That Which One Begins - Chapter One Along the S9-5RL7 trade routes on the far side of the Universe, February 4, 3542 He could just make out the seven moons through the thick, transparent metal viewport of the ship, their illuminated images distinct behind the translucent veil of his own reflection. They appeared motionless in the darkness of Space, although he knew they were rapidly circling the large blue planet spinning at the center of them all. Seven moons around a lifeless planet. It was all so pointless. No one came here. No one ever came here. There was nothing to give anyone a reason to come here. Yet, here he was. Only he was willing to visit this backwater nowhere suspended in a dark void of nothing. He felt his nervous anticipation grip his insides, silently fighting it back down into its box where he could keep it from getting in the way. He had long ago disallowed himself the luxury of hope on this trip. It was, he rationalized, the best way to avoid disappointment of his failure so expertly predicted by his colleagues. Turning away from the viewport, he lazily slid down the metal wall to perch uncomfortably upon a narrow structure that protruded from the wall that enclosed unseen utility conduits and pipes. He settled on to his temporary seat, drew a breath, and thought. The vibrations of the ship massaged his feet at the same frequency that they shook his backside. The occasional creak and groan of the bulkheads and hull were no longer a distraction for him after such a long voyage, just as he had gotten used to the pungent aromas of chlorine and electrical ozone that were common by-products of the operational systems inside interstellar ships. None of those things distracted his mind now as he lifted the last two black duffel bags and flung them easily through the open hatch into the shuttlecraft. Richard Wesson held the title of Professor Emeritus of Galactic History and Interstellar Studies at the University of Bonn in Germany back on his home planet Earth. His ninth book, now in the research phase, had brought him to this place to document evidence that one of the Supremis species had once inhabited this planet. That was the official reason for his visit. The other reason, the real reason for his visit, was personal. "You'll be going then?" an alien voice said behind him in nearly perfect English. Richard turned to see the short Scalantran trader with whom he had booked passage on this freighter. Richard smiled warmly at the familiar face. "Yes," he agreed. "I hope to be on the planet's central region before planetary nightfall. I've got a lot to do yet." "I won't hold you up, then." the Scalantran said quickly, raising his hand. "I just wanted to bid you goodbye." The two beings shook hands in the fashion of Earth beings. As they did, the Scalantran stepped closer, his voice low and sincere. "I wish you luck, Richard. I hope you do find what you are looking for." "Thank you, my friend." Richard smiled. "If anything is there, I will find it." "I am sure of it," declared the Scalantran, ending their parting quickly. With a wave, he stepped through the hatchway, stopping before he closed the hatch from a sudden thought that had occurred to him. "The creatures, Richard. They must be the key." Richard nodded. They were indeed, he thought.   The small shuttlecraft of the Earth creature disengaged from the gigantic Scalantran ship to accelerate rapidly toward the planet. There were no engines visible anywhere on the spherical craft, its surface smooth and continuous. The manipulation of the variations within the interlocking gravitational and magnetic fields of the planet, sun, and moons of the planetary system provided propulsion. Each variation in the fields acted like a handhold for the craft to climb through Space. It did so silently, efficiently, and rapidly as it sped toward its destination. Inside the craft, there were no controls to operate, only displays showing the status of the journey. Richard had told the craft his intentions and the craft was now carrying out the profile, leaving him free to observe and to transfer his thoughts to his neural recorder for transcription later. His craft swung wide around a small, jagged moon that was made up of brilliant, multicolored crystal, the surface gleaming in the sunlight when he passed from the darkside. Below, endless blue water on the curved surface of the planet encompassed three-quarters of its area without any break in its perfection. Once, he had heard or perhaps read somewhere, there had been a thin belt of land that encircled the equator of the planet, but there was no evidence of that now. The planet had evolved over the thousands of years. What else, he wondered, had changed? Midway in his journey from the moons, the planet continued its regular, leisurely rotation to reveal its only large landmass. Along the northern edge of it, a gigantic mountain range appeared as wrinkles in the otherwise flat landscape. Richard didn't have to check the charts or cross-reference the data. He knew from years of hearing the stories and studying the mythology, of experiencing everything within the clarity of his dreams and the surety of his imagination. This place and this landscape were unmistakable as the planet that he had been searching for. After so many false starts on so many planets across so many systems, this place had the most promise. Everything fit; every detail was there. It had to be it. His lips formed the name though it passed through them no louder than a whisper. "Tetra."   