First Contact

Chapter 211: Capture

The ship was heavily stealthed. Emissions were tightly controlled, the profile was designed to minimize its exposure to common scanner wavelengths, the reactor was heavily shielded, and it was even designed with photoadaptive skin to allow light to pass through. It was designed to enter and leave jumpspace without a ripple, travel in the higher bands undetected and much faster than any other ship, and was even more sensitive to gravitational shadows, allowing the pilot to negotiate around the gravity shadow or drop far in advance of it.

The ship slipped from jumpspace and into the Oort Cloud of the planet it had spent months searching out. It 'tumbled' in space relative to the star, spinning on three axis, as the ship's systems absorbed as much data as possible in order to determine location of the vessel, system properties, and look for any emissions.

The crew consisted of forty-two Lanaktallan crew members, who were unimportant, and six Lanaktallan Executor Covert Action Specialists who were the important part of the crew. All experienced operatives with the Lanaktallan Executor Special Services Division. Each with their own specialty, each experienced at working with one another for dozens of missions over nearly six centuries, their lives extended through esoteric and arcane means beyond the life expectancy for the vast majority of Lanaktallans.

All of them were experienced at combat, hard covert actions, soft infiltration, and all manor of espionage dirty tricks. They had worked together on everything from damaging the Leebawian resistance to sabotaging the Tnvaru economic cartel's powers to selectively degrading the power of the Plekna packguru matrons in their culture.

The Terran Confederacy promised to be a little more difficult. For one, the unsuccessful biowarfare attack by several of the Scientific Warfare Council (against the advice of the Executor Council) and then the attack upon Terran space by the Military Council (again, against the advice of the Executor Council), ensured that the Terran Confederacy would be at a heightened state of alertness. Second, and worst, was that there were no Lanaktallan wandering around to provide cover and the options to disguise themselves were nothing short of useless. The only eight limbed species in the Confederacy was the Mantid and the Treana'ad, both of those insects. That meant that there was no chance for covert insertion in the traditional manner.

Still, the six man team had worked with more difficult.

They all stretched, working their limbs to ease out the stiffness from sleeping in 1.5 gravity for the entire trip to acclimate to Terran preferred world's punishing gravity. The ship's crew had been unhappy about it, but the strike team were Executors and the crew knew better than to actually complain about any hardship.

The ship's lights were red, the computers humming as they took in the raw data. The pilot was sitting in his couch, staring at his instruments when Do'ormo'ot entered the bridge. The pilot, a low level Lanaktallan who was skilled enough to fly the ship but isolated enough that nobody would miss him if the mission went sideways and he had to be liquidated.

"Where are we?" Do'ormo'ot asked. "Have we reached Terran Space?"

"Unsure, Most High," the pilot answered. "According to stellar navigation we're near someplace called 'Rigel' by the Terrans and Plenok-1163A by our own system."

"The beings of Rigel are allies of the Terrans. We are indeed in Terran space, excellent work, lowly one," Do'ormo'ot said. He trotted over and sat down in one of the cradle. "Once you have identified the Terran home system star, move to jumpspace and..."

The red lights blinked three times and Do'ormo'ot looked around. "What is happening."

"Unsure, Most High," the pilot said. "Someone hailed us, a short code burst, but when the computer tried to decipher it the whole system crashed and rebooted."

"Hmm," Do'ormo'ot looked around the bridge again. He reached out and touched a stud on his console. "All strike team members, report to the bridge."

Several of the consoles came up, flickered through data, then shut down.

"Explain that," Do'ormo'ot ordered the pilot.

"Most High, I am not sure. The ship's AI is apparently fully engaged in trying to decipher the message that was sent," the pilot said.

"Where exactly did the message come from? How would anyone know we are here?" Wa'amo'ol asked, strapping himself into his crash couch.

"Unknown at this time where the message came from, Most High," the pilot said. He spit his cud into the waste recycler and grabbed another handful. "Perhaps an automated system that detected us when we came in?"

"That is not good," Shu'umo'o, the team bio and nanite weaponry officer said. "We may want to enter jumpspace, leave this system a half light year or so, then get our bearings."

