Europa Rising: The Divine Hammer

By Sean Pol MacUisdin

Commander Charles Kwetche is appointed to the elderly NASA frigate, Cabot; his mission, investigate the disappearance of the European cruiser Onbevreesd in the Jovian system. As he probes into the loss, Kwetche finds a deepening mystery involving the exobiological expedition of an industrial conglomerate; the alarming actions of a United Nations cruiser, and a mysterious signal aimed at Europa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Pol MacUisdin
• Release date: May 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9780987678102

Sean Pol MacUisdin

I grew up in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia, enjoying the wilds and the lake until I joined the Canadian Navy. After nearly twenty-five years of seeing the world, it is the coast of British Columbia and sailing on the sea that has most inspired my writing.

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By Sean Pól MacÚisdin

Europa Rising

The Divine Hammer

Published by:

Sean Pól MacÚisdin on Smashwords.com

Europa Rising

Copyright © 2011 by Sean Pól MacÚisdin

3rd Edition

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Dedicated to my greatest love and inspiration, Dixie.

Chapter One

Catalyst

European Space Ship Onbevreesd

46 Million Kilometres from Jovian System

16 December 2070

Captain Rasia Osmuska pulled the end of her ponytail from her lips as the gentle whir of the cabin’s single air vent faded. It was a nebulous white noise as ubiquitous as the deep thrum of the fusion generators or the high-pitched sigh of pressurized fuel lines, and the intruding silence grew overwhelming. She allowed the tablet she had been reading, detailing the Engineering Officer’s latest Operational Defect Report, to float before her.

"Kurwa mac," she muttered as she wiggled over in her vertical zero-G sleeping bag and tapped an icon on the computer display beside her.

Machinery Control Room, Engineering Officer of the Watch, answered a bored voice.

Captain here, Osmuska growled. A glance at her clock said it was nearly 02:05 Universal Time Coordination (UTC). Checking her annoyance, she asked in halting English, My ventilation just crash. What is matter?

Air Processing System Two dropped offline with an overheating alarm. The Chief’s on it. The voice was suddenly attentive and serious.

Osmuska rubbed her face, willing the edge from her voice.

Understood. Keep on it.

A faint unpleasant odour emanating from her nightshirt reminded her that the failed air processing system was only the latest mechanical issue to strike the Onbevreesd. Last week, the ship’s laundry shut down, and the difficulty in replacing one simple yet key component had proven to be an annoying and very pungent headache. Osmuska wrinkled her nose and sighed in disgust.

Must wash in shower tomorrow. She grasped the tablet drifting before her. She tapped the glossy surface and scrolled through the preliminary Operational Defect Report received from the Chief Engineer a few hours ago. It was an alarming read, and one that she had been musing over these last few hours, for it meant a difficult decision.

Expected failure of the Ship’s Service Power Distribution System, she read aloud as she plucked an eyebrow. It was a nervous habit, one she did when anxiety was eating at her, and it forebode the growing danger of their problem.

For several minutes, she read the Chief Engineer’s points: frequent failures of two of the three fusion generators; consistent tripping of several circuits through overloading; and, the alarming and unpredictable failures of the Automatic Bus Transfer System, which should have been sensing the loss of power from one generator and automatically flashing up an alternative, but as often as not, failed to do so.

"O Jezu, ale jaja," she groused, reverting to Polish as she read the grim prognosis. Complete systems failure in the next few days unless significant progress was made in troubleshooting the cause, and she knew the length of their efforts at troubleshooting. For three days now the Chief Engineer and his techs had been pouring over the system, pulling off every access panel and inspecting the wiring, transformers, breakers, and every other component of the electrical system. She wished she could be surprised, but the Fearless class cruisers purchased by the European Space Agency were an off the shelf, built on the cheap project thrown together by the Astro-Hyundai Consortium thirty years ago. That the Europeans, the Russian Federation, the North Americans, the South Americans and even the Africans had bought them, had not removed the fact that they were at best, a problem-plagued project everyone would have been happier to be without.

A digital tone sounded on her communications display, and she touched a flashing red icon. Captain.

"Bonjour, madame," answered the deep, buoyant voice of her Operations Officer, a young Frenchman named Charbonneau. 

Make your report, OPs, Osmuska prompted while biting back a yawn.  Osmuska had kept the Chief Engineer anxious company through a dreary eight-hour long system diagnostic, and it had cost her some of her usual night’s sleep.

"Madame, we ‘ave picked up an unusual radio signal. Point of origin is unknown, and so far, it does not appear to be ambient background noise."

