HMSS Broadside Day 318: Night Shift

Personal Journal Serene Falk Captain, HMSS Broadside

Mission parameter – Hunting Ghosts

Classification – Secret (Captain’s eyes only)

NIGHT SHIFT

Time: 01:22 SST [ Standard Space Time]

I have learned to accept that night shifts in deep space are simply a comfortable way of keeping the day-night construct constant for our fragile biological lifeforms.

Even so, it still feels like the middle of a real night.

The duty watch woke me from a sound slumber at midnight. They reported a growing number of spurious sensor spikes across multiple frequency bands.

Normally (a word that may soon become redundant on this mission) I would have turned over and told them to log it for analysis by the day watch.

But considering the ship’s status, and the fact that anything could be something, I hauled myself out of my cot and headed for the bridge.

As per normal night-shift protocol, the Bridge lights were low, with most of the illumination coming from the instruments. For my sleep-deprived eyes, it was a welcome relief.

At the sensor array, Flight Officer Cara O’Brien was deep in conversation with two uniformed analysts. Seeing me, she straightened to acknowledge another officer on deck.

Waving away her salute, I grumbled something along the lines of, “This had better be good, Flight,” and joined her at the workstation.

I am no expert when it comes to deciphering the language of deep sensor arrays. But even I could see that this was unlikely to be a randomly generated blast from a pulsar or something equally innocent.

“What are we seeing here?”

My question was aimed at no one in particular.

“Well, I can tell you what it isn’t, sir,” Flight replied. “These spikes are perfectly symmetrical. They don’t contain the stray frequencies that normally accompany naturally generated signals.”

“So, it’s not a natural phenomenon.”

“No, sir. And the more interesting fact is that they started pinging us at exactly 23:00.”

I turned to regard her.

“Right, that intersting. But what exactly do you mean when you say they are pinging us? I thought this was a broadband sweep of the surrounding space.”

“It was, sir. Until the signal started. What you’re seeing on the screen is a targeted narrow-band transmission that is only hitting us. And its strength is drowning out every other sensor input we have.”

I am not given to swearing or letting a situation get the better of me.

But there are times when every captain loses their shit.

“Sorry, Flight. Did I miss the part where you told me that small, insignificant piece of information? That we have, in fact, been flying blind for the last two hours?”

I could feel heads turning as my eyes bored into her.

“No, sir. We’re not exactly blind. We’ve been in constant contact with the two Firestorm fighters running perimeter patrol and pulling in feeds from their instruments.”

There was so much more to say.

But right now was not the time to rollock a fellow officer.

“Right. Well, that’s something.”

Taking a deep breath, I walked over to the captain’s chair and sat down hard.

“Clyde. Bonnie. Bring the ship to stations. Pump up the repulsion fields and get me some telemetry and sensor information that isn’t coming from the fighters’ short-range tactical evaluation units.”

Surprisingly, there was no backchat from either AI.

Only operational confirmation.

I watched with satisfaction as the bridge reconfigured itself from night watch to combat readiness.

It took the AIs a further seven minutes to reconfigure the sensor array sufficiently to give us a decent look around.

To my relief, they reported a clear sky.

THE EXION NEBULA

Feeling myself relax, I turned to the next question.

“Flight, have you traced the source of the transmission?”

“Yes, sir. Both Bonnie and Clyde confirm that it’s coming from the Exion Nebula, approximately 170 million kilometres off our starboard bow. It also lies directly along HMSS Penrose’s projected course.”

“Good. Get the fighters back aboard and resume that trajectory.”

With an ETA of 05:45, I was considering going back to my cot when the standard shipwide announcement interrupted my thoughts.

Imminent Singularity Transit.

Seconds later, I felt more than heard the giant monster of a Singularity Drive spin up in the heart of the Broadside.

Then came the familiar compression as the transit bubble formed around the ship.

A jolt as spacetime responded.

And we were spat out at the exit point.

“Transit complete.”

As the external screens updated, their view was consumed by the Exion Nebula.

A purple, gaseous paradise of elements bearing witness to the demise of at least one star and numerous planetary systems.

