Elite Dangerous: Premonition

By Drew Wagar

The legacy of a centuries-old mystery. Disturbing encounters with unknown ships. Three great superpowers manoeuvre against each other. But are their destinies their own, or are they merely the puppets of some greater power? Since the loss of the Prism system in 3300, Lady Kahina Tijani Loren has operated on the fringes of Imperial society. Led by clues from a woman once thought dead, she is drawn into a conspiracy at the heart of humanity. To uncover the truth she must contend with dangerous enemies, navigate murky political waters, and – with the help of her friends – uncover the secret of the Formidine Rift. Premonition is the new story set in the Elite: Dangerous galaxy, shaped by player actions in the game.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frontier Developments plc
• Release date: Aug 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9780993139680

Drew Wagar

Drew Wagar is a science fiction and fantasy author, living in the UK. He is the author of the Hegira Series, the Shadeward Saga, The Midnight Chronicles, the Elect Saga and the official Elite Dangerous novelisations.You can join a mailing list and discover more about Drew's books at his website.www.drewwagar.com

Book preview

difference!’

Chapter One

AD 3302

Capitol, Achenar 6d, Achenar system, Empire.

The Beluga liner was a thing of beauty. Its enormous bulk had been well disguised by its designers, dainty and elegant despite its huge girth and length. Bright blue starlight flickered from its highly polished hull, sparkling across the expansive windows tapered along the flanks of the vessel.

Before it lay a world of green and blue, wreathed in cyan clouds, reflecting the light of the distant star. In the distance beyond lay a ringed gas giant. This world, whilst bigger than ancient Earth, was merely a moon in this system.

Many would have recognised it, if not from the spectra of the blue-white star, then from the myriad lights visible across the terminator and into the dark side of the world, or by the busy streams of traffic dotted along flight corridors to and from the surface. It was obviously highly advanced and heavily populated.

Achenar 6d.

Capitol.

The beating heart of the Empire.

Founded a thousand years before, the Duval Empire was, perhaps, the greatest single political entity the universe of humanity had ever known. Its origins lay shrouded in controversy, with murder, greed and conquest having played their part. It had long ago split from its great rival, the Federation, and fought many wars against it throughout recorded history. At times it had to fight for its survival, at others it had been the oppressor in wars of attrition and conquest. It had long been ruled by a genetically secured line of male heirs stretching back into antiquity.

Today the Empire spanned thousands of systems, its territory enveloping hundreds of cubic light years. Across this senators ruled and patrons served, all paying homage, at least in public, to the Emperor herself, Arissa Lavigny-Duval. Her elevation had been a recent affair and she had retained the old title, not content with calling herself Empress, her own rise to power a matter of contention and controversy that remained unresolved in the minds of many.

Everything was strictly regimented. Every individual knew their place on the rungs, from the lowliest slave through to the highest denizens of the Senate. Rituals, processions, rites and the many parades and soirees of polite society reinforced rules both spoken and unspoken. Even the clothing, hairstyles, make-up and accessories wove a subtle message for those who knew how to read them.

Two such patrons stood within a lounge on the great vessel, behind the wide viewing windows of the liner, gazing out at the bright crescent of the planet as it swiftly grew before them. The captain, aware of the passengers aboard, had brought the ship towards the planet on a circuitous route, ensuring a captivating view of their destination at all times.

The patrons could not have contrasted more. One was painfully thin, his gaunt figure portraying an air of worry and concern that was matched by the deeply etched lines upon his face. An older man, bent with the pressures of political life. He wore a huge pair of ocular enhancers that were perched precariously upon the end of his nose, looking for all the world like a pair of ancient spectacles from times gone by.

The other was perhaps three times his size, an obese extravagance of a man. A swarthy face graced by a neatly trimmed goatee was the most immediately obvious feature, with chubby digits dripping in rings and jewellery, accompanied by an air of joviality. Only the eyes gave away the fierce determination and ambition that resided within. Despite the vastness of unappealing flesh, there was a sharp intellect at work.

Both men were dressed in traditional Imperial fashion, rather reserved by modern tastes and somewhat at odds with the current vogue in the core systems of the Empire. Both were draped in copious quantities of fine linen, subtly secured against the rigours of zero-gee and space travel.

