Incident at Zyralin 4: Prequel to Chronicle of the 12th Realm

By Greg Mutton

Incident at Zyralin 4 is part of the Chronicle of the 12th Realm series, it predates the first book but sets the scene for the series as is usually the case for prequels. Political intrigue, corruption romance and loss are showcased in this rollicking adventure.

Alan Dean is due for a promotion, to qualify he must demonstrate h

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Mutton Author
• Release date: Feb 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9780645978902

Greg Mutton

Greg Mutton lives on the mid north coast of New South Wales, Australia in a quiet bayside village with his wife, son and 3 cats. He spent most of his working life in engineering and management, but when forced to retire he began writing in earnest. When he presented his first manuscript to an editor, the advice was "it's too long and should be a trilogy". Another year later and Chronicle of the 12th Realm was born.His stories are about people who are forced to tackle situations -who rise to the challenge. He believes that no matter how advanced we become, no matter what technology we invent, human beings will always define their existence by their actions, both individually and collectively. His stories don't have superheroes but explore the real physical and metaphysical abilities people have, or have forgotten over the ages. Real examples from life - emotions, love, despair, romance - are infused these into the characters and plots.As a science fiction author, he enjoys using literary license to enhance stories, describe alien species, and design future technologies; as one of the greats of Science Fiction once said "whatever man can imagine, he will eventually do"

Book preview

Prologue

Alan Dean was bored, bored and anxious.

He sat at his desk, reviewing the latest budget projections. For 10 years he had been second in this department, each and every cost projection, proposal or idea for spending Corps funds came across his desk. His boss, Admiral Melinda Crump, always appeared to be satisfied with his work; in fact she was grooming him as her replacement. But Dean wanted more.

He had been a better than average student, finishing his initial training with an A-average. He left the Academy and began his field training on board ECS Zoltan, a Werriwa class survey vessel. Nothing exciting, but survey work gave any who participated a solid grounding in astrophysics and navigation. Nothing changed, he completed his tour with a better than average result and was assigned to the finance department. One of his many regrets was he quickly accepted the posting, not looking further at what opportunities would present, if he waited. One of the issues facing the military was the fact that everyone had to do military service, but with the Krell war well into the past, career prospects in the Corps were very limited. With space command, for every position there were at least 100 applicants, so the old saying only the best of the best was proven true.

Alan decided to stay where he was and make the best of opportunities that came up. In his third year in the post, fate dealt him a good hand. His immediate superior and four others took retirement, catapulting dean to senior Analysist, the only issue was his rank, he was still a lieutenant, and he would have others of the same rank, but with seniority answering to him. Admiral Crump’s solution was to put Dean forward for his first Captain course. This included the mandatory space time and within six months, Dean returned as a Captain 1st and took the post.

From here he had, each year, applied for other courses, and gradually moved up to his current rank Captain 3rd. But for the past 10 years, there were no more opportunities. To progress to the next level, he needed to command a battle group, three ships minimum and operations like that were very rare. About the same time he started to notice three young graduates, John Abraham, Sol Radchak and Freda Malloy. Commonly known as the three musketeers, they seemed to have charmed lives, or did to his mind. Choice postings and quick promotion irked him. Radchak and Malloy he didn’t worry about too much, obviously they were exceptional individuals. But this JT Abraham, that was a different issue.

Eldest son of Jeffery and Sonia Abraham, JT was destined to become CEO of Abracorp, one of the coalition’s largest corporations. To Dean JT only got where he was by exerting influence over senior officers, influence from one of the Corp’s major suppliers. From that day forward, he kept monitoring every aspect of JT’s career and every minute detail of Abracorp’s dealings with Space Corps.

About the same time, he was approached by two Coalition Council members. At first they appeared to be innocently getting to know the new analyst, but over time they approached other subjects. Requests that, at first seemed innocent enough, and not out of the realm of good governance so Dean complied, but soon the requests became more complex and questionable. Dean complied and then the real deal was offered, he was asked to do a simple thing, something that was explained as a way to increase the efficiency of the Corps. The story he was fed fitted Dean’s conspiracy fantasy. A new and very advanced Bio-Gel system had been developed by a company from one of the Councillor's home planets. All their efforts to get the Corps to examine and trial their new system had been thwarted. Their answer was for Dean to use data they had to build an internal case for the testing of the new packs, so they raised the question.

