: “ Prologue - The Beginning of the End ”

ISS Patrol frigate TCS Devonshire; Bridge
The Oberan System, Douglas Quadrant, Vega Sector
FEB 16 2681/2681.047; 1335 Hours (CST)

They picked it up on scanners just an hour ago. First the passive scanners picked it up, and then the active radar picked it up. There it was, an old Drayman-class transport, but that was all that they knew about it. They didn’t know its origin, or faction, or otherwise anything about it. All they knew was that on their radar was the gray dot of an unidentified aging transport. There was nothing to be known about it except that moving in a nice steady course on full flanking speed.

“Hey, look at that,” Lieutenant Commander Jose Ramirez, captain of the TCS Devonshire, said as he stared at the radar screen. Goddamn, it must be some sort of smuggler craft, or maybe a little innocent civilian lost his way into the void? Who the hell knows, the Captain mentally told himself. Nothing ever happens here in the fucking homeworlds. “Conn, what is the range of that transport?”

“Range to Drayman transport... thirty-thousand klicks and closing. Transport moving at seventy-klicks per second,” the communications officer said. “What do you think they are, sir?”

“My best guess I bet they are smugglers or some sort like that. Well, if that is the case, I want to get near them. Helmsman,” Ramirez turned around, “plot an intercept course to that transport. When we get closer, I want to hail them.”

As the helmsman plotted the course, Ramirez thought about what was happening currently with the Midway - currently in the H'rissith System - and the never-declared Alien War, and then thought of his ship. His very own... piece of junk. The TCS Devonshire was a very old Caernaven-class patrol frigate, long-since axed from the front lines and was now assigned to patrol duty. The obsolete frigate only had about a year or two left of service life before she was slated to be broken up for scrap. Whereas the ConFleet now got spanking new carriers, cruisers and destroyers, the home defense squadrons of Confed In-System Security didn’t get shit.

God, Ramirez thought, why wasn’t I smart enough to elect an active duty commission in the active Confed military? Why, why did I get stuck in fucking Home Defense and was slatted to command this piece of shit patrol frigate that is breaking apart bolt by bolt? In fact, why the fuck am I doing here, chasing down a dumbass Drayman transport probably crewed by contraband smugglers?

1350 Hours (CST)

It took ten minutes for the frigate to near closer to the transport, where the Devonshire’s speed quickly caught up with the unidentified transport. Now settling just off the vessel’s stern, the Devonshire opened communications with the unknown ship.

“Unidentified transport, this is patrol frigate TCS Devonshire of Confed In-System Security. Heave to, and prepare to be boarded,” the communications officer said. Commander Ramirez looked at the video screen, expecting a response. No one responded. Not even a “Go to hell,” the usual line used by smugglers and pirates. He looked at the comm officer and ordered to repeat the message again.

The communications officer repeated the message again, “... this is frigate Devonshire of Confed ISS Home Defense. Heave to...” and twice more until he looked at the Captain. “Sir, the transport is not responding. It is still maintaining current velocity and heading. It just ignored us, sir.”

“Very well,” Lieutenant Commander Ramirez said as he turned around to his weapons officer, “Wepps, arm weapons. Prepare to fire a shot across the port bow. Let them know that we mean business.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” the young Ensign said as he selected the controls of one of the four laser turrets on board the Devonshire.

The Devonshire had been in service in ConFleet as a missile frigate for quite a while. She was one of the few frigates reconfigured to carry capship missiles when the bureaucrats at Confed BuShips finally figured out that the Caernaven-class frigate needed some teeth to make up for her ungainly performance. Devonshire was one of the ships to enjoy this new benefit; before she had no torpedoes or any main anti-ship weaponry of her own.

And that was what happened; in a desperate need for more escort ships, Confed BuShips have outfitted the outdated frigates with outdated weapons, capship missiles. Loaded down with over thirty capship missiles, Devonshire’s job was to engage targets, whether it be ships or planetary targets, from long range with her cruise missiles. Her offenses were not as far-fetched as they were advertised. Sure the missiles were effective against planets and capships, but they were also very vulnerable and easy to shoot down. Which is probably why the torpedo still remains the standard capship-mounted warhead on Confed warships.

