Phoenix-2
“Ushakov Cupola, Bunker Shot, DD-295.”
“DD-295, Ushakov final controller for POR. How do you read this transmission?”
“295, Loud and clear.”
“Roger, burn on Yankee +1.5, approaching glidepath. 650 meters from contact. Do not acknowledge further transmissions.”
“Slightly left of course and correcting slowly, 500 meters…”
“Relative momentum stable, on glidepath, cleared to dock Anchor 5. Burn Yankee -1. 300 meters from contact…”
“200 meters, begin standard decel...”
“100 meters, approaching decision space.”
“295, proceeding visually.”
“Roger 295, proceed visually. Crew on standby, contact EVA when able.”
A final burst of propellant shot out of the thrusters of IFS Bunker Shot as it slowed to a crawl to dock. Guided directly by crews on the ship and the approach control, she docked with the station with delicate precision, barely shifting the structure as the docking ports locked. The green and red lighting continued to pulse as the crews worked through their shutdown checklists.
Perfect, he observed. Watching the approach from within the hangar bay provided the perfect vantage point, even if he was just tethered to the side. It wasn’t often he had the opportunity to embark on a spacewalk - typically the Warrants did those - so he was inclined to take full advantage of it.
Lieutenant Commander Nicholas Melekhin’s usual responsibilities as a Spaceflight Officer was more of a mission commander. If he was on an orbital flight, the systems hab would be the main workplace. Finishing with his year-long deployments, though, offered him more options for his subsequent tours. He enjoyed the variety that came with being an attaché now - and not having to leave New Comberth for too long was nice, too.
“Ushakov EVA, Bunker Shot.” The destroyer contacted Melekhin on his comms, as the approach controller requested earlier.
“Go ahead, Bunker Shot.”
“Shutdown complete, you’re clear to proceed past the active.” He observed what he assumed was the captain through the bridge window, giving him the hand signal that his systems were rendered safe to approach. “I’ll contact you once we’re inside.”
“Copy.”
Melekhin’s role, beyond the sightseeing, was to proceed expeditiously with the unloading of cargo from the munitions bay - verbatim, he thought, which immediately caught his attention when he received his orders to suit up.
Officially, Bunker Shot burned from its station in Moho towards Kerbin with a final destination in Munar orbit for a quarterly maintenance cycle. Right on its semi-yearly schedule, it arrived after a few months in interplanetary space to Ushakov Station, held permanently at the Mun’s L2 Lagrange point, one of the primary anchorages of the Systems Commonwealth. It was considered an advantageous position for a Starfleet hub, always at a fixed point to the UIF’s Munar capital, always illuminated by the web of habitat lights lacing through the craters and regolith. Incoming ships from the other planets could plan their burns knowing its location was a constant, with the Mun itself also tidally locked to Kerbin.
Unofficially, though, a destroyer’s pre-planned repair hop could also serve as a ferry flight for any payload that needed special handling. A payload that required an SFO to directly manage was going to be top secret. Melekhin knew full well this was why he was tasked with a direct role in its delivery, even if he didn’t know what it was - otherwise, the station had dozens of qualified specialists for the job.
Melekhin slowly drifted towards the ship and grabbed a handle next to an opened vertical launch system, latching himself on. Internally, his mind wandered as he went through the procedures to unload the VLS with an array of specialized equipment on hand. The UIF didn’t need to rely on ferry flights for sensitive cargo - the Cosmerchant Marine usually was on top of that - so this needed to justify a personal, guarded flight. It couldn’t be very large, either, fitting into a weapons bay as it was. And he also noted how the payload was kept exposed to the vacuum instead of a pressurized habitat, being kept as far from the crew as possible.
Before he left the airlock, he already narrowed it down to just a few options.
The lieutenant commander continued to guide out the payload as it slowly floated out of the launch tube. Round, metallic, and pitch white, it was no larger than a small probe. He stabilized it next to the ship and fixed it to his maneuvering unit before radioing the station. “Ushakov, Walker 1,” he gave the customary check-in name for the first specialist on a spacewalk, “Got the payload secure, ready to move in.”
“Walker 1, copy, free to proceed to the outer airlock, Anchor 5.”
“Outer airlock, Anchor 5, Walker 1.” Melekhin repeated the instructions back. Preparing to unlatch from Bunker Shot, he now had a moment to observe the cargo’s markings.