‘I have anticipated my visit to Achenar for quite some time,’ the thinner man said. His voice was cracked, impatient and terse. ‘But not in this manner, not in disgrace, begging for favours from whatever powers that might take an interest in our plight.’

The larger man laughed.

‘My dear Patron Zyair,’ he began, his voice rich and melodious. ‘Do not fret so. This is Capitol, a world brimming with opportunities for exploit …’ He corrected himself. ‘For such as us to do great works in the service of our mighty Empire.’

‘May I remind you, Patron Gerrun, it has taken us more than a full year to extract ourselves from that debacle in the Prism system? That I have had to bow and scrape the knee to that insufferable snob of an Ambassador for all that time?’

Gerrun pursed his lips. ‘Ambassador Cuthrick is an acquired taste, I’ll admit. Though he can hardly be held responsible for the duties he was asked to perform by…’

‘That woman,’ Zyair almost spat. ‘Did I not advise against that sordid plan? That she was unsuitable for the role she was pushed into? Conspicuously unsuitable! Dalk paid the price for his lack of judgement. And what did she do? Abrogate her responsibilities and dash off into the darkness… I was proved right, was I not?’

Outside, the crescent of the planet continued to widen. The ship was dropping down towards the terminator, aiming for local dawn on this particular point on the planet. As they watched, the patrons saw the Achenar star sink towards the glowing atmosphere of the planet.

‘You were indeed, my friend,’ Gerrun acknowledged. ‘But events will catch up with Lady Kahina Loren, have no doubt.’

‘And how so?’ Zyair demanded. ‘It is because of her we have no place in Prism, no Senate to serve, no citizens to administer. With one fell swoop, she cut us off at the knees. Impotent! Cast out into a political wasteland. Tarnished goods. If it had not been for the assets we had accrued in that time we might have been forced into slavery.’

‘Calm, calm,’ Gerrun tutted.

‘Calm?’ Zyair turned on Gerrun. ‘When our political future lies in ruins? I do not share your optimism that a visit to Capitol will solve all our problems. None here will wish to be associated with an errant senator. Our reputations are forever sullied, associated as they are with that wretched Loren girl.’

Gerrun smiled at him and raised an eyebrow.

Zyair looked at him with a frown. ‘I know that look. You have a plan already in flight. Pray tell me what is you are scheming?’

Gerrun rocked back gently in his mag-boots, the lack of gravity agreed with his constitution and certainly made his bulk rather more manageable, though one did have to keep a wary eye on inertia in zero-gee. Already the faint grip of gravity from the planet below was making itself felt, before long it would increase in strength as the ship descended. It felt rather akin to being in a lift that was constantly about to arrive at the desired floor. A faint pressure in the legs.

‘It is our, shall we say, intimate knowledge of Lady Kahina Loren,’ Gerrun said with a chuckle, ‘that has currency here on Capitol.’

Zyair blinked. ‘How so?’

‘We have knowledge of her thinking, insights into her character and behaviour,’ Gerrun said. ‘First-hand experience of dealing with her antics. Such things are now of interest in high places. With the right introductions, exchanges and promises of service, we can use that to our advantage. The sins of the past can be washed away, and with a little fortune, we can look forward to a more exalted position. Perhaps we might even hold sway over her downfall …’

‘Her downfall,’ Zyair licked his lips. ‘That would be a sweet morsel I would savour for a long, long time.’

The ship rumbled about them, superheated plasma flashing outside the windows in arcs of disrupted atoms. The liner was entering the atmosphere. Within, faint tremors were all that could be felt. Below, the lights of cities on the dark side glowed brightly, an impossibly complex yet elegant network of concentric lights, interconnecting in straight lines, arcs and swirls.

‘You have arranged this?’ Zyair said after a moment’s thought.

Gerrun pursed his lips.

‘It’s fairer to say that I was contacted, and thus made the most of the opportunity,’ he replied.

‘Contacted? By whom?’

‘I would rather not speak their name here, my friend,’ Gerrun said. ‘Call me old-fashioned if you will, but there is no need to take unnecessary risks. Let’s just say that our Lady Kahina has ruffled more than a few feathers in the past and our contact would prefer discretion in these matters.’

