The Oort Perimeter

By Steven Lake

Born of a need to protect their homeworld, Earthfleet, the military arm of the Society, struggles continuously to ensure the safety of Earth and all who live on it. But a dark force moves within the galaxy, one who wishes to use Earth as a pawn in its quest for power. In a struggle for survival, the Society, Earthfleet and their allies must race against time to uncover the identity of this dark force, before it can destroy Earth, and the nine races. Failure means extinction of the human race.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Lake
• Release date: Jun 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476416465

Steven Lake

Steven Lake is a prolific author of many, many books, stories, articles, and other literature spanning a period of over twenty years. He began his long writing career in 1992 while serving in the US Army and has worked continuously to improve his craft to the great art it is today.

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The Oort Perimeter

Earthfleet Saga Book 1

By Steven Lake

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 Steven Lake

Dedication

I want to dedicate this book first to God for his boundless grace in blessing me with the ability to write, and the imagination by which to create all the great worlds, characters, events and stories that I have had the privilege to write about. I also want to send out a huge thanks to all my friends and family who helped me edit my book, provided feedback, or gave me ideas for my stories. Thanks for all the great help all of you provided!

Author's Note

This novel is book 1 of the Earthfleet saga. To learn more about this series, or other books that I've written, or are in progress, go to: http://www.realmsofimagination.net/

Prologue

A short, plump, elderly monk, his skin green and leathery, stood on a balcony at the top of a large stone tower that overlooked a wide and expansive courtyard and studied the multitude of people that moved about it below him; each one going about their own unique religious errands. But, despite the many people gathered there, they were only a tiny sampling of the vast multitude who called this place home. But this was no ordinary home away from home. This was the chief monastery of the Yib, an ecumenical organization that brought together the beliefs and religious customs of thousands of religions from all across the galaxy into one unique location. In doing so it'd become a patchwork quilt of sorts, filled with a rainbow collage of culture that was both breathtakingly beautiful, and surprisingly simple at the same time. As the monk continued to look down from the top of the tower, a warm summer breeze wafted through the room around him, sending a small cloud of dust swirling up around his feet like a dirty brown whirlpool. Yet his robe appeared to take no notice of this as it remained surprisingly still despite the strength of the breeze. He soon reached up and adjusted the hood of his robe, pulling it further over his face as though drawing deeper into the shadows within. He brushed lightly at the simple brown cloth it was made of, and then tightened the rope-like belt around his waist that held it in place.

After a moment he turned and studied the room behind him. It was made entirely of an emerald green marble, surrounded by a circle of thirty six pillars that appeared old and scarred with time despite their relative youth. A group of small birds, that were nesting in the domed roof above him, chirped and sang happily in tune with the numerous evening chants and prayers that echoed up from the monastery below. The monk inhaled deeply as the smell of flowers drifted through the air around him, giving the air a sweet, almost perfume like fragrance. In the distance, the planet's twin suns slowly marched across the sky towards the horizon as they began their decent into evening. The monk looked briefly towards the center of the room behind him, before again looking out at the courtyard. Given the lateness of the hour, it made him wonder if the others would ever arrive. But, just as quickly as this thought entered his mind, a sound of footsteps echoed up the stairway from below. He turned and soon spotted eight other monks in robes of various colors and designs entering the room through a nearby gilded archway. They slowly, reverently moved into the center of the room and formed a circle around a large, black orb that sat perched on a pedestal of pure white marble in the center. The green skinned monk soon joined them as the other monks began to chant quietly to themselves. This went on for several minutes before everyone turned their attention to one among the group who was dressed in a light green cloak that was covered in a variety of aquatic symbols that denoted his position as a prophet of his people.

What is your message today, prophet? Why have you called this meeting? asked one of the monks in a deep, solemn voice.

A great danger arises from within our midst, said the monk in the green cloak, his voice dark and menacing.

What kind of danger? asked another.

A race has arisen amongst our vast community who seeks to destroy the Nine and seize the galaxy for its own.

The other monks looked at each other in surprise and perplexity.

Who are they? asked one of them.

The prophet raised his hand and waved it over the orb. It shimmered and changed to reveal a picture of Earth.

It is the Chappagi. They will conquer us all and destroy the peace that we, of the Nine, have fought so hard to achieve, he hissed spitefully.

That is absurd! The Nice Races have stood as guardians of the sentient worlds for millennia! There is no way such an insignificant race such as they could ever overthrow them. You are a fool if you believe they have such strength! shouted one of the monks.

The prophet glared at the other eight from under the darkness of his hood.

I am a master prophet, of the great house of prophets. We have never been wrong. We correctly predicted the betrayal of Severen, and the attack of the Origgians. Our people have been accurately prophesying the truth for over two millennia, and I tell you now, unless they are destroyed quickly, the Chappagi will overthrow us all. They will conquer the Nine and put every creature in this galaxy under their feet!