A curved hatch opened within moments of landing and Richard stepped out of the shuttlecraft, hesitating only a moment before placing his foot firmly onto the tan, dusty surface of the planet. He looked toward the setting sun, estimated the amount of time he had left before it released the day to night, and listened. Listened. It was silent. The barren desert land stretched out to the distant mountains in a flat, featureless monotony. Only the fine dust of it occasionally moved on the subtle breezes that came and went. A flash of light, followed long after by a murmuring rumble of thunder, signaled that a storm was somewhere in the far mountains, but no such atmospheric drama played itself out in the desert to disturb the solitude. He could hear his own breathing. The day was short, but he wanted very much to begin his search. Perhaps, he thought, there would be time for at least one sweep. He pulled a long reinforced plastic crate from the shuttlecraft, opened it, and pulled out a stocky device with jagged legs and twelve tubes strapped together around a central larger tube. Jamming the legs hard into the ground, the device pointed all twelve tubes straight upward. He checked the level of the device, switched it on, and stood back. A loud pop signaled the release of twelve small rocket-propelled devices whose smoke trails arced away in perfect sixty-degree segmented trajectories like the leaves of a spider plant. When they hit the ground over a thousand feet away, each device broadcast focused narrow-spectrum pulses into the surrounding ground. The bulky instrument in Richard's hand interpreted this web of signals like a sonar station interprets echo returns. The wide, bright screen displayed a three-dimensional view of the underground density to a depth of one and one-half miles. He immediately noticed a significant shape nearly six hundred feet north of his position. He continued to stare at the strange image, as if it was too much to believe in its existence. In spite of his initial reaction, the scientist in him took control of the situation and he went to work. Richard sprinted toward the unusually shaped underground image. Frantically digging away the surface with a short shovel and his hands, he soon uncovered the tip of the image. It's rough stone and mortar identified it as not being a natural formation. "The fountain!" he gasped. "It must be the..." "YOU SEEK?" The booming voice startled him to his feet to frantically look around, his eyes wide with fright and his heart nearly bursting from his chest. He was supposed to be alone here. "Who are you? Who... Where?" he demanded, holding the small shovel like a weapon. "Do not be... Disturbed." the deep voice assured calmly. "I only wish... To inquire, nothing more." The voice sounded old, tired, burdened from the years. Richard lowered the shovel. "Yes." he answered, unsure yet hopeful about whom he might be speaking with. "I seek. I require... Information." The ground under his feet shook as the terrain to his left rose into the air. With rock and dirt falling away from it, a gigantic spider-like creature rose slowly to stand. Eighty feet around and nearly as tall, the gray, fur covered creature shook the remaining dust from its coat and rotated its immense head slightly as it looked directly at Richard. "You require... Information?" it asked with its deep, sonorous voice. Richard sank to his knees at the sight of the creature. "A Tetrite!" he gasped. "I thought you were all... I thought you were a myth." "No," the old Tetrite wheezed. "You did not. You knew of our existence from the beginning." "Perhaps I only hoped." Richard whispered to himself, his answer exposing a personal conviction that the scientist in him found intolerable. He rose quickly to his feet to stand before the ancient creature. "Are there others?" "No," the Tetrite replied. "There are none left in this plane of existence." "Then you are the last?" Richard's voice reflected his disappointment. "I am." The Tetrite paused, as if listening to a silent inner voice. "For the moment." "For the moment? I don't understand what that means." "You will," the Tetrite said as he lumbered uneasily to the site where Richard had been digging. The tip of an ancient fountain projected from the bottom of the pit. The Tetrite peered at the structure briefly and turned back to Richard. "Of what significance is this structure?" "I believe it to be one of the keys to my work on the history of this sector. My research has uncovered old and very sketchy information about a Supremis being living on this planet. A female Velorian." "The Mother of Us All." the Tetrite said reverently. "Yes! That's it! I've seen that translation. You know about her?" A possible breakthrough excited Richard. "Oh, yes." the tired voice confirmed. "I know well of her." The Tetrite sounded so matter-of-fact that Richard hesitated a