Zyair nodded and looked out through the windows as the ship continued its descent. The superheated plasma faded away and high clouds were flickering past the windows, cyan on their tops, matched with a startling pink on their undersides in the bright light of dawn. The star had sunk to the horizon. Already the tallest building could be seen, rising far above the towering cloud decks. Their destination was not far ahead.

‘But I think you’ll recognise her,’ Gerrun said with a wink. ‘She is quite distinctive.’

Zyair frowned as he looked out at the approaching planet. Then his eyes widened in appreciation.

‘Ah …’ Zyair said.

Edge of the Frontier, two hundred light years from Sol

Myriad stars pricked the darkness of space. Not far away from here was the border, the boundary, the limit of known space; the edge over which only those who couldn’t resist the siren song of adventure dared to go; those to which ‘dangerous’ was just a substitute for exhilaration.

They call it the Frontier.

Out here, against the slowly fading embers of red dwarfs, the sharp light of blue-white supergiants and the deadly peril of uncharted neutron stars, was the void. For uncounted kilometres there was nothing, with perhaps just the occasional asteroid to break the monotony.

This was a dull system, a waypoint of little note in the grand scheme of things. Its central star had no planets, celestial mechanics long ago having determined that the region was poor in elements beyond the essential hydrogen. A lone K class star blazed away as it had for uncounted millennia. It would continue to do so long after the events occurring around it had run their course and been long forgotten.

Yet today, the unchanging vista was interrupted.

Something was moving in the upper atmosphere of the star, a faint spark of light. In moments the spark had grown to a plume of radiant energy, a curving discharge of energised particles, glowing fiercely as their components were shattered by the passage of the intruder.

Whatever it was, it moved at an impossible speed, already it had looped a quarter of the star in a recklessly close trajectory, actually within the corona, just skirting the edges of the enormous flares writhing across the star’s surface.

Having traversed half of the surface the object broke off its close inspection and the plume arched away into space, cooling and fading from sight. For a moment the system was unsullied once more, before, with a burst of coruscating energy, a ship materialised out of nothingness.

It was elegant, bright white against the ebony backdrop of the void, extended vents glowing with radiated heat as they cooled. It had a wide low shape with graceful nacelles left and right, from which plumes of engine flux exhaust were being expelled. The ship’s form was instantly recognisable to anyone of human origin. Classic curves blended with organic shapes, a Gutamaya design.

An Imperial Clipper.

The hull plates were illuminated by subtly arranged lighting, ensuring the vessel’s name could be seen.

Seven Veils.

The vents cooled to a dull crimson and then retracted gracefully against the hull. The engines throttled down, thrusters in the nose of the vessel firing to bring the vessel to a relative halt some forty light seconds from the star.

The cockpit was at the bow of the ship, a wide transparent canopy affording the occupants a superb view into space. Two pilots’ chairs could be seen, set forward within a wide and expansive bridge, tell-tale instrumentation lights blinking around them purposefully.

Only one of the chairs, on the starboard side, was occupied. A dark-haired and dark-skinned figure sat secured, garbed in a generic flight suit and surrounded by the glowing holofac displays that signalled the ship’s status. The figure gestured with a brief hand motion and the images faded out with a shimmer.

Hassan Farrukh Sharma listened as the ship’s drives faded into silence, leaving nothing but the background hum of the ventilation system aboard the Seven Veils. The ship still impressed him, even after several months of flying it. It was fast, efficient and a technological tour de force. All the systems aboard had been upgraded to the most expensive and powerful componentry available, its owner had seen to that. She had high standards, and accepted nothing less than the best.

Somehow though, he missed the tatty old Eagle he had once flown. In every measurable way it had been an inferior ship, but there was something about this new Imperial ship that he didn’t like. Flying it, he felt as if he were permanently underdressed for an important occasion. He should be wearing a uniform or even a tuxedo, ready to attend some elegant soiree or convention. It was too flash, too flamboyant.

Still, pilot to a senator’s daughter. You could have done a lot worse…

It was fair to say she had turned his life around. Two years before he’d been a naïve young impecunious hotshot out to prove himself to the void. Today he was effectively the captain of a multi-million credit Imperial warship, bristling with the best that the shipyards could provide.

But it wasn’t the ship, the credits, or even the lifestyle that had truly beguiled him.

It was her.

Salomé.

