The Broken Peace

Varro relaxed in his quarters, reading Great Expectations. He began to read classic works of Old Earth literature years ago. Varro had never read this particular work, but the title fits well with his mission when he departed Anatolia. The buzzing of the intercom broke his concentration, “Ekklesian Varro, we are nearing our destination. The ship will arrive in ten minutes.”

Sitting his book aside, he responded, “Very good, I’m on my way to the bridge.” Exiting his quarters, he noticed the ship’s crew going about their business. He wondered how many of them realized the historical significance of the mission. It occurred to him that the details of his diplomatic mission remained a secret. Still, he could sense the crew understood something of great importance was about to take place.

It also occurred to him that once the peacekeepers were in place and the crisis ended, it would ensure his election to the archonship. Varro brushed away the thought. No need for vanity now, he thought as he entered the lift. No matter who won the election, the peace was all but assured. History could judge him how it wished, but millions of lives and countless years of conflict need not happen. If that cost him the election or the disdain of those in the Assembly who couldn’t see that, then so be it.

The lift’s door opened, and Varro continued his journey to the bridge. The guard outside the bridge hatch nodded his recognition and admitted Varro inside. The bridge whirled with activity as the crew prepared to drop out of its FTL jump. Varro sensed the feeling on the bridge was different than in the decks below. Those here may have felt the weight of their task more fully since it fell upon them to carry it out.

Captain Evan DeGraw spotted Varro as he entered. “Ekklesian, you’re right on time. We’ll emerge from the jump in one minute.”

“Thank you, Captain. This is a momentous occasion.”

“Lysander’s ship will only be about twenty minutes behind us.”

“Yes, so we must not waste time.”

“Thirty seconds, sir,” called the helm.

Varro breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. The stars returned to their normal view as the ship emerged from the jump. Meteora hung in the distance on the viewscreen along with the Queen Berenice and her support ships. The comms crackled to life, “Unidentified ship, transmit recognition codes.”

“This is Ekklesian Varro, Diplomatic Code Delta, Sigma, One, Niner, Omega.” Silence followed. The crew looked around with apprehension as the moments ticked by.

“Ekklesian Varro, this is Admiral Cloudsley. You are not scheduled for arrival. What brings you to Meteora?”

“I’m on a diplomatic mission in the name of the Assembly. I am bringing in a peacekeeping force to aid in the crisis.”

“Peacekeeping force?” asked Cloudsley. “Why have I not heard of this from the Assembly?”

“We’ve been trying to contact you for days, Admiral. We were wondering why we’d not received a response.”

“My apologies, Ekklesian. There is some interstellar interference preventing communications.”

“Very well, Admiral. A small fleet of ships is on its way here as well. It is a peacekeeping force from the Spartiartes set to arrive shortly. You are not to fire upon them.”

“Spartiartes? Ekklesian, this is highly unusual. I must-”

“Admiral, I assure you this mission has the authority of the Assembly and the Archon himself. Under no circumstance are you to engage the Spartiartes. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Ekklesian. All ships will stand down.”

Lysander paced impatiently on the bridge of the Apostolis. “Time to arrival?” he demanded.

“Five minutes, My King,” said Captain Brudding. “What do we do if the Anatolians attack?”

“Keep enough in the FTL for an emergency jump. Then, we regroup with Admiral Tasso’s fleet around Thassara. After that, we let the diplomats worry about the cleanup.”

“Yes, sir,” Brudding said. She tried to reassure herself that Lysander knew what he was doing as her crew performed their duties with flawless precision.

Lysander was unsure he believed what he was saying, but it sounded good. He opposed this plan when Alexander proposed it, but now Lysander was committed. The temptation to go to battle stations was almost too great to ignore. Still, he knew the Anatolians could tell if the ship jumped into the system combat-ready. Trust to diplomacy, he thought.

“Jump completing in ten seconds,” called the navigation officer.

With a flash, the Apostolis emerged into Meteoran space. The ship emerged behind Varro’s councilor ship, a bit closer than Lysander would have liked. Still, the Anatolians held their fire.

