The man's eyes fluttered and opened. He stared hard into the empty blackness; it stared mutely back. Try as he might he could make out no details of his surroundings. A finger of ice ran across his body, punctuating the eerie solitude, accentuating the heaviness of being absolutely engulfed in the dark. Where was he? He thought on it for several long seconds, found he had no recollection to draw upon—none whatsoever; nothing cogent to access in order to construct an educated guess concerning his possible whereabouts. Well, that was certainly going to make things more interesting.
He moved his hands, each in turn, fanning his fingers; they all appeared to be there and in good working order. He determined to put them to good use, began running his hands over his torso, inspecting his body by touch. He found he was wearing a simple shirt, a pullover; now down to his legs, he found pants and a belt with a buckle.
He drew in a slow ragged breath. An acrid odor assailed his nostrils, putting a nasty taste in his mouth, but his lungs expanded well. They functioned just as healthy lungs should; this made him feel somewhat better. Inspired by this, he sat up. The action caused his head to pound for a moment and then settle back down, the throbbing subsiding quickly. He figured he had performed the maneuver too fast. So he sat still for a few moments, listening to the blood pump to and from his heart, wistfully hoping his eyes would adjust and allow him the utility of at least some sight. It didn't happen. So be it; he would have to grope his way through the darkness.
In resignation, he turned over onto his knees, felt his way to a wall off to his left. Good. He would follow it around its perimeter, surely it would lead him to a door. Just then it occurred to him; not only did he have no vague notion of where he was, but he didn't even know who he was, couldn't remember his name nor any of the details of his life. He paused, now how could that be? He mentally shrugged and, with a conscious effort, laid it aside; his recollections would return to him in time—hopefully.
His hand suddenly fumbled across a door facing. He ran it into the enclave and found the door to be closed. Ah, but was it locked? He felt around, found a large wheel in the center of it. Trying it carefully, quietly, he found that it was indeed firmly locked—he couldn't budge it. Crap!
Emanating from somewhere deep beneath him, he heard a deep rumbling and the floor suddenly lurched sharply to his right, unbalancing him slightly. His hand instinctively flew to the wall to counter it. He froze, listening hard into the darkness—one hand gripping the wheel, the other the lip of the door facing. Now he heard a strange but distinctive electrical rasping sound. It repeated itself periodically, almost rhythmically.
Suddenly something massive slammed into his world and he was thrown rudely backward onto the floor. The wind rushed from his lungs. Opening his eyes again, gasping for breath, he peered back into the black. But it wasn't quite the same as before; he could see a vague lightening of the darkness—vague but discernible. He flopped over and belly-crawled his way in that direction, not trusting his knees to hold him up any longer. Periodical impacts rattled his teeth to their roots. Ignoring them, he continued in his route toward the point of dim light.
Now he felt an invisible hand begin to gradually exert pressure on him, pulling at him, forcing him to move more rapidly toward his destination. At first he thought that a good thing, but the closer he got to the mark the more forceful it became until it was no longer necessary to crawl at all; it was literally sliding him in that direction. A new sound hit his ears, a distinct 'whoosh' that became louder the closer he got to the quasi-light. It began to alarm him, but why? He had no answers, only gut feelings. And this feeling was unmistakable; it could only be described as dread, fear, even panic.
He determined to act on this impulse, fought his way to the wall and cast his hands about it frantically to find something to grasp, something to impede his inexorable slide toward the point of dim light. Eventually, and just in time, he found something—some kind of pipe, by the feel of it. Now his legs pivoted, twisting around below him toward the faint light; they were sucked forcefully toward it. He held on for dear life. And, in that attitude he stayed, waited. For what was he waiting? He didn't know; he just knew he didn't want to let go.
The man stayed thus for a minor eternity, unsure of what else to do. The impacts against the outer shell of his prison ebbed and flowed during that time, heavy at times, diminished at others. By now he was certain that a battle of some type must be taking place; but between whom? And which side was he on? Uncertain of how long he could continue to hold onto the pipe, he began to mentally evaluate his options. He didn't think he had many... any...?
About that time he heard a different sound, distinct and quite different from the cacophony to which he had grown accustomed. This was a heavy hum that grew steadily closer until it filled the very air with a vibrancy that was nearly tangible. Suddenly the faint light died out and a metallic clank wended its way down the wall to which he was clinging. And gradually the force that held his body horizontally along the wall lessened, finally dissipating completely; his body collapsed onto the floor. Now he heard a sharp, crisp crackle and pop routine. Scant seconds later a dull thud preceded a small section of the wall flying across the room, suddenly illuminated by light coming through an oval opening there.
Several large, atmosphere-suited figures flooded into the chamber—two going directly to him, kneeling by his side.