Osmuska squinted in the dim light, and then shoved her fist into her mouth to stifle another yawn. I will come up soon. How is power grid holding?

We lost 220 volt about an ‘our ago as you know, 450 volt is steady, 600 is down for diagnostics, and 1200 volt is ‘olding so far and 6,000 is offline. Number One Fusion Generator is still down while number two is showing some voltage problems. We ‘ave auxiliary standing by if number two goes down, ma’am, but the ABTS is still causing the engineers worry. The Chief Engineer ‘as been up this past ‘our looking at it but so far she ‘as not said much. They’re standing by to use the manual bus transfer system if all else fails.

The Chief must be worse off than me, Osmuska said to herself. Understood, Captain, out. Just as she’d left it – the ship slowly falling apart. For a few moments, more, she mused over the report and the likely possibility she would have to turn the ship about. The failure of the mission – the redirection of an approaching comet – would be difficult to admit, but the ignoble rescue of her command as it drifted without power beyond Jupiter would be so much worse.

Osmuska wriggled out of the amorous warmth of her sleeping bag and then allowed herself to drift in the zero gravity while she listened like an anxious mother to the dulcet sonance of her command. The soft whir of the air processors blowing through the vent was absent, as was the deeper reverberating hum of the number one generator located one deck below her. The silence was eerie, a quiescent intrusion causing the ship to be almost tomb-like. It gave speed to her movements.

Osmuska pulled off her nightshirt in the cool, dry air and slipped into a baggy navy blue flight suit clipped to the bulkhead beside her. She slid on a pair of thick wool socks, swearing softly as she floated upside down and bumped off the deck head, then she eased her feet into a pair of heavy magnetic soled boots stuck to the deck. With sharp, nervous movements, Osmuska applied an elastic band to her long brown hair. After pulling on a ship’s ball cap with ESS Onbevreesd emblazoned in silver across its front, she exited her cabin to pull her way forward through the narrow, dimly lit flats to the Wardroom. She would need a couple of cups of coffee, she decided, before she could deal with this latest crisis.

Communications Relay Station (CRS) 23

Europa

Malika Kaliyev stirred a cup of Darjeeling tea as she sat in the tiny cafeteria. Her movements were languid, lazy through boredom and monotony. She did this every eight hours before going on-watch – a routine repeated for the last five months. It was as numbing as it was comfortable, a habitual program that both created and allowed her to deal with the tediousness of her day. She paused to listen to the steady hum of atmospheric processors, the perpetual background noise of her existence, before sipping the contents of the plastic mug. She grimaced at its heat and ran the slightly burnt tip of her tongue along the roof of her mouth, then nodded to herself in satisfaction.

Glancing at a bulkhead clock that said 02:05 UST, Kaliyev wrapped her heavy wool hijab shawl around her head and shoulders to combat the chill in the dry air, and then moved to a narrow door at the far end of the inflatable habitation pod. Pulling the door open, she walked through a series of pods interconnected by narrow tunnels until she entered the station control room, a compartment filled from floor to ceiling with transparent computer displays, stateboards, and a dozen other pieces of communications equipment.

Setting her mug down on a small desk carelessly littered with tablets and candy bar wrappers, Kaliyev bobbed and weaved through the confines of the cluttered compartment. A moment later, she stood before the watch supervisor’s desk where Matt Downing dozed, his ball cap with the silver embroidered letters, CRS 23, pulled over his eyes and soft wheezing snores rising slightly above the quiet hum of the fans. With a smile, Kaliyev glanced at the other member of the watch, a young Korean named Sung Myung Hee. She sat back in her chair with her legs propped on a console and her headset resting precariously on the thick blue-black braids of her hair. Glancing at Kaliyev, she blew an enormous pink bubble, and smiled in welcome.

Quiet watch? Kaliyev asked already knowing the answer.

Myung Hee rolled her eyes and pointed to Downing who had yet to stir from his slumber. What do you think? He lasted about forty minutes.

Figures, Kaliyev said as she moved to the desk and picked up a tablet. "Kesheriniz, et. Time to get up, you lazy bugger!" She slapped Downing’s outstretched legs.

Downing jerked violently awake, as Kaliyev knew he would, and stood up so quickly that he rapped his head on an overhanging power cable. Christ sakes! he said rubbing his head so hard his hat fell off. Damn it, Malika, he snapped as she writhed in laughter, don’t do that!

Serves you right for sleeping. She placed a tablet, with an ebook opened to the second chapter of Pride and Prejudice, on the desk and returned to pick up her mug of tea.