moment with the thought that the creature may be toying with him for some reason. Yet, still, if there was any chance of a breakthrough... He looked down at the tip of the fountain in thought before deciding to trust the creature with his hidden reason, the reason many believed him to be a fool. "It seems impossible for the times," he began slowly, "but I believe that there was also someone from Earth, a man, a human, living on this planet at the same time as the Velorian. I can't prove it, but there are references that I believe may concern one of my own ancestors, a great, great, whatever, uncle and some of these vague rumors and stories have some common threads that I believe tie them together." The Tetrite took a few steps in quiet thought before turning back to the human. "It is common for your species to read too much into simple matters." "No!" insisted Richard. "It's true! I know it is! There was a letter preserved centuries ago in Illinois that..." "For what purpose do you require this... This information?" Richard cleared his throat. If all his questions might be answered by this creature, if all his years of searching might now lead to the truth, then he had to do whatever he could to tell this creature everything, to convince him to trust him with the complete truth. Richard drew a breath and began calmly. "When I was fourteen, I first heard the stories. Amazing stories that had a profound impact on me. Over the years, I slowly realized that I had to find out the reality behind these fantastic family stories. I began looking everywhere for information about my ancient Uncle. His military records were lost. He never married. Never owned land or anything. There were brittle, faded letters that mentioned him long after he died in some sort of military accident. There's even a hint that a member of the family was in touch with him, although I'm not sure if that was all just some sort of spiritual thing. I grew up with the stories, wondering for years about them and about my ancestor. "I am a learned man, a historian. I've spent my life searching for truth and now it is time to find this truth. I came here on my own holiday time and on my own resources to find out if she actually existed and if he was here with her. There was no chance of a human being this far out that long ago, but the letters mention a handmade fountain. They speak of the mountains to the north and about seven moons. I know this is the place! It has to be!" The Tetrite let out a long sigh and lowered himself easily to the ground. "Sit down, sir." the Tetrite groaned "Sit and remain with me for the time it shall take, for the information you seek regarding the Protector and your ancestor is within me. Know that the information I give to you is valid, most valid, for I knew them both well." "Knew them?" Richard asked incredulously as he sat before the gentle giant. "But that was over a thousand years ago." "Yes," the Tetrite confirmed calmly as he gently touched Richard's arm with the tip of one of his legs. A warm, rich amber glow began to engulf them both, filling Richard with a warm sense of calm as his eyes closed and his mind cleared completely until only the sonorous voice of the Tetrite remained. "I am very, very old."   Aboard the carrier Saratoga, Battle Group Sierra-Seven-Victor, on station near the planet Pluto, April 20, 2334 Two loud raps on the door made the Admiral look up from his desk for a brief moment. His eyes narrowed slightly as his jaw tightened. He was not pleased. "Come!" he barked. The polished wood door swung open quickly. A tall, dark-haired aviation officer dressed in a short-sleeved tan uniform stepped smartly to the desk and came to rigid attention. His eyes were focused directly ahead of him, not at the angry Battle Group Commander glaring up at him from behind the desk. "Captain Wesson reporting, sir." the officer said calmly. "Wesson, what is your malfunction? Do you think I like to get orders like this? Do you think you're special? You got friends in high places, Mr. Wesson?" "No, sir." replied a slightly confused Captain. "Sir, I don't know what you mean, sir." The Admiral's face began to redden. "Mean? I'll tell you what I godd*mn mean. I mean THIS!" The Admiral flung a crumpled page of paper toward Wesson who made no move to catch it. The paper slid to the floor at the Captain's feet. "AT EASE, CAPTAIN!" bellowed the Admiral. Wesson immediately picked up the paper and began reading it. "Sir," said Wesson, "this can't be right. We've got 'Hightower' coming up and I've got three ops-prep meetings tomorrow. This operation is too..." "Dammit, I know about 'Hightower', Captain," sneered the Admiral, "and I know what my people need to be doing and THAT isn't it!" The Admiral stabbed a finger angrily at the paper. "Sir, this says I'm to leave today, immediately, to ferry a Sabre III to Carlisle?" "That's right." growled the Admiral with contempt. "My senior flight commander gets pulled just prior to the biggest exercise ever conducted this far out in order to ferry some piece of cr@p to a stinkhole mudpit ground base on Europa. WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE, WESSON!" The Captain immediately knew why the