Icarus Read online

  ICARUS

  Kestrel Saga: Book II

  A novel by

  Stephen A. Fender

  Edited by

  Lynda Dietz

  Published by

  JRP ©

  Jolly Rogers Productions

  Icarus

  Copyright © 2013 Stephen Fender

  www.StephenFender.com

  First Edition: 2013

  Published through Jolly Rogers Productions (JRP) ©, a subsidiary division of StephenFender.com

  All rights reserved.

  Ordering information: [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 1491231157

  ISBN13: 978-1491231159

  Cover art background by Joakim Olofsson ©

  Final cover layout and rendering by Stephen Fender ©.

  All characters, settings, and events depicted in this novel are still the sole intellectual property of Stephen Fender. Characters in this novel are not intended, nor should they be inferred by anyone, to represent actual living beings—either now or in the 24th century. So there!

  “Mystery creates wonder, and wonder is the basis of man’s desire to understand.”

  - Neil Armstrong

  Chapter 1

  Beyond the three parallel view ports, the twinkling pinpoints of stars spread out haphazardly across the celestial abyss, as if a large hand had tossed diamond dust into the eternal darkness. With nothing noteworthy around the ship for parsecs, the Unified Sector Command carrier Rhea was all but alone in this desolate quadrant of Beta Sector; a lone sentinel navigating a sea of cold, dispassionate vacuum.

  It was this same chill that seemed to permeate every pore of Captain Richard Krif’s substantial bulk. Although the Rhea’s commanding officer had turned the temperature in the office to a pleasant seventy degrees, the chill in his bones had yet to subside. He’d recently poured himself a cup of hot tea, a noxious mixture of leaves and spices recommended to him for just these moments. Richard had to admit, though, that while the liquid tasted foul, it brought the much-needed warmth he desperately sought.

  He looked down at the glowing monitor of the terminal and the copy of Paradise Lost that was being displayed.

  “This having learnt, thou hast attained the sum

  Of Wisdom; hope no higher, though all the Stars

  Thou knew’st by name, and all th’ ethereal Powers,

  All secrets of the deep, all Nature’s works,

  Or works of God in Heav’n, Air, Earth, or Sea,

  And all riches of this World enjoy’dst,

  And all the rule, one Empire; only add

  Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add Faith,

  Add Virtue, Patience, Temperance, add Love,

  By name to come called Charity, the soul

  Of all the rest: then wilt though not be loath

  To leave this Paradise, but shalt possess

  A paradise within thee, happier far.”

  Richard’s eyes scanned the text as his mind drank in the subtle context of Milton’s words. Paradise lost, Krif thought idly to himself, superimposing the text’s imagery with current affairs. Is that what this is? Will the Kafarans and their Army of Light come and finally wipe the slate clean of humanity? Will we be exiled to oblivion, with nothing but the knowledge of our past existence a footnote in the recorded history of some other empire? Or is this the beginning of a new chapter, one in which what we do here and now will determine what humanity will see when next we turn the page? Richard’s mind then drifted to the missing Admiral William Graves. Damn it, Bill. What have you gotten us into?

  Krif brought the tea back to his lips, but before he was afforded another moment to wax philosophically, there was a brief but measured knock at his cabin door.

  “Yes, come in,” he said with authority, gingerly setting the cup atop his metal desk. With a push of a button on his computer, he closed the novel on his terminal just as the doors parted. Richard glanced up from behind his desk, a bemused smirk painting itself across his face as he leveled his eyes at the visitor who stood poised at the entryway. “Well, as I live and breathe. If it isn’t Captain Shawn Kestrel.”

  In the doorway, Shawn stood in a relaxed pose, not at all what Krif would normally expect from an officer standing outside his door. Then again, Shawn Kestrel was far from an officer. Under the merchant captain’s arm was tucked the metal file folder that Richard had handed him nearly six hours ago: Shawn’s reactivation orders, still sealed tight and waiting for Kestrel’s thumbscan to open it. As Shawn entered the compartment with comfortable ease, he slipped the folder out and held it toward Krif. “I figured you’d want this back before I left.”