Downing, yawning loudly, remarked, You’re here early. You don’t close up for another fifteen minutes.

Commitment, Myung Hee offered after another huge bubble.

I could not sleep actually, Kaliyev replied with a hint of irritation. Jupiter was shining too brightly, even through my blackout curtain.

Change pods then, Downing replied with a sleepy smile. Kaliyev raised an eyebrow. Downing had made it obvious since they had arrived here five months before that he was interested in her. He said it was her dark Kazak looks, but she was sure her well-maintained figure had more to do with it.

I shall think about it, she cooed with her most alluring smile. That will make him sleep well, she thought. Turning to Myung Hee, who sat before a complex series of touch screen computer displays, she asked, Anything interesting?

Myung Hee shook her head. "Nope. Standard message traffic from Space Station Stikine. A few classified military priority fours, a priority three, and a bunch of standard stuff from the Tyre Macula deuterium plant. Same with inbound. Nothing terribly interesting though and nothing on the SETI bands."

Kaliyev felt the beginnings of a smile. Sung Myung Hee, like the other five people in the station, including herself, was bored. It was the kind of boredom that sleep could not brush away, nor games, nor digital movies, nothing. It was a year of boredom that had it not been for the pay, she would never have accepted. Crossing the small compartment, she reached and pulled aside a thick curtain covering a small circular viewport. She flinched at the reflected light that suddenly illuminated the confines of the diminutive control room. Beautiful, she thought as she felt a prickle of emotion, the darkness of the night sky, the wide icy plains of Europa, and Jupiter towering above it all.

Simply beautiful.

Europa had to be the most beautiful moon in the system, Kaliyev mused. Their station of fourteen interconnected pods rested upon a plain of broken ice hummocks several kilometres thick and crisscrossed with thousands of fissures, some hundreds of meters wide. In the short distance to the horizon, she could see a ridge of ice forced upwards by the massive gravitational pull of Jupiter, which dominated the sable sky above. Beyond it lay the Cilix crater and the Rhadamanthys, Pheonix, and Tectamus Linea even further to the north. Closing her eyes, she could imagine the Telephassa and Echion Linea to the south, and the piled ridges of slowly grinding ice plates. In between were the plains – vast spaces of rough, jumbled ice – a nightmare for their vehicles.

Kaliyev crossed the control room and looked out another viewport. To the east, she saw with a thrill that surprised her still, the eight massive parabolic radio antennae towering above the icy plain that this station operated. Theirs and two other stations on the Europan surface were gatherers and disseminators of Terran/Jovian message traffic – amassing the messages from all ships and stations in the Jovian system and transmitting them to transceiver arrays in the Terran system. The posting lasted a year, and the money the United Nations Space Agency paid, would aid her in her work towards her Ph. D back at Oxford.

Kaliyev returned to the watch supervisor’s desk. Eight hours, she thought with the beginnings of her usual boredom. Eight hours of directing every piece of mundane communication to the inner solar system. Then she was off for sixteen hours, time to eat, relax, exercise, wash up, and sleep and then on for eight more hours.

If there is only bread and onions, you should still have a happy face, she said under her breath as she sat down. Even as she tightened her hijab and lifted her mug to sip her tea, her watch partner entered through the circular door. Kaliyev hid a smirk as she watched Victor Gawaya, a Liberian who had wanted to be a basketball star but had settled on communications instead, slide and duck his way to her desk.

Pulling on a thick wool sweater, he remarked cheerfully to Kaliyev in his thick accent, Kinda cold today, eh Major? Malika had never understood why he called her ‘Major’, nor had she ever asked.

Yes, she sipped her tea. Gawaya made his way over to Myung Hee and they began their turnover. Downing picked up his tablet and was making ready to leave when a tone sounded on Myung Hee’s display. Both Kaliyev and Downing looked at each other in surprise, and then both moved quickly to the array of displays presenting all the data received from the station’s receiver array.

My watch yet, Downing said with bated excitement.

Kaliyev grinned at him. The alarm meant that the receivers had detected an ‘irregular’ signal. Both reached the display as Myung Hee analyzed the signal, running her finger over the coloured lines and spikes. Myung Hee squinted as she ran the signal through a series of buffers to filter out as much of the background noise as possible. Malika, Downing, and Gawaya watched in silence as her fingers danced over the touch displays and keyboards, pulling the signal through a variety of low-level analysis sub-programs. A puzzled look crossed her face, and she hung her head to one side as she said, Complex signal; narrowband – about 289 gigahertz.

EHF signal, Kaliyev surmised.

What’s the origin? Downing asked as he reached for a fruit bar.