Admiral was so upset. "Sir, you don't think I somehow put in for this duty, do you? Can't you send someone else?" "Don't you think I already tried that, Wesson? I told them we'd send a Maintenance Chief to do their little chore, but I was told 'no'. They wanted you specifically. I don't like being told 'no', Mister Wesson. I own this Battle Group and that includes you, mister, but someone wants you on Europa and doesn't give a cr@p about my Battle Group and even less about any little operations we have planned. How do you think that makes me feel, Mister Wesson?" Wesson braced for what he knew was about to happen by coming to attention again. "I would be pissed off, sir." he said calmly. The Admiral exploded. "PISSED? YOU HAVE NOT SEEN PISSED BEFORE THIS! YOU GET YOUR ASS DOWN TO THE FLIGHT DECK AND I MEAN RIGHT NOW, WESSON! IF YOU'RE NOT OFF MY SHIP IN TEN MINUTES AND I DO MEAN MINUTES, I WILL PERSONALLY SEE TO IT THAT YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD FOR THE BRIEF MOMENTS OF LIFE THAT I ALLOW TO YOU! DO YOU READ ME, MISTER?" "Yes, sir!" said Wesson smartly. His salute snapped into place and was answered by a flash of the Admiral's hand. Wesson spun crisply about and stepped through the door. "WESSON!" barked the Admiral, stopping the Captain at the doorway. "Sir?" "You're a damn good officer, Will." "Thank you, sir. Pleasure serving with you, sir." "Yeah," grumbled the Admiral.   Outside Ready Room D5, level 5 "Mitch! MITCH!" The loudly whispered callings from the hatchway got the attention of Lieutenant Mitch Smith, Captain Wesson's exec. Smith looked too young to be in charge of anything, but he was the most capable officer Wesson had ever worked with. Their partnership on the Saratoga earned the pair the moniker of "The Gunslingers", something expected for two officers named Smith and Wesson. Excusing himself for a moment from the meeting in progress, Smith stepped out of the room to see Wesson in full flight gear. "What's with this, Will? You're supposed to be in here." "Yeah, I know." said Wesson with an all-business tone. "Look, Mitch, I just got ordered off. You got the squadron. You know all the angles on 'Hightower' too, so make sure that happens like we talked about, alright?" "Ordered off?" asked the incredulous Lieutenant. "Jesus, Will, this is no time to screw around like this." "I'm not screwing around with anything, Mitch. The Old Man just chewed my ass about it. He probably thinks I fixed it somehow." "Aw, shit, Will." Smith dropped his voice to a whisper. "That bastard's had it in for you since day one. He just hates the fact that you got combat time and he's got shit." Wesson smiled. "Lieutenant Smith, I would appreciate a little more respect for our commanding officer." "Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir." responded Smith with a mock salute. "He's a leader of men and I'm just glad to be here, sir." Wesson shrugged and extended his hand. Smith took it in his own and the two friends gripped firmly in their handshake. "Take care, partner. See you soon. Do it right, eh?" Wesson smiled warmly before walking briskly toward the flight deck elevator. "Will!" shouted Smith. "You are coming back, right?" The doors of the elevator just began to close as Wesson raised his arms in a display of equal confusion. "I don't know, Mitch, I just don't know."   The Flightdeck of the Saratoga, launch bay Five-Uniform, 1348 hours ZULU The old days of the flat flight decks had been long gone ever since the fleets took to Space from the oceans of Earth. Fightercraft were now launched from multiple launch bays spread across the full length of the giant ships. This method allowed a full deployment to be nearly instantaneous if needed to face a threat. The Sabre III was perched atop the launch bay with the bay locks holding its nose at a slight upward angle. Wesson heard the voice of the Launch Officer in his helmet give him clearance for the Combat Launch Profile, or CLP, that he had filed for. A CLP was a full-power launch, just as he would have to do in combat conditions. This would be the last CLP he would have to log to meet his monthly currency requirements. Practice, practice, practice. Throttling up, the engines of the Sabre rose in pitch as power rapidly increased toward 100 percent. At 85 percent, Wesson gripped the release handle and gave it a sharp twist. The Sabre III rocketed violently from the launch rail into the starfield before him. Feeling it clear the bay, Wesson throttled back and keyed his microphone. "Boxcar, Sunner 956 is clear of the LB." "Sunner 956, Boxcar." That was it. Nothing more than an acknowledgment that he'd left. Two years on the Saratoga and gone. Below him, the various ships of Battle Group S7V were spread out in every direction. Though not at war, the fleet was referred to as a Battle Group because of the coming exercise--an exercise that he may or may not participate in. William Wesson was a career officer. He'd wanted to fly and he became a pilot. He wanted to become an officer and he achieved rank. He had achieved everything that he had ever put his mind to except one thing. He was alone in life. Perhaps it was just that he hadn't put his mind to that. It