The Terminal War: A Space Opera Novel (A Carson Mach Adventure) (2 page)

Two lines of Marines, in their formal light blue uniforms, holding their X50 rifles across their chests, formed a guard outside the shuttle. Its side door slid to the left. A chrome ramp extended to the ground, hitting with a dull thump.
 

Two black-skinned vestans stepped out. They stood seven feet tall and wore their usual plain cream robes. They made their way down the ramp on their stiff legs. Morgan had met some of their council before, but from a distance these two looked unfamiliar. One nudged the other, and both stared at the jagged mountain range beyond the hangars.
 

Morgan cleared his throat loudly enough for both to hear. They turned and hobbled between the marines, chatting in their native tongue.
 

“President Morgan. Welcome to Fides Prime.” He extended a hand.
 

Both aliens abruptly halted.
 

The one on the left, wearing a silver data-bracelet, a vestan version of the Salus Sphere’s smart-screen, shuffled forward. “I’m Ferban, council member for defense, and this is my colleague, Desolt.”

“You have a beautiful planet,” Desolt said. “My compliments.”

“Thank you. I’ll escort you to the conference room if you follow me.”

Ferban’s leathery face scrunched around his mustard-colored eyes. “That would be most gracious of you, President.”

Morgan was already late for another appointment and decided not to mention their lack of punctuality; they appeared nervous already, which Morgan expected of former enemies during the war.
 

Although their species didn’t make great fighters, they had provided the means and technology to the Axis, giving them a critical edge. Bringing the vestans into the Commonwealth, via a new peace treaty, was a particularly good move on Morgan’s part, giving him a free run at the CW presidency.
 

Four marines surrounded them as Morgan led the way back to the conference room. His secretary, Emma, a young human in a sharp white suit, sat at the long glass table holding her smart-pad, ready to take minutes.
 

“Please, take a seat,” Morgan said and held an arm toward the chairs. Both vestans raised their robes and sat. “Can we get you any refreshments after your trip?”

“No, thank you. We replenished a short time ago,” Desolt said. “May we get straight to business? Our requirements are pressing.”

“Of course,” Morgan replied, “Although if the priority is so high, you could’ve arrived sooner, or just communicated your request through our secure ansible link.”

Ferban inclined his head to concede the point, then added, “Some things require personal communication. We would prefer to conduct business face-to-face, to build our relationship on strong foundations,” he said, blinking slowly in that hypnotic manner of theirs. “We have two requests, but the second is for your ears only.” The vestan smiled at Emma, an apologetic but firm request.

“My ears only?” Morgan sat back in his chair, maintaining eye contact. “You don’t have to be worried about what you say in this building.”

“We’d prefer total secrecy on this subject,” Desolt said.
 

Morgan sighed and nodded at Emma. She picked up her things and headed for the door. He remembered the paranoia of the vestans during the treaty negotiations, often over trivial matters, or at least they were to humans and fidians.
 

The conference room’s opaque glass door whined shut, and both vestans leaned forward. Desolt glanced at his smart-screen bracelet and manipulated its controls with elegant gestures.
 

“Anything the matter?” Morgan asked.
 

A few seconds later the vestan looked to his partner, then to Morgan, blinked, and then inclined his head in an awkward facsimile of a human nod of agreement. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I expect my actions may seem untrusting, but I needed to make sure there are no listening devices or scanning fields within distance. I exaggerate not when I say this is the most important issue the vestans have ever entrusted to an outside party.”

Morgan’s neck prickled. A cold shiver crawled through his guts. The anticipation of their request made him tap his fingers against the desk’s surface.
 

“The horans and lacterns have stepped up their aggression since we left the Axis. They continue to raid our outer planets,” Ferban said. “Three of your Fides days ago, they attacked a mineral mine, rendering it beyond salvageable. They retreated after taking hits from our surface-to-orbit cannons.”

“As part of your treaty obligations—” Desolt added.