Myung Hee scanned the analysis programs. Origin unknown.

Funny, Downing replied through a mouthful of dried plum. Got a bearing?

Working on it, Myung Hee replied. Right ascension, two-zero hours, three-two minutes, one-six seconds, declination negative nine degrees, two-seven minutes and one-eight seconds.

Downing took another bite of fruit bar and said thickly with crumbs spitting out, Vic, Check the plot.

Kaliyev frowned, trying to control her excitement. The secondary role of this station was to act as a SETI station searching for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. Six times, they had picked up an irregular signal, and only two had passed a thorough scrutiny. They were ultimately explained as being man made, but for a time they had caused some commotion in the in the station.

"The Onbevreesd is close to that bearing, but not close enough to be the transmitter. There is a shuttle not too far off the line, but it is also not close enough. Three satellites are in the area, but again, not close enough to the coordinates," Vic replied.

Downing turned to Kaliyev and Gawaya, a grin spreading across his narrow face. I think I’ll stick around for an hour.

ESS Onbevreesd

Captain Osmuska braced herself against the cool bulkhead of the Onbevreesd’s Communications Control Room and massaged her temple. She was painfully aware that her Operations Chief, a young and excitable German named Heidloff, was about to leap into one of her long and overly detailed explanations. As Heidloff opened her mouth, Osmuska raised a slender hand. Keep simple, Chief. Do you understand? Heidloff nodded, her small enthusiastic smile fading quickly.

Aye, ma’am. After turning to pick up a tablet, which she handed to her captain, Heidloff began her explanation. Our high gain antenna has picked up what appears to be a coded signal, origin unknown, ma’am.

Osmuska raised an eyebrow. Unknown? Alright, Chief, elaborate.

Aye, ma’am. It appears to have the hard data characteristics of a data link of some kind, but we have no point of origin. We traced its path, trying to determine point of origin and point of contact. The signal was EHF, and low power which means it is close, but the origin was unknown. The point of contact appears to be somewhere within the Jovian system, Heidloff finished with a note of nervousness.

Jupiter?

Heidloff nodded. More likely, one of the moons, ma’am.

Osmuska nodded absently then exited the quiet hum of the CCR. She took a seat on her command chair on a slightly elevated platform above the Operations Officer, now bent over a display and focused on the hourly Fuel Consumption Report, and the empty position of her Navigator. Osmuska allowed a cup of coffee to float before her while she applied her five-point harness. A feeling of curiosity tinged with anxiety crossed her mind; a possible signal from somewhere local to somewhere else local. How could that be?

Osmuska glanced at the three-meter-long holographic Tactical Display on the forward bulkhead and noted that there were no active or passive sensor icons on Onbevreesd’s radar. It was as it should be, for there were no other ships within forty million kilometres of them, and they would have been far behind them anyway. The combined nullity further emphasized their solitude so far from Jupiter. The only activity on the broad TACDIS was the Onbevreesd’s Plan of Intended Movement, or PIM, a thin blue line out to the distant icon of comet Williams-Foster 26, and their current drift speed of 100,000 kph. The data link from Space Station Stikine, in orbit above Europa, fed the Recognized Stellar Plot of the Jovian system. 

So where did the signal come from then? She sipped her coffee through a straw inserted into her mug. There was certainly no traffic this far out, according to Stikine’s RSP, only the Onbevreesd drifting through the interplanetary wastes on course to a distant comet. The closest vessel after that was a short-leg inter-moon transport, identified as the Hygeia Purveyor, carrying stores from Space Station Stikine to the antimatter production station on the moon of Amalthea. Beyond Jupiter was a pair of unmanned planetary freighters ending their long run from Earth.

"OPs, where’s the Audentia?"

Lieutenant-Commander Charbonneau looked up, glanced at his displays, and then picked out the icon of the distant cruiser, UNSS Audentia. A moment later, the TACDIS zoomed out beyond it’s forty-million-kilometer detection bubble and a new distant icon appeared in the Jovian system near the tiny moon of Callirrhoe.

"She ‘as just finished the final leg of ‘er deceleration for a geosynchronous orbit above the moon of Callirrhoe, madame. If I remember correctly, she’s..."

I know OPs, Osmuska interrupted as she sipped her coffee. She is carrying out advanced geological survey on Callirrhoe and will be there for few weeks. Captain MacCrimmon-Tsai told me about it many weeks back. She was happy to be chosen for the Pasiphaë Group survey while we go to blow up comet.

Charbonneau hid a smile. It was well known that MacCrimmon-Tsai and their own captain did not get along. Two of a kind perhaps?