And not only that, her defenses were measly. During the war, a destroyer usually escorted Devonshire on her missions. If Devonshire was the spear of the little task unit, then the destroyer was her shield. But that was then. This is now.

And now the measly weaponry of the stripped-down Devonshire was enough to make even civvies laugh; she still had her original four old-model laser turrets and two GP missile launchers, which wasn’t even filled with a full complement of Javelin HS missiles. Her capship missile launcher and magazines were removed by the Confed "butchers" before the old frigate was given to Confed In-System Security as a "hand me down" patrol vessel. Not exactly a serious threat to ships like destroyers, much less cruisers and carriers. Ah, the joys of Home Defense.

As the weapons officer armed and ran tests through the aging weapons, Ramirez sounded General Quarters. It wasn’t very significant to the crew, the crew of the Devonshire numbered about a hundred people, and they were used to GQ all the time. Among the crew, Ramirez had a reputation of sounding GQ whenever he picked up something as dangerous as a piece of garbage floating around space, but he didn’t know what the crew talked about him behind his back. For the most part, the crew didn’t care about what was going on. They been through all this crap over and over and over, and they were getting bored, tired, and frustrated.

It took about two minutes for everything to get into battle stations. “Topside bow turret armed and ready to fire, sir,” the Ensign said as he looked back at Ramirez for orders. Ramirez then turned towards the communications officer, “Comm, issue one more warning after we fire a stream of shots across the bow.” The Captain then turned around, looked at the Weapons officer and said, “Fire warning shots.”

The topside bow laser turret on the Devonshire swiveled, took aim, and then fired a series of rapid shots. The laser beams lit up the surrounding space as they raced to, and then past, the unidentified transport. The turret fired for a few seconds, and then fell silent.

“Unidentified Drayman, this is patrol frigate Devonshire. We have fired warning shots across your bow. Heave to and prepare to be boarded. Failure to comply will force us to use deadly force,” the communications officer spoke into the headset. Once again, there was no response. The communications officer looked at Ramirez again, “Sir, they are not responding.”

“Then they decided to be badasses and keep on going, Lieutenant,” Commander Ramirez said as he stared at the Drayman, cruising as if it didn’t give a flying fuck about the world. “These smuggler types don’t quit, do they? Comm, tell them that if they don’t stop and prepare to be boarded, we are going to disable them and board them ourselves. Tell them that this is their ultimatum.” The communications officer nodded and then resumed his duty.

“Unidentifed Drayman, this is patrol frigate Devonshire. If you do not slow down and prepare to be boarded, then we have no other choice then to disable your vessel and forcefully board it ourselves. Do not put us in that position to do so. You have one minute to respond.” Once again, the transport was not responding. It just kept on going in its current velocity and course, not giving a damn about the Devonshire’s orders. And soon, one minute ticked by.

Ramirez looked at the communications officer yet again, “Comm, give them one last warning. This is their last chance to respond or we will use authority given to us to disable the vessel and board it. They have ten seconds to respond.” He turned around and looked at the weapons officer, “Wepps, arm bow turrets and aim for the stern. When I give the command, I want you to take down the transport’s shields and then disable the engines. On my order.” The weapons officer nodded as he manipulated the controls.

The comm officer said one more message, “Unidentified Drayman, this is your last warning. Heave to and prepare to be boarded or we will disable your vessel. You have ten seconds to respond. Ten... nine... eight...” Even now the transport didn’t respond, or did anything at all. It just kept on cruising without a care in the world. “Seven... six... five... four... three... two... one.”

“Fire,” Lieutenant Commander Ramirez said as the two bow laser turrets on Devonshire opened fire, spraying laser bolts on the stern of the transport. The shields of the Drayman repelled the laser bolts, but then weakened and faded out. “Her shields are down, sir,” the weapons officer said from his defense console even as the lasers reached out through naked space to hit the vulnerable engines. It only took a couple of seconds, as the engines short-circuited and soon died out.