Federov watched with amusement from his command station as the Apostolis appeared. The stealth ship remained undetected. “So predictable. We hardly need to make a move. Helm, bring us directly underneath Lysander’s ship.”

“Aye, sir.” The ship settled under the Apostolis without attracting any attention. “We are in position, sir.”

“Excellent. Affix EMP mine to the FTL drive of the Apostolis.”

The crew guided the mine into place. Still, the Apostolis did not detect their presence. “Mine is attached, sir.”

“Good. Prepare missile tubes one through six; full yield.”

“Missiles armed and ready, Captain Federov.”

“Lock on target.”

“We have missile lock, sir.”

“Fire.”

Aboard the Queen Berenice, tensions ran high. “Admiral Cloudsley, we’ve lost communications. I can’t raise the Spartiartes fleet.”

“Is the comm down?”

“No sir, there’s some jamming. I can’t locate its source.”

“Jamming?” asked Cloudsley.

“Sir, Admiral Lammacus’ ships are emerging from their stations.”

“Why are they moving now? Get Admiral Lammacus on the line.”

“It’s no good, sir. All communications are down.”

“Admiral, I’m detecting missile launches.”

“From where?”

“The Apostolis.”

“Raise shields. Battle stations. Time to impact?”

“They’re not aimed at us, Admiral.”

The crew began to grow restless aboard the councilor’s ship. “Something is not right here, Ekklesian. Lysander’s ship should have made contact with us by now,” said Captain DeGraw.

“Why have we not raised them ourselves?” asked Varro.

“There’s interference, sir,” said the comms officer.

“Can we move the ship away from it?”

“No sir, this is deliberate. Our comms are being intentionally blocked.”

“Who could do that, Captain?”

“I don’t know, Ekklesian-”

“Sir, we have a missile alert.”

“What?”

“Six birds inbound, from the Apostolis.”

“Raise shields. Take evasive action.”

Varro already knew it was too late. He closed his eyes seconds before the blinding flash blew apart the bridge and all hopes of peace. The councilor ship exploded into a fireball.

Confusion reigned aboard the Apostolis. “Where did those missiles come from?” demanded Lysander.

“I don’t know, sir, but it wasn’t us.”

“No shit, it wasn’t us. Captain, raise shields and plot the emergency jump.”

“Sir, we have enemy ships from the far side of Meteora on an intercept course. They’ve charged their weapons and are locking in on us.”

“Any signs of survivors of the councilor’s ship?”

“None, sir. It’s gone.”

“All ships go to defense formation Beta,” Lysander ordered. “Time to FTL?”

“Three minutes, sir. We’ll just make it out before they can fire.”

Aboard the stealth ship, the tactical officer reported, “Captain Federov, the target is destroyed.”

“Plot the course for home. Detonate the EMP mine once we are clear,” Federov said. Satisfaction welled inside him as he watched the burning wreckage of Varro's ship. The plan worked better than Federov expected. Looking around he could see the crew knew they'd accomplished their mission. Now, they began to grow gleeful for the rewards promsied to them.

“Dropping clear of the Apostolis. Detonation in twenty seconds.”

A bright flash came from the mine, shaking the Apostolis. Federov smiled. “So ends the most dangerous of all the Spartiartes. Helm, jump us out of here.” The stealth ship jumped away, giving little indication it was ever there.

The explosion threw Lysander and most of the bridge crew to the deck. “What was that?” he demanded.

“We’ve suffered an EMP attack, sir. FTL drive and weapons systems aft are inoperable. Engine power reduced. We’re lucky to have anything left.”

“My King, enemy fleet approaching weapons range. Several missile locks detected.”

“Can we launch fighters or raise shields?”

“Shields are up and operating at sixty percent. Fighter launch tubes one through five are inoperable.”

“Sire, missile launches detected, ETA four minutes.”

“Sire, we will be in the range of their main batteries in twelve minutes.”

“Time to repair the FTL?”

“Everything is drained, Sire. It will take at least an hour to charge, much less to repair the damage.”

Lysander considered his situation, “Prepare to defend the ship. All fighters launch when ready. Activate point defense systems to intercept incoming missiles. Everyone stand to your stations. Today, we fight and die for the glory of Laconia.”