"How about Caracas?" she asked.

"The Caracas is about," Charbonneau paused as he again zoomed out Stikine’s RSP on the TACDIS, six days away from beginning her ninety days of drift flight for an orbit around asteroid 659 Nestor.

Thanks. When I feel bad about our mission, I need remind myself of hers. South Americans take very great risk to make survey claim on rock that far out.

Charbonneau nodded. "Ninety-nine days to get there, forty days on task to survey, and ninety-nine days back. L’enfer avec cette."

Osmuska pulled off the confining ball cap and ran her slender fingers through her unkempt ponytail. She had orders to intercept the small comet, Williams-Foster 26, where she would insert several fifty megaton nuclear mines just below its icy surface to nudge it onto a new course, one that would skirt the Jovian system, instead of passing through it. For the last twenty days, they had been in drift flight after a three-day powered acceleration, and it would be another three weeks before they arrived at their distant quarry. After that, it would take another two miserable weeks of hard ice tunnelling to place all the nuclear mines. Nowhere in those orders was there any mention of permission to carry out scientific investigation. The schedule was too tight, she supposed, but a possible signal, origin unknown.

It was too tempting.

For a few moments, Osmuska reasoned out her orders against the investigation she wanted to conduct. It would probably not throw her more than a couple of days off schedule, and the signal was supposed to be from somewhere local anyway and the course change to intercept it was minor. Her scientific side screamed for permission, and Osmuska’s logical side reluctantly gave it. Besides, the odds were good that the Onbevreesd would have to return to Europa in the coming days anyway. They had nothing to lose except a slap on the wrist, and old Commodore Keersmaekers was more worried about ensuring his wife kept his prized tulip garden in good shape until his return next year. She glanced at Charbonneau who was gazing at her expectantly, as if aware that something was up.

OPs, wake Executive Officer and have him meet me in Wardroom, and then get Navigator to plot intercept course to signal bearing.

Charbonneau hid a grin. "Oui, madame." It was as good as decided.

CRS 23

Weird signal, Downing whispered. Kaliyev had to agree. It had lasted about one second, a sudden burst of complex communication. Downing glanced at Gawaya, "Vic, check the plot again and double check we didn’t accidentally pick up someone’s ship-to-ship communication link or something. Gawaya nodded, moved swiftly to a touchscreen display, and pulled up the latest down-linked RSP from the orbiting space station, Stikine. Gawaya studied it intently for a moment then said over his shoulder in his sing song accent, "Only Onbevreesd is close, but the coordinates don’t line up. Can’t be her, Matt."

Kaliyev leaned closer. It certainly looks like some kind of communication link.

Yeah, I know, Downing nodded.

Pointing to some of the signal’s hard data she said, The power on this signal is pretty low, but the frequency is high. Someone made this not too far from here. Point of origin is unknown, at least as far as a source, but point of contact has to be close. She paused as she realized what she said, and what she was about to say. Myung Hee turned her head,

It’s real close, she finished for Kaliyev who nodded quickly.

Downing tapped Myung Hee on her shoulder, See if you can find out what’s in that signal.

ESS Onbevreesd

Commander Amadeo Pineda rubbed his bleary eyes while Osmuska injected the last of a pot of bitter coffee into a stained coffee mug. Pineda wrinkled his nose at the stale hint that greeted him, and then rubbed his hand over his twenty-day beard growth.

You know that Commodore Keersmaekers will not go for it.

Odd signal, origin unknown, Osmuska replied with a hint of melodrama. You never know, she continued with a smile, Jovian task group commander might be in generous mood.

We are not that close, Pineda said as he sipped the coffee, "Terrestre! he added with a grimace. What did I do to deserve this?"

What did you expect at three in morning? Osmuska chuckled as she sat down on a bench opposite her XO and buckled herself in. Amadeo, I can order course change, but I want honest opinion on it.

Like I said, the task group commander will say no. We are a couple of days away at best if the source is stationary, which it won’t be, and that will put us several days out in total if we can even find it. We have our mission and the timeline is tight. Sure, there is a few weeks’ buffer of playing around with the comet if the mission were to fail, but to go racing after some weird signal, I doubt they would allow it. He looked at the deck head as the soft lighting flickered. Besides, he added with some bitterness, "we will be lucky at this rate to get to the comet. If you want to order a course change, do a one-eight-zero and take this pila de basura home."

We are not out here just to blow up comets, Amadeo, Osmuska shot back, ignoring the rest. Survey work, scientific investigation, and exploration are as much a part of our purpose as transferring stores and acting like passenger liner for scientists and geologists.

