Chapter 4 - Conspiracy Theory
Shit, he thought. The Imperial Council of 9, who ruled whatever, was left of the Empire, a puny handful out of 150 star systems.
Now the shuttle landed, marines escorting them into the debriefing rooms.
------
"As you were saying?"
"I believe, the beast has the capability to adapt itself to weapons and other countermeasures. It has the ability to self-repair, and infect starships."
"Lemme get this straight. You're saying that this thing...infects, as in takes over a entire ship? No salvage crew, no marines, no nothing?"
"Yes, but I would like to point out, this thing is hostile. It does not care about our Emperor. It only cares to infect and expand itself. I saw Somtaaw and Turanic vessels within that fleet. A lord class carrier was not immune to them. Nothing is. They infected a republican carrier, heavy cruisers. Plasma works to a limited extent, and they self repair."
"Self-...repair."
((Scratching of notes of "self-repair, bring council interest Code Blue-9?"))
He took the time to study these notes, looking upside down at the tidy white notepad, the debriefing guy writing some notes, some legible, some not.
"Well, Commander...that'll be all. Have a nice day. You're free to do most anything aboard this carrier. You'll find it better off then your usual Saarkin-Cho. And I must go...I must speak with the council. Thank you for your time."
And with that the short wiry man headed for the door.
Qu'jet rose from his chair.
"Wait...what are you going to tell the Council?"
"Oh, nothing at all! I just have to go and take over some things...we will be planning and plotting...umm...contingencies. Todayโฆso, good day. "
And with that he was gone, the second to last sentence sending a chill through his spine.
What /were/ they planning?
And then the dream returned to himโฆ
"Fllicckkkkeeeeer lifeeee..."
It-binds-us...[garbled speech], WE WILL NOT BE BOUND! [bright light]
"Youuuuu....shaaaalll...perisssh..."
And then he snapped out of his vision.
NOT AGAIN! he thought. These pills dun work. But then, one of the voices, sounded Bentusi. Bentusi...unsual. What did the Bentusi have to do with this? What did they mean, "we will not be bound". Nothing was what it seemed, every question was now unanswered, every question spawned two more.
He felt, ignorant, oblivious. What was going on? It was like a giant chess game; he did not know what move would be next until it was too late for it to matter.
He got up and headed for the door.
In a darkened room, lit only by the weak starlight, 6 figures sat around a table.
"What is your prognosis?"
"This beast is beyond powerful. It is invincible."
Another voice.
Voice 1:"Indeed. It poses a threat."
Another voice. A more hostile sounding voice.
Voice 2: "Really! Dolt! We are not stupid. We must mobilize, this thing is too powerful and must be destroyed."
Another voice...a moreโฆsinister, devious, crafty, voice.
Voice 3:"Gentlemen, why must we plan destruction, when we could...harness?"
First voice.
"You can't be serious! I mean-"
6th voice began to protest but was stopped.
Voice 3: "No, I am not kidding...just...think about it. We could bring back the glory of the emperor, the Kushans would grovel before us, our traitor brethren would beg for the light of greatness. Even the Unbound would flee in fear in their pacifistic ways. We could become...god."
Silence. The meeting ended swiftly. New orders quickly making their way horizontally through the chain of command, then vertically down, filtering down into select vessels. The untouched path would now be trodden.
-----
The room remained dark, cold, empty; suddenly the silence was interrupted as the door opened, throwing a beam of light into the room, immediately illuminating a small table, and in dimly a small bed is visible. The silhouette of a man steps in, the door closing behind him, once more bathing the room in darkness. The figure moves, slowly, deliberately, to the bed, suddenly jumping and landing on the bed, slightly shaking the bed. Saarkin-Chos were small carriers, for their job anyway, which involved production of fighters and frigates, the maintenance of carrier wings, the supporting of the pilots and crews, the immense Phase Dissassembler Arrays, the resource processing units, the resource storage units, infrastructure for commanding entire fleets and quarters and other preparations for command staff and fleet tactical and communications gear. Topping that off was the need to supply, maintain and keep everything above running and on schedule,
And to keep the carrier itself, in running condition, there was a vast army of engineers, technicians, commanders, tacticians, PDA-techs, resource-troubleshooters, pilots, trainers, capital ship crews, and other things. Too much into one space...and as such, the expense in living space would be taken out on crew, hence his Spartan living condition.