Officially the Imperial Senator Lady Kahina Tijani Loren, yet Commander Salomé since the cataclysm in the Prism system. She was the daughter of the late Senator Algreb Loren who had once held court over those worlds. Fierce and haughty in the manner of the Imperials, she was nonetheless charismatic and intriguing. She knew it too, using her talents to woo and influence high-ranking officialdom and inspire an almost zealous loyalty amongst the disaffected spacers, traders and explorers she had encountered on her voyages.

It was a far cry from how they had originally met. He’d stolen her, or at least the pod in which she was contained at the time, from the notorious pirate lord, Octavia Quinton. She had been smuggled out from her homeworld dead, or so it had seemed. In truth, it was a complex political game being played by the Empire, the Federation and a group of ‘Reclamists’ who were all vying over the future of the Prism system.

It was he that had given her the name Salomé.

She stepped out stark naked, threw her guts up over the floor and screamed at me. Not very senatorial…

He chuckled and then sighed. He liked her better that way. The naïve and vulnerable Salomé, rather than the proud Imperial stateswoman, Lady Kahina Tijani Loren.

And yet, her true motivation eluded him. She was a mixture of both now, driven by a singular purpose. A purpose she kept to herself. She slipped between her personae with fluid ease. Who was to say who the real person was?

He’d taken Salomé to the edge of beyond and further still. They had charted the depths of the galaxy, beyond the spiral arms, crossed the core and its fearsome supermassive black-hole, still onwards until the galaxy became a faint smudge in the viewport.

Hassan shivered at the thought. Out there, thousands of light years beyond the fringes of civilisation, the loneliness was immense. The first trip had been following a vague trajectory plot which had taken them to the EAFOTS sector, past a beautiful if ghostly pair of nebula known as the Heart and Soul. They had been following a clue, a strange data log that Salomé had dug up from a secure Imperial data bank. It had been left there over thirty years before.

The stars did thin out, the galaxy was just hanging there and the dangers of space almost ended us, but we never found whatever it was we were supposed to be looking for.

Unfazed by the lack of success, Salomé recruited others to her cause. She was convinced there was something out there, more than just convinced – driven. Precisely what it was remained a mystery. Hassan was bemused at how willing so many were to follow her out into the black. Misfits and social outcasts in some cases, but well-to-do traders and explorers amongst them, some with enormous resources at their disposal.

Salomé had proved herself adept at corralling them. She seemed utterly convinced there was a secret that had to be unlocked. Clues that needed chasing, rumours to be investigated. More exploration trips followed, culminating in a voyage across the heart of the galaxy to the far fringes of the opposite rim, only to rendezvous with more of those who followed her, tens of thousands of light years from civilisation. Sharing information, comparing data, looking for more clues.

And her warnings. Trouble in the core worlds … something she knows that she won’t tell … not even to me.

And still she was searching, following some crazy old lady’s rambling instructions. The toil of hyperspace travel never seemed to weary her. She was a true explorer, always looking to the next jump, the next system and beyond.

They’d amassed a vast quantity of exploration data in their travels and were now heading back towards the core worlds and civilisation once more.

That old lady may just have been insane, how would we ever know? Perhaps this is some wild goose chase and she’s out there somewhere, cackling away in a retirement home…

Satisfied the ship was secure, Hassan activated his mag-boots and allowed them to snap to the decking before he gestured for his harness to release him. With an Imperial flourish, it neatly retracted and furled itself efficiently away. He stood up and stretched.

A sigh escaped him.

The door at the rear of the bridge snapped open. Hassan felt his heart quicken with anticipation as he turned.

She walked in, elegant silver mag-boots clicking sharply on the flooring, graceful despite the zero-gee, her measured gait the product of years of expensive upbringing. As was her usual habit, she was dressed in a flowing dark gown cleverly secured by some expert designer with an appreciation of the difficulties women of substance faced aboard ship. Raven dark hair framed a striking, yet somehow severe, face. She was not a beauty in the manner of the celebrity holovids of the core worlds, but there was a wildness to her expressions and a strength to her stance and bearing that Hassan had seen deployed many times to great effect. Gray eyes completed her slightly haunting visage. It was a face that had engendered the loyalty of thousands; men and woman who would, and had, lain down their lives for her.

