Hi, I’m Max, I write fantasy, science fiction, and genre stories as well as essays on the craft. Help support my writing by sharing my work or dropping a tip in my hat over at ko-fi!
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Rear Admiral Dirk Salinger had not been at the conn when the impact struck. He had been in the head. Something in the mess hall hadn't sat right. High rank and all the technology in the solar system didn't make a damn difference, throwing up in space always sucked. There was no comfortable way to do it, let alone when the act is interrupted by klaxons.
Ship lights dimmed and the red glow of the strictest condition throughout the ship burned past Dirk's closed eyelids. Food poisoning was a bitch but whatever caused the alarm was worse. Dirk cleaned himself as quickly as he could without rushing and returned to the conn.
When he had left, there were six faces on the main screen. The deployed admiralty had met to discuss their current war plan for those deployed nearest the Jovian side of the belt. Many of the admirals would have taken such a call from their ready rooms or another private place. Dirk didn't operate that way. He never would, so help him God. He trusted his command staff and all who sat at the helm around him could hear what was said... barring a few requested private conversations.
The call was to plan the execution of a complex run on the rebel fleet. The upstarts had placed a few too many resources in a compromisable orbit beyond the belt. The Jovians wouldn't know what hit them. Flanders thought it was a trap, but she was soundly outvoted by both the active admiralty and the high command back on earth. Trap or no, their maneuver was worth the potential expense.
Following the loss of The Intelligence, there was no room for resistance among the population in the solar system. All human minds needed to work towards the greater good if the damned computers wouldn't.
The screen was black as Dirk returned.
"Report," he said. He did not speak to anyone in particular. His team was good, they would not need him holding their hand to know what to do and who should speak.
"Impact, sir," spoke Commander Pelt.
The officers in the room were scrambling. Dirk felt the tension. They were professionals but that only just kept them working with the order that they now applied to their stress.
"Attack?" he said.
"We're uncertain, but it would appear so," replied Pelt.
"Calculating trajectories of the ballistics now," said Lieutenant Commander Berrtice.
Familiarity with his crew let Dirk feel the cracks in both of their voices.
"Damage report?"
"Nothing to the Anvil, sir," said Lieutenant Commander Farro.
"No response from the Fork, Hammer, Bellows, or Chisel," said Lieutenant Sharpe.
"And the Forge?" said Dirk, directing his attention to Sharpe. The woman had not listed the final ship which had been on the call. The most important. The Forge Was under the command of Fleet Admiral Westerlund. If he'd been lost...
"No reply, but a distress signal is coming from the Forge," said Sharpe. "It is not automatic; there are still souls aboard the vessel."
Dirk wasted no time. "Lieutenant Henslee, begin acceleration to [the Forge's] orbit. Full walking burn."
"Aye, sir," said Henslee. The man flipped a switch on his console and the red glow that still filled the entirety of the ship began to pulse. The ring of the klaxons changed slightly. The crew was warned to prepare for the increased gravity of thrust. The Anvil's full thrust was nearly twelve G's, and impossible force for anyone but the pilot to truly withstand, even with crash couches. Walking burn would keep things below 4. None of the crew would be happy, and those who were at any risk of danger at all would have to find the safety of a cushioned seat, but the loss in manpower was worth the speed. Dirk had to ascertain what happened, and if the Forge was yet alive, if the Fleet Admiral could be saved from whatever attack was happening, Dirk would push his ship to make it happen.
After a minute of the pulsing light, Dirk felt the thrust push him into the floor. His neck is where he felt it the most. He was getting too damned old for war.
"Scope, sir," said Pelt.
"Proceed."
"The Forge is the only remaining vessel. Out of formation, it is in a slowing spin. It appears RCS is yet functional."
"Communications may be damaged," said Sharpe.
"I would agree with that assessment," continued Pelt. "The ship sustained damage from the impact."
"And the others?" said Dirk.
"Debris," said Pelt.
Dirk swallowed. He felt the lump in his throat move passed the heavy beats of his heart, pushing blood up arteries that evolved in 1 G, fighting against four times the downward force they were ever meant to feel. "Continue analysis." he said. "Berrtice?"
"Sir," said Berrtice. "We are yet computing, but whatever caused the impact appears to have been on a ballistic trajectory."
"Pelt, put the scope onscreen," said Dirk.
The black screen where six faces had once been, six friends and compatriots, flickered and changed to another dark visual. Dust in space. Dust which used to be ships. Dust which used to be people. The Forge spun in the corner of the screen, exactly had Pelt had described it.
"What ballistic could have caused this?" Dirk asked.
"Unsure sir," said Berrtice. "Calculations are processing."
There was never silence in a ship, especially not with klaxons blaring incessantly. The mind blocked out the drone of work and the noise over the loudspeakers. To Dirk it was quiet. He let his people work. Questions would help, but they would offer information as they had it. He wished so badly to ask Henslee their ETA, but it would do nothing. They would arrive when they could. He sat - more fell - down into his chair. Out of line with his body, Dirk felt his stomach lurch. 4 G acceleration was no time to be sick though. He forced a swallow and sat in his thoughts. He wasn't sure if the bile building up in his stomach was from the food earlier or the situation now. He wasn't sure if he could admit either to himself anyway.
