sufficient dosage, the
immune system will eventually destroy the strain.”
Ezard nodded. This had been Ballard‟s theory as well. The first six generations of
augmentation brought the neural pathways of the patient dangerously close to a state of
complete depolarization. Generational decay would set in with only five of the catalysts, and
it was that barrier that had prevented Ballard‟s predecessor, Thecus van der Weer, from
- 206 -

ever continuing his work further. Nearly 90% of the Nycarus test subjects were generation
five patients, and while most of them survived, the instability of that gene would eventually
work its way through successive generations of procreation to a point where they would
simply die out. It was a flawed, yet beautiful evolution of a species that suited Ezard‟s goals
perfectly. Only a handful of patients – including Callaghan – had survived the introduction of
a sixth catalyst, and that was solely thanks to the one result: One statistical anomaly that
had developed more by chance than design, allowing a single test to survive, adapt to and
become that elusive seventh generation, representing the very pinnacle of their
achievements to that day. Patient One: Sanaa Vuender-Weist-Hezuin.
“And what if you introduced the endgame?” Ezard asked quietly.
“Then the fifth and sixth sequences would stabilize, just as they did in Patient One. In
effect sir, it‟s our missing link.”
Ezard smiled. A missing link, at the very end of a chain. Perfect.
“Saed,” he said confidently. “I think it‟s time for you to meet our results.”
The five of them walked for some time down the corridors of the Proteus in silence,
Ezard and his captain saying little as they past several vast vaults of cryogenic storage tanks
that went unexplained, and simply assumed. The DSV was a ship nearly a thousand feet
long, and Raoul Saed and his companions had little idea just how many of those storage
facilities could have existed within the labyrinth of its bulk. Hundreds, thousands, or perhaps
even tens of thousands, hidden in every possible hold, void and laboratory of the ship like an
over-extended morgue. Proteus was a floating necropolis and an atrocity, of that Ezard had
very little question, but it was something he was comfortable to live with considering the
grand and unimaginable implications of all that it had achieved.
Proteus was more than a tomb – it was a monument.
Marines, scientists and medical officers stepped aside as they walked line abreast
down the central corridor of C-Deck directly to the forward laboratories. As they moved,
Ezard signalled several of the troops to fall in behind them, eventually amassing nearly a
dozen of the black-clad soldiers before stopping at the cross junction of the science wing.
Ezard ushered the troops forward and in to the room before following them in.
The officers paused inside the threshold, the Nycarians taking several seconds to
gaze around the vast chamber that, by design, been a missile room. Hundreds of monitors,
desks, glass-walled labs and computers lined the decks above and below them – the centre
dominated by a large command centre that was ringed with consoles, command stations and
a single, large desk. Saed was unmoved by this, although it was not the reason Ezard had
brought them there.
“Do it,” he instructed the captain beside him simply, and then led the three Nycarians
across the catwalk to the port wing. The entire room started to get very loud.
Obediently, the captain issued his orders to the marines, and the soldiers went to
work – gathering disks, files and data slates. They hadn‟t been working long when one of the
senior scientists burst out of his office and demanded an explanation. He was very quickly
taken aside, and scientists could do little as their work was first confiscated, and their
systems destroyed.
...Sanaa sat with her eyes closed at the centre of the room, unmoving even as the
door burst open and Samuel Ezard strode in. Saed was only a few paces behind him, his
eyes firmly locked on the girl as his bulky frame slipped through the door way.
“This is her?” he asked.
Ezard nodded. “She is the only example of a seventh generation patient,” he
confirmed.
Saed smiled, but the grin was cruel and calculating. Sanaa stood casually, taking the
time to straighten her jumpsuit as she turned on the ball of her foot and eyed the massive
Nycarian unimpressively. Her eyes bore in to him with a fire that managed to unsettle Saed,
and he took a step forward. Sanaa didn‟t blink, simply continuing to watch him as he
- 207 -

approached and slowly started to circle. The girl didn‟t even register Ezard as her eyes
shifted with the visitor and slowly followed his path.
“You‟re different,” she said calmly. “You think you‟re like me, but you‟re not.”
“Am I supposed to be afraid, little girl?” Saed growled.
“You fear what you don‟t understand, just like them,” she continued. “But no, you
don‟t fear me. I know you... You‟re one of the Fives.”
Saed looked at Ezard. “You told her about me.”
“No, I did not,” he said. “She is intuitive, nothing more.”
Sanaa smiled at Ezard. “But I am something more.”
Ezard stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back and slowly smiled in
return. “Yes, you are.”
Doctor Ballard came ahead of the gurney upon which lay Ryan Callaghan, tended to
by several corpsman. They all up short of the lab in shock to find the captain standing at the
guard rail, watching the marines dismantled the room, computer by computer, and console
by console. Ballard and her team gaped at the scene, disbelieving of the brutality at which
the soldiers went about the task and glowered at the man before her. “What the hell is going
on!?”
The nameless captain turned in surprise, checking over his shoulder again before
hurrying over to meet her. “Anne, you need to get out of here,” he whispered.
“What? What are you talking about! What are they doing!?”
“Endgame,” he glared at her before looking past at the gurney, and the unconscious
Lieutenant. “Get them out of here. All of them.”
“Endgame?” she repeated. “What is that supposed to...”
The captain‟s face, pale, told her everything she needed to know. Ballard spun on
her heel, her coat tails flying out behind her and was already hissing at the corpsman to
move. “Launch bay, now.”
“Captain, this is Ezard,” hissed the PAL from the man‟s belt as he watched them
leave. He unclipped it, eyeing the soldiers as they loaded up palettes of gear as others
herded the science staff in to one of the side officers.
“Go ahead.”
“Secure the bridge, I will meet you there.”
He took a sharp breath at the order and was already on his way back out the door
when he replied. “Understood.”
...Ezard returned to the main command centre with Saed close by his side. Looking
around the chamber, he called over a squad of marines.
“Progress, Sergeant?”
“Most records have been accounted for,” the soldier replied. “We have the science
staff in Doctor Gelding‟s office... they‟re refusing to cooperate.”
Ezard nodded. “No matter. We have what we came for.”
The two other Nycarian militiamen appeared from the corridor a moment later, the girl
walking quietly between them – offering no resistance as she kept good pace, her hands
clasped gently in front of her. Sanaa gazed around the command centre in fascination,
seemingly oblivious to the rampant dismantlement occurring around it. The sergeant was
astonished by this, his gaze drifting past Ezard for a moment to lock eyes with the girl.
“...Is there a problem, sergeant?” Ezard asked.
“No sir.”
“Good. Take these men to Cryo N-2. They will assist you once you arrive.”
The marine nervously looked up at the two Nycarians, and then back at the
unassuming woman between them who stared straight back at him intensely, her eyes
studying every facet of him as she cocked her head. “Yes sir.”
Ezard and Saed watched as Patient One and the two Nycarians were escorted away
by the marine, waiting until they had left the command wing before making their own way
over to the office that was being guarded by half a dozen of the sergeant‟s troops. One of
- 208 -

the doctors, Gelding, Ezard assumed, stepped out of the huddled group and curled his lip.
“Ezard, what‟s the meaning of this?”
“Where is Doctor Ballard?” he asked, ignoring the question.
Gelding frowned. “What? We haven‟t seen her in hours. What‟s going on? Why have
you confiscated our work?”
Ezard raised an eyebrow before leaning over to a corporal, eyeing him and the
private standing adjacent. “Find her,” he instructed.
The marines disappeared promptly before Ezard, too, left the command centre.
Outside, a second squad of soldiers – this time led by one of his own officers – were on their
way in. He stopped the lieutenant sharply. His instruction was cold, and simple.
“No evidence.”
Ezard and Saed continued on to the bridge without second thought, the sounds of
gunfire from the lab behind them - short, perhaps no more than a dozen rounds - carried no
further than the cross junction. Only silence followed them.
...The dart-like speeder accelerated away from the Proteus quickly, its engines
roaring up from idle to a high pitched whine as it shot away in to the darkness. The craft ran
without lights, its slippery, organic form melting in to the deep fog of the South Atlantic.
Where it was headed, most of its occupants had no idea, and they would never know before
it had changed pilots at least three times, rendezvoused at five different waypoints, and been
diverted to a UEO carrier off the coast of South America, nearly sixteen hundred miles away.
None of the twenty two people on board had knowledge of what was then transpiring
in their wake, although more than a few of the senior members of that crew had several, very
dark ideas.
Anne Ballard was one of them, sitting silently next to a bed that had been hastily
assembled from a stowage bench in the speeder‟s passenger compartment. Ryan Callaghan
lay restlessly in front of her, sweat beading on his brow as his eyes darted to and fro behind
closed lids. The corpsman opposite her looked concerned as he continued to run tests and
diagnoses and simply gave her an unknowing shrug. Ballard shook her head and slipped a
notebook from her rucksack, thumbing through a few pages before jotting down notes. The
human mind was a robust and amazing thing, capable of operations and functions that
defied common comprehension.
After five years of working with that extraordinary organ in ways that would have
appalled the science community, Ballard knew more about it than anyone else, and still they
had barely scratched the surface of what could be achieved. For one Samuel Ezard, Doctor
Ballard retained a special kind of loathing. For all Ballard had done to care for the Nycarus
patients, Ezard been callously professional during the most unspeakable acts. Certainly she
was not blameless in the affair, and had agreed to things that made her own stomach turn;
monstrous, inhuman atrocities that would wake her in a cold sweat for the rest of her life.
What troubled Ballard is that she doubted Ezard felt anything at all – and that he never
would.
He recalled the cold, lifeless brilliance in his grey eyes the first time he had
admonished her on the drive for results, stressing in his orders the need to embrace
techniques and methods whose only virtue was that of plausible deniability. Some of the
abominations that had come from those methods didn‟t seem to even register to the man as
he issued casual passing grades to those who, in Ballard‟s opinion, were making „promising‟
recoveries and ordered them separated those whose only consolation was that it would all
end soon.
...Although not soon enough. These were the ones who truly died painfully – devoid
of comfort or even simple and decent company as the captain‟s unnamed men in black
uniforms and white coats continued to perform „augmentations‟ that made Ballard‟s own staff
weep in the middle of the night. What happened to them after they were moved to that wing
of the operation, she never found out.
There was some light to this story, at least. There were many who had survived and
adapted well to those earlier phases of the program, those „Nycarians‟, as they were
- 209 -