The Councillor who approached Dean played right to his suspicion about corporate corruption. About this time, Dean learnt that a distant relative had died and had left him a considerable inheritance; to Alan Dean this was a sign. A sign that he should comply, after all if the corporate/military corruption was a fact, they would have him removed and now he didn’t need to be concerned with his future.

Dean saw this as his chance to break the corruption he believed was endemic in the Corps, and agreed. He took the performance data and built a compelling case, eventually the Corps began trialing the new packs and, with the trial progressing, Dean’s involvement ended. He went back to his usual haranguing his superiors for a promotion. The result was as usual, he lacked the necessary command experience. Frustration built until he was seriously considering retirement, until he met with one of the councilors, quite by accident. They chatted for a short while, the councilor telling Dean how grateful he was for the assistance in getting the Gel Pack trial. This gave Dean the opening he wanted; he reiterated the issue of promotion and the lack of opportunity to very receptive ears. The councilor promised he would see what he could do, and told Dean to keep doing his normal job, as these things took time. For the next few years he did just that, each year repeating the formal promotion declarations, each year being refused.

This year seemed different. Instead of just receiving the usual Request Denied stamp on his application, Alan Dean had been called to Admiral Crump’s office. He sat in the anteroom, waiting to be called, watching the attractive adjutant as she went about her work. The comm buzzed, she answered.

She looked up and smiled ‘you can go in now, Captain.’

Dean nodded his gratitude, tucked his cover under his left arm and walked through the door. Entering the room he saw Admiral Crump sitting at her desk, he strode purposefully to her, stopped and saluted, ‘Captain Dean reporting, ma’am.’

Crump looked up. Before her she saw a man of average height, quite well built with regulation cut dark hair and dark eyes. His mouth was his weakness; it was thin and cruel looking, she shrugged off the impression.

‘Captain Dean; you have applied for promotion each year for the past nine, that I can see. Well this time you seem to have some friends in high places. You have been recommended for the program by the council, and Admiral Wilson has agreed. There is a small group heading to Zyralin 4 in a couple of weeks, you will have overall command and be Captain of ECS Resolve, ECS Dallas and Cormorant will complete the group.’ She paused as she handed Dean a data pad. ‘Here is the list of tasks that need to be completed as well as the inspection of the small science facility on the planet, any questions?’

Dean quickly scanned the mission profile and replied, ‘not at the moment, ma’am. Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me yet, you still have to complete the test. Do that and you will get your promotion, now if there’s nothing more; you have your orders, dismissed.’

Dean returned to his office and spent the next few days planning for his upcoming mission. The following Tuesday, he reported to space dock to officially take command of Resolute. He met his senior staff and was given a tour of the ship, to his credit he had done his homework and impressed his staff with his knowledge of the ship.

Next he was introduced to the Captains of the other ships in the group. Captain 2nd Freda Malloy, commander of ECS Dallas and Captain 2nd Jason Wright, commander ECS Cormorant. During this meeting he unveiled the mission profile, including the various training operations that were included, finally announcing the group’s designation ‘task force Tiberius’.

‘Yes I know, it’s a bit grand, but that’s the name command have given us, but I want to say this, I expect nothing less than perfection from all crews. Remember we will be watched. Thank you for coming, I’ll let you get back to your ships and preparations. We leave Thursday at 06:00.’

Dean felt his greeting had gone well, he left no doubt who was in command and he felt he could rely on his junior commanders. Then at 10:00 Wednesday morning, he got some bad news; Cormorant had detected a problem with the lining on her main reactor and would be side-lined. The message also stated that a replacement ship was being sought but there weren’t many available and, his mission may have to go ahead with one less vessel. Dean was devastated, with only two vessels in his group, his promotion was not likely to be approved; his only hope now was for another ship to be found in the next couple of days, this latest development only increasing his anxiety.

Chapter 1:

The first indication was missed by everyone.

A tiny but intense point of brilliant white light in a sea of stars was one reason; the fact that it was one hundred thousand kilometres from the projected reinsertion point also contributed to the error. On the assembled fleet, all sensors were scanning space out to a couple of light years, desperately searching for any indication of the arrival.

‘Got it,’ the flagship’s chief sensor operator announced. ‘Bearing two-two-seven, mark zero-one-five; range one hundred thousand, there’s a definite event horizon forming. The small fleet changed course and accelerated toward the location.