wasn't that he didn't want to be married. It was just that marriage had never been a priority for him. A home with a wife and kids was merely something to be put off until he achieved his dreams. By the time everything was accomplished, he had grown used to living the single life. Being unattached was now... Comfortable. There was the occasional woman in his life, but none of them lasted very long. If the Fleet didn't take him away, the woman of the moment would try to mold him into something he wasn't. Sometimes, he would just lose interest, in spite of what he thought he wanted. Flying high-technology fighter spacecraft in combat was easy. A lasting relationship with a good woman was tough as hell. So William Wesson resigned himself to live the life he had, pushed the throttles forward a bit more, and accelerated toward the moon called Europa.   254,000 miles ahead along his flightpath, a pinpoint of light flicked once, then again, just before the stars disappeared behind a yawning chasm of absolute darkness.   A brief, angry buzz pulled Wesson's attention to the Field Density Scope. A small orange and red spot undulated at the top of the flat, circular screen. His thumb pressed a button on his control stick and a small yellow "T" appeared on his HUD display, indicating that he was transmitting. "Boxcar, Sunner 956." There was a brief delay. "Sunner 956, Boxcar, go ahead." the voice said in his headset. "Um, Boxcar," said Wesson calmly, using his cool-under-pressure 'pilot radio voice'. "I'm showing a quantum distortion developing at my twelve o-clock. Any PIREPS on that?" Again there was a delay as the distant voice peered at computer screens in his search for any Pilot Reports about quantum distortions or singularities in the region. "Sunner 956, Boxcar. I show a gravitational flux variation at Tango Niner-Seven due to field tests of graviton generators in the area. Other than that, nothing." Wesson glanced at the orange/red ball on his scope. Lucky me, he thought. "Boxcar, this thing is pretty large. Standby for a PIREP." Wesson pressed a small button on the front of the scope. A packet of all the data collected by his systems was transmitted in a burst back to the Saratoga. Now the next craft would have the information needed to avoid the distortion. "Sunner 956, Boxcar," the voice in his headset soon said, "acknowledge your PIREP at 1408 ZULU. Do you wish to reroute around the anomaly?" "That's, uh, that's affirmative, Boxcar." Wesson was calling up his charts, watching the Field Density Scope, calculating his options in his head, and flying the Sabre III. Talking on the radio right now was last on his list of things to do. "Wait one, Boxcar." While the controllers on the Saratoga cooled their heels, Wesson weighed the pros and cons of possible new routes. Space, in spite of what most people believe, is hardly empty. Hazards, both visible and invisible lurk everywhere. It was a wonder, Wesson thought at times, that anyone could fly a craft anywhere out here. Within moments, he calculated a new route relatively free of debris and gravitational field effects. He tapped the route into his flight computer and keyed his transmitter again. "Boxcar, Sunner 956. Request reroute. Sending now." Wesson's computer transmitted the reroute information in a single packet to the Saratoga. There, the Saratoga's computers would evaluate the data and issue a go or no-go order. The route looked fine. It was a go. A green sprite blinked happily on the flight computer screen of the Sabre. "So glad you liked it, Sara," mumbled Captain Wesson, angling the sleek Sabre III into a comfortable turn to the left. The new route would add about two hours to the total flight time--no big deal. The Sabre was just rolling out of the turn when alarms started going off everywhere in the cockpit. The Threat Analysis board was lit up like Christmas and the Field Density Scope was having fits. Wesson was shocked to see the orange and red spot grow like a running streak down toward the center of the scope's screen. The center was where he was. Smashing the throttles forward to combat power, Wesson jammed the stick hard left and buried it into his stomach, yanking the Sabre into an incredibly tight turn away from the coming menace. He had never seen a quantum distortion lash out like that and he fought to control the immense fear he now felt as he pressed down on the button. "BOXCAR! BOXCAR! SUNNER 956! THE DISTORTION IS..." The controller on the Saratoga watched in horror as he saw the distortion engulf the image labeled as Sunner 956. The gigantic red mass on the scope representing a time/space distortion stopped growing, paused, and then shrunk as rapidly as it had flared outward. When it did, there was no other image on the scope. The controller had never seen a distortion do such a thing before and his hand was shaking as he keyed his transmitter. "Sunner 956, Boxcar." Mild static hissed in his ears from the headphones. "Sunner 956, this is Boxcar." Again only the hiss of background noise responded. The controller continued to try as he stared at the vacant screen. "Sunner 956..." "Sunner 956..." Next Chapter That Which One Begins, Copyright © 2001 by S.T.MAC