dubbed, being spared the traumas and trials of the genetic modification regime‟s final
stages. The awful truth of their existence aside, they would achieve great things in their time,
and had given Ballard an unparalleled insight in to the human psyche that would continue to
serve the UEO, in its own, very particular way for years to come. Perhaps more importantly,
it was their early sacrifices that meant, in spite of the horrors, many thousands more
Nycarians – perhaps even tens of thousands - had eventually returned home.
What Ezard had gone to South Africa to achieve five years before she was for the
most part unsure, but one thing seemed certain: that the Nycarians would change the course
of history, and Ballard felt an ugly, foreboding sense of inevitability that the change would
come at serious cost to the moral fabric of the world‟s great powers. For her part, knowing
what it had cost, Ballard hoped never to see it.
She wouldn‟t. For whatever wrongs and crimes she had committed, Anne Ballard
would be remembered and celebrated as one of the greatest neuro-geneticists that the UEO,
or the world, had ever seen – her most public and crowning achievement was destined to
take on an irony that most of the world would never be aware. Just four short months from
that day, the UEO authorized the development of their next generation of Deep
Submergence Vehicles – a program within which Ballard would hold the greatest of
influence, ensuring a legacy that would live on long after she was gone.
On September 15 th , 2040, two months before her greatest work was finished, Doctor
Anne Ballard died of an incurable neurological disorder that had steadily shut down the
synapses of her cerebral cortex over the long, hard course of the last fifteen years. The final
days were painful before she could endure no more, and slipped in to a coma from which
she would never wake.
...That Ballard would achiever at least one more great work even after she died, was
perhaps the most ironic legacy of all.
Samuel Ezard walked on to the bridge of the Proteus just as its command staff
tended to the final tasks of securing its vital systems. Soon, her usefulness at an end, the
great submarine would be consigned permanently to time and the abyssal plains of the
African coast. It seemed a colossal waste of resources that a vessel of such size and power
could no longer serve in the role for which her predecessors had been designed. The void
left by seaQuest‟s disappearance certainly would have given Proteus an undeniable appeal
with the navy, but Ezard‟s orders were clear enough.
There could be no evidence.
The ship‟s captain, still wearing his coat, sat silently in the command chair locking
down what was left of the submarine‟s systems, encoding its log data and erasing that which
was too sensitive to leave.
Ezard and Saed stood silently, watching as the bridge crew continued their hurried
work as one by one, the main command systems displays winked out. “The reactor safeties
have been engaged,” the captain said, not turning from his work. “The ship will be locked
down within the next ten minutes.”
“What are you doing?” Saed asked Ezard curiously as he watched the Section Seven
staff do their work.
Ezard glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “This ship was designed to become
an annex for our work,” he admitted. “A safeguard.”
“I would have destroyed it,” Saed returned.
“And destroy everything we‟ve achieved?” Ezard looked at him in surprise. “The UEO
doesn‟t even know that this ship exists, and that which doesn‟t exist cannot easily be found.”
“All the same, I will ensure it is monitored,” Saed growled. “We cannot afford the
daughter of Neureon to fall in to their hands.”
Ezard hesitated for a moment as if thinking over another possibility, and then nodded
his agreement. “Very well.”
Ezard stepped forward to do a small and brief circuit around the bridge‟s upper
command deck, pausing to look around the room almost fondly. “Have we located Doctor
Ballard?” he asked idly.
- 210 -

The captain looked up from the command chair, his hand pausing over the console.
“She has been evacuated with the rest of our critical staff,” he admitted. “They should be
clear of the border in the few minutes.”
This seemed to answer Ezard‟s question as he nodded, and started to walk slowly for
the clamshell doors. Saed continued to stare at the captain for several moments longer
before he, too, fell in behind Ezard. The Section Seven duty officers had finished their own
work, with the last of them disappearing in to the hall.
“I‟ll join you as soon as I‟m done,” the captain said.
Ezard broke stride as he reached the aft end of the command deck, his gait slumping
to that of a very distinct realization. Saed watched as Ezard‟s hand slipped to his waist and
withdrew the 9mm service pistol from its holster to level it at the back of the captain‟s chair.
The man said nothing, nor did he even blink as his gloved hand squeezed the trigger.
The only kindness in the act was that the captain never saw the round coming. The
head rest of the command chair offered little protection as the bullet smashed through his
skull and demolished his spinal column before exiting between his eyes. The head slumped
forward, his hand falling loosely from the console to hang limply down the side of the chair.
Saed looked at Ezard, a pall of smoke still rising from the barrel of the pistol, and
then back at the corpse in the centre chair. “Was that necessary?”
“He made a choice,” Ezard said simply as he holstered the weapon. “And he knew
the cost.”
His PAL chirped noisily from his belt, and he unclipped it before thumbing the
receiver. “Go ahead.”
„Captain, the last of our assets are aboard. Proteus is secure and we are ready to
depart.‟
“Very good, ensign. I‟ll meet you shortly. Prepare to clear moorings as soon as we
are aboard.”
„Understood, sir.‟
Ezard replaced the communicator on his belt and he looked around the bridge for
one final time as something deep within the ship‟s bowels started to groan. His stomach felt
the gradual but unmistakeable slide as the ship began its final plunge. There was no more
time, and he turned back to Saed. “Our work here is done.”
“That‟s it?” the Nycarian asked.
Ezard nodded. “For now, it‟s finished.”
UEO Aquarius DSV-8200, the Polynesian Trench. April 16 th , 2043…
~
Several hours had past hours since the Aquarius parted company with the
Commonwealth in the shallower waters of the shoals surrounding French Polynesia. The
great DSV now ploughed steadily through the deeper parts of the western trench that led
deeper within Alliance waters – well beyond the range of UEO patrols and monitoring.
Now the ship was in its element, silently manoeuvring her way through the trench at
a modest speed of one hundred and ten knots, at depth of almost twenty two thousand feet.
Precious few vessels could reach such a depth, let alone comfortably, and Aquarius could
stay down there for months without ever coming up. She was untouchable.
And that was entirely the point.
Lauren Hornsby looked serene as she looked out on to the infinite black before her,
the six-inch-thick transparent alloys of the observation lounge‟s windows giving her a frontrow
seat to the world outside, not that there was much to see. Aquarius‟s flood lights,
somewhere on the hull behind her, did little more than cast blue shadows on the fog ahead
of the ship, peering just far enough in to the darkness to allow the small, swirling specs of
plankton and sediment to come in to view before being spiralled in to the oblivion of the
- 211 -