The other members of the strike team slowly nodded.

"Charging jumpcore," the pilot said. After a moment he looked down at his board then pressed a button.

"Ca'alma'a, Engineering," came the reply.

"The jumpcore is not responding to my orders. What is going on down there?" the pilot asked.

"Let me check," the Chief Engineer said. After a moment he came back. "There appears to be no problem. Do you want us to run diagnostics while we order the jumpcore to charge from here?"

The pilot looked at Do'ormo'ot who nodded slowly, turning back to his own console.

"Affirmative. Charge the core there. I am sending you navigation coordinates so you can move us if my console is still not working," the pilot said. He changed channels.

"Computer Engineering here," came back the quiet but tired voice.

"What is happening with the computer system?" the pilot asked.

"The AI is apparently working overtime. It rotated up four more lobes from storage and the supercoolant is running dangerously hot," the chief computer engineer answered. "It's running full out at a 100% across twelve lobes."

"Tell him to run an analysis on what is causing such a heavy load. An AI shouldn't use more than five lobes even for full stealth and analysis," Do'ormo'ot said.

The Pilot repeated it and the engineer replied that he'd look into it with the patience of an expert being lectured by a dabbler with just enough skill and knowledge to be a danger.

Long minutes went by in silent. Twice more the red lights flickered on and off.

"What is the status of the jump core?" Do'ormo'ot asked.

The pilot checked then looked at Do'ormo'ot. "It has stopped responding. The Chief Jumproom Engineer believes that an older interface component may have failed."

"Tell him to expedite the repair procedure," Shu'umo'o ordered, looking at his own control board.

The Pilot relayed the order.

"Some of the ship components are older than the Terrans themselves, Most Highs. At times old hardware has a tendency to fail even if it was only stored and never used," one of the maintenance crew stated when the Pilot asked what was taking so long.

There was the faint feeling of vibration in the ship and everyone on the bridge looked around.

"What was that?" Kla'agmo'o asked. He queried his controls. "I am getting blank readings across my board. Have all the internal sensors gone down?"

"I believe so," Wa'almo'o stated. He checked his board. "My controls are all dead."

The door to the bridge opened and a massive form in an armored vacuum suit stepped in.

"Welcome to Terran Space, gentlebeings," the beings voice had the harsh buzz of a translator. "I am your host, Space Force Marine Gunnery Sergeant Skalka."

Do'ormo'ot's reflexes kicked in. He drew, turned, and fired his neural pistol.

All three bolts shattered into sparks on the beings armor.

The beings shook its head. "That was foolish. Your weapons are ineffective. Raise your hands and stand up."

Wa'almo'o, who was responsible for technical analysis and sabotage, lunged forward, thrusting with a vibroknife in each of his four hands.

The Terran moved, smoothly but quickly, its hands almost blurring, as it slapped aside each blade, took away the knives, turned them off, and dropped them on the floor.

Wa'almo'o went down on his knees, screaming in a high, thing, breathless voice. All four of his wrists were bent at an unnatural angle and many of his fingers were twisted and bloody.

"That was ill advised and poorly executed," the Terran said. "My ducks could do better than that."

Do'ormo'ot slowly stood up, raising his hands. He had never seen a being move like that.

"You are prisoners of the Terran Confederate Space Force," the being said. "We will determine your status after we search your ship."

Do'ormo'ot used his implant to send the code to cause the ship to self-destruct.

--really? you're going to try that lame ass shit?-- came across his implant. --I've had control of this ship for half an hour. do you think you're going to get away with destroying the evidence?--

Do'ormo'ot sagged slightly.

A Terran VI, one of their aggressive electronic warfare systems, had gotten on board.

The battle was lost before he had even known the enemy was engaging.

--------------

Do'ormo'ot was escorted aboard a new ship. Wide, high halls with signs in Terran all over the place, with white, yellow, blue, red, orange, pink, and green lines on the walls to denote directions. The ship trembled and hummed, the walls were brightly lit.

There were two of the armored figures, nearly ten feet tall, on either side of him. He had a bit in his mouth, all four of his hands were cuffed together, and he was forced to shuffle by chain hobbles attached to his ankles.