When they were a few thousand kilometres from the spot, the event horizon was visible. It was forming slowly – much slower than was normal – causing a great deal of concern on the bridge.

A calm female voice broke the silence. ‘Engineering, is there anything we can do to help them?’ Admiral Wilson rose from her command chair, eager for a reply.

‘No, Ma’am, they’re on their own.’ The chief engineer’s voice was filled with trepidation as he constantly monitored the horizon development. A normal displacement event horizon would be five thousand metres in diameter and would be translucent with a brilliant blue hue. This one was less than one thousand metres and was more of a dull grey.

The engineer, Commander Harmon, was gravely concerned. ‘Ma’am, I’ve never seen a signature this low, their power system must be almost gone.’ His words stunned the bridge crew.

‘There … something’s coming through!’ the sensor operator cried.

All eyes were riveted on the event horizon. It resembled a bubble of dull grey light hanging in space; something resembling water appeared to dribble from it.

‘My god,’ Harmon spoke quietly. ‘I’ve never seen an event horizon do that before, it should look like a water spout, an explosion almost – not that dribbling mess.’ In the centre of the wormhole, a familiar shape was now visible, moving very slowly. On each ship of the small fleet, a collective sigh of relief was exhaled but quickly turned into gasps of disbelief as the ship finally completed its exit.

‘Oh my God!’ The words escaped from Admiral Wilson’s mouth before she could stop them.

Standing beside her was Sam Grogan, admiral and chief of Coalition Space Corps. His words echoed his superior's, albeit a little more descriptive of how he felt. ‘How the bloody hell could anyone traverse hyperspace in that derelict?’

‘Ma’am,’ one of the sensor operators called to Wilson. ‘They’re running on prayers. Main power is gone, gravity is off, about the only thing they still have is air circulation … but no purification.’ The young ensign’s voice trailed off as she realized what her words meant.

Wilson leapt back to her chair, initiated a comm link and hailed the heavy recovery ship that accompanied the fleet. ‘Captain, get your ship over there yesterday; they are running on empty, not even any fumes left.’

Her hail was answered by Captain Scott Fitzbarry. ‘Aye, Admiral, we’re already moving’.

The huge recovery and repair vessel was moving, but she had dispatched two tugs and a life support drone. All in the flagship watched as the drone reached the stricken ship and attached itself to an entry port. The port opened and the drone immediately began replacing the stale, oxygen-depleted air with fresh.

‘Hail them,’ Wilson commanded. The comm officer began the standard hailing procedure. There was no response. ‘Keep trying.’ She turned to Grogan. ‘Prepare to get a team over there.’

Sam Grogan turned to leave, but a new voice boomed over the comm. ‘ECS Castlemaine: this is ECS Valiant, Captain JT Abraham commanding. I repeat, this is Earth Coalition Starship Valiant, Captain JT Abraham commanding; thanks for the fresh air; things were getting a mite pungent over here.’ As he finished speaking, the tugs arrived, activated their tractor system and began towing Valiant towards the waiting repair ship.

‘Glad to hear you’re all right, Captain,’ Grogan replied. ‘We’ll join you on the Resolute shortly, Castlemaine out.’

Docking is always a delicate operation – the safety of both the dock and ship is in the balance; doing it on a moving dock, with a disabled ship is doubly difficult. The tug captains and the dock crew were up to the task and slowly, gingerly, they nudged the stricken ship into position. The process took just over an hour, time enough to allow the admirals to watch most of it from the observation platform, and for the hospital ship to arrive.

The scene was horrific. The old Vigilant-class vessel, now docked, could only be described as scrap. The starboard hyzene nacelle was ruptured, both wings had suffered several blaster hits and the main hull bore evidence of close encounters with torpedoes.

‘How?’ The word hung in the air; any answer would be meaningless. As the admirals watched, all four entry airlocks were forced open and medical staff began entering the ship.

‘What I hate is standing here watching,’ Grogan mused. ‘I feel so bloody useless.’ His feelings were matched by others in the room but there was nothing constructive they could do.

The standard complement for a Vigilant-class frigate was four hundred and fifty, but the incident at Zyralin Four had swelled this to over six hundred and fifty. The extra bodies alone would have severely taxed the ship's systems, even if they were operating at full capacity; with the power level at present levels, it was a miracle anybody survived.