“Transport is losing speed and velocity,” the communications officer said, “She’s slowing down to a dead stop.”

“Very well, Lieutenant, get the boarding party ready,” Ramirez said as he looked around, “Helms, I want you to close in and dock with the transport’s upper deck.”

1432 Hours (CST)

It took a good fifteen minutes for the frigate to hover over, and then descend into the Drayman’s top docking bay. Meanwhile, the eight men of the Devonshire’s boarding party were prepping up for a little nice visit to the transport. They were equipped with the usual law-enforcement gear: uniform, flexicuffs, batons, flashlights, and of course, weapons. The men either had a laser pistol or a mass-driver flechette gun, a 27th century "shotgun" that could fire a spread of needle sharp flechettes at an enemy with deadly results.

The frigate had already attached itself to the docking bay and already the air pressure was stabilized. On the docking hatch of the frigate, the eight men opened up their own hatch and then banged on the other hatch of the transport, waiting for someone to open up. They banged and banged on the hatch. They even yelled but the fact remained. No one came up to open the transport’s hatch. The hatch was one of the old lock types, in which you had to rotate a hub around to open the door up.

The leader of the boarding party snapped an order and one of the men produced a set of laser cutters from his vest. The man took it, and quickly found the lock that inhibited them from getting in. With the rest backing out, the man fired up the laser cutter, and started to penetrate the cyclic lock.

“Laser cutters are eating through the docking lock, we should be inside the ship in just a nick of time,” the leader of the boarding party, Senior Chief Boatswain’s Mate Dawson said to the rest of the men under his command. Huge and barrel-chested, Senior Chief Dawson was an animal, not to be messed with. His ample stomach showed that not only he can fight with the best of them, he can also drink with the best of them, too. He looked at the rest of his men and said, “Get ready for anything. We cannot assume that they are not armed smugglers. Remember, don’t shoot unless you really have to, and when you really do have to, don’t go for a kill. We want them alive.”

After a few minutes, the frizzle of the laser cutter ceased as the boarding party finally negotiated the lock. The man stepped back and said, “All finished, Senior Chief.” Senior Chief Dawson put his massive hands on the switch, and with a gut-wrenching twist on the hub, opened the hatch. The hatch opened to a room with all the lights on. Hmm... Senior Chief Dawson thought to himself, that’s strange. Then it hit him.

“Oh my god, what is that smell?” one of the boarding party said as he wrinkled his nose, “Did something die in there?” The look that Dawson gave him told him otherwise. It was a smell that he was familiar with. And that was... the smell of decomposing human flesh. It was a strangely sweet, yet sickening odor, enough to make someone drop down to his knees and hurl his lunch out of his stomach.

“Well, well, maybe we have a murder case. Maybe someone is still here. It doesn’t seem to be abandoned.” He shouted down the open porthole, “To all people in this vessel, this is Confed In-System Security. Drop any weapons you are carrying and line up here on the main deck!” There was no response. Senior Chief Dawson repeated a couple more times, and waited. And once again, no one responded.

Dawson reached into his thigh holster and brought up a laser pistol; he then looked into the other seven men, “Okay, I’m going down the hatch. Cover me.” The gargantuan then stepped onto the ladder, and then stepped down into the transport rung by rung. Once he was near the end, he jumped the last few feet and landed on the deck as quiet as a kitten. With one hand on his flashlight and another one on his pistol, he looked around the surrounding room.

This seemed to be one of the computer system rooms, and from what Dawson was seeing, everything was okay. The computer monitors were still functional, and from what Senior Chief Dawson was seeing, there weren’t any system malfunctions at all on the ship. The room seemed to be okay, and Dawson said so, “Room is clear, get in here.” Quickly and quietly, the other seven men in the boarding party stepped down the ladder, landing on their tippy-toes. They quickly formed a perimeter around the room.