They silently escorted him to a lift, which seemed to take a long time, then into a single room with a thick hatch. There was nothing but a flimsy looking desk and four Terrans. Two females and a pair of males, all of them in the armored vacuum suits and carrying odd looking weapons. There were four others in the Terran adaptive camouflage uniforms that made Do'ormo'ot's eyes water when he tried to hold onto them visually.

"Prisoner for you. We've got thirty-five more on the way," the big Terran said.

"Cell nine," one of the females said. She cocked her wrist and a holographic keyboard popped up. "They are used to point seven five to point eight two gravity."

She looked up. "You aren't going to like your cell, prisoner."

One of the other ones turned from the dispenser, a big male, and moved forward with a bright orange suit in his hands.

"Get undressed. Put this on," the Terran said.

"And if I refuse?" Do'ormo'ot said, taking a page from the 'passive resistance' section of the manual.

"Then I'll TASER you, strip you, and redress your unconscious body myself while you lay there wondering why you had to be an asshole," the Terran said. "You ain't slick, Chief."

Do'ormo'ot trembled in rage as he undressed, submitted to invasive checks, including one of the females putting on a glove and shoving her hand into his rectum.

"Basic cybernetics. Some Secret Squirrel stuff, but it's disabled now," one of the males said after passing a wand over Do'ormo'ot's body.

"You are now Prisoner 4582143, do you understand?" one of the males asked.

Do'ormo'ot replied in Lanaktallan. "I do not understand your..."

The baton just lightly touched him and the electrical current slammed through his body. He squealed and fell to the ground, where the Terran tapped him twice more.

"You are now Prisoner 4582143, do you understand?" the Terran asked.

"I am Do'ormo'ot of the..." the Lanaktallan started.

Again with the electricity. The Terran repeated himself. He finished up with "You will answer with Yes, sir or no, sir."

"Yes, sir," Do'ormo'ot stated.

Another Terran looked down and Do'ormo'ot could feel the disgust rolling off of the jumped up lemur. It angered him but then he felt a trickle of fear and looked at the Terran with the shock baton.

"You are more than spies. Spies, well, spycraft is a long recognized and somewhat honorable profession. You are saboteurs and assassins and more," the Terran said. He straightened up. "I am Captain Carkinger, Terran Confederate Space Force Judge Advocate General's Office."

"Yes, sir," Do'ormo'ot said, hanging his head. He didn't want shocked again.

"Aboard your ship we found weapons of mass destruction in the CBRNAN categories, to include, but not limited to: attack nanites loaded with Terran biological protocols, three different types of bioweapons and a bioweapon adjustment laboratory, Grey Goo, and high energy long life radioactive isotope powders designed for rapid dispersal and maximum damage."

Do'ormo'ot just stared down.

"Additionally your ship was camouflaged to appear as a non-State actor," the Terran said.

Do'ormo'ot didn't even bother to try to deny it.

He didn't want shocked again.

"As such, you are not protected by the standard protections regarding enemy personnel during a time of war," the Terran said. "We were able to determine from your astrogation log that you were the ones who visited and set up the operation on Tabula-929."

The Terrans around him shifted angrily.

Do'ormo'ot looked up at the Terran.

"What will happen to me?" he asked, for the first time in his life finding himself on the receiving end of a beating and not liking it.

There was silence for a moment.

"Tell him. He deserves to know," one of the females said.

"The Black Citadel."

The words didn't make much sense to Do'ormo'ot but the combination of disgusted pity and malevolent satisfaction that radiated from the Terrans was enough to let him know he was in trouble.

-----------------

The trip had been terrible. The cell he was in, the lights would flash sporadically, sound would blare in, discordant atonal arrhythmic tones. He had barely gotten any sleep and was struggling just to stand. Water, sometimes warm, sometimes cold, sometimes body temperature, would spray on his at random times. The gravity was high, making just standing up exhausting.

Finally, Do'ormo'ot wasn't sure how long, the cell filled with a warm breeze that dried him off and the door opened.

Fully armored warborgs stood there.