Me included …

‘Am I to assume we have reached the end of our route?’ she asked.

Her voice told another story. It had the distinctive Imperial lilt, combined with a measure of arrogance, determination and grit. Hassan had watched as she’d faced down pirate lords, criminals and bounty hunters. She had a brutal edge. He’d seen her cut down opponents with a deft thrust from the antique Holva blade she wore when travelling and he’d experienced first-hand her unarmed combat prowess.

Never cross Salomé …

Hassan nodded.

‘We’re here, two hundred light years out from the edge of the core worlds. We’re fuelled, ready for …’

‘Whatever awaits.’

She had a habit of finishing people’s sentences. She liked to dominate, to push and coerce. It was her way.

‘What are we waiting for this time?’

Some hint of impatience must have crept into his voice. She looked at him.

‘Bored, Hassan?’

‘We’ve travelled the length and breadth of the galaxy chasing this mystery …’

‘And we will keep searching until we find out what lies behind it. There is a secret here, long hidden …’

She turned to look at the console, activating the communications holofac. There was nothing new on display. A faint frown crossed her features. Hassan had seen the look before. She was expecting something.

More secrets …

‘And for how long?’

She looked around again.

‘This is no whim,’ she said. ‘Need I remind you how difficult it was to extract the information from the databanks? How much I had to risk to confirm whether it was really true?’

‘I was there, remember?’

Her eyes narrowed.

‘Are you losing faith in what we’re doing? There is a truth here that some do not want us to find …’

Hassan shook his head. ‘There is so much else we … you and I … could be doing. It’s been a year …’

‘You and I?’ she asked, now looking straight at him. Hassan felt his heart lurch. ‘You’re my pilot. What do you mean? Do I not pay you generously enough for your service?’

He was spared having to provide an answer by a soft melodious tone from the communications panel. Salomé turned, calling up the transmission with a wave of her hand.

‘Our rendezvous,’ she said, a faint smile playing on her lips.

Hassan moved over to stand beside her. Her perfume rose up around him; subtle and entrancing, full of promise tantalisingly out of reach. He summoned up the galactic chart and a course plotted itself across the star systems. He could see it was heading into the core worlds. It ended in a region he’d heard of but never visited.

‘Tionisla,’ Salomé said, running a hand through her hair. ‘I thought it might be.’

‘You’ve been there?’ Hassan asked. Tionisla was an independent planet, a long way from Empire space. Hassan recalled the name from a history lesson, but the details eluded him for the moment.

‘I may have,’ Salomé responded. She turned and tapped him gently. ‘Our course, if you please, we need to be there as soon as we can.’

Her hand rested on his shoulder for a long moment. He indulged a brief daydream where he took her hand in his, pulling her into his arms, finally bending her to his will and …

‘Hassan?’

He blinked.

‘I’m on it.’

You stupid fool. After all this time ... Never in a million years would she even think … but if she did … just maybe …

He stomped down on the desire, the feelings and the lust. It retreated within, smouldering gently. The course needed plotting. He buckled himself back into the pilot’s chair and fired up the controls.

The newsfeed flickered to life on his right, a scrolling list of items as the ship synchronised itself with the nearest outlets. He hadn’t checked the feeds for some time; there was a lot to catch up on. One particular item caught his eye and he pulled it across for inspection.

‘…And in a dramatic turn of events, it has been revealed that Jaques, the cyborg bartender who famously modified his entire space station and prepped it for an audacious hyperspace jump across the galaxy has been located! Jaques, who had been given up for lost when the station failed to materialise at its destination at Beagle Point on the opposite side of the galaxy, has been confirmed to be intact and well but in an obscure location most of the way towards the galactic core, some twenty two thousand light years from the core worlds. Intrepid explorers have already begun the trek out to him with spare parts and supplies. It appears the station was badly damaged by the ambitious transit and is unlikely to move again …’

Hassan rubbed his chin.

Better not show that to her, she’ll want to go!

Thus distracted, he pushed the thoughts away and he began the task of plotting the route and prepping the ship for yet another series of hyperspace jumps. Within minutes he was ready, adjusting the ship’s course to match. He looked out at the distant stars.

‘Here we go again.’

***

Salomé retired to her cabin, securing the door behind her with a sigh.

Tionisla? Circling back there once again? What is it about that system?

