Part II: A River of Stars


Garret Jax stepped off the transport shuttle and into the main concourse, greeted by the strange scent of mingled ozone and cheap fried food. An old friend of his had once said that smell was reminiscent of the skyports of old Earth, or so he had heard from his great-great-grandmother’s uncle. Or, perhaps, Garret was misremembering the story.

It didn’t matter. That old friend was now dead—gunned down on a combatant dreadnought at Jax’s own orders. Damn it. War was such a terrible thing, no matter how just the cause might seem.

Spaceport Benjamin was the largest orbital launch station in Prudence’s orbit and the second largest in the Nova Solace System. It seemed hardly a sufficient origin point for the greatest offensive operation conducted thus far in the Rebellion, but these were the realities of the Gaian position. They had no stealth orbital satellites, new clandestine off-grid spaceports rotating in their planetary orbits. Every bit of infrastructure they could utilize was highly public and painted with a big red targeting signal by the more powerful, better-funded Solarian Monarchy.

So, Jax and his cohorts were forced to resort to subterfuge in plain sight. The three ships they would be utilizing in the assault were docked at the spaceport and had all of the required registrations and flight plans filed in compliance with both Solarian and New Gaian standards. These documents were, naturally, a falsified overlay on top of another set of registrations and itineraries, which were then layered upon another set of falsified data.

The true orders and control codes for the ships were stored in the only place Jax could inherently trust: within his own neurolace, and that of his two most loyal comrades. Each of them would be solely in charge of ensuring the safe voyage of their respective star carriers: Victory, Mercy, and Resolve. He would be commanding the Resolve.

His two chosen companions, General Ernest James and Colonel Constance Nest, would be commanding the Victory and the Mercy respectively. He informed them of as much once the three were secreted within their secure passenger transport en route to the spaceport’s upper decks.

General James muttered as he reviewed the Victory’s crew and contingent of support craft. “You couldn’t even muster one decent battleship for this op, Garret?”

Jax forgave the other man his candor. “That much armor would have surely attracted the attention of the Solarians. Star carriers come in and out of this port all the time. Too many of them to track to pay closer scrutiny to any given one.”

With a grunt, he continued to flick casually at the holodisplay. “Still got to run the op successfully. From the looks of it, I think we’re skirting the bounds of minimal necessary force.”

“Quit being such a downer, Ernest.” Whether Constance’s lack of decorum was meant to portray a casual attitude or blatant disrespect was unclear. “You’re not even going down to the planet. Try not to act as though you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, yeah?”

Ernest’s face contorted to spew out a rebuke, but Jax cut in. “Speaking of which: we have only a few secure moments together. Let us confirm, are each of you aware of your assignments?”

“Yes,” growled Ernest James. “I’m to take up a position in the orbital perimeter between Ourea and Brontes, holding back any approaching Solarian reinforcements.”

“And I’ll be focusing on Theracite command and control satellites and infrastructure in orbit,” said Constance, “While you and the Resolve conduct orbital bombardment before launching the ground assault.”

Perhaps the Colonel was looking for praise by reporting out Garret’s object in addition to her own. Jax declined to give it to her. “Good,” he said simply as the transport began to slow. “We won’t be in contact until we emerge from warp outside of Ourea. I’m trusting you both to get your job done.”

General James’ expression softened while Colonel Nest’s sobered. “We’ll get it done,” Ernest said as the door to the telescoped open.

“Good,” replied Jax. “This is the stop for both of you. See you on the other side.”

#

The Resolve loomed over Garret Jax as he walked along the double-wide boarding umbilical attached to the ship’s primary airlock. He knew there were ships larger than this one—he’d even commanded a handful of them—but the years of experience would never diminish the impact of seeing a vessel the size of a small city extending out into the vastness of space.

Despite General James’ complaints, the three starcarriers assigned to this clandestine mission were equipped with the very best resources available to the rebellion. Each vessel boasted nearly five thousand service members, scores of troop carriers and light orbital assault vessels, and hundreds of starfighters. That was to say nothing of the artillery, which had—in true wartime fashion—been modified to press the limits of the carrier’s ability to wield deadly force. This, of course, compromised the crafts' defensive capabilities to a degree.

Ultimately, each of the three vessels Jax had ordered to embark upon this mission were glass canons. They would liberate Ourea swiftly and efficiently, or not at all. There would be no prolonged siege, no extensive aero-spacial assault campaign. They would either win within a day of emerging in the New Gaia system, or they would all pay the ultimate price.

As with all such missions, Garret chose to focus on the former possibility while neglecting the latter.

The airlock cycled open before him, and a single soldier marched out to meet him. She was tall, with shoulder-length blond hair that had been drawn back into a simple ponytail. Her broad shoulders portrayed musculature beyond what was typical of her sex, but Garret had seen many such women enter the service—especially with the increased access to genetic and cybernetic modifications the rebellion had enabled since declaring independence from the Solarians.

She snapped a crisp salute. “Sir,” she said. “I’m here to escort you aboard.”

Garret’s eyes lingered on hers. Her irises were pale, like a frosted lake on a crisp winter morning. Such was the perfect match for her current demeanor.

“At ease, soldier,” said Garret. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he said, “I know you.”

It wasn’t a question. Though he couldn’t place it, he’d seen that same pair of ice-blue eyes just recently.

“Private Grace Anders,” said the soldier. “I made your acquaintance just yesterday.” Professionally, she did not identify the circumstances of their meeting. Yet, her comment was sufficient to jog Garret’s memory. She had been at the safe house he and his fellow commanders had visited the previous evening.

“And you were reassigned to serve with the crew of the Resolve?” he asked.

