The Last Flight of the Argus

by E. R. Torre

Presented below is a sample from The Last Flight of the Argus, available now.

MERCHANT SHIP “VIRTUOUS”, on the edge of the Erebus System

 

Doctor Mark Stephenson wiped the sweat from his face.  He shook as he rose from his cot and the room spun.

“Damn,” he whispered while steadying himself.

He approached the medicine cabinet and knocked over several of the plastic vials and small containers inside it before finding the bottle he needed.

Stephenson popped the bottle’s cap and poured several blue and green pills onto the palm of his hand.

Twenty of your fellow crewmembers in the lower decks are dead now.  The air circulating through their rooms and compartments was replaced with a toxic substance.  You made sure there were no alarms.

The thought made Stephenson sweat even more.  He swallowed the pills and put the bottle back.

They’re dead because of you.

It took a while for the pills to act.  In the meantime, Stephenson found it hard to walk without shaking.  He returned to his cot and stared out the ship’s window and at the distant sun of Erebus.  Somewhere between it and their ship, in the neighborhood of the fourth planet of this system, the backbone of the Epsillon Empire’s fleet was massing either to fortify their defenses or initiate an attack.  The forces of the Phaecian Empire lay a few million miles past them, probably doing the very same.

And here you are, in the middle of it all.

Doctor Stephenson closed his eyes and felt another chill.  Visions of dead crewmates only a couple of floors below flashed through his mind.

Damn them for making what’s to come necessary...

For millennia the Erebus system served as the uneasy border between the Phaecian and Epsillon Empires.  Through treaties and negotiation, it was designated a no man’s land, off limits to either side.  Once established, the Empires tested those limits on a day to day, even hour to hour basis.  Countless space crafts, both officially and unofficially, were intercepted “straying” into the Erebus system.  Things eventually heated up and a new treaty was ratified.  The system was split in half.  The two empires were allowed to have their flotillas patrol their “side” of the system.  The politicians thought this a good compromise.  In reality, they put the rival militaries that much closer to each other.

Traders established routes and merchandise was exchanged.  Some, the more naïve among the politicians, thought this exchange would eventually lead to peace.  But, a little over a year ago, an Epsillon passenger and cargo vessel was destroyed near Erebus’ third planet.  Six hundred people were lost, including close relatives of one of Epsillon’s top ambassadors.

Early word hinted at a catastrophic accident, but rumors of a Phaecian military ambush took hold.  Making matters worse, the Phaecian Empire was slow to deny these rumors.  Some of the more outspoken Territorial Cardinals claimed the destroyed ship conducted espionage missions into their territory.  The implication was obvious: The doomed craft deserved what she got.

It was hardly surprising tensions escalated to a boiling point.

And then one side fired upon the other.

Who fired first is, and would remain, a source of dispute.  What could not be argued was the slaughter that followed.  Skirmishes grew and fighter crafts were deployed.  Diplomacy was attempted one final time, to no avail.  The flotillas were massing at Erebus and it was only a matter of time before the first battle of an all-out war was fought.

Whoever emerged victorious from this lonely place would earn a base of operations from which they could launch an attack on their rivals.

Dr. Stephenson let out a low grunt.  The medication was kicking in.

He again rose from the cot and headed to the door leading out of his room.

The crew of this ship was loyal to Epsillon.  Half of them had family out there, fighting against the Phaecian Empire.  That included Helen O’Hara, the ship’s engineer.

Stephenson recalled how she smiled at him whenever they passed.  They talked a few times and he even invited her to dinner.  There was, he was certain, the possibility their friendship could grow, blossom, and become something more.  Something he yearned for all his life…

Stephenson stopped.  He reached for the corridor wall and used it to keep upright.

She’s down there, in the lower levels, with the rest of them.

Bile rose from his stomach.  He could barely hold it down.

“It had to be done,” Stephenson mumbled.  He wasn't sure he meant it.

Every member of this crew was willing to take up arms for Epsillon.  Everyone but Dr. Stephenson.  His comrades, in their own fighter craft, shadowed the Virtuous’ movements for several weeks, until they were certain the ship’s course took them through this particular zone.  By then, his men were ready to act.  On the Titus Space Station, floating just outside the Erebus solar system, his men originally waited for the crew of the Virtuous to disembark.  The crew of the ship welcomed their shore leave and wound up in the Jackal, the station’s bar.  That’s where Stephenson’s agents identified each and every one of them.

Dr. Ely Corrigan, the Virtuous’ resident doctor, was their target.  Luckily for them, he was a loner.  It proved a simple job to lace his drinks with Naranja.  It was an even simpler job to call the local police and report the doctor’s use of the illegal narcotic.

When he was arrested, Dr. Corrigan claimed he was innocent.  It proved impossible to argue the blood tests.  So, on the eve of its latest voyage, the Virtuous found itself in need of a new resident doctor.  Lucky for them, Doctor Mark Stephenson happened to be available.  As they say in the Phaecian Military OPs, it’s a simple thing to infiltrate a group: Make yourself necessary to them and let them take you in.

Stephenson shook off the memories and glanced at his wristwatch.

13:42.

If all went well, the final act of betrayal would soon be done.

 

******

 

Captain Posner studied the computer monitor and frowned.  His features were stern, hardened by ten years of military service and close to twenty years of running transport crafts.  During this time, he lost two wives and outlived most of his friends.  He bankrupted twice, yet always clawed his way back.