Sure, Pineda replied as he sipped his coffee. But as soon as you call in asking for permission, Keersmaekers will say no, stick to the mission, and they will send out someone else.

Who for Christ sakes? Osmuska said. "Audentia is already on mission and Caracas will be gone seven months."

"There is the Hygeia Purveyor, Pineda replied as he unbuckled himself to find something to eat in the Wardroom’s tiny pantry. She arrives at Amalthea in a few hours’ time. Sure, she is only a light transport, but a quick message to the Americans, a refuelling, and she could easily be diverted to investigate."

Osmuska looked sullen. You are not helping, Amadeo.

Look, Rasia, Pineda said with the beginnings of a frustration born of exhaustion and a captain unwilling to listen, "call it in if you wish, but they will say no. They will listen to your report, and then say ‘Bastogne’ to you. And I say that, he added quickly as she was about to rebut, because according to the RSP, there is not a God damned thing out here but us, and both of us know it."

Osmuska sighed. Pineda had a point. The Bastogne was an unmanned transport thought lost four years ago en route to the EuroCorp mining colony on the asteroid, Ceres. Only a few months ago, the European frigate, Noronha, while in drift flight for the Mars crosser asteroid, 2059 Baboquivari, had picked up her transponder. It had initially caused a bit of a stir, for the signal had come unexpectedly, but the confirmation of the remnants of the Bastogne had made some of the crazies in SETI and the UFO community realize that some of the junk drifting around the solar system was sounding a lot like aliens.

Of course, the other option is you tell them nothing, Pineda added as he sat down on the bench with a cold chicken wrap.

The thought had occurred, Osmuska replied with a weary smile.

Nelson got away with it, Pineda said between mouthfuls, referring to the moment when Admiral Horatio Nelson had placed a telescope to his blind eye during the battle of Copenhagen in 1801 and said of the signal to disengage, ‘I really do not see the signal.’

Pity I am not Nelson, Osmuska chuckled. But maybe we will have some communications issues today to go along with power distribution system problems.

What is the point of commanding one of the old ‘Hyundai Junkyards’ if you cannot feign the occasional systems failure to go chasing after strange signals, Pineda said with a shrug.

Osmuska smiled. She was glad to have her XO on side. My thoughts exactly. What did it matter? She wondered. The odds were very good that the growing problems with the ship’s systems would force her to return to Jupiter anyway. There was little to lose in spending a few days looking for ghosts, and besides, it really wasn’t far out of their way, a course change of only a couple of degrees. She unbuckled herself from the bench and pushed herself to a comm. panel on the bulkhead.

OPs, this is Captain. Does the Navigator have intercept course?

"Oui, madame," Charbonneau replied.

"Bring propulsion online and come to intercept course, then.

"Oui, madame."

CRS 23

18 December 2070

Kaliyev pulled off her wire glasses and glanced at Gawaya who sat behind the long banks of colourful displays. He had stretched out as much as the small compartment would allow for his nearly two-meter frame, and even then, he looked cramped to the point of discomfort. She lowered the tablet, with Pride and Prejudice open to chapter six, and called out tiredly, How is it going over there, Vic?

The lanky Liberian took a quick perusal of his numerous displays before answering mildly, "Just finished some standard traffic to Martian CRS 18, Major. I have an incoming scheduled transmission from Stikine in fifteen minutes, followed by a sked coming in from the Caracas in thirty minutes. We transmit in ninety minutes to Lunar CRS 7 on Oceanus Procellarum."

You still playing with that weird signal?

Computer’s still chewing on it, Major.

Ummhmm. The computer had determined within thirty minutes of detection that the signal was unknown. Over the last two days, the watches had toyed with it, more out of boredom than with any real hope of solving the mystery.

Gawaya again leaned back, his eyes glazed to the displays before him. Kaliyev picked up her tablet and replaced the glasses. She could have had corrective laser surgery for her stigmatism, but there was something quaint about glasses. Very distinguished, she had thought when she decided to buy them.  The analysis program chimed, and Gawaya read out the answer. Signal unknown.

Really? mumbled Kaliyev with some sarcasm. Alright, Vic, run it again. So much for an answer, she thought as she read the remarks of the ladies of Longbourn.

ESS Onbevreesd

The proximity alarm added its plaintive wail to the ringing chorus surrounding Osmuska. With a shaking hand, she brushed the globulating blood from her face where a piece of plasti-glass from the shattered damage control stateboard had slashed her.

Do we still have weapons lock? she screamed over the cacophony.

