Chapter 2

 

The IWS Nighthawk was one of only a few phantom-class stealth warships ever to be commissioned by the Empire into its Imperial Fleet. Small and agile, it was hard to see and even harder to target. Black from bow to stern with its identifier lights usually kept off, its signature was that of Intel Wing. One that, when transmitted to an Imperial station, said in no uncertain terms: Do what we say without asking questions. Why we’re here is none of your business. Stay out of our way.

The ship was fast and quiet but relied mostly on stealth for defense, utilizing technologies most of the galaxy didn’t even know existed. And it was because of those technologies that Raidan’s rogue ISS Phoenix had finally been tracked down. The Fifth Fleet had swept its space looking for the ship for over two ST—Standard Time—days before eventually appealing to Intel Wing for help. Two more days and the Phoenix was located, again placed under Imperial Fleet control. Now the Nighthawk and the rest of the interdiction flotilla trailed the Phoenix, all on their way to Praxis where justice would be served. And, hopefully, the incident would be investigated.

Calvin Cross, the commanding officer of the Nighthawk, remained unsettled. The whole affair made no sense to him. His investigation into Captain Asari Raidan and the Phoenix had been unfortunately short, conducted in only the two days it’d taken to corner the missing ship, but Calvin had expected to find a motive in that time which explained everything. He hadn’t. No one had.

Raidan, a decorated captain, a veteran of the Great War, had inexplicably gone rogue, had attacked and destroyed a civilian convoy of alien traders, and thereafter had refused to communicate with all Imperial ships and outposts. Then, when finally caught, he’d surrendered without a fight. Now he sat, presumably on his bridge, soaring toward Praxis where he’d certainly face the death penalty.

Why did you do it, Raidan?

Some believed he’d mentally snapped. Years of too much pressure, perhaps a midlife crisis, or maybe it was a chemical imbalance only now manifesting. Calvin dismissed all of these theories. Raidan definitely had a motive; it was just a matter of finding it.

“Entering Praxis System. Braking thrusters have fired, and we’re again in normal space, Captain,” said Sarah from the helm. She was a young brunette, though a year his senior, with wide brown eyes and a relaxed demeanor that was famous among their tight-knit crew. People joked that she’d be calm even if the ship were breaking apart and everyone were about to die.

“Thank you.” Calvin nodded. He didn’t like being called captain, partly because it felt too formal, but mostly because it wasn’t true. He wasn’t a captain. Not a real one. On paper he was a lieutenant commander, a technicality few outside his staff knew about since he was a CO and, therefore, held the rank of acting captain.

“Contact the control tower, put in a docking request, and begin a standard approach. You know the drill.”

“Yes, sir.”

Their ship followed behind the Phoenix and the two warships at its flanks. The Phoenix’s identifier lights flashed the brilliant white signal of surrender, illuminating its damaged hull—which highlighted another mystery. The plasma burns and the shredding patterns that scarred the renegade warship hadn’t come from the Empire Fleet’s interdiction operation. Raidan had not resisted. But the injuries had come from somewhere. The question was—who had the rogue captain been fighting? Certainly the damage was too severe to be the work of the civilian convoy he’d attacked.

A transmission came over the bridge speakers. “IWS Nighthawk, power down your weapons and standby for authentication.” Two sentry ships broke from their patrol pattern and approached on the port side.

Calvin watched them maneuver on the 3-D display.

“We’ve been targeted by two small destroyers, weapons hot,” said Miles from the defense post.

“They’re a bit touchy this close to the border, aren’t they?” Calvin had done plenty of missions this far out but had never docked with any of the deep-space outposts. “Okay, power it all down. Do what they say.”

A minute later, the ships broke off and swept back to their patrol pattern.

“IWS Nighthawk, you are cleared to approach.”

They passed through the station’s outer defenses and, after receiving clearance from Traffic Control, entered a long orbit around the planet, awaiting their turn to dock. They were last in line, so they had a few minutes.

“What do you suppose happens next?” asked Sarah.

“Two words,” said Miles, spinning the defense post’s chair to face center. “Military Tribunal.”