One of the men had a scanner, able to detect lifeforms, by picking up the sound of a heartbeat. The man turned the scanner on and scanned the surrounding systems. There was nothing to be seem, and no one to be detected. “What’s going on, Senior Chief? There’s no one here,” he said as he put his scanner down and holstered his pistol. “You think the crew was killed and then the people who did them in took off?”

“Bullshit,” Senior Chief said as he looked around, “Break into pairs, let’s search the ship.”

Fifteen minutes later. . .

TCS Devonshire; Bridge
1458 Hours (CST)

Lieutenant Commander Ramirez was still pouting over the miserable condition of his life when he got a transmission coming from within the transport. He had his communications patch it in, and it was Senior Chief Dawson. “Captain?” Ramirez was a Lieutenant Commander, not a Captain, but any commanding officer of a ship, regardless of rank was referred to as the common term "captain."

“Yes, Senior Chief?”

“We just finished searching the ship. We found two things, sir,” Senior Chief Dawson showed no emotion to his voice as he reported in.

“And what does that happen to be, Senior Chief?”

“The first thing is, that the entire crew’s dead. We searched all around the transport and looked everywhere. We found a total of ten people, all dead. They have been dead for at least a week, their flesh is so decomposed that we don’t even know what killed them. It’s gruesome,” Senior Chief Dawson said in a no-nonsense tone. “But the second thing is...” He stopped talking for a couple of seconds and then fell silent.

“What is the second thing, Senior Chief?” Lieutenant Commander Ramirez snapped back. He was getting pretty fucking impatient.

“We went into the main cargo hangar, and the lights were already on. We found something. Well, Captain, I don’t know what to describe of it,” Senior Chief Dawson said as he looked around the cargo bay in which he was in, “You better come down here and take a look of it yourself.” The Senior Chief looked at the commander of the patrol frigate as he sighed. “One of my men will meet you in the main hatch.”

“No problem, Senior Chief, I’m on my way.” And with that, Lieutenant Commander Ramirez turned around, “I’m going down to the Drayman to take a look around. Lieutenant Edwards, you have the conn.”

“Yessir, I have the conn,” Lieutenant Edwards said as Lieutenant Commander Ramirez turned around and then started off the bridge towards the main docking hatch, wondering what Senior Chief Dawson’s boarding party had seen in the main cargo hold.

Approximately thirty-six hours later, Confed listening post somewhere in a remote asteroid field...

The Roche System, Vega Sector
FEB 19 2681/2681.050; 0315 Hours (CST)

“Damn, nothing’s fucking going on,” Tom Walsh said as he stared blankly into the screen. All around him was a spaghetti pile of wires and what seemed to be loads and loads of computer equipment placed on all sides of the little room. The technician sipped on a can of Coke as he looked once again at the monitor screen, which displayed what he expected. Which was nothing. Walsh thought of bringing some porno holovids next time he was assigned to a post like this. Well, it would surely buy time, he thought with a thin smile.

Tom Walsh was a member of the Terran Confederation Intelligence Agency, which made him an Intell "spook." Walsh, and another colleague, were manning one of the many covert listening posts that were erected all around the frontier. With a little help from their once-again allies in the Union of Border Worlds, Confed found nice convenient places to stash their listening posts as well as manning the ones already set up by the Border Worlders. Walsh was supposed to monitor all transmission intercepted by the listening post super-sensitive antenna. So far, nothing was going on. Just some routine traffic from a convoy carrying terraforming machines to one of the Confederation homeworlds. Besides that, nothing at all.

And it wasn’t like the listening post was going to be picked up so easily. The listening post was built on a little asteroid, and was therefore disguised as such. The "asteroid" had a self-contained life support system; able to house, feed, and berth two Intell operatives who were supposed to be spying on the frontier looking for any tidbits of information. The little asteroid/listening post was on an asteroid ring that strung on one of the far sides of the system. You can never have too many eyes (or ears for that matter) in the battlefield; it was a hard-learned lesson of war.