With the ship in the depths of space there was no need to lie down, but she approached her sleeping bunk regardless and climbed upon it. She gently secured herself as she felt the ship begin to move.

She closed her eyes, trying to keep her mind blank, to concentrate …

But the images came. Ships smouldering as they were struck by beams of fierce energy, a twisted wreck spinning past, the screams of the innocent haunting her as they did every time she closed her eyes.

You have your war, signorina …

She clenched her eyes shut against the memories, trying to erase the images from her mind, but to no avail. She could never forget what she had done, what she had sanctioned. The words she had uttered mocked her in her own proud Imperial tones.

Armies fight battles! That is what they are for!

They had fought her battle, fought over her home, the emerald moon of Chione. Thousands had died, that blood was on her hands, she had instigated that conflict. She had tried to make amends in whatever way she could, using her rank as a means to extend remorse. Relatives had been compensated, entreaties to the other powers made. Her efforts had been accepted by some, ignored by others and seen as cynical by those she thought might have helped her. Some, thinking she sought the throne of the Empire, had spun the media against her.

I wish I could change it all …

And then this mystery. A threat to the safety of all so she was led to believe, something she could perhaps solve. A way to atone for her sins, to protect the people of the galaxy from some nameless threat. Or so it seemed.

Am I any closer to solving this riddle?

She felt the ship adjust course and then heard the unmistakable sound of the frame shift drive charging.

Tionisla, will I find my answers there?

Chapter Two

Deep space, Chontaiko system, Empire

Bright metallic hulls glinted in the darkness. The intense glare of a white dwarf was the primary illumination, harsh and hostile; the white-hot remnants of a star, its very core dense beyond imagination.

‘Flight leader to group, form up for jump. Key frame shifts for sync. Confirm wing beacon lock.’

The lead ship, a Clipper, was at the head of a small convoy, taking a shipment of Imperial slaves to Mu Koji. The convoy itself consisted of a series of Type-7 freighters, their bright white paintwork the only obvious clue to their ownership. Bulky, ugly and slow, they were nonetheless a perfect ship for hauling large quantities of cargo across the void.

The fleet was guarded by a phalanx of Imperial Eagles, nippy little single-person fighters that had proved themselves in many battles. They flew alongside the bigger ships, watching their scanners for traces of anything they needed to respond to. The life of a fighter escort was mostly mind-numbing tedium, punctuated here and there with moments of absolute fear and mayhem.

Just a few more jumps to Mu Koji …

The convoy was a long way out of the core worlds. The Empire had some ambitious expansion plans in the Pleiades sector and Mu Koji was seen as something of a strategic location to further that end. The slaves were required to work on reinforcing the Empire’s interest in the system. Ships, bases, installations and weapons. It all had to be built. Given the nature of the many convoys that had been sent out this way, it appeared it had to be built quickly.

Guess the cold war is heating up after all these years ...

The freighters lumbered into position, ready for the next jump in the sequence. The flight leader scanned his controls from within the cockpit of the Clipper. All ships had reported in, they were ready. His hand moved towards the holofac control that would synchronise the jump for all ships.

He frowned.

The far right side of the holofac had shifted from its normal display. He looked at it for a moment, unable to fathom what it was telling him.

Wanted?

Comms crackled from the console.

‘Skipper?’ One of the freighter pilots was calling him. ‘This is a little odd. I think I’ve got a problem with the flight computers.’

The flight leader flicked on the comms to respond. ‘Don’t tell me, you just got tagged fugitive.’

‘Er … yeah. You have it too? Weird. Apparently, I’ve just picked up a two hundred thou credit bounty!’

The flight leader flicked up the status indicator. His was even higher. True, he was rated an ‘expert’ on the combat scale, but …

400,000 Cr!

‘You should try shooting me. Hold tight for a moment everyone,’ the flight leader instructed. ‘I’m going to try a system reboot and see if we can clear this. It’s probably duff data from our last stopover.’

He instructed the computer to shut down the onboard systems. The holofac displays flickered and died. The life support systems cut out momentarily as the ship reset itself. For long moments there was nothing but silence as the ship drifted in the darkness. It was strange to hear nothing, the gentle cycling of the air systems and power conduits aboard ship always gave rise to a background hum in normal flight.