Leaning on the bed a hand reached for a desk light, lighting up the room. The room appeared to be about 16 square meters, whitewash walls...utilitarian, and simple.
In the other hand he had a manila folder, he opened it and set it on his lap, suddenly sitting up and reviewing the contents.
"New orders are as follows:
You will be transferred out to prototype carrier, TIN Venus Flytrap, Goddess Class. TIN Flytrap will proceed on maiden voyage testing, engaging on patrol of Republic/Imperial border. Hostile force expected. Transfer of Taiidani Elite Guard pilots and skilled regulars is underway. You will be removed from your squadron and reassigned to new mobilized squadron. Timetable for vessel launch 48 hours. Courier shuttle en route for transfer to Flytrap. Ship specifications and pilot/low-level crew manifest included.
Taiidan Imperial Forces
Fleet Command
Force Group 17, Logistics & Support Division.
tif/tif
He paused and let this new information sink into his mind, slowly inserting the contents back into the folder, setting on his table, turning off the lights, and leaning back on his bed, putting his hands behind his head and looking at the ceiling, turning his head to gaze into the pale starlight...remembering when he was a child, and used to do the same.
Suddenly a pang to see home made itself known. Memories began to re emerge, and he re-acquainted himself with these long forgotten events. It'd been...3 years since he had gone back. Three years. Long time...almost like an eternity.
But he couldn't go now, of all times. Not now. The lives of billions of Imperials, Turanics, Republicans, and...Kushans...were at stake.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to sleep.
---
The lamp above his head came to life and beamed down a amazingly bright amount of light.
"The time is 7-o'-clock", droned the robotic voice...
Rising he shook his head and headed for the shower.
-----
Carrying a box with him he headed out, the box containing practically everything he owned. Now he would be transferred to another carrier, the Flytrap, a Goddess class super-carrier...the first one that would be completed, the other would be built within several years, but none of this was relevant. He had no time to review the statistics of the carrier, nor had he time to review the manifest. He walked into the flight bay, unnoticed amidst the PA announcements, the engineers skittering back and forth checking fighter craft, about 100 meters away a assault frigate sat, suspended by giant clamps and mag-levs, PDAs mounted on giant servo-arms moving back and forth, materializing from resources decks, carpets, the plasma bomb launching mechanisms, the energy cannons and even a layer of paint. In about 2 hours the vessel would be complete.
Striding over to his interceptor he gently lowered the box onto the metal deck, moving to the back, ducking underneath and pulling a latch, opening the belly cargo compartment.
He went back and got the box, and put it it, closing the hatch door and securing it.
Crawling out he looked up at the flight bay, and all around...very sure he'd miss the carrier, if not the people. He'd never had a chance to socialize...believing in his psuedo-arrogance that he was superior to his fellows in many ways.
He resolved to socialize a little more on the Flytrap.
He entered the Triikor through the open canopy and secured it, the black tint protecting from sunlight. Securing himself in his seat he watched the LCDs flicker to life. Before he did anything, he ran a hand across the brown dashboard, sighing.
"It'll be nice to fly again..."
The comm went online.
"Triikor Seven, you are clear to launch, take runway 7 and good luck. Harbor Master out." He flicked a few switches, taxing his craft into position on runway seven, the belly mounted sleds securing themselves on the mag-launcher, the futuristic cousin of the hydraulic catapult.
"Three...two...one!"
He braced as the tiny craft launched from the carrier, the interceptor quickly slowing down, from where he returned the craft to manual control, bringing his craft around to look for the assault transport. He'd dock underneath, and then hyperspace out to the remote shipyard which housed his next home.