Walsh was getting frustrated at all the boredom. All the hell that they ever picked up was normal radio traffic, there was nothing ever important to intercept, not at this time of peace. He finished his Coke and threw it in the nearby trash can, joining the sixty or so crushed empty cans already there. He took a look at his partner, Derrick Wilson, who was sleeping in one of the cots erected in one of the emptier sides of the room. It would be soon when Wilson would wake up and man the post while Walsh took some hours in beddy-bye.

A “message intercepted” logo flashed on the screen as Walsh paid no attention. This happened all the time, and all the messages that were intercepted were of civilian traffic. It was just another message, and he paid no attention as the sophisticated electronics began saving the message to an already large database of useless messages. It's the usual, Walsh thought as he sat back on his chair and began daydreaming.

That was, until the monitor played back the intercepted message.

What he heard startled him and made him virtually jump out of his seat. What the hell? Walsh thought as he played back the message. “Oh my god, this is for real! I’m not dreaming!” He stood up from his chair and woke up his partner from his cot. Derek Wilson stretched his arms in pure fatigue, “What’s up?”

“We just intercepted this message - here, listen to this,” Walsh said as he played the transmission for the third time. And whatever it was, the moment Wilson heard the message he suddenly lost all feelings of fatigue and sleepiness. He looked at Walsh with a startled face as the transmission was played one more time.

The intercepted transmission was in no way complete, it was filled with static and jamming transmission as the two men listened to it. “Anyone... this... TCS Devonshire... extreme danger... biological... entire crew infected... any nearby... please assist...” then the message went blank.

“Triangulate the origin of the transmission!” Wilson suggested as Walsh already started inputting commands on his keyboard, inquiring the source of the transmission. The computerized equipment "worked" for a couple of seconds and then displayed the results on the screen. Wilson and Walsh looked at the bright words “Able System” on the screen.

The two Intell spooks looked at each other, then back at the screen, back to each other, and then back to the screen again in disbelief. This issue was way over their heads, and Walsh knew it as he read his partner’s mind. “Let’s notify Sector HQ.”

Approximately thirty-eight hours later...

F/A-105 Tigershark 101
The Able System, Douglas Quadrant, Vega Sector
FEB 21 2681/2681.052; 1727 Hours (CST)

“Devonshire, this is Great White Leader do you copy? Come in, Devonshire.”

The two Tigersharks’ engines glowed bright red as they raced by through the void, joining the other Confederation craft in searching for the lost frigate. They had been on the hunt for more then six hours. And so far they have found nothing. What a fucking bitch, the Major in charge of the half-squadron thought as he looked around for any signs of the missing capship. He radioed his wingman to open formation. Already the two fighters’ active scanners were going on full time.

The intercepted distress message was relayed by secure burst transmission to ConFleet Vega Sector HQ in the McAuliffe System. The anxiety of the message, as well as the fact that the Devonshire had not checked in for her routine report, had caused the Seventh Fleet Commanding Officer, Admiral Dimitri Tupelov, to react immediately to the mysterious disappearance of one of Home Defense’s patrol frigates. The Admiral had detailed the nearest Seventh Fleet Confed warship into the Oberan System, the vicinity of the transmission’s source, to start searching for the Devonshire.

The Confeds capship that responded was the TCS Scimitar, one of the new Murphy-class fleet destroyers. Assigned to Destroyer Squadron 38, the Scimitar was ordered to jump into the Able System and start a conductive search for a missing Home Defense patrol frigate. The Scimitar was now searching around for the capship, as well as their half-squadron of Tigersharks, which were now being used to scout the area for any signs of the lost frigate. All of the eight total Tigersharks were deployed in pairs of two, looking for anything that might constitute as the Devonshire.

“TCS Devonshire, this is Great White Leader from destroyer TCS Scimitar. Come in, Devonshire...” the Major said as he opened his radio to all frequencies, hoping that anyone in the system would pick up the transmission and respond back, “Devonshire, do you copy? Is anyone out there?” He repeated his transmission over and over again and once again there was no response. The Tigersharks flew on for another thirty minutes, the Major occasionally speaking into the radio, hoping that anyone on the Devonshire would hear the message and respond. Then that was when it happened.