“Captain Bracken?” said the kneeling man. “I'm Chief Zielinski. I'm with the Ionian Guard Elite. I'm here to get you out.”
“What can you tell me about your capture, captain?” asked the smiling man of some forty years. Another man, a corpsman, was busily taking his vitals, his instruments splayed out before him on a low table adjacent to the cot whereupon lie the recently succored captain.
“Not a thing,” he admitted. “Until the chief called me by name, I didn't even remember that.”
The corpsman and the interrogator exchanged alarmed looks, then the latter continued. “Are you being square with me, Bracken?”
“May God strike me dead on the spot.”
“If that don't happen, we may just have to lend the Almighty a hand,” the man muttered as he spun on his heels and left.
“Well, ain't he in a cheery mood?” whispered the corpsman.
“Yeah, is he always so warm and hospitable?”
“Always.” The corpsman narrowed his eyes for a split second then threw on a lopsided grin. He held out his hand, which Bracken promptly accepted. “Corpsman First Class Davis, sir.”
“T'meetya, Davis.” He smiled and winked. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure thing, sir. Anything you like.”
“What ship is this?”
“Why, this is the IGS Sedgewick, an Io frigate.”
“Io...?” Bracken looked confused.
“Yes sir. You know, from the moon Io?” When the corpsman got back a blank expression, he tried to elucidate. “Io is one of the major moons of the planet Jupiter, sir. It was colonized about thirty years ago. You know, back before the holocaust...?”
“The holocaust?” Bracken shook his head absently. He had absolutely no knowledge of any of this; it was as if he were dropped onto this ship out of thin air. But his young host obviously liked him and didn't mind filling in the details.
“Twelve years ago, there was a major conflict back on mother earth. It was the largest, most devastating war the planet had ever recorded. All of the nations joined one side or the other. It dragged on for about eight long, bloody years until someone decided to end it with weapons of mass destruction.” He shook his head in disgust. “That was it for mother earth. Once one side resorted to these wicked weapons, the other side retaliated. And now its all gone. Everything... just gone.” He sighed and pulled the heavy rubber strip off Bracken's arm, tossed it back in his medical bag. “Now we humans living out in the colonies are all that's left of mankind.”
“We destroyed our own planet?”
“That's right—we sure did.” Davis began packing in all his gear. “Makes you wonder how a species intelligent enough to reach other worlds can be so dumb, don't it?”
“It does indeed. It does indeed.”
What do you recall exactly, Captain Bracken? asked the intense young doctor (introduced earlier as Doctor Benish). He leaned back against the counter top, trying his damnedest to look nonchalant.
They were in Falstead Medical Institute on Io, having landed only this morning. After being routed through a series of routine military interrogations, he had been brought here by a two-man, armed detachment, which was waiting just outside the door at this very moment.
Not a thingnothing. Bracken insisted.
The doctor pursed his lips and ran his fingers through his greasy black hair. (It didn't look dirty, Bracken decided, rather it appeared to be naturally greasy.) The medical professional now absently looked down at his polished black shoes, suddenly deep in thought, then looked back up. Benish's sharp blue eyes locked onto Bracken's gray ones. He stared thus for a moment, obviously trying to gage the other man's veracity, then nodded.
It appears that the reports of the enemy using memory wipe technology is accurate.
Memory... what...?
We have an antidotal procedure that we have been working on. It is highly experimental but...
But... I'm to be your damned guinea pig.
The doctor just nodded his head slightly in acquiescence, his face honest and open as if to say: You have a problem with that?
With no further answer forthcoming Bracken asked, Are there any side-effects?
Some... minor ones, but... He looked away for a moment, at a wall chart of the human mind diagrammed, its components appropriately labeled, then he continued, There could be some possible complications.
And they would be...?
Well, we use triggersthings that we know happened in your past. These are fed back into your memory banks through electromagnetic vibrations. The hope is that this will precipitate a general return of your memory.
Yeah, okay, that doesn't sound too bad. What's the hitch?
He blew out air from his lungs, rolled his eyes and continued. Many, many things can go wrong in this process. We have never tried it on a live specimen before. To this point the whole thing is quite academic.
You're telling me it looks good on paper.
Well, yeah, that is precisely what I am telling you.
Bracken shook his head in amazement. What are my options?
Options...? The doctor took his turn at looking amazed. Who said anything about options?
You mean... I don't have a choice in this?
Captain Bracken, you are official property of the Ionian Guard Service. Your options were terminated along with your civilian status. Besides that, you have top secret clearance, which makes your brain a matter of state security. No, you have no options.
With that the man casually turned and left. Bracken looked back at the brain chart. This is your brain. This is your brain scrambled. This is your brain fried... This mental diatribe was broken only by his guards returning to fetch him.
