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CHAPTER 2

The Imperial Lupine Ship Mourning Son was an Iberian class battle carrier, the flagship of the Second Imperial Fleet tasked to patrol Sector R12, a large region of space on the frontier of the galaxy. It contained seven solar systems, two nebulas, three outpost stations, and nothing more, save for dust and darkness. It was a region of space where nothing of importance had ever happened in known history, or was likely to happen.

At least, as Captain Philips saw it.

Captain Philips was a stiff-necked wolf; calm, collected, and hard as diritrium alloy. He never wore the white fleet uniform, preferring instead his black ceremonial one. Because his fur was as white as snow the fleet uniform made him look ridiculous-like a pillar of salt-something he preferred to do without. He was restlessly pacing the flight bridge, the quiet of endless and uninhabited space making him anxious. He knew very well that this would be his final command for the Lupine Navy; this vast expanse his career's final resting place. Captain Philips had been passed over for promotion yet again and he had finally outworn his usefulness to the Navy. When the Mourning Son returned to dry dock the following month there was sure to be a generous pension and a forced retirement waiting for him. He signed; a guttural growl escaping his chest and throat. Such was the way of things.

A science officer approached him, drawing him back from his bitter daydream. "Sir, we've lost contact with Station R12 dash 3," the light grey wolf said. "The real-time data feed failed approximately fifteen minutes ago, and so far our attempts to reconnect with the facility have failed."

The old captain frowned. R12-3 was a small research outpost on a class-three planet operated by the Lupine Army and dedicated to developing long-range sensory equipment to locate and track dark-matter fields. It was small and solitary, and of little personal interest to Captain Philips. Still, it was a welcome, if not small, break from the monotony.

"What was the last computer feed from the station? Anything unusual?"

The science officer scanned a digital pad. "According to this, sir, the station's computing core was transmitting without any problem before it failed. A diagnostic reveals normal stream density and frequency without distortion above background," explained the officer. "Now, as to the content itself, nothing we could find would suggest any faults: Crewmember biosigns, territorial and environmental analysis, and station systems all read normal. It simply stopped. We've tried rerouting through several local communications beacons, hailing the station, even getting a satellite visual. Nothing has worked so far."

Captain Philips breathed deeply. "Could be another solar flare." The star at the center of the station's solar system was unusually active. "Give it another thirty minutes, lieutenant. After that assign a response team to fly out there and find what the problem is. In the meantime see if you can't isolate the cause."

"Aye, sir." Lieutenant Jason Morison saluted respectfully and left the bridge, quickly making his way to the science lab. He quickly spotted his analyst expert at a computer screen along the far wall. "Chief, I want a layout of the planet and surrounding area. Give me a radius of one hundred million kilometers," he said.

"Yes, sir." Chief Petty Officer Benson entered the stats into the computer, then turned to watch as the holographic display in the center of the room hummed and glowed. It cast a three-dimensional view of space with a small dot at the very center expanding out to show the region around it, a radius of one hundred million kilometers. The Mourning Son's Environmental and Navigational Scanning and Mapping Data Processor (the name alone was a mouthful for any technician) was state-of-the-art, and coupled with R12-3's revolutionary scanning systems, it offered the lieutenant a very detailed view of this small corner of Sector R12.

"Chief, you're sure there are no signals emitting from that station?"

"Yes, sir. I've checked and rechecked."

On the holographic display the expansion of space radiating about the planet offered little out of the ordinary. A fine mist of rocky material, essentially a dust cloud, hung there in space. Normal. An adjacent planet, one of four in this solar system. Again, normal. No asteroids were detected that could have knocked out a communications satellite. Proximity detectors should have caught an imminent collision far ahead of time anyway. Lieutenant Morison ran over a mental checklist, scratching his ears with his blunt claws distractedly.

"Chief, give me the last five minutes of data received from the station," said the grey wolf, his keen eyes fixated on the display.

"Umm..." The petty officer made a few more taps at the screen. "Light and weather data...automatic bio-scans of the crew members...and...a history of power outputs and inputs for the station systems, all stopping the exact same time. I'm putting the data on screen now. Data falling outside normal parameters are highlighted."