“I know our obligations,” Morgan interrupted, holding up his palm. “I haven’t seen any reports through the official channels. If we don’t know about the attacks, what do you expect us to do? You have to start being more open with us. These kinds of requests are better off going to my commanders, who can then act accordingly—and quickly.”

Both aliens stared at him. Morgan remained silent and waited for an answer. His level of hands-on didn’t extend to micromanaging Sphere security.
 

The vestan council had been told several times to report any hostilities immediately. As part of a newly extended frontier, they were of equal priority to the rest of the Salus Sphere. Providing a show of force to eliminate these types of raids was a standard operation for the CWDF. The Axis couldn’t gain confidence at any point, lest they believe they could mount an attack.
 

“Our ground defenses can handle raids at the current level,” Desolt said. “But if they grow, our manufacturing will decline, and we won’t be able to meet your latest orders. Our technology, which the Commonwealth covets so highly, requires many rare and difficult to source materials, the planets of which are under threat from the Axis.”

“Pass me the coordinates, enemy strength and details of the raids, and I’ll personally deal with it,” Morgan said. It was easier to get the request out of the way and send an envoy to Vesta again to explain how things worked. While there, a strategy could be delegated, and he could turn his attentions to more important things.

Ferban’s lips curled downward, a vestan version of a smile, and he manipulated his data-bracelet. “You’re a good partner, President. The information will be on your smart-screen presently.”

Two seconds later, Morgan’s screen beeped. He glanced down at an encrypted message on the display and marked it for transfer to Captain Steros. The previous president’s son had been given a role within a small fleet to prove himself. It would be a good task for him. One that Morgan fully expected him to fail and thus give him the reason he wanted to shift him out to some distant patrol route on the far edges of the Sphere. “Expect the fleet to be in touch within the hour,” Morgan said. “And please, communicate with them as soon as anything like this happens again.”

“Very well,” Desolt said. “Now, for the main reason we have come here. We have a mission that requires total secrecy—our very existence, and, therefore, the treaty is at stake.”

Morgan leaned forward, his pulse notching up two extra beats—a sign of heightened excitement he hadn’t experienced for some time. “Please, do tell.”

Both aliens shuffled their chairs around the conference table and sat to Morgan’s right. He instinctively reached for a pistol that wasn’t on his belt—a reflex from his experiences of previously fighting this species.
 

“We require your best agent to complete a discreet mission,” Ferban said. “The details are highly classified.”

“What kind of mission?”

Desolt leaned close. Morgan detected an odor of burnt rubber. “We need to know that you understand the complete discretion required here.”

Morgan sighed and shook his head. “What more do you want me to say? I understand. You either want my help, or you don’t. Now tell me, what kind of mission are we talking about?”

“There’s a problem on Terminus, our world of remembrance. One of the Guardians is missing.”

“I don’t see how this concerns the CW. It sounds like an internal matter,” Morgan said, wondering about this planet. There were no records of it in the inventory during the treaty negotiations. He was about to make that point when Desolt continued.

“The location is a closely guarded secret, even from vestans. Only the Guardians and the dead are permitted.”

“If you have resources already there, why do you need us?”

Desolt let out a low croak. “We can’t risk losing another one of the Guardians. They live a thousand of your lifespans and are irreplaceable.”

“Our greatest minds are at stake,” Ferban added with a hint of panic. “A modern vestan memory would corrupt them. A threat on the planet may destroy them. We need a race that are unable to communicate telepathically to resolve this crisis.”
 

“If the Guardians are your greatest minds, why aren’t they better protected?”

“The secrecy of the location is our best defense,” Desolt said. “But you don’t understand. Our wisdom and the high-level council does not come from the Guardians. It comes from the Saviors of our race who are already dead.”

Morgan shook his head. “How is that even possible?”

“We cannot possibly explain that. Any deceased vestan who isn’t damaged by battle or accident is sent to Terminus and stored this way. Let’s not get distracted by detail. Can you help us?”