Laser array is cooling! Charbonneau called out. Sixty seconds before full cooling routine! A railgun battery is offline, but B Battery still ‘as a lock!

Fire when you have solution! Osmuska cried.

"Oui, madame!" Charbonneau replied as his fingers danced across the flickering glossy displays. The hull bucked, and Osmuska felt the deep thrum as Onbevreesd’s port 100mm railgun spit its shells into the darkness.

"No ‘its, madame! ‘ostile is moving too fast!"

Reset for flak and fire! Osmuska called out.

"Oui, madame!" Charbonneau changed the warhead command from point detonation to flak. The computer had a firing solution, but it changed constantly as the Onbevreesd manoeuvred to avoid being hit. He could not wait, he had to fire. Firing B battery! The 100mm railgun fired, spitting shells into the darkness that blossomed into clouds of whirling shrapnel. "No ‘its, madame!"

Osmuska glanced at the flickering TACDIS. A quick calculation, then, RCS! Bow yaw right four-five, bow pitch negative one-zero! Stern pitch positive one-zero!

Aye, ma’am! replied the pilot as she manipulated the ship’s Reaction Control System.

The hull shuddered violently and Charbonneau shouted, Direct ‘it on the port nacelle! Hull penetration in sections forty-two to fifty! Decompression in all sections!

I know! Osmuska seethed. Fire laser array!

Charbonneau checked the weapon’s lock and then fired.

"A ‘it, madame!"

Anything? Osmuska asked as she scanned the flickering holographic displays.

Nothing!

How the fuck, Osmuska began, then the Onbevreesd shuddered wildly.

Direct ‘it on ventral hull! Charbonneau shouted. Laser array is offline! Main bus is offline, we’ve lost 1,200 kw and 6,000 kw power!

CCR! Osmuska snapped, Did we get Flash Report out? There was nothing but static in her earbud. The hull bucked ferociously again, and she bit her tongue.

Damage report! she shrieked. Pineda, in the Damage Control Headquarters in engineering, had not answered her for several minutes now. The lighting began to dim, and one by one, like dominos in a line, the TACDIS and other holographic displays with their single scarlet symbol flickered and disappeared into darkness. Within seconds Operations was black save for the dancing shadows from a handful of emergency lights flickering through the wafting shroud of smoke and paint chips. Osmuska coughed, a hacking grating cough that stabbed her lungs like a knife.

Inner hull breach, Decks Three, Four, and Five!

Osmuska recognized the desperate voice of her Chief Engineer.

Chief! she shrieked.

Fuel tanks are breaching – several have buckled and ruptured internally! I’m doing an emergency fuel dump but I can’t do it fast enough! We’re getting decompressing liquid deuterium inside the ship! the Chief Engineer reported. We’re going to lose her!

Osmuska jabbed a communication button on her chair.

All hands to escape pods! Abandon ship! She turned her attention back to Charbonneau. Time to go!

"Where, madame? he asked in an incredulous voice. Out there?" The hull bucked as if punched and the forward bulkhead rattled alarmingly.

Osmuska, groaning in agony and screaming incoherently over the sudden wrenching squeal of decompressing atmosphere, raced to undo her five-point harness. Like grasping claws her fingers tore at the buckles, and in a sudden panic she rose as she freed herself. With unknown strength, she thrust her way towards the twin pneumatic doors leading from Operations. She slapped the controls twice, but they would not open.

Please, she whimpered as her pounding knuckles began to bleed.

The wailing scream around her increased. Then she was suddenly aware of a gentle vibration that was beginning to grow. Above the piercing shriek of escaping atmosphere, she could hear the grinding groans coming from the hull deep below. She could hear the cracks and jarring grunts as her ship began to strain against the sudden, flooding pressure of the ruptured liquid deuterium fuel tanks. As she began to gasp in the thinning air, Osmuska felt more than heard the first of the tearing screeches signifying her ship was bloating under the bursting pressure as the liquid depressurized into an expanding gas.

As Osmuska’s consciousness began to fade, her body was wrenched violently as the Onbevreesd exploded.

CRS 23

New signal, Major, Gawaya said suddenly as his long, black fingers tapped icons on his touch sensitive display. He listened to the brief seconds of multi-tone digital squealing then suddenly it vanished beneath a wave of static. Silence followed.

What is it, Kaliyev asked as she dropped her glasses and moved towards the Liberian. Gawaya ran the signal through a processor though he had already guessed what it was. The computer confirmed his fears even as Kaliyev reached his side.

EPIRB, Major, he replied with a deep frown.

An Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon, Kaliyev thought feeling suddenly sick. "Patch us into Space Station Stikine, Vic."