Lieutenant Morison considered the screen at the far end of the wall for a minute. There were a few anomalies, but nothing that should have caused total system failure. Then an idea occurred to him. "Were there any operational sensory arrays transmitting data of the surrounding area," he asked. The civilian-operated deep space sensory array was not something the Navy monitored actively. It was, in many ways, a superior program, offering a wide range of dimensional analysis.

Petty Officer Benson studied his readouts, then nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Route the data through the holo-display, starting with infrared."

Two new dots appeared, small free-floating buoys linked directly to the station and designed to scan the surrounding space for electromagnetic disturbances. Lieutenant Morison pointed to the one closest to the station. "Isolate this one and pull up all data collected five minutes before and after the time the transmissions failed."

"It read several instances of spatial disturbances...one hundred and seventeen different events."

The officer nodded. "Alright, give me any and all occurring within one hundred thousand kilometers of the planet," he said and waited patiently.

Chief Benson brought the information up on the display. "Seven in total, sir." They appeared as faint green clouds of light on the 3D model surrounding the small planet that housed Station R12-3.

Morison pressed several controls on the holograph table, zooming the frame in to include only the area immediately around the planet. He rotated the model left and right, up and down, but could see nothing that grabbed his attention. The disturbances were small, amorphous apparitions that could have been anything from a fragmented asteroid to a cloud of dust.

"How about an EM scan?" he asked. "Scan the sensor input through the electromagnetic spectrum, and filter out background noise."

"Yes, sir. I'll begin with gamma waves."

After several minutes the display faded and was replaced by a red grid pattern. Lieutenant Morison zoomed the view in further so he could see the surface of the planet.

"Nothing unusual, sir. Trying X rays and ultraviolet...nothing. Now visible light...no. Ultraviolet...still nothing. It certainly doesn't look like a solar flare could have caused this, sir."

The officer sighed deeply, frustration creeping in. "No, it doesn't." The area should have been glowing with radiation.

"And nothing in the radio waves," continued the chief. "That completes the EM spectrum. Nothing outside background levels, sir."

Lieutenant Morison rubbed a paw across his brow when an idea struck him. They could find no electromagnetic levels above normal, but perhaps they should be looking in the opposite direction.

"Chief, does anything fall far below background?"

Several taps at the screen and Chief Benson nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm reading a dark spot near the planet itself. Putting it on screen now."

A bright yellow blip appeared within five or six thousand kilometers of the planet's surface, and Morison increased the zoom further. The resolution was grainy, but he could see that the blip itself was approximately ten kilometers long and three or five wide.

"Can you purify it?"

"Alright, let me see...It will take a few moments, sir."

The image flashed several times, flickered, and brought up a sharper image. Lieutenant Morison rotated the image, zoomed in and out, not believing what he was seeing.

Chief Benson stood from his chair to get a better look, and with wide eyes exclaimed "Gods...That's a ship, sir. And it's huge!"

Lieutenant Morison was already on his way to a comms panel. "Yes, it is. And it's not a Lupine design either." Pressing a claw to the panel he clearly spoke "Captain Philips" to the computer and waited for an audible chirrup.

"This is Captain Philips."

"Sir. This is Lieutenant Morison. I think we've found what the problem is."

"Yes, what do you have," came the hoarse reply.

"Sir, it's a ship, without a doubt. And it's not one of ours."

There was a loud bark followed by a distinctive hydraulic hiss of a door opening. "Patch visual through the bridge, lieutenant," Captain Philips growled.

"Aye, sir."

Captain Philips' eyes flashed to the command bridge's forward monitor as he rushed from his office. A computer rendering of a very symmetrical oval blob hovering above a blue-green planet flashed on screen, and the white wolf cursed openly.

"Helm! Set jump coordinates for Sector R12," he barked.

Group Commander Martin Faust stood from the captain's station as Philips approached. "What is it, sir," he asked, clearly alarmed.

Captain Philips dropped his heavy frame in the high-backed chair, minding his tail. "I'll be damned if I let pirates maraud my sector," he growled to his second in command.