Although the vestan race was small in numbers, the thought of a majority of them still being able to communicate beyond the grave blew Morgan’s mind. He wondered if that technology could be of use in the CWDF. For centuries, scientists on Fides Prime had tried to perfect reliable telepathic communications with no result.

“This isn’t part of our treaty,” Morgan said, playing the role of a politician for a change. “Terminus isn’t named in the extended frontier for protection.”

“We have an offer that may interest the Commonwealth, and you personally,” Ferban said.

Morgan turned to him and arched an eyebrow. “Me personally?”

“Our war records show the destroyer you commanded during the Century War ruined two of our hospitals. This information would be potentially damaging if it were made public, would it not?”

“After we had become allies I cross-checked your report,” Desolt said. “You claimed the strike destroyed a weapons factory.”

Anger flared inside Morgan. He stood suddenly and clenched his fists. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“No. We are simply saying that if you send your best resources to help on Terminus, we will amend our records to match your claim—and then there’s the added offer,” Ferban said. “We have certain advanced technology that we’ve recently developed based on theories of those very minds that are in danger. Help us maintain our link to the minds, and we will share this technology willingly.”
 

Morgan crooked an eyebrow. “What kind of technology are you talking about?”

The two vestans did their creepy slow blink in unison. Desolt said, “You have within your possession one of our concept ships. It uses fusion crystals for faster than normal light jumps… the new technology will make L-jumps resemble the horses and carts your kind used to use not so many hundred years ago.”

Now Morgan was interested.
 

Travel speed had always been the biggest issue with securing the Salus Sphere. Their destroyers had to be strategically placed around the Sphere so they could plug any gaps as needed. If they had the technology to move quicker, they could more easily centralize their forces and react in stronger numbers.
 

“I’m interested,” Morgan said, half out of eagerness for the tech and half out of necessity to keep his secret under wraps, although he knew they would likely use this against him in the future. That was fine for now, he thought. He could deal with that another time.

Desolt inched closer, dropping his voice to a husky croak. “The only problem is that this mission is a one-way trip. We can’t risk the location of Terminus getting out. We need your best resources for this—with the knowledge they won’t be coming back.”

Morgan took a deep breath and quickly played things through his mind. He remembered the strike on the hospital—it was an honest mistake. The serving admiral had swept it under the carpet, as they were at a crucial point of the war. If the information came out now, it would certainly lead to political turmoil in the Sphere, of which the horans and lacterns were sure to take advantage. Once again they were at a crucial point in the Sphere’s safety.
 

One man and his crew immediately sprang to Morgan’s mind: freelance experts in carrying out one-way missions—and surviving, despite the odds. A team led by a rogue mercenary known as Bleach for his ability to clean things up.
 

This was a job for Carson Mach.
 

“I think we have an agreement,” Morgan said.

*

Ferban and Desolt hobbled back toward their shuttle. Morgan agreed to their request but vowed to one take responsibility for his action during the war, regardless if they amended their records.
 

That day would come once the Sphere was finally safe from Axis aggression.
 

Desolt turned and raised a spindly black hand. Morgan returned a glare. The vestans were more cunning than he had expected. He wouldn’t forget this lesson, especially when it came to future negotiations.
 

Both vestans climbed the ramp back into their shuttle. Its engines blew hot air across the landing zone. A red transport pod whined around the side of the strip and stopped in front of the administration building.
 

Commander Tralis, an old friend and former fighter pilot, and his second in command, Captain Steros, clambered out in their olive coveralls. Both placed berets on their heads and offered stiff salutes.
 

“You wanted to see me, President?” Tralis said.
 

“At ease, Commander,” Morgan said. “How long ’til your fleet’s ready for space?”

Tralis rubbed his gray stubble and glanced back across the landing zone toward the distant hangars. “Tomorrow morning. I’m guessing this is to do with that vestan’s visit?”