“I don’t think so,” said Calvin. “The Phoenix never fired on any of our ships, and, given the international nature of the incident, I expect a General Tribunal.”

“I would have expected a court-martial,” said Shen.

“It’s a complicated situation to be sure, which makes me wonder what other people are speculating,” said Calvin, flashing the mischievous smile he was so famous for, the one that made people guess he was even younger than his twenty-five years let on. “Let’s tap into the local news. Shen, go ahead and put it on every nonessential screen on the bridge.”

“Aye, sir,” his ops officer said. His unkempt long hair and bulbous figure made him seem a poor fit for Intel Wing, but Calvin doubted there was a more intelligent person on the ship.

Seconds later several dark screens flickered to life—including the one at the command position. The image clarified to reveal a female reporter whose voice filled the bridge speakers.

“And we’re getting reports now that the man who military police took into custody is Captain Asari Raidan of the Imperial Starship Phoenix. For those just tuning in, moments ago, military police swarmed the terminals of Access Point One and arrested who we now know to be Imperial Navy Captain Asari Raidan. A passerby caught this footage.”

The image on the viewers shifted to reveal several blue-and-black-clad navy officers descending a ramp, accompanied by marines in gray fatigues. Upon reaching the bottom, the lead officer—Raidan—raised his hands and allowed several military police to surround him, cuff him, and take him away. A throng of people, including station personnel, tried to get a closer look but were held back by a line of security officers.

“We’ve just heard that Asari Raidan is now being transported to Detention Center 201. The military has refused to comment officially on the arrest, but we’ve heard from one officer, under condition of anonymity, that a General Tribunal might begin as early as tomorrow. He did not know if the trial will be made public.”

Sarah waved her hand to get Calvin’s attention. “Message from Traffic Control. We’re cleared to dock in five-B.”

Calvin muted the broadcast. “Okay, Sarah, take us in.”

“Your word is my command.” Her fingers deftly took the controls, and, through the windows, the stardock slowly became visible.

“Roger that, Control, this is IWS Nighthawk beginning our final approach,” said Sarah into her headset while piloting.

Calvin leaned back in his chair. “You know,” he said, looking over at Anand Datar, his best friend and faithful XO. “I’m really looking forward to this time off.”

“As if you could ever stop working.”

“No, I mean it.” Calvin laughed. “I’m worn out.”

“If you’re worn out, that means the rest of us are postmortem—or close. The way they work us, sometimes I wish I were in the navy and could lounge around on one of those luxury liners.” Anand shook his head in an exaggerated display of irritation.

Calvin knew Anand somewhat resented the regulars for having several more conveniences aboard their vessels: lounges, bars, gyms—things a stealth frigate didn’t have space for. “Enough to request a transfer?” asked Calvin. His voice was full of laughter, but he wasn’t truly joking. He knew his XO had some real grievances with Intel Wing, and it was probably only a matter of time before Anand gave it up completely.

Anand ignored the question.

“Slowing to 7.2 MCs per second,” said Sarah as the ship angled into position and halted. “All stop. The docking clamps are attached, concluding another perfect flight.” Sarah spun her chair to face the center of the bridge, grinning.

“Good work, as always,” said Calvin. He tapped his intercom. “All hands, this is the CO. We’re docked with Praxis One, and the jetbridges are attached. You are ordered to the airlocks to vacate the ship. As of this moment you are all on official leave for four weeks. That is all.”

“So does that mean we don’t have to follow your orders anymore, Cal?” asked Miles with a dopey grin.

“Something like that.” Calvin smirked. “But when it’s all over, so help me, I’ll make you swab every deck on this ship. Now hurry and get out of here. Your freedom is ticking away.”

Miles laughed; he was a big man, and his laughter was deep. “You don’t need to tell me twice.” He stood up and marched to the elevator. “See ya around the casino, Captain.”

“Not this time. I only have a little money, and I can’t afford to lose any of it to you,” said Calvin, lying. As a single person earning a captain’s pay grade, he had more Q than he knew what to do with, especially since he preferred a simple lifestyle. Plus Miles was nothing if not horrible at cards; Calvin would, most likely, walk away with Miles’s life savings. The real reason Calvin planned to avoid the casino tables on this trip was the Raidan case. Calvin wanted to focus on it without any distractions—especially the kind that could swiftly turn his affluence into poverty.