The Mourning Son's executive officer nodded quickly and trotted to the tactical station, opening the ship's intercom. "Attention to the ship," he said. "Attention all paws. This is Commander Faust. All crew to general quarters. This is not a drill. Repeat: All crew to general quarters."

***

"If a ship was here, sir, it isn't anymore," said Lieutenant Morison, standing before a bright display screen, facing the captain's command staff seated around a narrow conference table. "We're reading only one life-sign on the surface, localized within the western quarter of the station itself."

Captain Philips eyed the forward monitor from his command station on the Mourning Son's flight bridge. The planet hung in space, a blue-green gem surrounded by pitch. Station R12-3 could be seen on a second screen, a series of flattened domes built within a wide and lush valley of tropical rainforest. The facility seemed out of place; the only wolf-made object on a world otherwise habited only by thick jungle and wild beasts.

Taking a final glance at the display, the old white wolf's heavy gaze fell on the commander of the ship's resident Marine detachment, who anxiously awaited orders to enter the station. "Send them in, Major. Extract the survivor and collect whatever information you can find undamaged, and do it quickly. I want to know exactly what happened down there."

"Understood, Captain," came an excited reply. Lifting a cellular communicator to his muzzle, the marine said, "Task force, this is Major Callahan. Send 'em in."

The bright blue of drop-ship afterburners streaked across the forward display as they descended quickly for the planet's surface. Captain Philips pulled at his whispers as his hard, dark eyes watched silently. Raids by bandits were not uncommon in the frontier regions, especially on undefended targets...transport ships, freighters, and so forth. But Station R12-3 was-or had been-defended by an ion battery, not to mention an infantry platoon. Philips was a well seasoned officer and had seen much during his long term of service. This was highly unusual.

Something didn't smell right.

***

Marine Private Novak shifted uneasily on his boots, adjusting his grip on his rifle. Entry to the station had both fast and oddly quiet, more so than the young wolf was truly comfortable with. The first insertion team had crashed through the unlocked door and was surprised to find nothing. No bodies, living or dead. No power, not even the eerie flood of deep green emergency flood lights illuminated the scene. There were no signs of a struggle: overturned furniture, the scorch marks of energy weapons on the walls...nothing. As his team crossed the small lobby they entered into a large theater hall lined with several rows of desks and computing equipment fanning inward toward the opposite wall, which was covered with a seven meter tall monitor. Everything was dark and lifeless, completely unharmed.

Sergeant Ramirez directed his squad further into the facility, expertly navigating through the banks of monitors and workstations. Pointing to a power terminal, the Marine made a ratcheting motion with his paw. A technician obediently padded forward to examine the terminal. Pulling a personal data pad from his belt he activated it and accessed the onboard diagnostic software. "Test Failure," it read in bold. The wolf passed the device over the terminal, receiving the same message. He turned to the sergeant and stiffly shook his head. It would not be possible to power the station.

"Stand by," Sergeant Ramirez ordered his troops. "Keep a sharp eye out, mutts...I don't like the smell in here." Then, to the technician he muttered, "Power the computer by battery, corporal, and get what you can.

Pressing a paw to his vest, Sergeant Ramirez briefed his superior on the situation. "Condor One, Condor One, this is Regent Two, over."

"Reading you clearly, Regent Two. Go ahead."

"The station's deserted, Condor. Looks like nobodies been here for months. No signs of struggle. Power is out. The systems are being booted from the power-packs we brought down 'er with us, and our scans show one life-sign, weak, over."

There was a long pause.

"That is good copy, Regent. Proceed with data collection and find that survivor, over"

"Roger that. Regent Two, out," he ended, and commanded aloud, "Take the station mainframe and hard drive. Burns, Novak, you're with me."

The three wolves passed into a corridor and followed the faint, but only, sign of life in the station. Private Novak looked up from a data pad to point to a door labeled "Sick Bay."

"In there, sergeant," he said, ignoring the foreboding tinge on the back of his neck.