The other eight monks quietly but vigorously discussed this revelation amongst themselves for several moments. Finally, they fell silent. One of the eight, the plump, elderly monk, who'd been first to reach the top of the tower, stepped forward and threw back his hood to reveal the reptilian face of a Gayik'Von.

Who has sent you to speak such lies and evil against the Gin? he demanded.

They are not lies! I speak the truth! cried the prophet, a quiet gurgle in his voice.

"You do not speak the truth! I know, for I have seen the Gin myself, and know of their nature. They are a peaceful people who possess no lust for power, nor a desire for conquest. It is true that they've grown powerful. But it is out of fear of you and your people! Fear breeds fear, and fear leads to suffering, and death."

Yes, their death! They must die! cried the prophet.

"No! We will not sanction this prophesy, nor the genocide of an entire race, on the simple word of a prophet whose own species has much to gain from their slaughter!"

The prophet fumed bitterly.

How dare you question my prophesy! You know as well as anyone else that all which I foretell will come to pass!

I do not fear your prophesy, prophet, if I should call you that, as your very words reveal the true motives for your...proclamation. It is not the declaration of a revelation, but rather the dark proclamations of your heart, which is fueled by greed, and a lust for power. Therefore, as leader of this council, I declare that your title as prophet be hereby stricken from the record, and that your prophesies be declared as heresy until such time as you return to your sanity, and once again embrace the truth.

The prophet hissed.

Fools! You risk your own destruction at the hands of these monsters!

If they were truly monsters, and our eyes each saw the same future as you, then we would agree with your verdict. But our eyes see a different truth. We see a race still in its infancy who is trying to stand up and walk in a world full of giants. That is why your prophesy cannot be the truth. There is no possibility that such a tiny race can be of any threat to us. Therefore I declare to you, go now and seek cleansing for your sins, lest the darkness in your heart consume you.

The prophet threw back his hood to reveal the fish like face of a Varnok. He pointed angrily at the Gayik'Von monk and growled.

Then their victory has already begun, and your doom sealed, he hissed.

And again you speak folly to us! Tell me, oh foolish one, of what victory have they gained against us? I see nothing that says we have been made to stand beneath their feet, nor forced to bow in subservience to them, said the Gayik'Von.

The Varnok prophet hissed again.

Do you not see!? They have already divided the Nine Races, and turned us against each other. Without our unity their victory is assured! The only question that remains now is the season of our destruction.

The Gayik'Von monk retreated several steps, putting space between himself and the Varnok prophet. Four other monks turned and joined him to show that they stood in agreement with him. The three monks that remained however gathered themselves around the Varnok prophet, as though to defy the Gayik'Von.

Is this not proof enough for you that they have already divided us, and taken away our unity? Open your eyes, you old fool, and see the truth that stands before you, lest your blindness becomes the death of us all! hissed the Varnok prophet.

You are the only fool here, prophet! This division is not their doing, but yours alone!

The Varnok prophet waged a finger angrily.

Mark my words. Your fall will be the greatest of the Nine, for you will be the first to suffer at their hands!

The Gayik'Von monk snorted.

We shall see who will fall and who will remain, prophet. But remember this. So long as our five races exist to stand against your unholy union of four, the Gin will remain safe, even if we must fight to our last dying breath to protect them.

The Varnok prophet glared at him, and said darkly, We shall see.

Chapter 1

Chancellor Nordham was a man of science just as much as he was a man of politics. While he didn't directly conduct any experiments of his own, he was a great lover of the scientific disciplines, and oversaw a vast community of scientists and researchers consisting of the most brilliant and exceptional human minds in all of Sol. Here, within the Brayburn Society, they were free to push the bounds of science unhindered and unrestrained, save for a simple code of ethics that called for everyone to always seek the best for mankind, and never its harm. But this scientific freedom hadn't always existed. In times past, science had been feared by man, and those who explored its incredible wonders were treated as heretics, and often killed or tortured for their convictions.

To combat this fear, many of those who clung to, and practiced science, banded together for strength and mutual security, eventually forming the Brayburn Society, which became a collection of the greatest minds in all of humanity. Under its protective umbrella, science grew and prospered, diseases and sicknesses were wiped out, and many great breakthroughs, once thought impossible, and still thought impossible by many on Earth, became reality. Even space flight and interplanetary colonization were achieved long before the first man left the ground at Kittyhawk. As they continued forward, always striving to create newer and better technology, the world around them slowly began to change, to accept science as a part of their daily lives, and to move down a path the Society had long desired for them to go. But, even then, those among the Society were highly persecuted. As a result, they'd fled the confines of polite society, and eventually Earth itself, many centuries earlier, and had choose instead to colonize the other worlds of our vast solar system where they would be free to search out the mysteries of the universe unimpeded.