Reminds you how empty the void really is.

The computers flashed back on, the holofac displays crashing with static for a moment before steadying and displaying information once more. The flight leader checked the log.

Damn.

‘No change,’ he reported. ‘I suggest we get to Mu Koji as fast as we can and get the ships checked over for data transmission problems. Everyone got the same symptoms?’

All the pilots in the convoy reported variations on the theme.

All the computers go duff at the same time? This doesn’t feel right … at all. Like someone just painted a target on our backs …

‘Standby for jump.’

No sooner had he engaged the jump controls when another series of warning messages appeared on the displays.

Frame shift inhibited by factor of 12. Disruptive mass.

Mass locked?

‘Escort! We have company. Break and defend!’

The crashing sizzle of static and a repeating vibrato thump echoed out of the comm system.

Jammed!

He wrenched the Clipper about, transferring power to the engines to make the turn. The Clipper yawed violently to one side as it struggled with the abrupt change of momentum. Laser fire and explosions were crackling around the convoy. The scanner was suddenly alive with movement, all sorts of undistinguishable marks, flickering uncertainly.

Ambush!

Ships flew out of the darkness. Pythons, Anacondas. With a sickening lurch in his stomach, the flight leader saw their weapons discharge. Some serious firepower, more than the convoy could deal with.

He deployed his own weapons. The Clipper was no lightweight, it was the most powerful ship in the convoy by some way, yet it was seriously outmatched here.

Ident checks buzzed across the displays, the flight leader only sparing them a cursory glance.

Federation markings. Warmongering dogs!

One of the Eagles exploded to his starboard side, lighting the cockpit with fierce yellow light for a brief moment. One of the freighters heeled over, its flank burning under the assault of intense heavy multi-cannon fire from a pair of Pythons.

The escort was down, the freighters ripped to shreds moments later. The Clipper was next. One Python was damaged by return fire, but the remaining group of attackers turned and concentrated their assault.

The result was a foregone conclusion.

The Clipper reeled in the onslaught. The flight leader punching out one last desperate message as the ship failed around him.

‘Convoy Delta Romeo Victor to Mu Koji base. Attacked by Federation forces en route. Convoy destroyed! Repeat, convoy destroyed! Federal vessels attacked without provocation …’

Shields offline!

The staccato impact of weapons fire echoed throughout the hull. The Clipper spun out of control, one of its nacelles ripping free from the main body of the ship. More fire poured into the beleaguered vessel.

There was a flash. Then there was nothing but spinning debris, slowly dispersing into the darkness.

Emerald, Cemiess system, Empire

Emerald was a terraformed world, and far the better for it. The climate was mild, with atmospheric regulators still operating to influence the weather whenever required. The Cemiess system itself had a chequered history, having been a point of contention between the Federation and the Empire many times in the past.

In part due to this, it had become the only Imperial system where slavery was illegal, though this was circumvented by a thriving black market that somehow always seemed to find a way not to come to the attention of the authorities. Ironically, this meant that trading slaves in the system was far more lucrative than elsewhere, at the risk of traders being caught smuggling and thus being fined or having their ships confiscated.

Today was not a good day for a smuggling run. The main station in the system, Mackenzie Relay, was flanked by far more than the usual number of system authority vessels. Squads of Vipers were patrolling the perimeter of the station’s safe zone, scanning all approaching ships and shepherding them into long queues for processing.

Traders grumbled. Anyone without a pre-arranged docking slot, which was pretty much everyone, was being held beyond the station entrance. Two Imperial Cutters were positioned before the station, conspicuously not answering any hails whatsoever. Enquiries as to what was happening went unanswered.

A few ships were allowed in. Surreptitious scans revealed that they were carrying arrays of transmission technology and other high-tech goods. A small flotilla of Couriers brought in an array of notable Imperial dignitaries, backed up by a larger Imperial Clipper.

The ships made their way, after a brief pause for scanning, past the Cutters and through the station’s docking entrance. Bright light reflected off their polished white hulls. Landing struts extended with typical Imperial flourish and the ships spread out, drifting slowly towards their respective landing pads and settling themselves down.

The glare of exhaust flux faded away as the ships shut down their engines. A small army of automechs moved in to service them; refuelling, repairing damage and adjusting onboard