It took him a while, but he saved enough money to this ship.  He had ten more years of payments to go.  Thanks to the coming war and the incredible profits from transporting cargo, that schedule was cut in half.

Captain Posner’s frown faded.  In all these years he never thought about retiring.  Now, that thought was a pleasant dream not so far off into the future.  But first, the Phaecian Empire needed to be crushed.

Captain Posner’s thoughts were interrupted when the small blip reappeared on his sensor monitor.

“There she is,” he told his Senior Officer. “045 by 30.”

“Yes sir,” the Senior Officer replied. “I’ve completed the database check.  There was no other traffic scheduled in these parts and at this time.”

“Yet there she is.”

“It might be an echo, sir.  A ghost trace.”

“It's possible,” the Captain admitted.  “But it's more likely someone is shadowing us, trying to hide in our blind spot and slipping out now and again.”

“It could be an Epsillon Corporate ship.  Smuggling operations are surging.  They might be checking up on us, making sure we’re sticking to our transit log and aren’t running contraband.”

“A Corporation ship wouldn’t play around for that long.  If they think we’re doing something untoward, they'd hail us, make us stop, and come on board to inspect our cargo.”

The Senior Officer offered no reply to this.

“On the other hand,” the Captain continued. “If it is a hostile ship, where did she come from?  She couldn't have arrived through the Titus Displacer, not with the lock over transport the Empire has on it.”

The senior officer nodded.  The discovery of the Displacer revolutionized interstellar exploration.  Essentially an artificial fold in space, the Displacer was a man made portal that vessels both large and small used to travel to their desired location in a matter of minutes, provided their destination had its own Displacer unit.

The Displacers were built in either triangular or rectangular shapes.  Their center was hollow.  When charged with high-density proto-matter, an energy field occupied this hollow center.  Sophisticated computers controlled these energy bursts, refining the power signature until it took on the form of an artificial wormhole.  Any vessel entering the wormhole was transported to a target Displacer in operation anywhere throughout known space.  The trips range could be as close as three or as far as thousands of light years away.

To date, two hundred fifty six solar systems on the Epsillon side carried Displacer units while robotic probes carried another hundred at maximum thruster speeds toward distant and unexplored solar systems.  Some of these probes were generations away from their destinations.  But once they arrived and activated their Displacers, exploratory vessels would immediately follow.

Provided, of course, the war was resolved and the thirst for discovery was not quenched.

“If it is a hostile craft, what should we do?” the Senior Officer asked.

“They're far enough away that we can dodge them for quite some time.  Follow our route and don’t deviate.  On the slim chance they are fellow Epsillon, they won’t take too kindly if we lose them.”

The Senior Officer smiled.  His smile vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.  A red light flicked in the upper right of his sensor monitor.

“I’ve got a signal.  Strong and true.”

Captain Posner hit a series of buttons on his computer panel and swore.  The monitor displayed several lines of information.

“It's an Antigon class ship!” the Senior Officer swallowed hard.  “They're speeding up, heading right at us!”

The Senior Officer leaned in his chair.

“Initiate evasive maneuvering?”

“Yes,” Captain Posner said. “And send out a distress signal.”

The Senior Officer typed in a series of commands on another keypad.

“Sir, our distress signal is being blocked.”

Captain Posner focused on his personal computer.  He pressed a series of keys and plotted a route back to the Titus Space Station.  It would take them a full three weeks to return, provided they didn’t hit any bumps along the way.

“The maximum speed of an Antigon class craft, assuming her crew didn’t make any modifications, is roughly equal to our own,” the Senior Officer said. “If we maintain maximum speed, they won’t catch us before we return to Titus.”

“Agreed,” Posner said.  He pressed the intercom button. “Engineering, we need to alter course and apply maximum thrust.”

Captain Posner allowed a few seconds for a reply.  None came.

“Engineering, are you reading me?”

“Sir?” the Senior Officer interrupted.

“Not now,” Captain Posner spat. “Engineering, do you read me?”

“They have their hands full.”

The voice came from the other side of the bridge.  Doctor Stephenson stood at the door.  He held a fusion gun.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Your engines are about to seize up,” Stephenson continued.  “Unfortunately, your crew will not be able to do anything about this.”

“You son of a bitch,” Captain Posner yelled.  Without thinking, he leaped from his chair and rushed Stephenson.

In Captain Posner’s mind he already held the scrawny Doctor’s neck in his hands.

In his mind, he squeezed the life out of this traitor.  Stephenson would surely beg for mercy, but none would be given.  The Doctor’s lean face would turn blue in Posner’s hands and he’d rattle off one last gasp before falling to the floor.  Afterwards, Captain Posner would run down to the engine of his beloved ship and figure out exactly what Stephenson did.  He'd fix his ship.  He'd get her running again.  He'd been in worse trouble than this.  The Virtuous would survive.  Captain Posner knew it would.

In Captain Posner’s mind, all would work out in the end.  Everything.

But Doctor Stephenson anticipated the Captain’s moves and, without hesitation, pulled the gun’s trigger.  A concentrated blast of fusion energy hit Captain Posner’s midsection.  His body ruptured, bursting open in a kaleidoscope of blood and seared guts.  The torn body hung in the air for a fraction of a second before landing with a wet thud on the bridge's metal floor.

“By the Gods!” the Senior Officer exclaimed.  The smell of burnt flesh filled the tiny bridge and he felt he was going to throw up.

Doctor Stephenson made sure he didn’t.