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Sol-Central Space
Station; Primary Docking Bay
In orbit over planet Earth
The Sol System, Terra Quadrant, Sol Sector
JAN 15 2795/2795.015; 1705 Hours (CST)
Bigger is not always better.
It wasn't what Major Jared "Devilbane" Davidsen’s ex-girlfriends said, but it was what the old Space Navy techs used to say in decades past at the dawn of the supercarrier era. Yet by the time the ancient Vesuvius-class had run its course, the people were crying out for consistently larger and more impressive-looking carriers, as if their sheer size would send the enemies of the Confederation running. Enter the Midway-class megacarrier line and a host of others.
The TCS Phlegethon, Major Davidsen’s ship-to-be, was the latest heavy fleet carrier produced from this evolving, munchkin trend. Only thing was, it wasn’t just a carrier. Nor a supercarrier, or even a megacarrier. It was an omnicarrier, the first of which to ever be constructed and probably the last for a good long while. Named after one of Hell’s rivers, the Phlegethon meant business right from the beginning. Simply put, it was designed and built to surpass any and all capital ship craft the ConFleet war machine had ever conceived—in size, firepower, and speed.
Speed. Hell, that was a relative term these days. With Coaxial Flight/Space Folding Drive—"S-Fold" Drive, it was being nicknamed—the concept and importance of "speed" had lost practically all meaning. The ability to go anywhere, anytime, in just seconds! Two years ago it had been all but inconceivable.
Jared had been the first—the first Terran to make a successful S-Fold journey. In a heartbeat he’d lanced across the entire expanse of the Milky Way, coming out near a supernova in the heart of the Andromeda Galaxy. After his return, when the media flocked to hear some word from the man who had made the single most incredible leap in space travel since Dr. Shari Akwende (officially) invented Jump Drive in 2588 and the legendary voyage of the Haile Selassie, they scarcely paid any attention to his crew on the freighter Amadaeus.
Then, after transferring his commission from the Space Force to the Navy and giving him a hurried promotion to major, they offered him a wing commander position on the Phlegethon. The wing command itself, of course, basically constituted that he would be an acting colonel over the omnicarrier’s 907th Tactical Fighter Wing—the 888th, 934th, 768th, and 871st Fighter Wings being commanded by their own respective wing commanders, men and women Davidsen had yet to meet—though it was an obvious shortcut to an official promotion if he kissed the right asses... and warming up to the Commander-Air-Group couldn’t hurt. Somehow Jared just couldn’t get enthusiastic about more workloads and stress.
The Phlegethon itself, the ship that would be his home for the foreseeable future, was a twelve and a half kilometer beast, it could span the length of a small moon. The grandest, most awesome vessel ever to leave a Terran shipyard; the pinnacle of human technological achievement and construction; the flagship of the Confederation... how could he possibly turn them down?
Being the shameless "hero figure" he’d become to the Confed civilian populace as a result of the milestone Andromedan voyage, he guessed the offering of the Phlegethon was more than an offer, anyway. He literally couldn’t say no. After seven years in the Space Force he knew when he came across a subtle order.
Major Davidsen exited his Avant-class shuttlecraft, immediately finding himself smack in the middle of a media circus. He expected as much. From a quick glance he figured at least forty reporters had come this time in the hopes of pulling off a few quick interviews before he got underway. Snapshots were blinding him left as he stepped off the ramp, and overlapping questions were being fired at him at every turn.
An aggressive woman shoved her way through the crowd, jamming a sonic mike in his face. "Major Davidsen, how does it feel to be the man to take our race into another galaxy?"
"Just dandy," he flippantly replied.
"Any thoughts on the Phlegethon?"
"She’s a good ship."
"How do you respond to reports of a Kilrathi agreement being struck by the Confederation to gain Space Folding technology?"
"No comment."
"Is it true that the construction of the Phlegethon is a direct answer to the Steltek invasion two years ago that decimated over half of Confed’s fleet in the Avalon Sector?"
"Ask the designers. I’m just a wing commander."
"What about Commodore Tierson?"
Jared winced. "What about him?"
"How do you feel about the commander of the Phlegethon? Surely you’re on good terms..."
"He’s got a long record of Confed service. Tierson’s the right man for the job."
A seemingly infinite number of reporters continued to shoot questions at him as he shoved his way to the turbolift.
The turbolift trip went surprisingly fast, as he found rising up seventy-nine levels took only about five seconds. The door hissed open as he reached Docking Port Alpha.
No reporters here. A long, luminous corridor with walls and ceiling composed of almost entirely viewports, so as to make it seem like you were walking through space.
Up ahead he could see it. The front and aft of the enormous Phlegethon, horizontally stretching on both sides to obscure the view of Earth. Jared couldn’t even come close to seeing the ends of the omnicarrier, as it stemmed out to make up its colossal 12,550 meters of length. Its size wasn’t easy for him to comprehend, as it seemed just a few decades ago Confed was strictly cranking out 900 to an absolute maximum of three kilometered carriers.
Finally reaching the end of the corridor, the two marines in dress uniforms standing guard stepped aside and saluted him. He saluted back, then entered the open docking ring. Walking for a couple of minutes along the telescoping ring, he reached its end. Stepping outside, he found himself within a Docking Bay on the TCS Phlegethon. A greased pair of technicians took notice of him and nodded before they went back about their business. He found a turbolift in the back of the bay, using it and keying in what he hoped was the bridge. Just looking at the readout on the control panel of the turbolift was overwhelming—992 possible destinations!
In roughly the same amount of travel time as it had taken on Sol Station, Jared arrived at his destination. Exiting the turbolift, he walked onto the bridge.