submarine‟s massive bow wake. It was a spectacular, if surreal, show as the hundreds of
specs of reflective dust zipped past so quickly that they appeared like streaks of light.
Staring in to the immeasurable darkness, those small, brief and brilliant dots of light provided
the only measure of Aquarius‟s true speed for lack of any other visual reference.
The room was deathly silent. This far forward, just meters from the ship‟s prow, the
characteristic, subtle and soothing hum of the ship‟s engines nearly half a kilometre behind
her couldn‟t be felt through the deck. The thirty bulkheads between her and engineering that
were lined in anechoic tiles and acoustic baffling made that impossible. Even at this speed,
the bioskin was outwardly making the ship as silent as the proverbial grave. Every inch of
the skin was covered in tens of thousands of perfectly-formed microscopic nodules that
ripped the water away in patterns of small vortices, allowing Aquarius to slip through the
water with all the ease of a white pointer. That was hardly surprising considering that was
exactly why the skin had been engineered, although even this knowledge didn‟t do anything
to make the experience less surreal.
The silent opening of the door then came relatively as loudly as a torpedo hitting the
bulkhead in front of her. Hornsby had no concept of how long she‟d been standing there, the
cup of tea in her hand being at least the third refill of the morning as she slowly stepped back
at sight of the reflection in the window.
Admiral Mark Ainsley didn‟t look so rested; his eyes long and drawn, despite the twoday-old
stubble having disappeared from his chin. His uniform was fresh at least, but his
shoulders – normally high and proud – were slumped and defeated. Hornsby didn‟t
especially blame him – she had been through the experience nine months before when
she‟d made the same decision, and hadn‟t gotten more than six hours in three days.
Of course, Hornsby had only herself to worry about and Ainsley had a family.
“Good morning,” she said quietly, pouring out a second mug from the teapot on the
bench.
The Admiral walked up to the window quietly, staring out at the fog before taking the
offered mug from Hornsby. “Have you spoken to him?” she asked.
A lopsided, stubborn smile crept on to Ainsley‟s face. It had been something he had
avoided since he‟d learned what Aquarius had been doing, and in truth, he wasn‟t sure he
wanted to know Thomas Parker‟s reasons. “Lauren, there isn‟t much to say to him.”
That was a lie, of course, but the captain of the Aquarius knew better than to call him
on it. Sooner or later, Ainsley would have to face up to Parker, it was simply a matter of time
and opportunity. What bothered Hornsby was that she knew how much he had invested of
himself, emotionally, in to that question and she was partly responsible.
“Mark, I‟m sorry,” she said. “If I had known, then he would never have come with us.”
The man‟s eyes narrowed. “So instead, you dragged them along without telling them
what you were doing? Is that it?”
Hornsby was hurt by that suggestion. It was certainly true that Intelligence had
withheld a vast amount of information from her, but she had never intended – nor tried – to
deceive her crew of what they were out to achieve. “Of course not,” she replied softly.
“Everyone on this ship made a decision. They knew full well what they were agreeing to do.
None of us want to see what happened to San Diego again, Mark. Most of this crew had
family there, and if they didn‟t... they most certainly knew someone who did. Including Tom.”
“Mackenzie...” muttered Ainsley, vividly recalling how the commander of the Ghosts,
and now Wing Commander of the entire sea wing, had lost his wife and child when the
Alliance had dropped orbital weapons on the city two years prior.
It had been the darkest day of the war without exception, threatening to push the
conflict over the edge in to an abyss from which there could have been no return. Back then,
Aquarius had called San Diego her home port, and it had been a burden that the crew had
carried with them ever since. Secretary-General Bridger had been a moderate, bringing a
balanced, realist‟s hand to a dispute that would have seen Australia reduced to ash. It was
not a virtue that his successor James Cathgate shared.
“Don‟t judge him too harshly, Mark,” pleaded Hornsby. “You made the same decision
he did.”
- 212 -

He looked at her warily. “...That doesn‟t mean I need to like it.”
The captain smiled, nursing her mug with both hands as she paced slowly around the
great, ornamental wooden ship‟s wheel that was mounted to a glass frame at the centre of
the room. Ainsley had noted on his way in how the decoration had been notched carefully
with hundreds, if not thousands of names, each burned intricately and with loving care in to
the spoked handles that ringed its outer circumference. He didn‟t know who they belonged
to, and there was no real pattern to their inlay.
“I‟m surprised Banick isn‟t here,” Hornsby remarked, quickly changing tack.
Ainsley raised an eyebrow, sipping his tea. “I can‟t say I‟m surprised at all,” he
countered.
Hornsby‟s face turned to a peculiar, unreadable smile. “Somehow I expected him to
come around, as if he were... I don‟t know... Looking for an excuse?”
Now it was his turn to smile. “I think I‟m the one who was looking for an excuse,
Lauren. James Banick is one of the finest first officers I‟ve ever had, and he will make an
even better captain given enough time. I couldn‟t ask him to throw his career away.”
“Callaghan didn‟t seem to have the same problem,” Hornsby returned. “What did you
say to him?”
“The truth,” Ainsley shrugged. “Banick needs stability in his life... But Ryan needs
answers a lot more. All I asked him to do was advise Fleet Command and then report it to
Banick. He did the rest by himself.”
~
Stripped to the waist, wearing only her undershirt, Sarah Cunningham sat with her
left boot hiked up on the bench opposite her, massaging the aching tendons beneath her
knee with a firm hand as she watched the screen hanging from the wall intently. Sam Rogers
was somewhere behind her rattling about in his temporary locker none the wiser.
Fleet Admiral Jack Riley was standing behind a lectern at UEO headquarters, his
well-cut and groomed figure betrayed by a particular tiredness in his eyes that Cunningham
had recognised immediately. Despite that, the man stood firmly and proudly as he set his
notes out upon the dais and eyed the reporters off-screen.
“...Sam,” she called, her eyes not breaking from the monitor. “You should really see
this.”
Riley cleared his throat, making a light-hearted observation to another journalist with
a broad, confident smile before looking back over the unseen crowd. “Good morning, and
thank you all for coming. I realise this is short notice, but I‟ll endeavour to keep this brief. I
will spend a few moments discussing the situation, and will then take questions.”
Rogers ran his hands through his hair as he reached for his uniform shirt, frowning
with a sneer. “You know what he‟s going to say,” Rogers snapped. “...Something about
„meeting objectives‟ and paying token tributes to the grunts. Turn it off.”
Cunningham glared at him silently before turning back to the monitor.
...Riley had taken a moment to compose himself, sniffing the air as he read and then
re-read the first few lines of his notes, and then pushed his glasses back on to the bridge of
his nose. “Yesterday evening at a combined sitting of the UEO Joint Chiefs of Staff, a review
of the current and ongoing operations of the navy highlighted several areas of strategic
policy that the United Earth Oceans Security Council believes require adjustment. Of the
policies reviewed, one of the most critical has been the previous defensive postures that
were adopted by the Joint Chiefs under my direction in the staged withdrawal of combat
areas in the far-west, and the central Pacific basin.”
Riley paused again. “That policy was one that I took personal responsibility for as the
Commander-in-Chief of the United Earth Oceans Pacific Fleet, and upon review of this
decision, it has been found that of several possible alternatives, my choice to withdraw from
the Hawaiian Islands on the date of May sixth, two thousand and forty one, was contrary and
- 213 -

undermining to the progressive execution of this conflict, to the ends of a resolution that will
see the continued maintenance of UEO peacekeeping operations across the globe.”
Cunningham sighed as she realised what was happening, and Rogers uttered a
silent curse under his breath as Riley paused once again amid the din of snapping cameras.
“To be clear,” Riley reiterated, “As the commanding officer of the combined UEO
military, any oversight or failure to anticipate the changing needs and nature of this conflict
rests with me, and after direct, meaningful and courteous consultation with the Secretary-
General, I have decided that it is inappropriate for me to continue to serve in my present
role, as Commander in Chief of the United Earth Oceans Navy.”
The flash and click of cameras surged at that, and Cunningham felt her stomach turn.
“Commensurate with this decision, and having advised the offices of the Joint Chiefs
of Staff, Naval Intelligence and our allied partners in the North Pacific Confederation and
North Sea Confederation, I have tendered my resignation from all active duties to the Office
of the Secretary-General, effective immediately.”
“I would just like to say,” Riley said, removing his glasses and addressing the crowd
more directly, “The United Earth Oceans Organization represents and upholds the best of
human ideals and rights of expression, and it is has been with great belief and trust in that
charter that I have served with equally great pride... to the very best of my ability.”
“I leave this post secure in the knowledge that we are defended, selflessly and most
capably, by the finest group of servicemen in the world, who even now lay down their lives in
defence of our continued freedoms of their own volition, for wherever we may hail as home,
and for the betterment of all. I would ask only that you continue to support them as they
continue in their great task, and seek to bring about the next, peaceful chapter in this
organization‟s history. Thank you. I will now take your questions.”
Predictably, the floor erupted, and Riley surveyed the crowed before pointing at one
of the nearer rows. “Anthony?”
“Anthony Wilder, WNN... Admiral, was this your decision?”
Riley nodded. “The decision was made after consultation with the Secretary-General,
and it was mutually recognised to be the most appropriate outcome, yes.”
Riley pointed at another.
“Sir, having worked with him as Chief of Staff of the NSC fleet, would you
characterize your relationship with Secretary-General Cathgate as „strained‟ since he took
office?”
Riley smiled. “Let me just say as a general observation - No post of high martial
office can effectively serve an administration without a respect for its position and I have
nothing but respect for the office of the Secretary-General and any person who should hold
that office.” Riley looked at another reporter. “Yes?”
“Admiral, Leah Scott from Williams-Leong Securities. Recent UEO fleet movements
have suggested that the General Staff might have implemented a change in theatre
strategy... Has this affected the timing of this decision?”
The Admiral handled that question carefully, smiling nonchalantly and shrugging
gently. “Miss Scott, you of all people in this room should know that as a policy, I do not
comment on any questions relating to military strategy. Next question.”
Cunningham slumped forward in the chair. “Fuck.”
“That son of a bitch burned him,” muttered Rogers icily.
Cunningham removed her boot from the desk and got up to turn the screen off with a
slap of her hand and then slumped against the bulkhead. “Wouldn‟t be the first time
Cathgate‟s fucked someone over for his own hide.”
She said it coldly, remembering well the fate of the Atlantis, and what that had meant
for then-Captain Ainsley. It had effectively ended his career, and this was no different.
Publically, Riley had been permitted to say anything he liked – but privately, she knew it
would have been a very different story.
Rogers and Cunningham continued to stand in silence for a few moments longer
before Sarah finally pulled off her shirt and reached in to her pack for a fresh one. Rogers
- 214 -