“Suit yourself, Cal. I have two thousand Q begging to turn into twenty thousand—so don’t get jealous when I return with the deed to somebody’s house.” Miles flashed a huge grin, and the elevator door shut.

 

***

 

Calvin exited the ship via the deck two jetbridge. Despite the accessways being quadruple sealed and not very long, he always hated stepping through them. Somehow he couldn’t hold back the thought of being blown out into space. Such accidents never happened, but it bothered him anyway, because he could imagine it.

He cleared the secondary hatch without any trouble and descended the ladder, starting down the long ramp that led into the terminal. Before he reached ground level, he caught sight of the concourse swarming with people. Some wore staff uniforms, others military garb—including soldiers at every checkpoint—but mostly they were civilians, scattered in hundreds of small groups, all awaiting transport on whatever ships docked after the Nighthawk was moved into long-term holding. The size of the crowds surprised him, until he realized that, while it was late at night, early morning actually, in Standard Time—what he was used to—here in Local Time it was almost midday. As if to rub it in, enormous blue digits glared at him from the wall: 1110 LT and 0230 ST.

Since he was government personnel, security ushered him over to a basic checkpoint instead of the usual customs screening with its cumbersome procedures and long lines. Immigration was tough in all Imperial Systems, especially alien immigration, but he barely gave it a thought since he was both human and in an elite branch of the government. Security waved him to the next available desk where a middle-aged guard sat at a computer station. He wore a green uniform—local security—and sported a huge mustache.

“Hello, sir, and welcome to Praxis One,” the guard said. “Hand me your ID, and press your thumb to the plate.”

Calvin complied. They waited a minute for the computer to analyze his card for tampering.

“So, uh … black and silver,” the guard said, whistling as he looked over Calvin’s uniform and saw the colors of Intel Wing—mostly black from neck to boots with a touch of silver, including his rank bar and officer’s sash.

Calvin liked the look; it was much more stylish and interesting than the standard blue and black of the navy.

“So … are you here for some kind of big assignment? We usually only get blue-and-black uniforms through here.”

Calvin fought a smile; he did like the attention, but he’d be a terrible officer if he let his ego loosen his lips. “Sorry, just on vacation.”

“Right, of course.” The man winked. “Then I wish you good luck with your vacation.” As he spoke, the computer beeped its approval, and the old guard nodded him through. “Follow the arrows to your left for accommodations, transportation, information, and anything else you need.”

“Thanks.” Calvin put away his card and wandered to the offices against the far wall. Had he actually been on an assignment, the military would have prearranged everything, and someone would have met him the instant he had stepped through security. But since he was on leave—aside from his role in the Raidan tribunal—he was effectively a civilian. Which meant civilian accommodations and having to deal with extended waits, no vacancies, high prices, and long lines. Inconveniences he’d forgotten about, because they didn’t exist in his world of starships and open space.

He fell into line, trying not to push his way too hard through the mob of people doing business with the various offices and kiosks. Calvin found himself wishing Raidan had been arrested on some small fringe outpost with fewer people, so Calvin wouldn’t have to put up with the delays.

He took a number and moved aside for others. Unable to find a seat, he leaned against the wall and wondered how he’d pass the time. That was when a random lady tried to engage him in a polite—and very boring—conversation about nothing. The idle chitchat quickly turned to questions about Calvin’s personal life—which he didn’t want to discuss with a complete stranger. And when Calvin proved less than talkative, the older woman launched into a very spirited monologue about the positive traits of her granddaughters, whom she’d love to have him court—or grandsons, if that was more to his liking. The whole conversation was very awkward, and Calvin searched for an escape. That was when he spotted a familiar-looking, extremely beautiful woman in full navy garb across the room. Even from this distance she was striking.

“Oh, what do you know,” said Calvin, interrupting the grandmother’s boasting about one of her granddaughters’ cooking skills. “I see a good friend. Thanks, though!” With that he rushed away.