Anders’ lip twitched, fighting back the hint of a smile. “The way I heard it, sir, you could use all the help you could get for this next op.”

Garret snorted a half laugh. “True enough.” He was glad that operations command over the legions here on Prudence were making good use of their personnel rather than relegating them to unnecessary reprieve. The safe house they had used the previous night, of course, had to be burned. It was good to see the operative stationed there repositioned elsewhere.

“Has Captain Quereshi been informed of my arrival?”

“Yes sir,” Anders replied. “He requested that I escort you to the bridge. He is currently overseeing final preparations for launch.”

“Good,” said Garret. “Please lead the way, Private.”

#

This was hardly Grace Anders’ first warp deployment. In the Solarian navy, she’d been part of five different campaigns involving inter-system warp travel. That was to say nothing of the two other voyages she’d made since becoming an informant for the Theracites. She knew the routine.

Once the ship was fueled, outfitted, and crewed, all airlocks were shut and umbilicals severed. Using thrusters—and the minimum necessary of those—the craft pushed to a safe distance from Spaceport Benjamin. This process took a full three hours. Only then did the ship's main engines engage. Still, this was only part of the warm-up.

The majority of the Resolve’s journey—of each of the three starcarriers’ journeys—would be made in warp space. This was that spacetime-bending realm of pseudo-physics allowed matter to exceed the speed of light. Significantly increase the speed of light. Distances of hundreds of light years could be traversed in mere months. Shorter distances, like the distance between Prudence and Ourea, could achieved in weeks.

There was one little caveat, however: the crews of the ships would still need to sleep through the journey in cryostasis. This was because the effects of warp space were not just physics-warping, but mind-warping as well.

Grace had never met someone who’d experienced warp sickness, but she’d heard the stories. Dozens of ships over the years had been pulled out of their intended trajectories bad mad operators who’d awakened too early or gone into cryo too late after their vessels warped. Some of these instances had resulted in losses of entire crews. Most of those who had survived such experiences had been driven quite mad.

That was why the military protocol was very strict around cryo procedure. Wave One occupants of the ship—anyone who wasn’t essential to achieving warp velocity or other critical aspects of ship functionality—were put under twelve hours before the jump. Wave Two personnel—everyone else—was to be set on ice no less than twelve hours after a jump. Most captains set an even tighter window, just to be safe.

As a private, Grace Anders fell squarely into the Wave One category. She, along with her fellow crew members, prepared accordingly.

The stasis tubes required all occupants to be wrapped in an insulated skin suit that enveloped their entire bodies. This included a vacuumed hood that was pulled over the face and attached to the suit’s collar, giving the occupant the strange sensation of suffocation immediately before going down for their ice nap. How nice.

Nothing could be worn under the suit, and any removable cybernetics had to be detached and stowed. This was, supposedly, to reduce the risk of cryo-burns. Folks who were heavily augmented with inorganic mods have been known to experience significant pain after warp. Fortunately for Grace, her neurolace and standard data ports didn’t seem to meet that criterion.

She ignored the casual banter around her as she climbed the short ladder, stepped into the dull blue glow of her hibernation chamber, and lay down across the padded interior of the apparatus. With one last heavy sigh, she pulled the hood of her cryosuit over her face and secured the upper seal to the corresponding strip at her neckline.

The feeling of breathlessness was immediate, so she wasted no time with the next step. She reached over with her right hand and keyed in her authentication PIN. An artificial voice resounded from the pod. “Identification accepted. Rest well, Private First-Class Grace Anders.”

That was when the needles came out. Cryo wasn’t just a matter of turning down the temperature on the outside. It went after your insides as well. Twin cables snapped forward like vipers and thrust themselves into the vascular shunts on her forearms. A third plug slipped up into the port at the base of her skull. For the first second, she felt an overwhelming sensation of violation.

This was quickly displaced by a euphoria that bordered on the orgasmic as the system began to flood her system with her tailored drug cocktail. It was a heady mix of sedatives, dopaminergics, and muscle relaxants that had been optimized to her genetic profile. The complementary high was an important part of the procedure. It masked the existential suffering every cell in her body was experiencing as they were dropped below 270 kelvin. Only the cryogenic solution pumping through her veins kept the water molecules in her body from immediately crystallizing.

She thought of this, as she did every time she went under, only briefly before surrendering the embrace of the euphoria cocktail. In seconds, she was fast asleep.

#

Awakening from cryo was never pleasant. Even so, Grace knew something was wrong well before the voice in her hibernation pod cried out. “Critical failure. Initiating emergency awakening protocol.”

Her body convulsed briefly before stiffening. The pain in that moment was indescribable. So cold, she thought. I’m dying. I’m going to die.

The system seemed intent on making this happen as there was the sudden sensation of all of her blood being vacuumed out of her body. Grace tried to scream but found no air in her lungs to do so. She tried to open her eyes but found them frozen shut. Her heart thudded with the force of a sledgehammer, desperate to escape the icy confines of her chest.

The whole experience likely only lasted thirty seconds before her pod hissed open and her body returned to normal temperature, but it felt like an eternity. As soon as her hands were freed from her restraints, she sat up, tore open her suit at the neckline, and retched over the side of her pod.

As she hung there, vomiting viscous white sludge onto the gridded deck plating, the whine of warning sirens slowly permeated her awareness. The flashing of red emergency lighting against her closed eyes prompted rhythmic spasms of pain at her temples.

Distantly and belatedly, Grace finally made out the repeated alert being issued by the ship’s artificial intelligence.

“Warning. System overload. Anomaly detected. All essential personnel please proceed to your stations.”