kicked one of the lockers with his boot before throwing the rest of his gear inside and
shutting it with a rueful sigh.
Both pilots turned when Commander Roberts rounded the corner just a few seconds
behind the sound of her footsteps clicking across the tiles of the ante room. The Rapier
squadron leader eyed them both quickly before looking around the otherwise empty locker
room. “Stones, Birds, briefing room in five minutes. Roderick wants a word.”
Ed Richards walked the length of the D-deck port access corridor alone, the few
members of the DSV‟s ground staff he passed paying him little attention as they hustled to
assignments elsewhere in the sprawling maze of the ship‟s extensive EVA decks. Every now
and then, an officer would catch his gaze through the corner of their eye, offering curt nods
and the occasional salute with his passage.
He returned their tips casually as he neared the cross catwalk leading to the ship‟s
main flight operations command centre. Looking out the viewports of the bridge-like cross
corridor, he could see the hangar decks spread out far below the suspended gantry catwalks
where dozens of plane crews and maintenance staff continued to marshal fighters, bombers
and shuttles to and from the flight line.
It was with some curiosity that he noted the strange mix of tail pennants that were
being lined up behind the drop shafts. Rapier, Dark Angel and Ghost call numbers all sat
side by side, with Roberts and Coyle‟s fighters at the head of the respective formations. If
Roderick were planning mixed sorties as a way of encouraging integration, then he wouldn‟t
be surprised.
Of course, he thought with a smile, it would be a hard sell with Gavin Mackenzie who
would argue that his own pilots were being put at a disadvantage with their stealthy Raptor
IIIs being forced to operate alongside the comparatively noisy Mark IIs in joint efforts. This in
turn led him to another thought as it occurred to him that the move might have been a
deliberate measure for Roderick to pitch her case on the rapid delivery of more of the Mark
IIIs. The longer they were forced to wait, the longer the entire sea wing would be put at risk.
Richards smiled as he ran the inevitable argument between Mackenzie and Roderick
through his head, „like a bickering husband and wife‟, he thought with some amusement.
„Whose turn is it to take the kids to school?‟
In their time aboard the Ticonderoga, rumours of a relationship between Roderick
and Mackenzie had at times been rampant on the mill. They shared a close friendship in a
high-pressure profession, and few even stopped to think that Mackenzie had been happily
married at the time. That, too, had changed with San Diego – his wife and most of his family
burned in to shadows across the ground. It had put paid to the rumours, of course, but it had
driven home a powerful message to the crew of Aquarius, and one that they had evidently
embraced cleanly.
Richards, however, had no family and those he perhaps once did care enough to find
counsel in were no more interested in his problems than he was in theirs. This war had taken
a dangerous turn no thanks to Section Seven, having cost everyone something, no matter
how small or large, and whether they realised it or not. Everyone had problems, and they
needed to learn how to deal with them. Still, this nagged at Richards - going against every
facet of his training as a fighter pilot, in those revered, tightly held creeds of 'brotherhood'
and camaraderie. It was a strange position of limbo, brought on in no small part due to his
'condition'. Nothing they could do would help him overcome that, and that was where the
notion fell apart. One way or another, he would fight his war alone, and re-enter theirs in his
own way, of his own accord, when he was ready.
Richards paused at the entrance to the briefing room, drawing a sharp breath as he
stared down at his aching leg. Three other pilots entered the room ahead of him, giving him
a quizzical glance that went unseen as he closed his eyes and tried to block out the pain in
his toes... Toes that were no longer there. 'That's odd,' he thought as he registered the
sensation, and came to realise that where his leg ended at the knee there was only
numbness.
- 215 -

Exhaling slowly and pushing the pain to the back of his mind, he stepped in to the
briefing room to find the other 73 pilots of the rag-tag sea wing already in their seats. The
Aquarius pilots - those that were left of the Thunderbolts, Crusaders, Widowmakers and
Banshees, dominated the front rows. Richards ran his eyes over them twice to be certain he
hadn't made a mistake, but moving between the sea of squadron patches, he didn't see a
single member of the 97th Fighter Squadron, the Cobras, anywhere in the crowd. His heart
sank with this realisation, recalling the two, lonely and canopy-less Raptor IIIs that were
tucked away in a quiet corner of the hangar when he had arrived, the battered iconography
of a coiled snake still visible amidst the shattered tail fins. A quick run of the numbers
present, compared to the numbers of squadrons on the Aquarius flight deck painted an even
more desperate picture. Of the forty eight possible members of the four squadrons, just
twenty one were present. Making up the rest of the numbers behind them sat the twelve
pilots of the Ghosts, with Dark Angels and Rapiers sitting uncomfortably at the rear. How
Mackenzie's group had escaped without losses like those present throughout the rest of the
room, he didn't know.
Corinn Roderick entered the briefing room through a door that directly adjoined the
Wing Commander's office at the side of the auditorium. Shuffling without much enthusiasm,
the pilots all stood as she took her place behind the lectern and eyed the pilots in the front
rows. Her eyes appeared to soften as she noted their numbers, just as Richards had, and
she cleared her throat.
"Good morning," she said simply.
There was a chorus of unenthused replies which she didn't fuss over as she laid out
her notes. "Be seated..."
Richards still stood at the back of the room, leaning against the back wall next to the
stairs as a shadow fell in beside him. He turned to find Gavin Mackenzie give him an
encouraging smile with an extended hand. Despite his own, decidedly non-altruistic
inclinations at that moment, he couldn't help but give a half smile to the man as he took the
offered hand. He could no more begrudge Mackenzie than he could Roderick... Someone
they both, incidentally, held very dear. "Good to see you, Ed."
...Ticonderoga stank of death. Richards was reached the hangar deck as the last of
the stores were loaded into his Raptor. All around him were the sounds of technicians
turning fighters around, making them as ready as possible to dive into hell once again. He
couldn‟t help but notice the amount of holding bays that were conspicuously empty. As
usual, the ground crews scurried about in a state of organized chaos; preparing what little
remained of the ship‟s fighter group for combat against what everyone knew was now a
vastly superior enemy. He shuddered at the thought of how many pilots had already been
lost, and how many more were likely to be dead by the time the Chaodai finished with them.
He turned around as he heard footsteps coming across the EVA deck. Kate Stephenson
stood in her flight suit with her helmet tucked under one arm, and returned his smile – albeit
a forced one. Richards saw through it.
“…Ed,” she began, and then faltered.
“I know, Kate. Save me the water works.” He shrugged helplessly. “I feel sorrier for
the Commander…” he said, referring to Mackenzie.
Stephenson nodded. “Yeah. Brother-in-law.” She choked up again. Richards was a
stone, and felt little. The loss had hit him hard, but he knew this wasn‟t the time to grieve. He
wrapped an arm around her shoulder and felt her lean into his chest, and the tears that she
had been holding back for several hours flowed. Richards just held her. He looked up as the
sound of something rumbling across the gratings reached his ears. He smiled weakly as
Commander Gavin Mackenzie rolled to a stop next to him and Stephenson.
“Sir,” he said simply.
“Ed…” Mackenzie said, looking round, like Richards had, at the empty bays of the
hangar. “Good work out there. Thanks for staying alive.”
Richards nodded. “Seemed to be the popular idea...”
- 216 -