You are Captain Drake Bracken of the Ionian Guard Service... began the droning electronic voice being fed into his head. Accordingly, he didn't really hear it with his ears so much as he felt it with his mind. He closed his eyes, began the deep breathing exercises he had been taught. Open you mind; let the words flow directly into it, unhindered. It was hard to do that; he kept wanting to interject his own thoughts randomly. Irregardless, he would do his best. He just wanted this to be over quickly, maybe allow him to rediscover some normalcy in his life.
Laramie Bracken flipped the ship's computer over to nav-mode. He read off the coordinates to their destination, Fort Ptolemy, over his shoulder to his sensory officer. The younger man was seated just behind him in the spacious command cabin of the strike corvette they were piloting.
It had been a routine patrol, nothing of much consequence. Blue and red teams were off duty somewhere below. Watches would change out in about—he checked the chronometer on the console before him—eighteen minutes. He locked in the course and swiveled his chair around.
“Alright, Nelson,” he stated firmly. “Time to fess up, son.”
“Bout what?” asked the younger lieutenant junior grade coyly, grin splitting his face nearly in two.
“You know damn well 'bout what'. Come on, boy. It's officially confession hour aboard the Serry-D. Spill it; that's an order.” Laramie was in fact the younger man's superior; not only was he watch leader but he was a lieutenant commander and, as ranking officer aboard, the skipper of the boat.
“Unfair. Unfair.” Nelson protested, a little too loudly but, in contradiction, swung his chair around to face his boss squarely. “Direct hit, sir. I am happy to report that we have met the enemy and she is ours.”
“Yeah... in your dreams,” he chuckled then started to look away but instead glanced more deeply into the other man's face. The truth was there, written plainly. (Written plainly because Brad Nelson did not have a poker face, which is why he ended up leaving a hefty sum with his shipmates at every game.) You son of a dog. “I can't believe you did that. Don't you have any sense of decency at all?”
“Only what they issued me in the academy, skipper.”
“Aw, that's it mister. Consider yourself on report,” he laughed heartily as the next watch showed up to relieve them. They were immediately filled in on the nature of the jocularity, which they whole-heartedly joined in on.
Beyond the titanium skin of the Surreptitious Death–affectionately known as the Serry-D by her devoted crew—the laughter rang through the void as she rounded the last way-point on her programmed course. Her sleek gun-barrel gray hull began a lazy turn, ending with her bows pointed at a military outpost located in geosynchronous orbit over the moon Europa.
Lt. Cdr. Bracken had barely laid his head on his pillow before he was hailed.
“Skipper,” came the urgent metallic voice through the intercom system.
“Yeah?”
“We have HQ on comms.”
Laramie was instantly alert, out of his bunk and pulling on his pants as he replied. “Be there in five.”
“Aye,” came the instant acknowledgment.
Deciding to finish dressing on the run, Bracken sprang out the door with his boots unfastened and his shirt in his hand. In the corridor, he tossed it over his head and pulled it down to his waist. He gripped the lower rung of the ladder leading to the command cabin and hoisted himself up. As his head came through the hatch he said, “Bracken here, sir.”
“Ramie, we have a bit of an emergency on our hands. What is your fuel status?”
Laramie (Ramie to his brothers-in-arms) glanced at the pilot on watch who answered for him. “Madden here sir. We are a fraction over half full.”
“Good,” came the electronic voice. “We are sending a milk-cow out to rendezvous with you for replenishment. Ramie, we've lost contact with OP-24. Need you to head that direction and find out what's what out there.”
Bracken exchanged hard looks with the watch pilot. This could be serious. OP-24 was the front-line of their defensive grid. To lose contact with any of the OP's was serious but OP-24... it was in the direct line of advance from Io, the planetary system's most belligerent state.
“Aye-aye, sir. Understood. Altering course now.” Bracken acknowledged, nodding to Madden to make the course change.
“Report as soon as you discover anything. Weapons free.”
“Aye, sir. Surreptitious Death out.” He plopped down in the command chair, his bastion of sanctity as skipper. Weapons free meant that he could fire upon any target he deemed to be hostile. That flew directly in the face of normal peacetime operations. Something was happening; something that he was not being made aware of. “Madden,” he whispered. When the pilot looked at him he continued, “wake up everyone, get them up here ASAP.”
The electronic sensory monitor known as OP-24 filled the bridge window of the combat corvette. The skipper was leaning over the pilot's shoulder, scanning the station minutely. Its transmitter antenna was cleanly sheered away. A dimly visible object floating nearby would, no doubt, prove to be the missing metal rod. Well, that was just too damn easy, wasn't it? By all outward appearances the culprit was most probably a meteoriteor that's what someone wanted them to think. The chances of that happening and the laser deflector system with which the station was equipped for such contingencies going out simultaneously was... well, astronomical. Bracken shook his head and whistled through his teeth.