“Major, I’m picking up a contact on my radar. I’m downloading the coordinates to you, sir,” the Major’s wingman radioed in. Soon the senior Tigershark pilot picked up the coordinates and then headed in that direction. And just as the young Lieutenant had said, there was a gray dot on the edge of his search radar. There it was, a hundred and forty thousand kilometers away. It was time to move in, as the Major radioed his wingman.

“Okay, kid, we’re going on. Arm weapons and move into combat formation, when we get close enough punch afterburners on my command.” The Major heard two-clicks of a microphone, as the wingman acknowledged the command. The Tigershark pilot reached to a switch on his cockpit and pressed a button, powering up his weapons and making sure that they were being armed. He selected full-guns, as well as his rack of Spiculum IR missiles. The Tigersharks flew on towards the unidentified vessel until it was just out of visual range.

“Punch in 'burners on my mark. Three... two... one... mark,” the Major ordered as he punched in his own afterburners, followed by his wingman. The two Tigersharks soon speed up to their maximum velocity, twelve hundred klicks per second. The two multi-role Confed fighters raced through the void, as the computer began to positively identify the contact. On that same moment the Major began to visually see the unidentified vessel.

“Sir, do you think that really is...” the young Lieutenant started to say before the Major cut him off, “Son, just shut your mouth until I say so and keep in formation.”

There it was - it was indeed a Caernaven-class frigate, and it was running cold, without any electronic systems on. Without the electronic systems to emit the appropriate IFF codes, the targeting computer couldn’t positively identify the name or the faction of the frigate. There was no doubt that it was Confed, the insignia of the Fleet painted on its side proved it as much.

As the two ships come closer, the Major noticed that the frigate was adrift, floating around space. Her engines weren’t functioning, and judging from the passive sensors, the life support systems and the electronic systems weren’t functioning. Hell, none of the frigate’s systems were working. The Tigersharks were almost to within gunnery range of the light frigate and the Major turned on his gun camera for a pass on the missing capship.

The two fighters passed the bow of the frigate, just as the Major caught a glimpse of the namesake on the ship’s side as they zipped by. It read “TCS Devonshire, FF-119”. So there it is, but where is the crew? the Major thought as he turned around and slowed his fighter down to a mere hundred klicks per second. His gun camera was recording all the footage as he moved closer to the now-found Devonshire. Upon closer look, he could see that all of her docking ports have been vented out into space, turning the frigate into a lifeless ghost ship. Judging from his sensor readings, there were no life-forms aboard the ship.

The Major can sense tears running down his eyes as he passed the frigate, knowing that he couldn’t find any survivors. All of the Devonshire’s internal compartments have been vented out into space, and he knew that anyone inside the frigate wouldn’t survive. They would die a horrible gruesome death, either dying of lack of oxygen or being sucked out into the dangerous void of space. The frigate herself was nothing more then a lifeless bulk, a ghost ship wandering the outskirts of the dead.

Crestfallen, the Major opened up a communication link to his home destroyer, “Scimitar, this is Great White Leader, come in.” The answer was immediate. “Great White Leader, this is Scimitar. What’s your status, over?”

“Scimitar, we just found the Devonshire. She’s nothing more then a lifeless bulk, all of her compartments have been vented out in space. Here are our coordinates, come here ASAP.” The Major downloaded the set of coordinates to the Devonshire, and the comm officer responded quickly.

“Okay, Major, we will be there in ninety minutes, just loiter around the Devonshire until we come in. We are vectoring all other patrols to your position. Is there any chance of survivors?” The Major took another look at the Devonshire, a lifeless frigate adrift in the void of space. A ship that will no longer bear witness to the gift of life. Both the Major and the comm officer internally knew the answer as the Major replied back.

“None.”

FINIS