Mackenzie stood up from his wheelchair, and in the light, Richards realised just how
gaunt his CO‟s face looked. He looked at Stephenson, still in his arms, but leaning against
him only lightly now and saw the same look in her face. 'Goddamn this fucking war, he
thought suddenly. Too high a price to pay. Too high a price for anyone, ever. We don‟t
deserve this. Nobody deserves this. Damn Bourne, damn him to all the hells on this godforsaken
earth.'
He didn‟t voice a thing, but Mackenzie could read his mind. “It‟s okay, Ed,” he said.
“We‟ll get through this...”
Richards snapped back from his vivid recall of the darkest day of his career to find
the older, harsher face of Mackenzie still staring at him. It had been just over two years since
their old unit, the 111 th Fighter Squadron, the Rangers, had been all but obliterated at the
Battle of Ryukyu Trench. The survivors of that squadron, and another, the Peacemakers
now sat before them as the aptly-named VF-123 Ghosts. Mackenzie still bore the emotional
scars of that day... it had been his squadron, and they'd lost too many friends to let the pain
fade.
Roderick had already been talking for several minutes, most of what she had said in
opening having completely gone in one of Richards' ears, and out the other.
The Captain paused for a minute, going almost completely off-brief. "I clearly can‟t
speak for those of you who had already made this decision... But I'll be honest," she said
distantly. "This has been one of the hardest choices I have ever had to make, and it's not
one I've taken lightly, because I‟ve been struggling to find a reason for what we‟re really
doing out here."
For a moment, Roderick began to see other faces in the crowd, long gone, but hardly
forgotten. There were a few smiles amongst those lost names, Miles, Anderson, Toussaint,
but with all of them came an irrational sense of guilt. She held them closer to her heart than
any other pilot under her command, having given their lives in defence of an ideal that was
being steadily forgotten by the tyrants of the UEO Command. It occurred to her that it was an
ideal she was now prepared to turn her back on. "We've all made sacrifices to be here, and
for many of us, we may never be able to return to the lives we've left behind.”
Roderick leaned on to the lectern casually, smiling back at invisibly at the absent
names in the crowd. It was a disarming expression for some, most notably Mackenzie and
Dustin Coyle, who felt as if they'd just instantly witnessed ten years melt from her face. "I've
spent most of the last hour trying to think of something meaningful to say to you all," she
admitted. "But then I remembered how it was being amongst you all about two years ago,
listening to another pilot give us a spiel about how we drew strength from each other," she
said lightly, her smile still carrying her thoughts. "Gabriel Hitchcock must have looked every
single one us in the eye when he said it, and I still remember virtually every word. I won't
insult the wisdom of his thoughts now by trying to reinterpret them, so instead I'll simply
remind you."
Roderick looked down briefly before unfolding a sheet of paper from inside her jacket
pocket, setting it down on top of her notes before locking eyes with each of the Dark Angels.
"...'I can tell you that I will be with you every step of the way through this coming battle,'"
Roderick read aloud. "We‟ve been up against the best they can throw at us before, and
we‟ve knocked them down each time. We‟ve learnt from our mistakes, and we‟ve mourned
our losses. So all we can do today is fly as we always have and if we can do that, then we
may walk away from this alive, and the world will be a better place for it."
Roderick paused again, remembering the way Hitchcock had said it. "Look around at
every other pilot here, and on their faces you will see no trace of fear, no nervous
apprehension, but simple confidence. Their confidence comes from you, and I want you to
take heart in that. They will be there to watch your backs, just as they know you will be there
to watch theirs.'"
Roderick held up the note and shrugged at the gathered pilots. "I remembered
almost every word of that," she admitted again. "Lately I've been asking myself why I'm here,
and I believe that those words have given me an answer. We aren't out here for the UEO,
- 217 -

and we never were. At some point, each of us in this room have shed blood for another, be it
our own or that of the enemy, and we are the lucky ones to be able to sit here now and talk
about it. If you ask a dozen people in this room why they are here, then you will probably get
a dozen different answers... So instead, I want you to ask yourself not why you're here, but
what it is you've chosen to fight for, and on that, let me be the first to say that my answer is
that it's for each of you, and every other pilot who has ever sat in those chairs, for those who
never came home, and for those we left behind."
Richards felt uncomfortable as he saw Roderick‟s eyes come to rest on him, but still
brought himself to straighten before the unspoken inquisition.
Roderick continued. “We‟re fighting a war against an enemy that is patient, deliberate
and calculating, and what‟s more, we‟re losing. That ends today, but the outcome of this war
should be determined by how we fight it.”
~
Ryan Callaghan stalked the bridge of the Aquarius DSV in silence, its officers and
senior staff tending to their duties with quiet proficiency and skill. Hornsby had kept a tight
ship, despite her separation from the UEO fleet, and it surprised him how everything still felt
so familiar. More than that, he felt out of place and maybe even unneeded as he looked
across the middle deck area to the tactical operations post manned by Lieutenant
Commander Akara and his staff. Callaghan was an XO without a captain, and a weapons
officer without a post, stuck in limbo.
Commander Razak appeared uncomfortable with his presence on the ship‟s bridge,
having said little since his arrival just a short hour before. Occasionally, Callaghan would
stand near one of the bridge stations, gathering what small pieces of information he could
about the ship‟s position and status, and each time he did, Razak looked as if he would
explode from his chair drag him off the command deck by his collar.
Callaghan had not seen either Hornsby or Ainsley since they had arrived, and from
Razak‟s discomfort, neither had he. The distinct feeling of friction between Ainsley‟s ragtag
entourage and the crew of the Aquarius seemed palpable – but for one of those officers at
least, they could not stand it any longer.
Razak signed off on an unseen report upon his side console and steadily got up,
stretching once or twice with a wince before straightening his uniform. Callaghan had no
idea how long the XO had been sitting in that chair, only knowing that he had not once got
up from the seat in the entire time he‟d been standing on the command deck. Whether it was
curiosity or the need to simply stretch his legs, the XO finally trotted down the short flight of
stairs to meet Callaghan near the weapons station.
At first, Razak paid him no attention as he looked straight past, his eyes coming to
rest on Akara at the centre console. “We should be at the marker in the next few minutes.
Any word?”
The weapons chief shook his head. “Nothing yet. I‟ve had Kat send the WSKRS
ahead… Knowing them, they‟re probably playing it safe until they know it‟s clear.”
“Keep me updated,” Razak said, his eyes shifting to Callaghan. “Eerie, isn‟t it,
Commander Callaghan?”
Ryan looked across at Aquarius‟ XO, doing his best to repress his surprise. “I‟m
sorry?”
“No one expects this to be easy - Being on this bridge,” Razak looked around the
command deck.
Callaghan smiled. “It‟s just a ship, Commander.”
Callaghan was, of course, lying. He felt the discomfort of it just as readily as any
other member of Atlantis‟s former crew. The eerie familiarity of the place and seeing another
crew at those stations seemed like a part of him had been abandoned and forgotten. Razak
- 218 -

was right, and even though it wasn‟t Atlantis, the place still carried a palpable sense of
entitlement.
“You still haven‟t told any of us where we‟re headed, Commander,” Callaghan noted
after a few moment‟s silence.
Razak‟s head turned slowly, a small smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry,”
he said. “Hornsby‟s orders.”
Callaghan folded his arms, raising his eyebrow in feigned surprise. “Interesting. I was
under the impression Admiral Ainsley was in command.”
Razak‟s smile vanished. “We have higher orders.”
Davis Akara shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the two Commanders appeared to
settle themselves in for a territorial stoush. Callaghan knew a losing fight when he saw it,
and continued to purse his lips – at the very least, Razak had tipped him off to something
Hornsby hadn‟t thought to explain. Aquarius was acting on the orders of someone much
higher in the chain of command, superseding even Ainsley‟s authority. Few offices had
stripes over the rank of Mark Ainsley, and the options were few – perhaps ultimately coming
down to the heads of the NSIS and ONI, Admirals Anise Schrader and Jason Hargreaves.
Callaghan smirked inwardly. It was hardly his first dealing with the UEO‟s intelligence
services, with both offices having put their noses in to Ainsley‟s affairs on multiple occasions
before then. A move that would ultimately keep him on a shorter, controlled leash at the
helm of the Aquarius had just the right ring of selective oversight to it to point the finger at
Schrader.
Callaghan raised an eyebrow. “So, why did you do it?” he asked the XO bluntly.
“Do what?” Razak looked back.
“Disappeared, cut off communications to the fleet, fought a private war... I need to
spell it out?”
“I don‟t think we had much of a choice, do you?”
“The world thinks you‟re dead, Commander. I don‟t think it was as simple as that.”
Razak took a slow, almost overbearing step forward. “I‟ll say this only once,
Commander, and I strongly suggest that if you wish to remain in Captain Hornsby‟s good
graces you do not ask her the same question,” he said, the gutteral edge of bitter resentment
growling in his throat, “There was nothing simple for this crew in watching their families die in
‟41. We aren‟t going to stand by and be made to watch as that moron of a Secretary-General
in New Cape Quest does it all over again, and that, I can promise you was a simple
decision.”
He continued to stare at Razak for several moments, the rueful twinge of pain quite
visibly glinting in his eyes before he added “and what about you?”
Callaghan didn‟t get a chance to answer as he felt the subtle thump beneath his feet
while the air popped with a change of pressure. Warning bells rang nosily as the massive
clam-shell pressure doors at the control deck‟s port side cracked open under the heavy
whine of hydraulics. Lauren Hornsby was flanked by Mark Ainsley and Anniel Rhodes as she
stepped through the breach and headed straight for the command deck, the Admiral beside
her casting a pale and familiar gaze over the bridge before him, the track of his eyes pausing
as they came to rest on the ghostly avatar of the ship‟s seal on the bulkhead behind the
command chair.
Callaghan and Razak rounded the lower control deck in opposite directions as they
made for the adjacent staircases up to the command level. Aquarius‟s bridge, just like
Atlantis, was split across three levels with the lower control deck containing helm, tactical,
weapons and navigation being ringed behind and at the sides by the operations deck, which
held EVA, the OOD, communications, sonar, and ops. Above both decks, sitting directly
above and behind the primary weapons stations they had just been attending was the
command deck. The Captain‟s view of the bridge from that position was extensive, with clear
lines of sight down past an adjacent navigational plot and several banks of command
consoles. Hornsby stood behind the balustrades at the end of that precipice, exchanging
quiet words with Rhodes as Razak approached from around the chart table. Callaghan fell in
- 219 -