London

Sir Jervis Finlay scrunched his toes in his sheepskin slippers, enjoying the simple feeling of pleasure it brought to his seventy-six-year-old body. As he sat on his canopied bed dressed in a royal purple silk dressing robe, his eyes wandered about the lavish bedroom in his three-hundred-year old estate outside London. His thin lips curved in a smile. Another day, another financial success, he thought. He had negotiated a takeover bid of Yukazi Electronics, a major supplier of sensor arrays to orbital transports. It had been a good day, and the financial markets had been raving about it. Let them rave, he thought as he stood up to make his way to the washstand with its large silver tray and glass of warm milk. He reached the stand, and with a hand shaking slightly from palsy he picked up the glass. He was about to sip the glass’ warm contents when the large computer display on the far wall beeped with annoying regularity. A frown crossed his weathered features as he moved towards the glossy black display. His voice, when he spoke, croaked with age.

Voice interface. The display split into several windows. The icon for message traffic flashed. Who the hell would bother him at this time of night? His annoyance was growing. How did it get past his secretary?

Read traffic, he spoke evenly. He would have a long talk with the man tomorrow. The icon ceased its flashing, and a new window appeared headed by the words, Priority Alpha Traffic: Epsilon Code. Jervis paused in his approach while his stomach was instantly a mass of knots, and his heart begin to beat powerfully. He staggered slightly as his hand reached out to steady himself on a bedpost.

Code Epsilon-zero-zero-two-omega-decode, he said in a shaking voice.

The window went blank for a moment before a box appeared with the words, Authority Code to Read.

Wellington-omicron-read.

The box disappeared and the window went blank again. Then the message appeared. Finlay’s face paled and his withered hands gripped the polished mahogany of the bedpost even tighter. His thin lips mumbled the message as he read it.

Time is up.

The glass of milk fell from nerveless fingers to land on the Persian rug beneath his feet. He staggered to a sitting position on his bed and mumbled into his hands now covering his face.

Oh my God.

Chapter Two

Something’s Amiss on Europa

North American Space Agency

Canada Command Headquarters

Ottawa, Canada

27 December 2070

The elevator glided to an imperceptible halt only distinguished by the muted electronic chime and the monotone drone of a feminized computer voice.

Level three: Operations Section.

For a moment, the sole occupant steadied himself in the elevator’s imposing silence, as if unwilling to face the unknown. A soft ‘swish’, the doors slid open, and a cacophony of voices and computer tones replaced the silence. The occupant stepped into the maelstrom, and steeled himself against the anxious thoughts racing around his head.

Why did they call me here? What did they want?

Jerking from his brooding thoughts, the man strode across the wide marble tiled floor filled with bustling clerks and staff to a low desk crammed with touchscreen displays. His fingers unbuttoned his gabardine now damp with melted snow and he cleared his throat. Sitting behind the desk, an earbud protruding slightly from her thick, midnight blue braid of hair, a petty officer whose nametag read, Shimazu, looked up to see his uncertain gaze fall upon her. She rose to meet him.

Commander Kwetche, she stated as if awaiting his arrival. Rear Admiral Gwyer is waiting for you, sir. If you go down that hallway, she indicated the direction with a slender finger, you’ll find her flag lieutenant waiting for you.

Thanks, PO, Kwetche said with an appreciative nod. He followed her gesture toward a wide, brightly lit hallway lined with offices and reception rooms. Past bustling staff members and an array of decorative paintings contrasting starkly with the off-white walls, Commander Charles Kwetche made his way to the meeting that had cut short his already once aborted honeymoon. This had better be good, he thought with the anger he had been nursing since he received the message ordering him here yesterday. A week before he and his wife Jillian were to leave on a hypersonic flight to Paris for their honeymoon, he had been ordered to report to Ottawa for a briefing. In a hasty postscript, the message had also stated, "Make necessary preparations for extended voyage."

Kwetche was met by a young lieutenant who took his gabardine and ushered him into the rear admiral’s waiting room. There Kwetche inspected himself in the full-length mirror, aware the hasty flight from Halifax had left an array of wrinkles in his dress uniform, and some thickening stubble on his deep ebony face. A further glance revealed the angry glint in his eye that he had been working on for the last twenty-four hours, and he pushed himself to be rid of it. Attitude, he reminded himself, was not something you pulled on a rear admiral, even an old friend like Marion Gwyer. For nearly ten minutes, he cooled his heels, his mind wandering back to Jillian and the obvious disappointment and anger on her face. Even his promise that he would make it up with two