The Dread
He wasn’t sure how long his phone had been ringing, but by the time he woke up, it was still vibrating on his nightstand.
It wasn’t common, but it was something he had gotten used to. Even in a reserve status, he could expect to be called at any point from Starfleet. A quick glance at the area code confirmed it was from New Comberth, which removed most other possibilities before he could answer.
Lieutenant Commander Nicholas Melekhin sat upright in his bed as his wife rolled over, still trying to sleep. Time in the subterranean habitats of the Mun could be relative, but for Kerbin working days, it was the dead of night. The last few years had been a comfortable working schedule for him, though. Continuing his attaché work, he felt more of a messenger between Starfleet’s GHQ, Aerospace Ops, and - more recently - the Applied Physics Laboratory, where their new engine development had seen an elevation in his security clearances.
He picked up the phone, and cleared his throat to sound more awake.
“Good morning, this is Melekhin.”
“Commander Nicholas Melekhin?”
Did I just get promoted? He thought. “Speaking.”
“This is a notice of reserve activation from General Headquarters. Please be aware of your selection for an operational status, and preparations shall be made for your departure to Iceni Station no later than Friday.”
Iceni? That’s Duna. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “Okay.”
“Please repeat the contents of the message.”
Melekhin sighed. “I’m being mobilized for active duty, and will check in to the command Friday.” As she heard his statement, Melekhin’s wife, still half-asleep, grumbled in frustration.
“Thank you, Commander, we will be seeing you shortly.” He ended the call.
Melekhin sat on the edge of his bed; it would take a minute for him to digest the information that he was being activated for another deployment. To Duna - at a minimum, Duna, from what he knew from the news - it would take a few months to transit, then the deployment itself would be at least a year long. Then there was no telling what that tour would entail.
But he did know that this order could not be without a drastic reason. His role, albeit a reservist’s, was an important one; it wouldn’t make sense to activate him for a routine deployment any Spaceflight Officer would be able to conduct - unless they are all getting the call, he thought.
He looked at his watch to confirm a suspicion. End-of-day Friday was precisely 36 hours from now - a deadline Starfleet always trained to for operational readiness and emergency deployments. He didn’t have the energy to process his new rank, but he assumed the detailer was not misspeaking.
This is not good.
He looked at the television opposite from his bed, contemplating turning on the news, but paused before picking up the remote. Instead, he put his phone down, took in a deep breath, and sighed. He rolled over and leaned in, giving his wife a kiss on the forehead.
“Skipper, XO, we’re receiving an Emergency Action Message.” The mission specialist in the cockpit with him relayed the flashing green EAM advisory to him. The CO and second mission specialist, sleeping in crew quarters, would hear the message on ICS, and float over to the cockpit to meet them shortly.
It was Commander Melekhin’s turn on watch on the Ravenclaw, the first of its class as Starfleet’s primary cruiser. Normally, his senior officer rank would place him as the Skipper and mission commander, but the Ravenclaw was also the lead ship in its squadron, relegating him as the executive officer, as well as the ship’s navigator. He was accompanied by two mission specialists - two junior SFO’s on their first and second tours, respectively - as well as the Skipper, a Commodore. His CO was a well known figure to the majority of Starfleet, as much as it embarrassed him; he led the appropriately named Task Force Chariton, but otherwise, wanted to keep the nepotism to a minimum. Hesitant about his name recognition, Melekhin and the two mission specialists respected his request to go by his callsign “Trips” instead.
Melekhin was one of hundreds of reserve officers which activated and departed New Comberth some months ago. As soon as he arrived at Duna, he was transferred to his new assignment, briefed on the mission, and launched into deep space. Through periods of hibernation, he had been away for nearly 400 days. Once their task force was fully refueled from their burn, there was nothing left to do but coast for eternity, until their EAM light would flash again.
Trips and the second mission specialist floated into the Ravenclaw’s cockpit module, the former strapping himself into the seat adjacent to Melekhin, as the two lieutenants went to retrieve the printing message and its decoder. They brought the contents over to the command duo.
“We have a properly formatted Emergency Action Message, request permission to authenticate.” The majority of their correspondence on the deployment was less formal, but the transmissions required strict adherence to procedure.
“Granted, authenticate.” Trips replied, and Melekhin nodded. The mission specialists snapped the decoder in half and pulled out its contents.
“Delta, Delta, Sierra, Bravo, Zulu, Delta, Tango.” The second mission specialist repeated the same code as the first. “Message is authentic, Commodore.”
“I concur, sir.”
They handed the message and codes to Melekhin, reviewing the letters. “I concur, sir.” He added, before unfolding the message, and angling it so all four of them could read it.
Code: Select all
****EMERGENCY ACTION MESSAGE****
FROM: UIFSTARCOM COMMAND CENTER - OPAL CITY, MINMUS
TO: IFS RAVENCLAW (CL-1) - TASK FORCE CHARITON - ALL U.I.F. STARFLEET FORCES
AT AND BEYOND DUNA SPHERE OF INFLUENCE
SUBJECT: WARNING ORDER
REMARKS:
STATE CHAMBER ENVOY SHIP SCS ISAAC CONFIRMED DESTROYED BY S.E.A. INTERCEPTOR
CONTINGENT; AMBASSADOR TEAM AND O.A.I. DIRECTOR AMONG CREW MISSING IN ACTION.
JOOL-AT-LARGE UNDER S.E.A. LOCKDOWN AND QUARANTINE; HOSTILE SPACE FORCES
HAVE ISSUED FULL MOBILIZATION AGAINST ALL NEUTRAL SHIPPING.
U.I.F. EXCOMM ANTICIPATES **IMMEDIATE ACTION**
Melekhin re-read, then slowly lowered the letter, as the crew all digested its contents in silence. “Prepare for a burn,” ordered the Commodore, “I’ll signal the rest of the task force.”
“Yes, sir.”
Commander Melekhin and the senior lieutenant strapped in and grabbed their checklists for engine ignition. The junior lieutenant floated back to the crew quarters to prepare a pot of coffee.
Melekhin looked at the plots for the charts they would stand by to burn, their ETAs, and the amount of ships in the combined fleet. Their task force was only one of several dozen. This was the farthest from Kerbin any of them had ever been, after 400 days in transit; and from the contents of the Warning Order, their operation hadn’t even truly begun yet.
He thought about the news, and reflected on the first mission he took part in, all those years ago, that set this story into motion. The dread can come later, he thought to himself on board the shuttle back to the Mun, as he delivered the Phoenix-2 payload from the Bunker Shot and to the Applied Physics Laboratory. The look of anxiety on the rest of the shuttle’s faces when they first heard of the Holst Line. The mass mobilization of the UIF’s space industry in the years following. The unspoken words on everyone in Starfleet’s lips when the signals came back.
He looked at the charts again, at his destination, and the composition of their forces. They were really going to go for it. The growing revelation hit him like a brick.
Later had arrived, and the dread was there.