If Berrtice was correct and the attack was from a ballistic weapon, there was no fault of the deceased ships. Once fired, a ballistic projectile does not change course. It does not speed up or slow down unless acted upon by another force. It’s a bullet in space. It will never stop until it hits something. There is nothing to track. Unless you are fortunate enough to see the bullet coming your way, there is nothing a ship can do but brace for impact or hope for luck to be on their side rather than whoever fired.
Luck had not been on the fleet's side.
What weapon could the upstarts possibly have created that did this?
Dirk looked out at the empty space shown by the scope. The Forge had almost stopped its spin, RCS thrusters pushing out visible jets of air to stop the behemoth from moving. No other ships had moved into view. The rebels did not appear to have any desire to board The Forge. They had shot from a distance and reveled in their victory.
"Sir,' said Berrtice. Dirk looked her way, his neck screaming with anger at the movement under acceleration. She continued: "Trajectory calculated."
"And confirmed?" he asked. Just as it was impossible to track a ballistic without luck, doing any sort of math on the point of origin was nearly impossible without a lot of luck.
"Confirmed," she said. Dirk felt the crew about him shift their focus to listen in as well. the sounds of work slowed, and changed tambor. "Belt sensors tracked the impact and follow up. Computation is verified on all four of the Anvil's systems."
"The result?"
"Trajectory to Lieutenant Commander Pelt, sir."
"Pelt, onscreen."
Dirk no longer saw an empty space where ships in his fleet had once been. He saw only blackness on the screen.
"What am I looking at?"
Before Pelt could speak, Berrtice continued: "No ships occupy the space calculated, sir."
"Did they move?" Dirk asked, knowing she had already looked to answer that question. His nerves were breaking too.
"No known or unknown ship crossed the trajectory," said Berrtice.
"Confirmed on scope as well as SIS imaging, sir," said Pelt.
"So, what am I looking at?" said Dirk, starting at the black screen.
"Sir, if you may increase gain above level five," said Berrtice to Pelt. Pelt complied and the black screen before them grew an odd yellow color, artificial as the brightness had been turned up higher than the imaging scopes could cleanly show.
A bright dot, cloudy and imperfect in shape, sat in the center of the screen.
"No stars, stations, or ships crossed the trajectory of the ballistic, sir," said Berrtice. "The only known object in path is Andromeda."
Dirk swallowed, feeling every movement of his throat again in the increased gravity. The dry swallow hurt. "So, you're postulating an extra-galactic origin?"
Before Berrtice could speak Sharpe interrupted: "Sir, information from the Forge just arrived via tightbeam."
"Folks there must be fixing things," Dirk said. He was losing his nerve, but it brought him comfort to say something positive. "Onscreen."
The image removed all comfort. Resolution and framerate had deteriorated on the video sent from the Forge so far through space, but the crew still saw enough.
Five ships, in a closer formation as they prepared for their attacking run, floated in space. The view obviously came from the sixth ship in the formation, the Forge. Suddenly a blue light exploded outward from some point near the far side of the five vessels. The blue light made a massive bubble, it looked as though it were a contained explosion, a sun or star, trembling and fighting to get out, instead erupting within itself. It engulfed five of the ships. The point of view from the camera shifted, beginning to turn. The explosion had clipped the Forge as well. Before the screen fully turned away, the blue sun imploded. It shrunk into itself in an instant. Even through the rough resolution of the shared video, Dirk could see it shrunk into a single object. It appeared like a missile or a dart.
The ballistic.
As the Forge spun the dart continued onward into the darkness of space beyond. The Forge completed a revolution, revealing nothing but dust remaining where the fleet had once sat.
"Sir," said Farro. No one listened. Dirk didn't respond. He wanted to swallow but kept from doing so. It would only add to the pain.
"Andromeda?" he said.
"It appears so," said Berrtice.
"Speed?"
"Unknown."
"Sir?" said Farro.
"Best guess?" asked Dirk, to Berrtice.
"In age? The youngest that would be is 5 mil," she said.
"5 million years?"
"Likely much older. calculating still."
"Sir, please," said Farro.
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander," said Dirk turning to farro.
"Pelt, onscreen with my data," said the man. Dirk saw sixteen very small, roughly made ships on the screen. They were beyond full walking burn. they were at full burn. They were rebels. "Rebels approaching in attacking run at the Forge."
"ETA?"
"Fourteen minutes."
"And our ETA?"
Henslee spoke. "Two point four six hours."
"At full burn?"
"Forty-nine point two minutes."
Dirk swallowed and let the pain fill his mind. He did not close his eyes. He'd made the decision before the air hit his stomach.
"Full stop, lieutenant. Three quarter G burn in position."
"Sir?"
"Do not make me repeat my orders, son."
The Anvil lurched and Dirk felt the weight disappear off his shoulders and out of his chest as the ship slowed. Gravity under acceleration was now just 75% of what he grew up in. It was bliss.
Dirk had lost his nerve, but it was a day for it. He spoke his thoughts aloud:
"Fucking aliens lost us the war."
Thanks for giving that a read! If you like my art and want to drop a buck in my hat, I’d appreciate it more than you know. If you like it, and want to just keep reading for free, please do! Check another - and maybe my best - short story here!
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Love ya!
Max
And here’s a story I read a while back, maybe the most impactful short tale I’ve found on Substack so far. Father and Son by Scoot. It’d fit in well with the old great anthologies of Bradbury, Asimov, and Ellison.