Skip, got an intermittent on long range scan, alerted, Geoffries, the sensory officer on watch.
Where away?
Roughly two-three-zero, relative. Some two degrees below system plane.
Course and speed?
Can't get a good fix on it, skip. She pops up every few seconds and then disappears for a few...
Range?
Guess-timate's the best I can do for you. Somewhere around five thousand five hundred klicks.
That's right at the edge of our long range scanner capabilities; perhaps it's a system glitch... He was looking at Geoffries as he said it, got back an adamant shake of the head in reply. What makes you so sure? Bracken retorted.
I know this system; I know what her glitches look like. That, sir, is a contact.
Very well. Mark it Unknown Alpha-one and start a track. He turned back to the pilot. Johnstone. Radio HQ with our findings. Tell them they'll need to send out a repair ship and that we are tracking an unknown, that we'll get back to them as soon as we can I.D. the contact.
Aye-aye, skipper.
He slapped the pilot on the back and headed toward the hatchway. I am going to get something to eat and a quick hour's worth of shut-eye. Call me if you need me.
Bracken blinked hard several times as he lowered himself into the corridor below and aft of the bridge. He was exhausted; he had not slept in the past thirty-six hours.
In the galley, he looked over the menu chart, chose a bacon-lettuce-tomato sandwich and a glass of milk. He punched in the selection and a moment later retrieved his food and drink from the tray. As he turned to sit down, Brad Nelson walked in, bright and chipper from a good night's sleep. Bastard. Bracken grimaced at him, a smile that failed miserably, and sat down at one of the tables.
“Hey skip,” the younger man said, then paused, obviously noticing his haggard appearance. “You look like crap.”
“Kiss my ass, rookie. Get your coffee and join me,” he growled.
“Aye, sir.” Nelson did as ordered and plopped down in the chair across the table from him. “So, what's the scuttlebutt?”
“Not much, just a contact we can't I.D. We're trailing it now... Thought I'd grab a quick bite and wink while I can. Looks like things might heat up later.”
“Think it might be Ionian?”
“Seems most likely. But if they're starting up another squabble, seems like a clumsy way to do it; just run in and cut the comms to the observation post closest to them.” He shook his head and crammed half a wedge of sandwich into his mouth.
“Well, if they have started up something with us again, looks like we're on point.”
Bracken just nodded, his blood shot eyes burning from lack of sleep. Nelson was right about that.
It had been two years since the last dispute. Io had kicked up her heels, demanding exclusive mineral rights to huge sections of the planetary system. It had taken a coalition of Europa and Callisto with material support from the Martians in order for her to be convinced of the error of her ways. But no-one trusted them. And now the Callistans were drifting away due to a regime change. It was opportune for the Ionians. He wondered idly whether they could still count on their distant cousins from the red planet, so far away. When push came to shove, they would find out, he supposed. He finished his sandwich, washed it down, draining his glass of milk, and stood up.
“See you later, kid,” he said, turned and headed toward his cabin. Sleep... sleep... sleep... It was calling his name.
Lt. Cdr. Bracken's eyes snapped open. He twisted around and glared at the time. Three hours and twenty some odd minutes! Damn! He leaped from his bunk and hurriedly dressed. He had slept much longer than he had intended but nothing of any import could have occurred during his respite; there had been no general quarters alarm. With this perceived consolation warming his heart, he headed out the door.
“Why the hell didn't someone wake me?” he snarled as he climbed up onto the bridge.
“Actually,” replied the man at the helm, “...was just about to give you a shout. This guy is finally starting to look interesting.”
“Tell me.”
“Firmed up, skip. We seem to be gaining on him, have been for the past forty-five minutes or so,” chimed in Janson at the sensory console. “Very bright and consistent contact now. He's heading on a base course for Io but is apparently either intentionally slowing or is just not as fast as we are. And,” the tall blond man with the unfashionable handle-bar moustache turned to face the captain. “He appears to be increasing in size.”
Bracken grunted. “How the hell's he doing that?”
“Don't know... wait, what the... something is going on out there. Looks like the contact's signature is blossoming. Maybe there's been an explosion onboard. He's almost three times the size he was a few seconds ago.”
“What do you want to do, boss?” This was the red-haired, freckled Markey at the helm.
Bracken paused, pulled on his lip with an idle forefinger, gazing absently out the bridge window. Jupiter loomed large, stage left, her glamorous rings painting the king god's glory across the heavens. (It was totally lost to the pensive space warrior.) Their target was just a faint star glimmering dead center on the screen. Finally he spun around and sat down in the captain's chair.
“Bring us to within missile range and open up a channel.”