Never before had he seen such a place. Aside from the distant front, where the commanding officer took his place, the sides stretched out to make the whole chamber appear half the size of football stadium on Earth. At least three hundred officers tended to their stations and consoles. Hesitantly, daunted by his surroundings, Jared made his way toward the front.
When he made it to the front, he couldn’t help but glance out the ceiling-high viewports before the command section of the bridge. As the bridge was located on an elevated tower at the aft of the omnicarrier, he could see the entire expanse of the Phlegethon, all the way to its front, flathead screwdriver-shaped tip.
God damn this muther’s big.
"Ah, you’ve arrived."
Jared turned as the command chair whirled around, a middle-aged man standing attentively. Commodore Mason R. Tierson, a ConFleet legend in his own right, he knew him to be a veteran of the Scatterbelt Wars with the Tri-System CIS. Though a man with a record that stood for itself, he had stood for a considerable time in the shadow of his older brother, Space Marshal Michael Tierson, who had died two years ago in Avalon. A man with pale skin and light blond hair, Mason had a good-humored face. He gave Jared a pleasant smile as he noticed him.
"Major Jared Davidsen reporting for duty, sir!" Jared brought his boots together and saluted in the proper military fashion. He’d seen Tierson on only a handful of occasions, all of which formal and brief. He didn’t know what to expect from the man.
Tierson returned the salute, if casually. "At ease, Davidsen. You’re early."
He couldn’t have caught the Commodore at a bad time, could he have? "Sorry, sir," he offered.
Tierson waved a hand. "I like initiative. Have you spoken with Lieutenant Commander Nichols yet?"
He must have meant the CAG. "Not yet, sir. Should I speak to him right now?"
"Oh, don’t worry about it—he just wants to meet all you wing commanders coming aboard." The older man sighed. "So tell me, Major, what do you think of the Phlegethon so far? I want to hear it from a pilot’s perspective."
"She’s... she’s an amazing piece of work, sir."
"That she is. I doubt I’ll ever see her entirety. Gods, they’ve given me command of a continent!"
"And the first capital ship to bear S-Fold Drive," Jared added.
"Yes." Tierson pursed his lips, nodding. "We leave at nineteen-hundred."
"Leave, sir?" he asked. "Sorry, I haven’t been briefed yet."
"Of course not. The new orders arrived from High Command just a few minutes before you came aboard. The S-Fold journey to Andromeda has been effectively cancelled."
"Wha... cancelled?" Jared had been looking forward to seeing the Andromeda Galaxy again. It would have been the second time humanity had stepped outside the Milky Way. "Has something gone wrong?"
"All the contrary, which is why they’ve given us a new S-Fold destination: the Canés Venatici Galaxy."
"Canés Venatici?" A sizable galaxy somewhat near the Virgo Galaxy. Aside from flipping through a guide that briefly mentioned it having a bright nucleus, he knew pretty much nothing offhand. "Why the sudden interest?"
"I’m afraid the background data on the mission is being provided to me on a need-to-know basis only."
"Need to know? You’re the commander of the flagship in the ConFleet Armada and they’re putting the mission on a need-to-know basis with you?"
Tierson’s iron composure wavered, if only for a moment. "I may be the commander of the Phlegethon, yes, but when it all comes down to it, I am just a commodore. The respect and responsibility I had shoved in my face after my brother was killed only goes so far." His highly composed face winced, as if in physical discomfort. There was clearly a story behind Mason and his brother. Jared could see the sibling rivalry in the proud man’s eyes, along with the lingering pain of matters left unresolved. All of it bottled up. Being an only child, Jared couldn’t relate, but pain and regret he knew well. Far better than any man should have to. "If the admirals and space marshals have their way, that’s how it’s probably going to stay," Tierson remarked bitterly.
"I see, sir."
"But never mind that. We’ve got a mission—whatever it might be—to attend to. We’ll make the S-Fold right now, then you can get to know the squadron leaders you’ll be commanding. Maybe go around to a few of the pilot barracks. What do you say, Davidsen?"
"Understood, sir."
"Very well then." He turned away to his senior bridge crew, lined up in the foremost consoles. "Helm, clear us for departure from Sol Station. Is S-Fold Drive charged?"
"We’ve held a full charge in the capacitators for the last twenty-two hours, sir. Cynium reactor reading normal," a faceless voice from the rows of consoles and terminals chock-full of Space Navy spacemen and veteran spacemen reported.
"S-Fold Drive reading at necessary power level," another officer, an ensign, reported from a crewpit.
"Course plotted and set. Give the order, sir."
"We have clearance to disembark," spoke the white-haired Commander Gelhart, Tierson’s XO, after speaking with one of the comm officers and approaching the Commodore. He gave Jared a measured look, as if sizing him up, then looked back to Tierson.
"Very well." Tierson settled back into his command chair. "You may engage at your convenience."
"Yessir!"
"Docking ports cleared, plotting exit vector. Beginning Space Folding in T-minus ten seconds. Seven... five... three... mark!"
"Activating S-Fold Drive!—all readings nominal."
"We are now enteri—"
Threshold.
An uneasiness hit Jared’s stomach like a ton of bricks. Jump shock, but magnified ten times over. It was the same queasy, nauseated feeling he’d often felt when he occasionally participated in orbital bungee jumping on Earth, only it was accompanied by the unwanted feeling that time was standing still. Exhilarating, scary, and on the verge of making him want to vomit, rather like making the Charybdis Quasar jump that was now a required run at the Academy for current-generation plebes.
Before the feeling could even finish registering, however, it was over.
Tierson drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair. He wasn’t impressed. "Well then," he spoke, not facing Jared, "shall we begin?"