This was made possible through hard work, and a chance encounter with the Gayik'Von several centuries earlier. Even so, the people of the Society loved it, as it took the freedom they'd already gained, and enhanced it a hundred fold. But this freedom came with a price. Technological advancement was rapid, and one form of technology was quickly obsolesced by the next. But to those of the Society, such rapid change was expected, and treated as just another part of their daily lives. However, to someone on Earth, accustomed to the slow and comparatively snail like pace of technological evolution, the speed at which the Society's own technology grew was nothing short of miraculous.

However, this incredible and rapid technological growth was something Nordham had grown up around, and had learned to deal with. Even so, being the Chancellor of such a vast community of exceptional and brilliant minds was both humbling, and exhausting. While criminal and social woes were nearly unheard of within the Society, there were still many things that required his daily attention. And today was no exception. As he sat behind his desk and studied an operations report on a large data pad in his hand, one of his assistants came through the door with an armful of even more data pads. He looked past the growing pile of work on his desk and sighed.

More? he said with a hint of frustration.

The assistant grinned sheepishly.

Sorry, sir, but they've been coming in like this all morning, he said.

Nordham frowned.

How many more do you have out there?

The assistant shrugged.

Another hundred or so.

Nordham's eyes narrowed in disbelief.

Unbelievable. We're a completely paperless society, and yet I'm up to my eyeballs in paperwork. How is that possible? he said sarcastically.

The assistant shrugged.

Security, sir. Even though we have an extensive, elaborate and highly secure computer network, they're necessary to keep sensitive documents from being seen by the wrong people.

Nordham smirked.

I know that already. That's not what I meant. I'm talking about the paperwork that's contained on them. I want to know why we have it in the first place. To be honest I'd rather just ship these back to the directors and let them deal with them instead.

Well, you could, sir, said the assistant.

What, and let the council say I was wrong? Are you kidding? grinned Nordham.

The assistant chuckled.

Right, good point. Well, if it's alright with you, I'd like to grab a few of the interns and see if we can sort through these and figure out which are just empty reports, and what are things you need to pay attention to.

Yes, please do.

The assistant nodded in return, and then slipped out of the room. Nordham sighed as he rubbed his forehead in frustration. Just then a chime echoed softly as a large holographic screen appeared above his desk. On it was a high priority message addressed to him. He studied it with interest. After a moment he furrowed his brow.

Well, well, well. It appears I was right. Computer, inform the reception group that I will be changing the meeting venue for the Serian diplomats to Pluto station. Also, please inform the Grand Admiral of the change.

Acknowledged, replied the computer.

Nordham tossed the data pad in his hand onto the desk, and said, Alright, let's go play some political jousting, shall we?

Grand Admiral Mike Clayton, supreme commander of Earthfleet, the defensive and military arm of the Brayburn Society charged with protecting Earth, and all of Sol, from all threats both local and galactic, sat quietly on a comfortable pillowed davenport in the living room of his officer's quarters. In front of him floated a gigantic holographic display screen, on which was playing a broadcast from the BBC detailing the day's political highlights.

Today US President Westland openly denounced German Chancellor Sigfreed on international television for his support of the Lansing Accord. Chancellor Sigfreed immediately retorted saying that President Westland's claims were the sign of a weak leadership afraid that it will lose its bid for world domination, said the news reporter.

Mike quietly sipped on a cup of dark, black coffee as he continued to watch the news. Alfred Bofenheiser, Vice Grand Admiral of Earthfleet, and Mike's executive officer, sat next to him and fumed as he too watched the news report. Mike gestured lightly in the air, muting the display, and then turned to Alfred with a grin.

Something the matter? he asked.

World politics makes me so angry. It's like listening to a bunch of preschoolers arguing over who will get the last piece of candy, said Alfred with a light German accent.

Mike chuckled.

Well, not everyone grows up, no matter how old they are. It almost makes you wish you could send them all back to preschool and make them start over again.

Alfred grinned.

Its a nice dream, but I doubt it would work.

He looked back at the news broadcast just as it changed to a series of images showing the increasing waves of violence that were growing more commonplace across the planet.

It's so depressing to see them acting like savages to each other. It seems like all our efforts to show them a better way of life have been in vain, he continued with a sigh.

It does get frustrating at times, doesn't it? said Mike.

That it does.

Mike glanced at his watch, and then dismissed the holographic display in front of him.

Well, it's almost time to go meet the new Serian diplomats, he said, a hint of loathing clearly evident in his voice.

More political babysitting again, eh? chided Alfred.

Mike grunted.

If only. It's days like this that make me wish I wasn't Grand Admiral. I mean, it’s not like I don’t love the job. I really enjoy what I do. I just hate all the politics that comes with it. Half of this stuff would give a man gray hair before he's forty.