next to Ainsley, his brow curving upward in silent inquiry that drew only an unknowing shake
of the head.
“Ari,” Hornsby ordered, looking down at the small pedestal beside the main chart
table.
A hazy shimmer of blue light illuminated the command deck as the little hologram
materialized in to a solid form. Ainsley felt a slight chill in the air as he recognised her – a
woman, black haired, and wearing the uniform of a navy commander. Ari‟s eyes had an
especially brilliant fire to them as she looked up at Hornsby with a coy smile, her hands
folded neatly behind her back. “Good morning, Captain,” she said lightly.
“How are you?” Hornsby smiled back.
“...Better,” Ari said distractedly with an approving nod. “It‟s taking me a while to get
used to the changes, but, I think I‟ll live.”
Ainsley regarded the AI suspiciously. Visually, she was nearly identical to Annie, the
black hair notwithstanding, but something in her demeanour – normally professional, polite
and confident – had changed. Ari was different. If Ainsley had to use a word to describe it,
the word would have been „coy.‟
“Hello again, Admiral,” the AI said again, turning to face Ainsley with a curt nod. “It‟s
been quite some time. Welcome aboard.”
“Hello, Ari,” he replied, unable to remove the suspicion from his tone. This seemed to
amuse the AI, and she smiled wryly before looking back at Hornsby. “We‟ve reached the
outer perimeter of the facility, captain, holding steady at a depth of sixteen thousand three
hundred and fifteen feet.”
“Hail the base. Secure channel through the SOC, low band only.”
Ari nodded once. “Done.”
Hornsby smiled. “Davis, send our flash ID and hold at one mile. Set WSKRS forward
for eyes-on, then stand by.”
The captain turned on her heel. “Mark, will you join me here, please?”
Ainsley took a breath as he stepped up to the conn beside Hornsby, and the captain
lowered her voice. “There is a lot more you need to be told, Mark,” she said with an inflection
of apology. “Ari? Put her up.”
Hornsby looked back at the main screen at the front of the bridge as it switched from
the bank of sensor feeds to the heads-up-display of a WSKRS probe somewhere ahead of
the ship. At first there was little more than murky, light-stained fog as the comm. feed was
directed straight to the probe‟s forward gun camera, its flood lights refracting hopelessly off
the gloom as plankton, debris and silt flew by. Akara quickly switched to the satellite‟s
hypersonar overlay, and it became a very different picture.
Atlantis loomed out of the darkness, her bow jutting from the rock precipice like a
dagger thrust through bone, resting against a shelf along the trench wall where she had
fallen so many months before. The silt, rock and sleet that had fallen on to her flanks in that
time had practically buried the great ship‟s wings, and she was covered in a field of heavy,
ungainly debris.
...Ainsley looked closer at the image, re-examining the supposed „debris‟. He then
saw the flood lights that ran in perfect lines next to the ungainly striations that were littered
over the submarine‟s massive bulk, literally planted on to its superstructure in a prefabricated
spider‟s web of connecting bridge-tunnels, pressure domes, scaffolds and control
towers. It wasn‟t a debris field so much as an encampment. Dozens of structures – a vast
majority occupying the precipice, with many more embedded in to the sheer rock walls
above and below the sheer cliffs of the trench – dotted the seascape. Tiny worker minisubs
darted, ducked and hovered over the monstrous DSV at the centre as a small patrol of
fighters shot through the trench below before rapidly disappearing behind a rocky outcrop.
The Admiral shuffled forward on Aquarius‟s command deck towards the balustrade,
planting his hands on the railing with his jaw agape. For all Hornsby had told him, nothing
even came close to preparing him for what lay before him. Atlantis‟s upper hull was an ugly,
smashed mess of scaffold, ruined bulkheads and calloused, mal-formed bioskin that
extended from her forward missile tubes to the top of her engineering hull. In some places, it
- 220 -

was clear that the bioskin had regrown and sealed certain sections, but the mammoth
amount of construction equipment that surrounded her painted the real picture clearly –
Atlantis was a ruin.
But more than that, she was intact.
Deep within Ainsley‟s heart and mind, a fiery and irrational spark of hope began to
burn. How she had survived the 4.9-mile plunge to the bottom of that trench, he had little
clue, but for all the questions he now had, there was one, single overriding sense of
undeniable purpose with which to work.
“How is this possible?” he asked, his voice coming only as a shocked whisper.
“Six, long, determined months,” Hornsby replied, a smile beaming on her face. “She‟s
a very long way from seaworthy, Mark. It‟s taken us this long just to get the facilities.”
“She shouldn‟t have survived,” Ainsley said again, shaking his head.
“Evidently, Admiral... she did,” Rhodes added.
Hornsby was still smiling as Ainsley‟s face steadily dissolved in to a broken, lopsided
smile, his heart thumping in his chest as his knuckles gripped the railing.
Hornsby took a step back and to the side, pulling up next to the Admiral to lean in
gently. “Would you like to see her?”
Mark Ainsley grinned.
“Don‟t keep me waiting, Lauren... We‟ve got a lot of work to do.”
~
- 221 -

EPILOGUE
C O G I T O E R G O S UM
UEO Atlantis DSV-8100, ONI ‘Lazarus’ Base, the Polynesian Trench. April 17 th ,
2043…
Aquarius had made her moorings at the ONI facility less than an hour after she had
arrived, moving in to position alongside a massive, makeshift pier that had been suspended
from the canyon walls. The enormous base, dubbed „Lazarus‟ by its Naval Intelligence staff,
spanned two square miles of seafloor, half embedded in to the rock face, and half sprawled
across the trench precipice along with the Atlantis herself. Aquarius, as if a faithful, loving
sister, hung over the salvage site proudly, her bows casting a long, protective shadow over
her wounded sister below - her ventral flood lamps occasionally tracking maintenance subs
and heavy lifting craft that moved through the gloom below that dared to approach without
stated intention.
Aquarius‟s return to the site came almost with a sort of fanfare. Docking procedures
were straightforward, but the feeling of anticipation amongst her senior staff – most notably
Ainsley and his own entourage – was reaching a fever pitch by the time the final umbilical
gantries and airlocks were extende. Much of the afternoon of the 16 th of April was spent in
briefings and updates as Ainsley, Callaghan and Roderick met with members of the UEO
Office of Naval Intelligence and the NSIS where the true scope of the operation was finally
explained. Much as Callaghan had expected, and although she was not present, it became
clear to them that Schrader was very much involved, and even if he had no direct control
over the operation, Jason Hargreaves was at least aware of its existence.
That so much was so brazenly and so comprehensively being kept from the highest
offices of the UEO military command rocked Corinn Roderick and Ryan Callaghan to their
cores, but for Ainsley, there was only the foreboding and jaded realisation of that which had
suspected for a very long time. After thirty six years in the military, he had come to hold a
very unique and very well-founded mistrust of the fleet‟s intelligence services. There was at
some level a truth to the idea that they would only answer to their own self serving sense of
ideology. By Ainsley‟s estimation, intelligence services the world over were filled with two
types of people: those who were naive, stupid or ignorant enough to simply accept a given
scenario or proposition without question, and those who understood that the service came
with an expectation and understanding that some of their ideals would have to be sacrificed
on occasion for the betterment of the whole.
That was, simply put, the personal cost of a life in the intelligence service, and the
UEO was founded on concepts that made their secretive creeds and mandates the very
objects of sensational public political scrutiny.
Ainsley reminded himself that it was that very special and select group who could live
with that understanding and carry on regardless that included some of his oldest friends, and
bitterest of separations. Schrader had used his known, often vocal idealisms and played him
accordingly.
And, for better or worse, he could live with it.
It took Aquarius several hours to finally secure the watch. Ammunition, fuel and
maintenance stores began to arrive aboard small transports from the ONI base, marines
were assigned to sentry duties and a good number of the crew were rotated to the base for
what could only barely begin to be described as „shore leave‟. The few ONI staff that had
come aboard when the DSV secured her moorings appeared to have a keen interest in
watching virtually everyone as they moved to and from the base, whether their business was
official or not.
By 0800 the following morning, Aquarius‟s own minor repair duties were well in hand,
and there had been few reports of note for any of her senior staff to contend with. Admiral
Ainsley disembarked the ship without ceremony or much formal notice a little after ten-past,
- 222 -

