The memory fell away as a thousand lights blinked around him on the bridge. Sensor contacts, IFF responses, authorisation codes, all flew back and forth across space, proving his ship wasn’t a threat. One specific light blinked ominously next to Nguyen. An incoming message.
“Commander we’re being hailed,” Nguyen said. “It’s the high command.”
“Figures as much, can you put them through?”
“No sir, it’s just repeating orders. We’ve been commanded to dock at the Watchtower.”
Orbiting the Earth, surrounded by a swarm of ships, was a space station. It had been assembled by the Council far quicker than anyone could have believed, going up in only a few weeks. Massive cargo haulers had brought the station into the system in gargantuan pre-built chunks. The idea of a prefabricated station had wowed Orson at the time, it had seemed like something he had imagined as a kid, the kind he had read about in pulp novels his father loved to buy. It was startling how quickly it had become just another workplace to him.
The Watchtower, so named because of an online joke that stuck, was constructed of a wide disc, within which was housed a warren of rooms and chambers. Dangling from the bottom of the disc was a long pylon, the outside of which was studded with docking clamps and airlocks. Several craft, all larger than the Gallant were already docked, clinging to the pylon like drowning sailors clambering a sinking mast.
“Fine,” Orson said. “Bring us in, time to face the music for our little adventure I’m guessing.” Orson wished he had never pursued the ship carrying the knower and his cluster of hangers-on. It had been a foolish choice, especially when it had resulted in the entire Ossiark escapade. Engaging in unauthorised contact with a known aggressor, so close to Earth space, was likely the end of his career. Orson fully intended to take the blame, hopefully, he could save his bridge officers and his marines. He had been pleased to find the marines waiting for him by the ship as they had fled the casino planet. The arrival of the Substrate dreadnought had caused a significant commotion, and the soldiers had all raced back to the Gallant. It wasn’t surprising, the education his entire crew had been given about the state of the galaxy had made it very clear the Substrate was considered hostile.
“Aye, sir,” Nguyen said. “The station is transmitting flight path coordinates, passing them to piloting now. You got them, Johnson?”
“Yes Corporal, plotting the course now.” Trooper Johnson touched the panel before him. An image sprang to life on the viewscreen, a picture of every ship approaching the station and their flightpaths. Everything was pre-programmed and controlled by the station, except in an emergency. Space collisions were rare, considering the distances involved, but were devastating when they happened.
“So, Sir,” Nguyen began. “Just how fucked are we?”
Orson was sat down, his chair located in the centre of the room. Chair was a bit of a misnomer, the hard-plastic object had four legs and a back, but it was the most uncomfortable thing he had ever sat in. Everything about it was just off in a way that rankled at him. The way the backrest curved a little too far forward, how the padding was a little too soft, and how it rose just slightly too high off the ground leaving his legs dangling like a toddler. He wondered if it was intentional, designed to set him on edge.
The room itself was a huge auditorium. It reminded him in a way of the arena at Ossiark, though the duels here were more political, rather than violent. At least, not openly anyway. He felt like he had been cast into a well, the faces of his interrogators peering down at him from their vantage point, a balcony that circled the entirety of the round chamber.
“Commander Orson,” said a voice. It was coming from a small box at his feet, the speaker for the rooms translation system. He had been stripped of his personal unit at the door, anything electronic taken from him. The owner of the voice was standing up, his hands resting on the railing at the front of the balcony. Around him, the other assembled aliens were seated. “You disappoint me. It took long debate before we allowed humans to enter our esteemed Council forces, I personally vouched for your race’s inclusion, and this is how we are repaid? By stupidity and defiance.”
“Esteemed Governor, it was never an act of defiance on my part. We simply pursued a wanted vessel, as ordered.” Orson looked up at the creature peering down on him. It was a sickly pink in colour and looked slightly wet. A robe clung to its body, three arms on each side poking through that ended in short stubby fingers. The governor had no discernible eyes or face, instead, he had a strange kind of spiked organ that pulsed in and out of an orifice as he spoke. He looked to Orson like an oversized water bear.
“You were assigned a patrol vessel. Patrol. You had a set assigned area.”
“Whilst true esteemed governor, it was a priority order. I simply did as instructed.”
“Leave the human be, Sylax,” said another voice. A second alien stood up from the crowd. This one was reptilian, his words hissed through sharp fangs. He held up his hand, revealing a set of padded fingers not unlike a gecko. “He was clearly following the spirit of the orders, it is hard to fault him for that. Was there any other ship in range to pursue through the jump tunnel?”
“That is not the point,” said the giant tardigrade.
“I rather think it is. Without this commanders, dare I say it, brave actions, we would not have the information we do now.”
“What information, Councillor Perto?” Sylax said turning to face his rival. “What they gleaned from landing on Ossiark? An enemy installation at that!”
“I was not aware we were at war with Ossiark Governor?” The councillor had a smarmy smile across his face. “Greddog might be a crass pirate, but he isn’t an idiot. He would never move against us.”
“Then why was he meeting with the Substrate? Do you know they blame us for the loss of their anti-matter refinery? They claim the weapon’s signature is undeniably Council tech you know? We are facing war councillor, there can be no other explanation.”
“My esteemed friends,” Perto said, gesturing at the aliens around him. “It seems our governor has been reading too many conspiracy articles on the network.” The crowd laughed, an odd mix of bizarre noises emerging from a hundred different throats. “The Substrate will never move against us. To do so would be suicide. I believe your people have a phrase for this commander?”
“Mutually assured destruction,” Orson said.
“A frankly, terrifying ideal, but one I think applies. Thank you, commander. I for one am grateful to you, your actions have informed us of these startling movements, whatever they might mean.” The reptilian councillor stared down at Orson, who suddenly felt like meat hanging in a butcher’s window. “I would like to know though, what became of that ship? The one that fled Earth? Your report leaves that part out.”
“I am sorry councillor, that vessel escaped. I decided not to attempt to pursue it, considering the Substrate dreadnought in the area. I wouldn’t worry about it though, it seems that it was on Earth to collect a single specific human, a fairly typical civilian, no-one anyone would miss.” Orson let out a chuckle. “It seems his kidnappers think him some sort of messiah. The knower of truths they called him.”
There was a number of audible gasps from the assembled councillors, or at least their alien equivalents. One of them honked loudly like a goose. Perto just smiled and rubbed his hands. He knew, Orson thought.