"Prisoner 4582143. You will follow us. Any attempt at passive or active resistance will be met with escalated force. As a terrorist activity engaged state sponsored individual your rights are waived and you have no protection under the law during transfer," one grated out. "Do you understand? Respond."

"Yes, sir," Do'ormo'ot said, shaking. He was hungry, tired, chilled but overheated, and his mouth tasted terrible from drinking the water that showered down on him.

The two warborgs attached the manacles to him and then a collar and leash to his neck. He expected to have a bag put over his head but instead he was simply led through the ship. The halls were empty, there was no writing on the walls, the lights were so bright they hurt Do'ormo'ot's eyes.

The airlock at the docking bay had two slender female Terrans in black uniforms with silver edging. Their faces were hid by masks that were blank warsteel.

"Prisoner transfer," one of the warborgs said. The data had already been transferred between datalinks, but protocol demanded verbal exchange. "Prisoner 4582143."

One of the females stepped forward, holding her hand out. "We accept the prisoner," she said, her voice a gurgling liquid thing.

The warborg handed the leash over and the female turned around, pulling Do'ormo'ot behind her.

"Resistance will be met with up to lethal force," the female gurgled. The other one followed behind him.

"You are being transferred to the Black Citadel. You will be isolated in a cell-blister so that you may observe where you are going," the one behind said, her voice cracked and broken. "It will be the last time you see this universe for possibly the rest of your life. I would advise staring at the stars and fixating them in your mind."

Do'ormo'ot frowned slightly. Was the prison in jumpspace? Perhaps Hellspace? The would require an expenditure of energy and resources that far outweighed any benefit of putting a prison there.

They led him to a door, opened it, and unclipped the leash before motioning at the door.

"Enter the cell. Resistance will be met with up to lethal force," the one behind rasped.

Do'ormo'ot trotted in. His training told him to wait, be watchful, and be ready for any possibility of escape of sabotage.

The cell was a crysteel bubble set into a ship. He leaned forward and looked to either side then up and down. The ship wasn't lit, but from what he could see of it, the black armor looked twisted, almost like it was sticky and slick and smooth all at the same time.

"You would be well advised to stare at the stars. It will be the last time you see them, prisoner," the one with the raspy voice said.

The cell door shut.

Do'ormo'ot stared around him. There was a planet below. Unfamiliar, storm clouds in the atmosphere. A pair of moons within visible range. And a plethora of stars.

After a few minutes Do'ormo'ot began to wonder who the two females were. Why did their voices sound so strange, even for Terran voices.

Something began to change outside. As if water was slowly spreading out in front of him. He moved forward and stared at it. It looked thick, viscous, almost like slime. It spread out further and further until suddenly twisted multicolored flames burst into life at the leading edge.

Is that... is that Hellspace flame? Do'ormo'ot wondered for a moment.

The ship around him shuddered and groaned. He could feel the vibration of the floor as the ship began to somehow descend into the slime.

The female's words came back to him and he looked up at the needle-bright stars, looking desperately for his home system's star with a feeling of sudden dread he could not explain.

The ship was sinking into the slime. There was no other explanation. There was no real up and down in space, but it felt to Do'ormo'ot's brain like the ship was sinking. The slime slowly covered the crysteel blister and Do'ormo'ot drew back from it, lowing in fear and shivering.

The slime got darker and darker, as if space wasn't dark enough. It was more than an absence of light, it was oppressive feeling, as if hope was being leeched out of him. He found himself hyperventilating, seemingly unable to get enough air as his mind insisted the spaceship he was a prisoner on was somehow sinking into water.

I'm going to die here, went through his mind suddenly.

The light was faint at first, but slowly grew. A purplish black luminescence that filled the slime until the slime began to thin out. It vanished and the ship was surrounded by faint, sourceless purplish light. The ship vibrated like it was moving but there were no points of reference.

Where are we? Where am I? Do'ormo'ot asked, staring out of the bubble. There was nothing to gain a reference point to. No Milky Way, no stars, no anything, just purplish-black light and the feeling of endless space that somehow felt claustrophobic and pressed in.

