Prophets

Is that right? Admiral Hussein thought to himself, reviewing the ranging readout next to the planet’s display. It was the first sign that this mission was diverging seriously from the plan.

“We are confirmed two-point-two-five million kilometers from target,” called an ensign from the nav station repeating what the numbers on the main display told them. That was a serious navigational error; the Voice was supposed to tach in at least two AU from their target. The Voice’s tach-drives were so powerful that they could be dangerously disruptive to any native tach-drives that might be active close to the planet. They had come in way too close.

It was almost certain, at this range, that the residents of this planet had already detected their presence. If not simply by a visual contact, the Voice was close in enough for the energy spike of their arrival to be detectable on the surface of the planet.

It took thirty seconds for the other shoe to drop. An NCO at the comm station announced, “We have a distress beacon at oh-point-seven-five million kilometers from target.”

Admiral Hussein rubbed his temple. This was a worst case scenario, their arrival damaging some native vessel. At best, it was a horrifying diplomatic misstep; at worst, it could be interpreted as an act of war.

Captain Rasheed ordered the communications officers to attempt contact with the distressed ship and assess its situation.

The main holo changed from the planet to show a blocky cargo ship tumbling through space with ragged holes where much of the drive section should have been. Clouds of debris and venting atmosphere followed the craft. The ranging readout showed the craft at a little over a million kilometers from the Voice, almost directly between them and the planet.

God help us all.

“Sirs, I have a transponder signal. It’s standard encoding, and identifies the ship as the Eclipse, owned by the Mosasa Salvage Corporation, registered on Bakunin.”

“Bakunin?” Hussein repeated along with Captain Rasheed.

“Yes, sir.”

The crippled vessel was over ninety light-years away from anywhere it had a right to be. Everything had suddenly become a lot more complicated.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Seraphim

Sometimes your allies are chosen for you.

—The Cynic’s Book of Wisdom

Survive first, all else comes after.

—MARBURY SHANE (2044-*2074)

Date: 2526.6.3 (Standard) 750,000 km from Salmagundi-HD 101534

A little over thirty minutes after Kugara taped Nickolai to the wall, Wahid’s voice came over the PA system. “We made it! We fucking made it!”

I guess that means the colony, not to mention the star, is still here. She allowed herself a small measure of relief and looked across at her prisoner.

She hadn’t wanted to be the one to guard Nickolai, but her years as an enforcer for the DPS had given her the training to handle someone like him. She was probably the only one in seventy light-years who could. Mosasa was certainly aware of that.

Mosasa’s voice followed Wahid. “We are currently approaching a planetary orbit, and we will commence landing procedures as soon as our drives are cold. That will be approximately twelve hours.”

Twelve hours? The engines must have suffered a bigger hit than I thought.

“As a precaution,” he continued, “anyone who is not bridge crew, please remain in your cabins unless absolutely necessary.”