I feel your pain, my friend. Anyhow, speaking of politics, I had better get up to command and be sure that everything is in order before the councilmen arrive. We always have to look preened and pretty for the bureaucrats.

Mike laughed.

Yeah, like meat on display.

Alfred stood up, rolled his eyes and then slipped out of Mike's quarters. Mike then stood up and adjusted his outfit as he considered his next move. As much as he liked his casual work khakis, diplomatic encounters required that he be dressed in his best.

Well, time to change into the penguin suit, he thought to himself.

Just then, a curious, quizzical voice echoed in his ears.

More politics? it said.

Mike turned slightly and spotted a tall, beautiful young woman with long, golden brown hair and royal blue eyes standing behind him. He grinned.

You could say that. But one thing you learn right away about being the highest ranking officer in Earthfleet is that, playing politics is an unfortunate part of the job description. Everyone seems to think that, despite your position, and experience as a military officer, you're the perfect target for small talk, verbal chess, and political bantering. Personally, I'd rather challenge then to a friendly game of rugby than get dressed up and prance around like a peacock.

The young woman nodded.

I've noticed a similar sentiment as well from both humans, and the many alien species we have thus had contact with. To each of them, politics is a game of power, prestige and slight of hand. Some enjoy it, while others, like yourself, despise it.

Mike chuckled.

I always see it as a battle of the ticks. He who can suck the most blood wins.

The young woman grinned.

Given what happens at these meetings, one would be expected to think as much.

Just then a small communicator embedded in Mike's ear chirped.

Call from central dispatch, came a soft feminine voice in his ear.

He pressed a finger against his lower right earlobe, and said, Clayton here.

Sir, the Chancellor wishes for you to meet him at Pluto station. He says there's been a change of venue and they'll now be meeting the dignitaries there, came a voice in his ear.

Mike cocked an eyebrow.

Any reason for the sudden change? he asked.

He did not say, sir.

Alright, tell him I'll be there as soon as I can.

Aye, sir.

The call ended. Mike then looked at the young woman.

It seems we have a change of venue.

So I heard. Shall I prepare your ship and summon the crew?

Mike held up his hand.

Not just yet. I want to find out why we're changing venues first. Besides, we don't need to take the Sergenious out. We're only going to Pluto station. It's not that far, so I can just portal over there.

As you wish.

Mike pressed his ear again, and said, Connect me to Chancellor Nordham, please.

Connecting now, came the soft feminine voice of the central computer in his ear.

A few moments later the Chancellor answered.

Yes, Grand Admiral? How can I help you? said Nordham.

I just got notification that the venue for meeting the diplomats has changed to Pluto station. What's the story behind that?

I was notified by our chief intelligence director that there is a potential spy among the Serians. Because of that, I want to contain them to Pluto station for now until we can be certain they present no danger to us.

Great. They're not even here yet and we're already playing galactic cloak and dagger, muttered Mike. So, by changing venues, we're essentially giving them a pat down before they're allowed into the inner system, he continued.

Well, not in a literal sense, but something close to that.

Mike looked at the young woman and cocked an eyebrow.

Alright, I'll be there as soon as I can. Clayton out.

He then stood quietly for a moment and pondered this. As he did, the young woman looked at him curiously as he considered his options.

What's on your mind? she asked.

Mike pursed his lips slightly.

Anytime a diplomatic meeting starts out like this, things usually get sticky in a hurry. Plus, if the director thinks there's a spy in the Serian mission, it immediately turns this from simple diplomacy into a hostile confrontation.

The young woman furrowed her brow.

If this is indeed a hostile confrontation, wouldn't that, in turn, require the political equivalent of a retaliatory strike?

Mike's eyes darted over to the young woman's seemingly mute, expressionless face, and pondered her words.

A political counter-strike, eh? My instructors once taught me that the best way to deal with a political attack is to kill the enemy with kindness, giving everyone the perception that you're the better man, which, in turn, gives you the advantage. So, if they do have a spy in their midst, then they're either after information on how to destroy us, or perhaps something to make us look bad.

The woman furrowed her brow.

Then shouldn't we 'kill them with kindness', as you say, the moment they get here?

Mike nodded.

Agreed, and the best way to do that is to begin with a personal escort from the Grand Admiral himself. As such we'll need the Sergenious, so go ahead and call the crew. Just don't tell them what we're doing. I'll reveal that to them later.

Aye, sir, said the young woman. And what about your dress uniform? Don't you want to look your best when you meet them?

Mike paused for a moment, and then looked down at his khakis.

Ah, right. I don't want to forget about that. Hey, if Petrov is in the area, tell him swing by and help me get dressed. After that I'll meet you on the ship.