The stabilization of wounded and their evacuation took a further three hours and at last the senior officers began to disembark. Instead of leaving, they formed an honour guard at the forward port airlock, the main entry point for the bridge. Three figures emerged; one in restraints flanked by two marines. As they began to walk through the guard, the twenty officers about faced and turned their backs on the trio.

‘Oh, shit, just what we didn’t want,’ Wilson grumbled.

‘Well, it shows where the command crews stand,’ Sam Grogan replied.

The gesture the guard displayed dated back to ancient Scotland. When confronted by an enemy, Scottish warriors would turn their backs, lift their kilts and show their contempt for their enemy with their bare arses. The display today carried the same meaning, but with more decorum.

The next to leave was the captain and first officer; the honour guard turned, snapped to attention and executed perfect salutes, as the two officers passed.

Wilson stood and turned to Grogan. ‘Now things get interesting, get them to Castlemaine immediately,’ she led the way back to their shuttle as Grogan issued the orders.

Back on the flagship, they went straight to a meeting room and waited for others to arrive, when they did, Grogan left the room to meet them; he stood before the obvious prisoner and spoke to the guard. ‘Remove his restraints.’ The guard obeyed and the prisoner seemed relieved.

‘Admiral, I want to add another charge to the list …’ the prisoner began, but Grogan cut him off.

‘Captain Dean,’ Grogan fired back. ‘You’ll have your chance shortly; in the meantime, shut up!’ He turned to the other officer. ‘Captain Abraham, follow me,’ and led the way into the meeting room. Inside, the scene was informal. An official stenographer was there to record proceedings, but apart from that, there was none of the usual confrontational settings. Grogan took one of the large armchairs and placed his briefcase on the long table. Wilson was already seated.

John Abraham stood before the two admirals, feeling out of place. Usually he would never appear as he was now, his face sporting a fairly lush growth and his dark hair in definite need of a trim. His uniform was torn and grimy, evidence to the conditions all on Valiant had to endure during their return. ‘I apologise for my appearance, we haven’t had any available water for washing, or spare energy to replicate new uniforms.’

‘No Captain,’ Wilson replied. ‘If an apology is needed, it’s from us. We should have given you time to clean up, but here we are, and we need to attend to this urgently.’

John snapped to attention and executed a perfect salute. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘No formalities, Captain,’ Wilson said as he snapped to attention. ‘This is an informal debrief. What comes next may not be so informal, but we’ll see. Now’—she turned to the stenographer—‘the charges, please.’

The list was long: dereliction of duty, insubordination, treachery, reckless endangerment; but the final one was refusing to obey an order from a superior officer.

‘Seems you’ve been busy, Captain.’ Grogan said when the list was finished. ‘It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen so many charges. What’s your reply?’

Captain 2nd John Abraham smiled – weakly. ‘To all charges except the refusing to obey, I plead not guilty, and I think the facts will support that. On the last charge, I must plead guilty. My refusal to obey Dean’s orders is a matter of record; but, in my defence, that disobedience is the reason some of us survived, Sir.’

The two admirals looked at each other; they both knew what had to happen now, and there was no way to avoid it. Grogan called the guards and asked them to bring Dean in. Captain 3rd Alan Dean walked into the room; stood to attention and saluted. Once again Wilson repeated her call for informality.

Dean’s appearance was slightly better than John’s; being locked in the brig had certain advantages. His brown hair was longer than regulation, but tidy, and his uniform much cleaner. He stood at attention, his green eyes cold and accusing; his voice was venomous as he spoke. ‘Sorry, Admiral, but I wish to formally add two more charges to those I have already filed. False arrest and deprivation of liberty – both are expressly forbidden in the articles of the Corps.’ Dean looked smug, as though he had already won something.

Admiral Wilson’s voice was filled with exasperation. ‘Captain Dean, after all you’ve been through, you still want to go down this rabbit hole?’

‘Yes, Ma’am, I do!’ Dean answered.

Wilson looked to Abraham. ‘Captain, an explanation might diffuse the situation?’

JT shook his head. ‘Ma’am, Captain Dean was locked up more for his own protection than anything else. Single-handed he had managed to get two of his ships destroyed and over a thousand people killed; to say that tempers were running high would be an understatement. By locking him up, we managed to keep him alive. Believe me, there were many who wanted to dump him out a torpedo tube.’

Dean exploded. ‘What rubbish – lies to cover his cowardice and dereliction of duty.’