PHOENIX-2, it read. An apt name for it - the shuttle that was waiting to bring it to the Munar surface shared it. Deliberately chosen to look innocent on a cargo manifest, he thought. And planned months in advance, given how long the Moho trip was, so that the suborbital descent - the part that couldn’t be easily concealed - looked as standard as possible when the itinerary was filed.
Center on the capsule was a unique marking. Two semi-circles, one black and one white, extruding lines on their diameters, themselves looking like one sphere that was split in two and spreading apart. Functionally, it looked like a warning symbol. A radioactive or biological hazard icon could have normally been there, he thought, depending on the contents; but, clearly, neither were appropriate in this instance.
Finally, below the markings were technical inscriptions of the container. Cryogenic Magnetic Container, delicate, volatile; continuing his scan, High-Energy Synthesis Facility - a lab on Moho as far from prying eyes as physically possible, taking advantage of the inverse square law for immense solar energy output to power their experiments. If they were producing something this delicate… he knew immediately. Only one option.
Antimatter.
The container, when removed from its external storage, was no larger than a briefcase, though it was significantly bulkier. The zero-G environment kept it easy to transfer as he floated alongside it down the corridor. Now back in the station, Melekhin returned the EVA gear to their original owners and continued to the shuttle in his standard flight suit. For Starfleet, they were all blue, a tradition continued from the space programs of the 21st century. The Space Marines wore orange. And his new acquaintance's was pitch black.
Eschewing the usual names and markings, Henshin’s, as he identified himself, had only one embroidered insignia over his left breast - a two-faced pyramid with a circle inside and a vertex below it. Very minimalist, since the black flight suit itself is a dead giveaway; when they aren’t trying to conceal themselves on a mission, they’re the spaceflight uniforms of choice for the Office of Astral Intelligence.
Melekhin wasn’t the only one dispatched from the Munar surface to pick up the shipment, though he was the one with the EVA rating to retrieve it. Now he would return with it to Aerospace Operations in NewCom, the facility he was Starfleet attaché to, alongside the case officer to see the fuel to its final destination. Henshin explained it to him as they continued to the shuttle.
“We have a Phoenix waiting for us at Anchor 12 to take us back down. Pilots are running the preflight checks right now. And not one of the Starfighter’s, it’s ISEA’s.”
“ISEA’s loaning it?”
“It’s a civil space mission, after all, with a normal manifest and standard flight itinerary.” Figures. “And it’s the Fort Grace, to be precise. That part is for sentimental purposes.”
The Fort Grace. The carrier herself remains a beloved museum ship in Korfu, but when the UIF developed the new fleet of shuttles to replace the Kestrel, the first commissioned spacecraft took her namesake, and some of her steel for the fighting spirit. Putting this antimatter on it - it must be the first shipment, and they want good fortune for the transfer. Names have meaning, and Aenia doesn’t shy from superstition; Providence tends to favor these kinds of things.
Approaching the twelfth airlock, two mission specialists on the Fort Grace helped move the antimatter to a special storage container in the lower deck of the cabin. ISEA’s astronauts distinguished themselves in azure flight suits with red accenting; all scientists and engineers, they were the forefront of the UIF’s recent efforts to put civil spaceflight in the lead for exploration again, in anticipation of pushing the envelope. It was a fresh sight for Melekhin, who wanted the next century of space development to be more than just military deployments and commercial enterprise between Kerbol’s systems.
“Standby,” Henshin held his hand to his comms for a moment as Nicholas and the mission specialists continued strapping in. “Prepare for an immediate departure, we are to proceed expeditiously, the Office just said.”
Lot of that going around. “What changed?”
He nodded along as a crewman from the station gave them all a thumbs up before closing the airlock from his side, closing them all in the Phoenix’s cockpit with a hissing sound.
“The Munar Far Side Observatory just picked something up on their crater dish. They don’t know what yet, but it’s important. We should know once we land at the pad. We’re getting this delivery done at the right time.”
“Hm.”
Ahead of them, the two shuttle pilots counted down as they prepared to detach. With a slight shake, Melekhin could see the familiar hangar drift away slowly, the red and green approach lights once again on and pulsing.
For now, Melekhin rested his hands in a chest brace and closed his eyes. The shuttle crew will handle this part of the mission, and Henshin can worry about any bad news. He’ll take a minute to reflect in peace as the Fort Grace departed for its deorbit burn.
Any dread can come later.