A tachyon the size of a marble hit the crysteel bubble with a flash and ricocheted off into the purple nothingness. The flash, the KRACK, the spiralling arc away, made Do'ormo'ot jump.

Time seemed to have no meaning to Do'ormo'ot. He did not get hungry, did not get thirsty, he just stared at the purplish space beyond. At times it seemed like he could see eternity, at other times it felt like the purplish-black was pressed against the crysteel.

Finally a thing came into view. A blur at first, it kept appearing and disappearing to Do'ormo'ot's vision. It grew slowly larger until Do'ormo'ot could make out details.

It looked like a stone fortress building on a chunk of planetary crust the had been ripped from a planet. The edges of the 'ground' only extended a short way from the edge of the walls, perhaps twice the width of the fortress. The underside was convex, striations in the black stone. Chunks of rock and debris slowly orbited the underside, forming a debris cloud.

The sight of the structure, the first thing Do'ormo'ot had seen in... eternity? Seconds? made his tendrils coil in terror and his crests inflate reflexively to protect his vital organs.

The fortress drew slowly closer and Do'ormo'ot turned away from it, unwilling to stare at the inky black, so dark it hurt his eyes, building on the chunk of black rock.

After what felt like no time at all but an eternity the door opened. Another Terran, male this time, in a black uniform with purplish-silver edging and a black warsteel mask, motioned.

"Prisoner 4582143," the Terran said. His voice was hoarse, rough, as if he had been speaking for hours with a dry throat. "You will follow. Resistance, passive or active, will met with up to lethal force."

"Yes, sir," Do'ormo'ot said.

As he was led down the black warsteel halls of the transport ship he felt resignation fill him. Even the crack of a small solar system, only the size of a pinhead, snapping through the armor and bouncing around the hallway for a moment before vanishing through the wall, couldn't break him out of the thick resignation.

"You are hereby being transferred custody from the Terran Confederacy to the Black Citadel, Prisoner 4582143," the Terran rasped. "For an undetermined amount of time you are being held for processing and interrogation before your prisoner status is determined. Once that occurs you will face whatever penalty is levied against you, up to and including state sanctioned execution and disposal of your physical remains."

"Yes, sir," Do'ormo'ot said. He felt like his blood was cold, sluggishly moving through his veins. Not since he had come off the standard Population Assurance Medication had he felt like this. His hearts squished rather than beat, his lungs felt like they were full of stale air and he felt like he'd just taken a breath of bad air or had been holding his breath too long no matter if he inhaled or exhaled. Sometimes his hoofs made too sharp a clacking sound, other times it was strangely muted.

The ship had landed on the surface of the rock, a boarding ramp leading down. The Terran merely motioned him to follow.

There was no atmospheric generators or retention membrane, just endless purple-light pressing closely against the bubble of thin dead air that was almost too thick to breathe.

A proton the size of a basketball arced around the chunk of rock, scraping something unseen, leaving behind sparks as it made a high pitched squealing noise before whipping away into the purplish light.

Do'ormo'ot stumbled several times following the Terran until they reached the gate of the building.

The gate was twisted black material, looking like screaming beings clutching each other to form bars and framework.

In the middle of the gate were five eyes, arranged in a five point pentagram. The eyes blinked, the pupils shifting to fix on Do'ormo'ot. Above the gate was a simple legend that Do'ormo'ot was surprised to see he could read.

ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE

The words made Do'ormo'ot's knees go weak.

A fanged mouth opened beneath the eyes. "Prisoner 4582143. Prisoner exchange complete," it said.

The Terran turned and walked away.

Do'ormo'ot's training told him to run, to escape, but a quick look around showed him a simple fact.

There was nowhere to go. The Terran and the ship that Do'ormo'ot had arrived on were gone, lost in the purple dimness pressing in on the Lanaktallan.

The gate opened silently, without even a whisper.

Do'ormo'ot didn't want to, part of his brain screamed not to, every bit of him was consumed by terror just looking at the flagstones of the courtyard beyond, much less that stark and severe looking fortress citadel beyond.

But his trembling legs still carried him through the gate.

The gate to the Black Citadel swung shut behind him.