and had quickly headed for the base transit hub which eventually led him to the main gantry
that served as the direct accessway to Atlantis. When the elevator doors finally opened at
the bottom of that facility, the view that met him was nothing less than astonishing.
The observation tower at the top of the gantry looked out directly over the ruined hull
of the DSV, its six-inch-thick view ports offering an expansive view of the upper most
reconstruction works. For several long minutes, he had simply stood at the portal and
watched in silence, studying the work that had already been done to the ship. Vast sections
of the outer hull‟s plate work that had been destroyed by the detonation of the subduction
warheads had been stripped away, and huge clamps and feeder tanks were hooked in to the
thick, flesh-like bioskin which had been cut back and pulled away. Even under the
illumination of the twelve titanic light towers above, it was hard to make out much in the way
of detail through the gloom.
The entire operation felt surreally like a giant operating theatre, the patient covered in
frames, lights, clamps and coverings that concealed the rest of her towering flanks. Robotic
drones worked efficiently through the mess of damaged and rebuilt support frames, loading
and unloading cargo pallets from a constant and steady stream of DSRVs that hovered
around the site. Most impressive of all was the single, massive crane that had been erected
over the ship‟s shelter decks, supported by a temporary and ungainly set of hefty
construction scaffolds which were used to hoist and manoeuvre the larger sections of hull
that were being replaced.
Ainsley moved on, slowly strolling through the boarding tunnel that adjoined with the
ship somewhere forward of the main hangar bays, all the while reflecting on those dark
moments that had reduced the great ship to this.
...He stopped in surprise as he looked around at where he then stood. Plainly, it was
one of the starboard cross-corridors on Atlantis, but he had never even remembered walking
through an airlock. It took him several moments to realise, as he turned and looked back up
his path, that the gantry had been physically built in to the ship‟s internal decks, and the only
reason he didn‟t even notice was that the deck he now stood on had been completely rebuilt.
He ran his hand across the cool metal of the bulkhead as he read the frame code: D-
Deck, frame seven, starboard cross-junction. There was a sobering moment of silence as he
paused in his walk and drew a breath, smelling the stale air. It smelt rank of oils, fuel and
industrial lubricants. The air was still, too, the long and dim passages that extended in to the
bowels of the ship before him ringing dully of the distant sound of generators, twisting metal
and tools.
Ainsley reminded himself sorely that five hundred and eighty three people had died in
those halls. Many had perished instantly in the moment that the Alliance missiles struck the
ship, ripping open her hull like claws through an animal. Others had died in the fires that had
washed through the corridor he now stood in, and many more like it. He didn‟t have to walk
far before he rounded a corner and was stopped by a transverse bulkhead, the corridor
abruptly ending at a tightly sealed pressure door. Ainsley had no way of knowing what was
behind that bulkhead, whether it was simply an unsecured and damaged section of the ship,
or a complete hull breach with seven thousand pounds per square inch of pressure behind it.
The stairwell next to that bulkhead, however, seemed intact.
The flight deck was traditionally the busiest part of any warship, be it a surface
aircraft carrier like those that for so long defined traditional naval powers, or modern
subcarriers like Atlantis or Commonwealth. No matter the time of day or night, ground crews
would work around the clock to keep fighters maintained, armed, fuelled and returned to
flight lines for deployments that could be ordered with as little as five minute‟s notice... or
even less.
Few things, then, were as genuinely spooky as an abandoned flight deck hangar,
and absolutely none were as large as the one which sat in the bowels of Atlantis. The flight
deck of the DSV was so massive that one could probably fill it with grandstands and still
have an area large enough to play a game of professional football. Two hundred meters
long, eighty meters wide, the operational decks alone spanned six decks, and that didn‟t
- 223 -

even account for the service decks on C and D decks, or the launch bays deep within the
ship‟s belly.
Of course, those launch bays were now buried four-decks-deep in mud, silt and rock,
which made the entire hangar bay little more than an eerie tomb for the few, shattered hulks
of ruined fighters that still littered the main flight deck.
Ainsley stood alone at the centre of that place, booting a loose chunk of baffling that
had fallen from some place high in the rafters and cross beams across the deck to hear it
echo in the darkness of the maintenance bays. The giant catwalk gantry that once hung high
from the ceiling seven decks above his head now dominated the flight deck, its shattered
mass of girders having crushed several old Raptor subfighters that remained where they had
died, their hooked noses twisting upwards from under the frames, lying in pools of their own,
semi-dried lubricants and fluids.
How any of it had survived truly astonished the Admiral. The hangar should have
been crushed like an eggshell when the sea doors gave way during the ship‟s descent, but
even that he found surprising. Despite the incredible damage the ship has sustained, those
doors had remained closed, locked and sealed, protecting virtually all of her habitable decks
and spaces. Her ruined ballast tanks notwithstanding – a powerful force of will had exerted
great effort to keep the hull intact, and Ainsley was determined to find out how, and perhaps
more importantly, why.
He stared up at the great trident that still hung from the forward bulkhead, barely
illuminated by the work lights that had been strung from the upper decks by the crews who
still worked to bring the ship back to life. He had noticed a few of those crews working on the
upper decks of the hangar - welders and torches occasionally flaring up with an
accompanying echo of inaudible chatter amongst the engineers. Ainsley had no idea what
was going on deeper within those upper decks, but it was clear that the hangar – with all its
abandoned and inaccessible utility – was about the lowest of their priorities.
“She told me I‟d find you here,” said the pilot as he stepped through the hangar doors
and trotted steadily down the stairs.
Ainsley turned sharply, finding the man‟s approach slowing with deliberate hesitation.
“Hornsby?”
Thomas Parker smiled. “She was going to give you a tour of the upper levels,” Parker
noted, looking up at the roof and the engineers who continued to pay them little attention.
“They opened up C-deck between the eighth and tenth frames again for the first time last
week, but there really isn‟t much left down here.”
“Just mess,” Ainsley recalled quietly, looking back at the smashed Raptors. “Like I
said, a lot of work to do...”
“I‟d be surprised if you found anything down here at all,” Parker nodded.
Ainsley smirked inwardly before looking at Parker. “I found you didn‟t I?”
After that, Ainsley seemed to ignore him for long, awkward seconds before Parker
took another step forward and raised his head, trying to make a measure of the Admiral‟s
reason. In the entire time since Aquarius had met Commonwealth, Ainsley had not made a
single attempt to speak to Parker, and while he was fairly certain he understood why, it
hadn‟t made their personal positions any easier.
“I‟m not sure what you want me to say, Mark,” Parker said, straining a deep sigh. “It
wasn‟t an easy choice.”
Ainsley turned. “It intrigues me, Thomas, that you believed you even had one,” he
sneered. “Jessica needed you, and you left her. From where I am standing, that‟s all there is
to it.”
“You‟re a father, too,” Parker snapped. “You‟ve made the same decisions.”
“I never left Sam - not like this!” Ainsley hissed, marching toward him. “We thought
you were dead, and frankly, it might be easier if you were.”
Parker straightened, his jaw tightening. “You would have had me just walk away?” he
asked. “What if it were your family that were blown away in San Diego, Mark? Would you
have walked away too?”
- 224 -