Within the cloud, vast amounts of energy were at play. Lightning discharges tore through the gas, their intensity apparent even from three million kilometres away as the shipwide power grid flickered in time with them.

I had traversed several nebulae in my time. All were different, depending on the celestial mechanics that had formed them.

But this one was a big bugger.

I already knew the answer, but thought I would check.

“Flight, can you see anything in that cloud?”

“Negative, sir. It’s like looking into an electrical maelstrom.”

Flying blind again, then.

THE PENROSE SIGNAL

“Captain,” Clyde said, “the tight-beam signal that was blocking our sensor array has changed. You will not like what I am receiving.”

When a ship AI tells you it is about to reveal something you will not like, experience suggests either really bad news or something so far out of left field that no one could possibly have expected it.

In this case, it was both.

“I am receiving a live identification transmission from HMSS Penrose.”

Halfway across the bridge towards the sensor array, I stopped dead.

"Clyde, Repeat that.”

“Captain, it is a confirmed signature from HMSS Penrose. And it is coming from within the nebula.”

“Can you confirm it’s a real signature?”

“It’s perfect. Correct encryption. Correct carrier authentication. Correct fleet formatting. Bonnie is convinced it is a real transmission.”

“And you, Clyde?”

“My issue is that it is too perfect. Every fleet transmission carries tiny timing variations created by hardware, distance and human intervention.”

A pause.

“This one is mathematically immaculate.”

“Clyde, isolate and firewall that transmission from the Broadside’s main systems. Now.”

“The message has changed again, Captain.

They are requesting a rendezvous.”

During the exchange, Hux Mayhew had entered the bridge. Apparently woken by the transit announcement, he looked less than happy as he stared over my shoulder at the sensor array.

“Captain, you know this is a setup, don’t you? We watched the hulk of the Penrose drift past us. The forensic analysis of her hull material was an exact match. This cannot be the Penrose.”

“Captain,” Bonnie said, “there is still a possibility that the wreckage was false.”

“Or the transmission is,” Clyde replied.

“Clyde, full stop. Flight, refuse that request.”

Back at my chair, I lowered my voice.

“Hux, I thought we were being played back at Tellas. Now I know we are.”

“How so?”

“Because every one of our responses has been predictable. By the book. And it feels as though we’ve been led into a trap that is about to be sprung.”

For a couple of seconds Hux regarded me, with the look usually reserved for when he was thinking. Can I get away with giving it to a ranking officer straight between the eyes.

"Then change the Status Quo. Stop responding and start acting independently. Sir"

I felt my eyes flash as I turned to stare at him.

There are very officers that can talk to me like that. And Hux is one of the few. Usually because he is invariably correct

I felt a small smile erase the rising panic that had been hounding me

"Agreed , lets kick the fucking hornets nest and see what flies out "

INCOMING TRANSMISSION

“Captain,” Clyde said, “the transmission has changed again. I have opened a voice channel.”

Over the comms amongst a sea of background noise, there was a faint but distinct howling.

“Captain, there is now a text packet. I have forwarded it to your console.”

“Put it on the main screen.”

CAPTAIN SERENE FALK.

Silence.

I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME.

“Bonnie, what is the supposed location of this message?”

“Still two million kilometres ahead, Captain.”

“Captain,” Clyde said, “that transmission wasn’t addressed to the Broadside.”

“Explain.”

“It was addressed to you personally”

The final text appeared.

SERENE. COME AND FIND ME.

Unrecoverable data.

Corrupt data 317 -318 00000000000XXX11111XXXXX1111111100011000110100010001001XXXXXX100011001000100100000000000XXX11111XXXXX1111111100011000110100010001001XXXXXX100011001000100100000000000XXX11111XXXXX1111111100011000

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About the Author

HMSS Broadside is created, authored, edited and published by Rob Frankson. Artificial intelligence is used to assist with research, initial drafting and supporting imagery. All articles are reviewed and, edited by Rob Frankson before publication. The opinions, editorial position and final decision to publish remain the author's.