  “So you’ve decided to cut your losses and run, aye?” Krif jibed. Shawn appeared unfazed, neither acknowledging nor denying Krif’s statement. “I’ve got to say, Kestrel, that I don’t blame you.”

  Shawn cocked his head, wondering what back alley Krif would take this conversation down. “Really? How’s that?”

  “It’s just that, a time or two, I’ve considered handing in my own commission. You know, turning down everything you’re being offered here and all that. Even the thought of settling down with a life similar to your own has crossed my mind on occasion.”

  Shawn chuckled at the remark, despite the loathsome officer seated across from him. “You? A free trader? It doesn’t quite suit your style.”

  Richard gave him a petulant stare. “No, nothing so dramatic. A job like that would be far too humiliating for my blood.”

  Shawn’s lips smiled, but his demeanor carried the weight of his scorn. “Well, the trade lanes are full of enough garbage as it is. The last thing we need is another hazard to navigation.”

  “Something tells me you navigate as far outside the lanes as you can legally get away with, Kestrel.”

  “My business is clean, which is more than I can say for some of the crap you’ve pulled, Dick.”

  “For the last time, it’s Richard. Captain Richard Krif. Don’t you ever listen?”

  Shawn offered a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “It depends on who’s talking.”

  “You’re talking to a fleet officer, mister! Don’t forget that I can pull your Unified Trade Guild license like that,” Krif made a snapping sound with his fingers.

  “While I’m sure a gesture like that frightens the junior officers, I’m afraid you’ll be waiting a long time for me to start quaking in my boots.”

  Krif sighed heavily, then leaned back in his chair. “Time is on my side, Kestrel. But not yours.” He held his polished wristwatch up to the overhead light. “You’ve got about thirty minutes to hightail it out of here before we reach the point of no return.”

  “What’s wrong? Afraid I’ll get stranded out in space? Dick, I didn’t think you cared so much.”

  Krif leaned forward, and then rose slowly from his chair, leaning over the desk on the palms of his hands. “On the contrary, I don’t want you stuck on board until we reach the next transfer port. My schedule says that’s going to be a long time coming, if you catch my drift.”

  “Believe me, I’d love to be out of what little hair you have left on your head.”

  Krif dismissed Shawn’s words with a wave of his hand, “Just hand over the file and be on your merry little way. Your inconsequential life is waiting for you back on Minos, and I’m a busy man, made even busier by the course correction caused by your girlfriend…or should I say, ex-girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend, Krif.”

  “My point exactly, not that I really care, hotshot.”

  Shawn looked away, slowly shaking his head. “So you’ll let me go, just like that? And after the big speech you gave me earlier today?”

&
nbsp; Krif smiled. “Yeah. Just like that.”

  “What about your orders?”

  “My orders were to retrieve you, and to deliver that file into your hands. The rest was up to you and that precious little thumb of yours.”

  “My thumb is used to getting paid, and seeing as how it’s attached to the rest of my body—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going mercenary on me,” Krif snorted. “You’re aware that doing so violates Section 47 of the Interstellar Code of Merchant Operations. I can throw you in the brig for even making the suggestion.”

  “Not at all, Dick. It’s just that Miss Graves owes me a fairly hefty sum of money, and I intend to collect on that debt before I go.”

  “Whatever that sly little minx told you was way beyond her scope of responsibilities as an OSI agent, rogue or otherwise, and should be considered null and void. Period.”

  Shawn had figured as much, and he was actually less concerned with the money than what Krif had to say on the subject. He knows Melissa is still in the OSI. The Director must have already given him the news that Melissa was now in operational command of the mission to locate the missing Admiral William Graves, and Krif’s pissed off about it. This is a good thing.

  “Then how do you expect me to recoup the losses I’ve sustained so far?” Shawn quipped as if the thought of not getting paid had truly offended him.

  “I’ve got three words for you, Kestrel: not my problem.”

  “But you’re still actively going to search for Admiral Graves at this point, right?”