The pretty woman across the room was Summers Presley, XO of the ISS Phoenix, and definitely not an old friend. In fact he’d never seen her before in his life, not in the flesh. She was breathtaking with her cascade of blond hair and exquisite physique, and her aura of certainty was disarming. He recognized her from his short investigation into the Phoenix, and there was no mistaking Summers. Her file photo had looked more like something from a model’s portfolio than a military profile, and even it hadn’t done her justice. She was probably the most beautiful woman Calvin had ever seen. A fact he hoped to ignore since it gave her an unfair advantage.

“Summers Presley,” said Calvin, catching up with her. “I’m glad I recognized you. I have a few questions …”

“I’m sorry. Do I know you, Officer?” She stopped and looked at him, seeming distracted and annoyed, no doubt because he’d just breached protocol.

Unacquainted officers in uniform always referred to each other by title or rank, never by first and last name. Casual use of given names was something unique to Calvin’s command style and certainly not encouraged by either the Imperial Fleet or Intel Wing. But this practice had now come back to bite him, especially since, officially, he was the lower-ranking officer here.

“Oh, right, sorry,” said Calvin, but the damage was done. “I’m Calvin Cross of the IWS Nighthawk.”

Her eyes jumped to his rank insignia. “Lieutenant Commander?”

“Yes. But don’t let the silver bar fool you. I’m a CO.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and she gave him a strange look—a mixture of intrigue, disdain, and skepticism.

“Listen,” he said, waving her away from the crowd of people. “I’m attending the trial of your CO, and, as an intelligence officer, I’ve had to do some research. And, frankly, several things don’t add up for me. I’m hoping you can help fill in the gaps, you know, the details that don’t make it on paper. Like habits, traits, behaviors, and anything peculiar about Raidan’s personality. I’d like it to make sense—”

“I don’t fully understand,” said Summers, interrupting him. She made no effort to mask her reluctance to cooperate. “Am I being implicated in some way?”

“Oh, no, no, not at all,” said Calvin, raising his arms innocently. “This isn’t an official investigation.” He wasn’t yet convinced she’d had no part in what had unfolded on the Phoenix, but his priority was to investigate Raidan first. For now Summers was only an intelligence asset and nothing more. “Don’t take this the wrong way. I’m just hoping you can tell me something I don’t know. All of Raidan’s, I mean, Captain Asari Raidan’s personnel notes describe you as an outstanding officer and, more important, a close friend. He trusted you. And you were near him when everything went down. Your perspective would be invaluable.”

She looked hurt for a split second. It passed almost instantly, but Calvin knew what it was when he saw it. After it vanished, she became even colder.

“Captain Asari Raidan was a very secretive man, and he kept his true feelings to himself. I’m as mystified as you are, Lieutenant Commander. But the writing’s on the wall. He either snapped and bowed to a hunger for violence, or else succumbed to a deep hatred for the Rotham people that he made us kill. Whatever the case may be, he’s a criminal and unfit for command. Nothing more to it.”

“With respect, Commander, there is more to it. A lot more. And you should be the first to realize that. You served with him for six years and were his XO for almost two. Doesn’t it bother you that a nine-time-decorated captain, from an established and affluent family, and a full citizen, would throw everything away without a reason? Especially after twenty-nine years of diligent service?”

She closed her eyes for a moment and looked incredibly frustrated. “You speak as if I were somehow involved, Lieutenant Commander. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I was not.”

“No, I’m sorry,” said Calvin. “Sometimes I’m not very good at communicating what I’m trying to say. So instead, if you don’t mind, I’ll just ask you a few simple questions about the days leading up to the Beotan Incident. Beginning just before Captain Raidan ordered the Phoenix to go dark.”

Again he saw the glimmer of what might have been sincere hurt. But this time, instead of looking vulnerable, Summers’s eyes narrowed, and her voice turned to steel. “I’m sure all your musings will be satisfied by the trial, which—despite what you may think—doesn’t begin until tomorrow. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to discuss this any further off the record.”

“Yes, of course,” said Calvin, giving her an exaggerated nod. “Commander.”

She returned the nod with a fake smile and walked away.