It took some effort to slide the powerless door along its track, but it eventually gave way with a grating mechanical screech. The facility's medical clinic was virtually empty, the medical staff nowhere to be found. Five beds were arranged in a row along one wall, with diagnostic and surgical equipment lying opposite. Sergeant Ramirez was interested in none of this, focused entirely on a form resting on the far bed. It was a young wolf, probably in his early twenties. Stepping up cautiously he noted the rank of Cadet pinned to his shoulder. He sat unmoving and barely breathing. A paw to the throat reported a shallow, but steady, heart rate.

"Let's get him outta here. Burns, carry him, will ya?"

Lance Corporal Burns was by far the largest beast in the squad. He was a full head taller than the next tallest Marine in the unit, and as broad in the shoulders as he was strong. The giant carried the youth in his arms as easily as any other wolf would a pup.

"Let's get the hell out 'a here," Sergeant Ramirez said with an unnerving snarl, clasping a paw to the radio at his ear. "Corporal, how's that data dump?"

"Complete, sergeant."

"Good. Get to the ship. We're right behind you."

"Roger that."

When the drop ships were clear of the station, Sergeant Ramirez called his higher command once again to confirm mission completion. He gripped the support bar above his head as the transport swayed and shifted on its upward climb. The Cadet, still unconscious, was strapped tightly to a crash seat beside him.

Suddenly, the small craft jumped and rocked violently, a shrill alarm sounding in the cabin. Cursing under his breath, the wolf stumbled and fought with the jerking movement of the ship to get to the cockpit.

"What the hell happened!" he barked over the noise of the shrill alarm.

The pilot growled as he struggled to keep the ship from shaking apart. "The station's blown," he yelled over the alarms.

Sergeant Ramirez stepped to the window and looked down, shocked to see a fiery storm engulf the domes below.

"Sergeant!" screeched command in his ear. "You were NOT authorized to destroy the facility!"

"It wasn't us, sir," he growled angrily. "It must have been rigged to blow!"

As the fireball became more and more distant, Sergeant Ramirez watched it get smaller and smaller until the familiar void of space filled most of his vision. Taking one last glance at the planet behind them he couldn't help but shiver.

A close call, he thought. Entirely too close.

***

"Make way!" howled Corporal Burns as he charged full-bore through the narrow corridor leading from the shuttle dock to the Mourning Son's naval support hospital. "I said move!" he growled as he nearly knocked a very startled crew-wolf senseless as he stormed past, the still-unconscious Cadet in his large arms. The marine had been unwilling to wait in the shuttle dock for medical support to reach them.

Panting by the time he reached the sick bay, Corporal Burns followed the directions of a nurse as she ordered him to set the patient-gently!-on an open bed, then kindly get out of the way. Where the corporal's ample frame left a wide space beside the medical station, the void was quickly filled by medical staff as they hurried to attach equipment and diagnose the young soldier.

"I need a neural monitor chip on him now, nurse!"

"Right away doctor...there! Coming on-line now!"

"Genetic identity confirmed, one Cadet First Class Elijah Gardner, age twenty two, family history of late-stage myocardial distention. Allergic to furmiticillin."

"Doctor, his heart rate is thirty-nine. Pressure ninety-seven over sixty-two."

"Establish emergency life-support protocol zeta-seven."

"Yes, doctor."

A smooth plastic hood extended from the wall to cover the table, wolf and all. At its full extension a soft maroon light bathed the Cadet and his body contracted suddenly as air was forced into his lungs, willing his heart to beat at a normal pace.

"Doctor, have a look at this please," called a nurse from a monitor, and the Mourning Son's chief medical officer, Group Commander Nelson Hass, stepped over to investigate. The aging wolf leaned over the screen, tracing a paw over the waves that demonstrated the young wolf's brain activity. He saw right away that something was wrong. Very wrong.

REEP REEP! REEP REEP!

The alarm made Doctor Hass turn sharply toward the examination table, the warm maroon of the life-support system flashing a warning strobe.

"He's a-systolic!" shouted a nurse. "Blood pressure dropping rapidly!"

Doctor Hass snarled under his breath, then yelled, "Release the hood! Now! It's killing him!" The life-support integrated directly with the patient's medulla oblongata, the primitive brain responsible for controlling such organs as the heart and lungs. But with his brain activity the way it was there would certainly be a miscommunication.

