Promise would have noticed this change in motion and likely taken it as a response. The prime transmission would have ended and the welcome message would go out, a robotic probe acting as mankind’s first ambassador to the stars. In his head, Nathan heard the words in Gordon’s own voice, “Greetings to you, our unknown visitors from a nearby star. We welcome you to our solar system in the name of all the free inhabitants of Earth. Please allow this probe to exchange data with you in our stead, such that we might form some bridge for open and enlightening communication between our two species.” Whereupon, the probe would begin a math lesson, graduating from there to sounds, letters, and pictures, and from there to concepts and actual negotiations.
Mankind had come far from the days of a golden record slapped onto a beeping probe. Not that it mattered in the least.
Before Gordon’s message would even have had a chance to finish, the Deltan system responded. Threads of silvery light lanced out from each of the structures to the adjunct probes Promise had fired near them. Telemetry on the third screen turned to static. The silvery light flared about each mini-probe until they were all supplanted by spherical clouds of sparkling dust. The dust clouds then began to break up and stream toward the articulated plate hull of the be-shelled vessel.
Each stream of dust was drawn up into the main ship through unseen vents, soon vanishing completely. Nathan let loose a ragged breath, unaware he had been holding it. Some of its capability and intent now revealed, the ship appeared even more menacing than it had before.
A silvery beam, either larger and brighter than the others or merely closer, shot out from the primary vessel and struck the Promise mid-frame. Where the beam made contact, the surface of the probe wavered and became indistinct. The effect slowly spread out from the point of impact, and static began to show up in the remaining camera views.
Promise had been programmed for hostility, though.
The photon drive fired at full thrust, forcing the probe out of the beam’s path at several g’s of acceleration. The spar holding the probe’s self-camera bent down under the thrust, pulling the probe out of the central view. Despite that and the vibration from the engine, Promise was still visible and still transmitting.
The beam moved to re-engage the probe, causing Promise to shift and redirect or reverse thrust each few seconds. Every time the beam skated by with another glancing blow, the new hit began to waver and become indistinct like the first. The effect was not reliant upon the beam either. Damage from the first strike and every subsequent one still spread further, albeit at a slower pace than when the beam had been feeding it. Sparkling dust streamed away from the probe, crumbs left behind by whatever invisible forces were eating the hull.
Promise made a valiant effort, but it was doomed from the start. Whoever it was that controlled the silver beam soon grew tired of the probe’s attempt at being elusive. An invisible beam, its presence revealed only by its devastating effect, stabbed out from the ship. A brightly shining cut opened up the reactor and the drive chamber, appearing almost at once. Chunks of molten debris exploded from the photon drive and the thrust cut out, leaving the probe adrift and twisting.
Static filled the screen and faded away, cycling in and out as the transmission dish was pulled past the limits of its gimbals and it lost the lock on Earth. The laser did not bother making a second pass, its operator content with only crippling the agile probe.
Maneuvers at an end, the silver beam returned, locking on to a single spot on the probe’s hull. The disintegrating effect continued on, hull plates, framework and components swiftly transmuting into so much scintillating dust, all of which streamed away to be collected by the ship.
There was a flicker, a flare, and then static. Nathan watched the static until it froze at the end of the video stream, and then continued to sit there. His heart pounded at the confirmation of everything they had worried about, and a vision of Gordon gasping upon the floor returned to him, unbidden.
If he was absolutely honest with himself, he had to admit that he had never really, truly believed in the Deltans. Seeing them disintegrate something you had built with your own hands had a way of convincing even the harshest skeptics, though.
It all came crashing in upon him: the invasion, Gordon, the ship, Kris, the government, his failure aboard the Rivero. Nathan was one man, caught up in events that had already battered him about, but this was huge, bigger than himself, bigger than anything he had ever been prepared for.
What the hell am I going to do?
He stood and rubbed his face vigorously, trying to banish the chills he felt through sheer manual effort. He wandered about the office, thoughts wild and unfocused, veering between reasonable worries and irrational, unreasonable terror.
Eventually he stopped, unsure whether his misery would be better dispelled by crying for his lot or laughing at the utter futility of all they had done. He settled for shaking his head and just looked down. He found himself standing in the spot where Gordon died.
Nathan resisted the urge to sidestep. He stood his ground and looked down at the carpet that had been Gordon Lee’s deathbed. Slowly, but with a noticeable salutary effect, some of the wild emotion dropped away, supplanted by clear, orderly purpose.
Gordon had faith in him. Gordon had chosen him to do this, and Gordon had invested everything in Nathan, sure that he could indeed handle whatever might happen. Nathan felt that he himself was a lesser man than his mentor had been, so how could he possibly have the audacity to doubt him?
The fear fell away. The worries fell into a hierarchy of concerns, none of which was insoluble. The misery faded. In their place rose a new emotion, an emotion that could be just as debilitating, but which also was key to striving and succeeding.
Anger.
Nathan knelt, placing one hand on the carpet where Gordon’s head had lain and one hand on the frozen static of the desk screen. The Deltans had claimed their first victim, the one man who had risen up to defend humanity against an unknown threat, and if Nathan had anything to say about it, he would be the last victim they would ever claim.
10: “FATEFUL MEETINGS”
February 24, 2045; Joint House/Senate Secure Briefing Center - TS/SCI Level; US Capitol; Washington DC
The image on the large display screen dissolved into a wash of static, and the assembled lords of government responded with complete silence. Nathan hit a button on his remote and the static froze, to be replaced by a diagram of the trajectories defining the rendezvous between the Deltans and the Promise. He turned back to his audience in the somber, austere top-secret briefing chamber.
His table and the screen behind him were the focal point to stepped tiers of stadium style seats taking up the majority of space in the wood-paneled, brushed-steel room. Seated there along the four rising levels, favoring him with unknowable expressions in the darkness, were senators and representatives of the House and Senate Armed Services committees, DOD officials, NASA representatives, and key Cabinet members, including the President’s Science Advisor, the Secretary of Defense, and the National Security Advisor. Little, unlit placards with thin lettering identified each person, but he could only make out a few. He recognized even fewer by sight alone, such as the Security Advisor and the SECDEF.