  Richard sat back down, shifting his eyes from Shawn back to his computer. With a press of a button, his copy of Paradise Lost reappeared on his computer screen, out of Shawn’s view. “Not your problem, ace.”

  Shawn shook his head heatedly. “This doesn’t surprise me one bit. You haven’t changed, have you?”

  “Why mess with perfection?” Krif replied with a toothy grin.

  “And still no hint of common courtesy between old comrades who once fought together, right?”

  “Just toss me the file and get out of my office,” Krif said with a hint of boredom while keeping his eyes locked on the screen. “Unlike you, I have real work to accomplish.”

  Shawn gave Krif a broad, thin smile. “You know, there are three words I’d like to tell you, while I can, at least.”

  The statement enticed Krif’s attention, and the carrier captain turned his eyes to meet Shawn’s. “Yeah? And what might those be?”

  Shawn walked toward the desk, holding the metal file folder just outside Krif’s reach. He slapped it down on the desk, hard enough to cause the computer terminal to shake for a brief moment as the sound of the contact echoed off the barren metal walls.

  “Go to hell.” Shawn then reached out his left hand and placed his thumb defiantly on the reader.

  The device made a cursory beep as the two men continued to stare at one another. A perfunctory female voice, the same as every computer in the Unified government, spoke up from a micro speaker imbedded near the scanner’s faceplate. “Identity confirmed. Commission reinstated as of this date. Access to secure materials granted to Lieutenant Commander Shawn Kestrel, Unified Sector Command.” The side of the two-inch-thick case popped silently open toward Krif, whose lips were held tightly in check.

  Shawn reached down and slapped the case closed, then neatly tucked it back under his arm. He stood tall, standing at attention with a practiced ease. “Now, how about showing me to my damn quarters…sir. I’ve got some reading to catch up on.”

  *

  Shawn’s accommodations on the Rhea were a vast improvement over the berthing space he’d been assigned during the Galactic War while he was aboard the Fahrenwald. Where junior officers were sometimes packed two or three to a space, his rank of lieutenant commander afforded him the privilege of having his own compartment. Even with the immense size of the Rhea, Shawn’s quarters still seemed somewhat cramped. The room was about ten feet long and eight feet wide, with an eight-foot ceiling that was crisscrossed with lights, pipes, bundles of cabling, and ducted vents. Entering through the door, Shawn saw a bed immediately on his right, with a small desk at its foot in the opposite corner. Across from the desk was a lounge area, wide enough to accommodate two chairs and a small, circular metal table. Behind the table was a tall set of lockers, usually reserved for dress uniforms and any other items too large to fit inside the handful of drawers that were built into the single-occupant bed frame. Forward of the table was a small bathroom stall that butted directly against a shower-sink combination, which was typical of the space-saving designs required by fleet warships. To the left of the stateroom door, sandwiched between the shower and the cabin’s bulkhead, was a small, empty bookcase.

  The duty officer who had escorted him down there had left as quickly as the doors had closed on Shawn, and the only sounds present were the dull thuds and humming typical of living inside a ship of the line. The background noise was both familiar and oddly soothing to his ears.

  “Home sweet home,” Shawn said to the vacant space. The overhead light above the far desk flickered briefly, then returned to its normal brilliance. He wondered fleetingly if his old friend and mechanic Trent Maddox was getting along any better than he was.

  Half an hour later, Shawn had removed all his personal effects from Sylvia’s Delight and moved them to his new quarters in a tattered blue duffel bag. He hadn’t planned on being away from Minos for an extended amount of time, so he’d only packed the essentials needed to remain presentable. He now knew the Rhea’s supply stores would have everything he required, so it was just a matter of finding out where the supply store actually was on the immensely large carrier. He tossed his effects on the bed and sat down beside them, the forgiving gel mattress undulating rhythmically under the pressure. In the passageway outside his cabin, he could discern the ship’s intercom ringing with the all-too-familiar sounds of departments calling for muster reports. This was followed by an announcement that dinner was now being served, and that there would be an award ceremony on the aft missile control deck at 1100 hours tomorrow.