The hood retracted, but the alarm continued to sound.

"Charge the defibrillator," he commanded, then under his breath added, "We'll do it the old-fashioned way."

"Ready, sir!"

His paw hovered above the "Pulse" button when a paw grabbed his and jerked it away from the controls. Shocked and outraged, Doctor Hass looked up to find the patient, young Elijah Gardner, glaring back at him! The elder wolf's mouth hung open in shock.

"Do not do that," the younger said firmly, and released the Doctor's paw to sit up on the examination bed. "As you can see I am perfectly awake now."

***

"Admiral Hartford, sir?" asked an adjutant as he tapped a paw to his commander's open office door.

Light Admiral Christian Hartford, provincial governor of the Radon Frontier, looked up from his desk. "Yes, what is it?" The Lupine Empire, for military purposes, was charted as a cube in space with six faces extending into unknown space, each named for a noble gas. Admiral Hartford oversaw the sixth: the Radon Frontier.

"Sir, half an hour ago Captain Philips aboard the Mourning Son reported the destruction of an Army research and development station in Sector Twelve. According to the report it was from an attack by an unknown ship."

The admiral almost fell out of his chair. "What! Why was I not contacted directly?"

"Captain Philips seemed to believe this was a matter for Naval Command rather than the provincial magistrate."

Hartford ground his teeth together, the wolf making an angry growl. "Damn that wolf," he snarled under his breath. Standing he made for the door, dragging his adjutant down the corridor with him. "Captain, put me in contact with the High Council immediately and direct Captain Philips to bring the Mourning Son here ASAP. Go through Naval Command if you have to."

"Yes, sir. Immediately, sir!"

"And while you're at it, bring me as much intel on the attack as you can."

Within thirty minutes the admiral and his staff were seated around a conference table facing a tele-video display. An old, gruff wolf of more campaigns than Admiral Hartford could count stared grim-faced through the video feed. Councilwolf Quinn Gilder was the chair of the High Council's Subcommittee on Military Procurement, an influential wolf to be sure.

Admiral Hartford scanned a recently received report on the incident in Sector R12 from Naval Command, personally insulted by how little information the report provided.

"With all due respect Councilwolf Gilder, from what I've been given I have a hard time believing Command and the High Council has been forthcoming with me and the affairs of my province."

Councilwolf Gilder's stone-solid expression betrayed no emotion. "I assure you, Admiral, you know as much as we do and no less. Then perhaps you can appreciate the concern this incident has brought to the Council. We are especially concerned over the Cadet Gardner issue. Do you know why he would request Commander Banks by name?"

Admiral Hartford shook his head. "No, sir. Commander Banks is an old friend of mine and believe me, I'm every bit as concerned as the Council is."

The old wolf narrowed his eyes. "Very well, Admiral. It is the decision of the Council to place you in overall command of this investigation."

"Thank you, sir." Hartford's chest swelled a little.

"Understand, Admiral Hartford, that this does not give you the right to interfere with Naval Command or the High Council's authority to maneuver. This is a courtesy to you as the provincial governor, not as a fleet commander. Is that understood?"

Chris Hartford wondered inwardly if this was his father's doing and fought the urge to curse aloud. Instead, he made a respectful "Understood, sir," and left the matter for a later time.

When Councilwolf Gilder had ended the conference call Admiral Hartford turned to his aid and said, "Inform Captain Philips that I'll be arriving shortly." Turning to his staff he collected his reports. "I'm recalling Deputy Governor Blake from Sector Five. He's in charge during my absence. Understood?" Obedient nods were shared around the room.

Satisfied, Chris dismissed the meeting and left the conference room at a fast march, calling for his Imperial Liaison Officer to follow.

"Put an orders request through to the Wolf Resources Office. Tell them to reinstate Commander Banks and assign him to the Mourning Son, priority urgent."

"Yes, sir," said the ILO. "Will that be all?"

Chris nodded, a sinister grin parting his muzzle. Scott is not going to be happy about this.