Sam Grogan leapt to his feet. ‘If that’s the case, Captain, where’s your ship? Where are the nearly eleven hundred crew members on it? You want your day in court? You’ll get it. This is a Corps matter and I’ll convene a formal inquiry. Now, you are both on administrative leave until further notice.’ He took a couple of deep breaths. ‘Do either of you have logs?’

‘I have the Valiant’s logs,’ Abraham answered. ‘But we couldn’t retrieve the others, we just didn’t have time.’

‘Convenient, considering you left us to the mercy of those ships,’ Dean sniped.

‘Alright, both of you out,’ Wilson commanded. ‘You’ll be contacted when we require you again.’

Dean turned and strode to the door, but Abraham held back.

‘Sir,’ he addressed Grogan. ‘What about my crew, they’ve been through the wringer; a nice long leave is what they need?’

Grogan looked to Wilson before answering. ‘I agree; special leave on compassionate grounds; they’ll retain full pay and benefits.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ John replied. ‘Just one more question if I may: what’ll happen to Valiant?’

Sam Grogan was taken by surprise with the question. ‘Sorry, John, she’ll be scrapped. She’s just far too damaged to repair.’

John Abraham thought for a few moments. ‘Then I’d like to buy the wreck as a private citizen.’

‘I’ll see that you’re notified when we have a scrap valuation,’ Grogan replied. ‘Now you need to leave,’

When he was gone, Wilson spoke. ‘Sam, are you sure this is the path you want to take?’

‘What choice do we have?’ Sam replied, resigning himself to a long and tiring inquiry.

***

After the meeting with Grogan and Wilson, JT had returned to his quarters on board the now-derelict Valiant. He was packing his belongings when there was a knock at his door. Captain 1st Jarad Cross, Valiant’s first officer, stood at the door. ‘Can I come in, Sir?’

‘Sure, Jarad, what’s up?’

Jarad looked no better than his captain; both had been operating with little sleep and in very cramped conditions. His first mission on leaving the ship was to have a shower and change clothes.

‘This inquiry, Sir … what’s it all about?’ JT could see the concern on his 2IC’s face.

‘Simple, Number One: I disobeyed a direct order from my superior officer. That officer has brought charges against me, and the inquiry has been convened to sort it all out, that’s all. You and the rest of the crew are clear, but you may be called to give evidence. The board will contact those it wants to speak to.’

‘Sorry, Sir, but that’s fucking bullshit,’ Jarad blurted out. ‘If you hadn’t done what you did, we’d have lost two thousand people instead of thirteen hundred and fifty-three. Sorry Sir, three more died today. It’s all bullshit! If that fuckwit Dean hadn’t been so stupid, we might all have survived!’

JT held his hand up for Jarad to stop. ‘Jarad, the fact is simple: I was given a direct order not once but on two separate occasions and both times I disobeyed.’

‘But, Skipper, for Pete’s sake. All you did was follow Corps standard operating procedure – you carried out your duty as captain, to your ship and crew. How is issuing orders that are in direct conflict with Corps protocol acceptable, or even legal?’

‘That’s why we have courts of inquiry, Jarad, to sort out these issues. That’s what their job is, and that’s what they’ll do. Now, no more … you and all the crew have earned a rest; leave has been approved, so I suggest you pack your gear before someone finds a job for you here.’

‘Aye, Sir,’ Jarad responded, reluctantly.

John’s next action was to make the call he’d been avoiding. He entered his father’s number and waited for the connection. A female voice answered. She informed him that his father wasn’t on the dock but in the office in Perth. JT asked her to tell his father he would be back on the planet in a few hours and would meet him at his office. He smiled to himself; while he hadn’t avoided the inevitable, he’d been given a temporary reprieve. He finished packing, addressed the cartons, and called for one of the dock porters to take them to dispatch. His quarters on board were adequate: a bathroom, bedroom and living area. Nothing palatial, but comfortable, and he felt a pang of sadness as he closed the door, possibly for the last time. Now he headed for the dock amenities and a hot shower.

Freshly showered and in clean fatigues, his next task was to locate his chief engineer, Amy Rodregas. Of all the people on Valiant, Amy had worked the hardest at keeping the crippled ship together and her nice grey engineer’s uniform had been reduced to very grimy rags. Thankfully she had also made use of the showers. He found her having a very heated discussion with one of the