“Don‟t you play this game with me,” he said, drawing up close to the pilot. “She‟s my
daughter, and Michael is your son. If you want to talk about family - what about them? I
understand your loss, Tom, but don‟t throw them away too.”
Parker‟s lip quivered at that. “I love her,” he said simply. “But more than that, I made
a promise to protect her. If we don‟t stand up here and now, and tell Cathgate that we aren‟t
going to let him burn five million people to satisfy a political convenience, then I will have
failed her in that promise. Do you seriously think it will end at Pearl, Mark? That that will be
the end of it?”
“It‟s not your fight,” Ainsley said, shaking his head again.
“And it‟s not yours either!” Parker shot back, his lip curling. “Let me ask you a
question. If we hadn‟t done this, what‟s to say I didn‟t end up with the Ark Royal? There were
eighty seven other pilots on that carrier who would probably have a hell of a lot more to say
about „choice‟ than you can. They died because of an order that you know, as well as I do,
may as well have been an execution. You and I made the same choice, so don‟t get pious
with me and tell me it was the wrong one!”
The Admiral‟s fist connected cleanly with Parker‟s jaw without warning, sending the
pilot sprawling across the deck. Ainsley seethed, almost short of breath as he flexed his
hand and stared down at him. His rage evaporated quickly as Parker looked up, an ugly red
line split across his upper lip as he worked his jaw and struggled to get up.
Ainsley turned away, looking off in to the distant shadows of the hangar as if
expecting to find an answer that he knew would never come. The ghosts who watched him
from those dark places knew it as well as he did.
Parker let out a long breath as he wiped the blood from the back of his hand. “With a
temper like that, I can see why Banick lost,” he winced.
Ainsley closed his eyes. “I‟m sorry,” he rasped.
Parker pulled a tissue from his uniform pocket and smiled lopsidedly. “I‟ll let you have
that one.”
ONI ‘Lazarus’ Base, the Polynesian Trench. June 9 th , 2043…
~
Anniel Rhodes rolled down the deck on her wheeled chair again, snatching the data
padd from the edge of the bench before swiftly turning and pushing her boot off the table leg
to coast back to her desk. Her hand reached for the steaming mug of tea before she‟d even
stopped, and the handle appeared to crest gently in to her palm as the chair came to a stop
before taking a mouthful of the brew.
Her lab facility in the makeshift UEO base was crude by Nycarian standards and
small compared to those available on the Aquarius. Regardless, her work required an
element of stability and dedication – qualities she did not associate with a warship that had
since surrounded its dedicated research labs with emergency wards.
Her cheeks remained puffed around the mouthful of tea for a moment as she read
the data pad again and swallowed slowly with a frown. The core sample‟s she‟d taken from
Atlantis‟s ostensibly „Human‟ AI computer core earlier that morning were just the latest in a
series of that had left her struggling to comprehend the complexities of the UEO system.
Credit where it was due, she thought, the so-called “AI” was the closest thing she‟d
ever seen to a genuine, sentient artificial life form in her entire life, and made the vast
majority of Nycarian systems look nearly archaic. In that, perhaps, was the problem.
“ANNIE”, as the UEO officers had called her, had more in common with a human brain than
a conventional optical fibre core – her central „systems‟ being a delicate weave of genetically
engineered, synthetic neural fibres and gels that invasively ran across the entire length of
the ship like a nervous system.
- 225 -

For much of the prior three months, Rhodes had found it difficult to separate the
biochemical damage inflicted on the network by the Alliance weapon from that caused by the
genetic virus. Her latest core samples were a change in direction, and her areas of study
had finally been refined down to the most basic of patterns – Annie‟s genome itself.
It had taken time, but she had finally managed to reverse-engineer the radically
altered DNA down in to its base origin. That had been the relatively simple part once the
bureaucratic Office of Naval Intelligence finally relented and sent her the recorded DNA
profile of Doctor Anne Ballard; the geneticist who had provided the DNA profile for Annie‟s
development to begin with.
The hard part had been to synthesize an appropriate catalyst from which to identify
the rogue DNA that had so voraciously invaded Annie‟s system. In truth, the extent of that
„infection‟ was so great that she doubted she would ever be able to completely reverse the
damage that had been done, as so little of the original donor‟s DNA remained, but at the
very least, she may have been able to stabilize the rampant affliction to a point where Annie
might yet wake from her apparent „coma‟.
...What would remain of her mind after that, of course, was anyone‟s guess.
The ONI aid who had been assigned to her entered the office a few minutes later,
carrying another data pad that he held out in his hand. Matt Hurst was part of the UEO‟s
medical corps, as best she could tell from his cream-coloured division insignia, and wore a
lab coat over his uniform jumpsuit. She had never thought to ask, and it had never really
seemed important. He was capable enough, but after just a few days of working with him
she had quickly learned to find ways of occupying his attention on other tasks that... As
clever as he was by „normal‟ standards, he was slow to think compared to the Nycarian and
always seemed to be a few steps behind the ball.
It wasn‟t his fault, of course, and Rhodes had made every effort to be polite to the
boy, but after nearly three months of this pattern it was becoming clear to him that much of
Rhodes‟ thought processes remained completely unspoken. He‟d never complained about it,
but the intermittent pauses that followed once he had delivered a report always seem to
suggest the question that he had never brought himself to ask.
Today was a little different.
“This came in for you through the Aquarius,” he said as she took the offered slate.
“Secured through the SOC. Is this what we were waiting on?”
Rhodes smiled as she flicked through the pages on the tablet screen and slaved it to
her workstation. “Yes, it is.”
“I noticed the sender,” Hurst nodded, sitting himself backwards on one of the spare
seats near the desk, his arms folded over the backrest. “He‟s your father, isn‟t he?”
It was a statement more than a question, and Rhodes brushed it aside. “Yes, I had a
hunch,” she said. “I‟m hoping this information will match up with the latest set of lab results.”
Rhodes spun in the chair and put the pad aside before loading the information on to
her main computer. Her fingers flew over the keys quickly, plugging in a formula so complex
and so quickly that Hurst‟s eyes barely had time to read it before she entered the command.
“What was it he sent you?” Hurst asked, watching as the computer tabulated the
results.
“A sample Nycarian genetic history. I recognised a few of the markers in Annie‟s
DNA.”
Hurst gawked at her. “That‟s an outstanding hunch,” he muttered.
Rhodes smirked. “What can I say, I‟m an outstanding girl.”
Hurst was left to smile at that as Rhodes disappeared around then other side of the
lab and sat in front of a diagnostics display, quickly plugging in a series of commands that
brought up a comparison of the two genetic profiles.
A rush of excitement washed over Rhodes at first as she compared to the two
genomes, sharing an 83% correlation across all the key markers, before the exhilaration of
discovery and success gave way to a far more troubling shadow of revelation.
- 226 -

Rhodes swallowed again, writing down a few quite notes with her stylus as Hurst
struggled yet again to keep up. “What?” he asked, noticing the ashen look upon her face.
“What does it mean?”
“There‟s nearly a perfect correlation between the major base pairings,” she said.
“Accounting for the modifications to the AI‟s code, that would suggest the two controls are
related.”
“Rhodes, slow down,” Hurst frowned. “Are you trying to tell me that that Nycarian
DNA shares the same base augment modifications to the virus that is killing Annie?”
Rhodes exhaled slowly. “It‟s not a virus,” she started to realise. “It‟s... a catalyst. The
same one they used to create me... us. The Nycarians.”
Rhodes‟ mind clicked in to gear, pushing aside the startling realisation and
categorically, rapidly eliminating the implausible formulas before resuming her work. In the
time she had spent with Annie, unknowingly studying the very same genetic code that
coursed through her own veins, she had begun to see patterns of generational change.
Annie, by any rational definition, was a human brain that had been engineered and
hardwired to artificial systems built by human hands. She was not governed by the same
cycles of decay and renewal that so defined a biological existence.
83%, Rhodes reminded herself, was still a significant margin of error when dealing
with something so exacting as genetics. There were few ways to explain away the changes,
and she began pulling up a comparison of the three genomes.
The catalyst, the AI, and the Nycarian.
All linked, and none the same.
Annie did not age. A human did.
A human could reproduce. Annie could not.
The only common link they held was that simple, genetic augment that had changed
them both, and Rhodes‟ fingers swiftly flew over the keyboard, linking the common base
pairs.
Rhodes‟ stomach turned as she saw the final outcome – the two lines, superimposed
on the graph, largely in equilibrium before a projection continued a steady but inescapable
divergence that disappeared from the chart. She slumped back in to her chair, her breathing
shallow, and her mind aflutter.
“That‟s not right,” Hurst said, studying the graph as he slowly caught up with Rhodes‟
work. “A genetic catalyst needs to remain neutral for a genome to be stable. There‟s a
generational change here. How did you project this?”
“I asked the computer to simulate what would happen if two instances of the same
catalyst were used to produce a second generation of the DNA.”
“Then you‟ve made a mistake,” Hurst reasoned. “A catalyst that was deliberately
designed to change physiology over the course of multiple generations would destroy itself.”
“There‟s no mistake,” Rhodes sighed. “Annie isn‟t being killed. She‟s being changed.”
Hurst smiled. “But that‟s good, right?”
Anniel Rhodes closed her eyes. “I can slow the decay and stabilize the base pairs
that are causing the breakdowns, yes,” she confirmed.
“Where did this „genetic history‟ come from? Who‟s DNA is it?”
Rhodes swallowed. “It‟s mine.”
Hurst stopped. “But... if that formula is accurate.”
“It is.”
The ONI officer‟s mouth fell agape, his voice falling to a hoarse whisper. “Anniel...
how did this happen?”
She sniffed back a tear as she looked back at the chart. “That doesn‟t really matter,
does it? The entire Nycarian race... We‟re all dying.”
~
- 227 -

Atlantis DSV: “Crossfire”
Written by James Ward
Copyright 2011
‘seaQuest DSV’, ‘seaQuest 2032’ and their respective themes are copyrights of Universal/Amblin
Entertainment. No Infringement is intended.
Special thanks to Daniel Watson, Nathan Leong, Keith Carpenter & Daniel G. Williams
Atlantis DSV: “Full Fathom Five” excerpt written by Nicholas Frankpitt
http://atlantisdsv.newcapequest.com
- 228 -