  Shawn suddenly felt like a fish out of water, or more aptly, a fish that had been taken from one pond and thrown into another. “What the hell am I doing here?” he whispered, but was greeted with the cold silence of his barren walls. He took in a heavy breath and, before he could let it out, there was a surprisingly loud knock at his door.

  Wondering at first if it was Trent, then hoping it was Melissa Graves, then praying it wasn’t Krif, he called out hesitantly. “Come in.”

  To his surprise, the door slid open with a whisper to reveal a fresh-faced young man, probably in his mid-twenties. His brown hair, cut short but fashionably so, capped his nearly-six-foot frame. His eyes, the same deep chocolate color as his hair, starkly contrasted the pale skin of his face. His coloring reminded Shawn that, in space, no one seemed to carry a natural tan for very long. The young man was wearing a dark gray flight suit and, judging by the fact that he still had half his oxygen and waste tubes still connected, Shawn surmised the unknown pilot had just come in from a flight.

  The man smiled, giving the nearly empty room a cursory glance, and leaned in as he placed a hand on the doorframe. “Mind if I come in, sir?”

  “Sure,” Shawn replied uneasily, choosing to remain seated on the bed until the officer was in the room.

  The officer placed his helmet onto the nearby empty desktop. The silver helmet, with its transparent black face shield pulled down, had a series of stylized yellow chevrons painted on either side: three parallel lines running from back to front, a single white one flanked by light blue ones. Along the leading edge of the helmet, where the silver surface met with the face shield, was the word ‘NOVA’ in bold, black letters—no doubt the young man’s call sign. Nova extended a gloved hand to Shawn.

  “Lieutenant Jerry Santorum.” The young man’s West Texas drawl was both unmistakable and slightly ridiculous.

  Shawn stood up and grasp
ed the pilot’s hand. “Shawn Kestrel.”

  “Commander,” Jerry offered with a curt nod, honoring the age-old naval tradition of shortening ‘Lieutenant Commander’ to simply ‘Commander’ for brevity.

  “Whoa there, Lieutenant,” Shawn offered with raised palms. “I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

  “I understand, sir. Word is you’ve been out of the Sector Command scene for a few years.”

  “Word gets around pretty quick here.”

  “Well, it depends on the weight of the word,” Santorum replied with a smirk. “The size of the carrier is in no way proportional to the speed of gossip, sir. Sometimes you might go months before hearing about one thing, whereas others come to your ears in the blink of an eye.”

  Aside from the usual pleasantries afforded by one officer to another, Shawn wondered what the young man was doing there. Truth be told, Shawn wasn’t sure if he wanted to be alone right then or not, so in the end he decided to make the introductions quick and see where professionalism got him. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “Raven—that is, Lieutenant Commander Brunel—asked me to come in and check on you when I was done with my debriefing to see if you needed anything.”

  Shawn hadn’t seen Commander Brunel since his meeting with Krif when he’d first come on board. The image of the attractive, dark-haired woman popped effortlessly into his brain. “You fly with the Rippers?” Shawn asked in reference to Raven’s command.

  “Yes, sir. In fact, I was out there with her earlier today when those Temkorians were harassing you.”

  “Ah,” Shawn replied in a moment of revelation. “So you were the other pilot out there? I was wondering when you’d make yourself known.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man smiled broadly.

  “Pretty nice flying out there, Lieutenant.”

  “Well, thank you, sir,” the young man beamed with obvious pride. “If I may say so, sir, you didn’t do too badly yourself. I was a little surprised by some of those moves I saw that old Mark-IV of yours do.”

  Shawn’s thoughts instantly went back to Krif, and the captain’s revulsion for Shawn’s well-worn but faithful cargo ship. However, something in Nova’s eyes told Shawn that the lieutenant had a different opinion of Sylvia’s Delight to offer, and he wanted to give Jerry Santorum a chance to speak it—before he decided whether or not to punch his lights out. “Well, my mechanic and I have made a few modifications.”