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  Parallax

  The Deep Black, Book 1

  James David Victor

  Fairfield Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 Fairfield Publishing

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Except for review quotes, this book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the author.

  This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Thank You

  Bonus Content: Story Preview

  1

  The UNS Royal Blue, like its captain, was built for the harsh environments of the edge of space. Sleek, sturdy, and armed to the teeth, there was no threat out in the black that either could not handle. The boredom, on the other hand, was an enemy United Navy Captain Drummond Bayne had never prepared to battle. His tour in the Deep Black could be characterized as one long stretch of nothing, periodically interrupted by bouts of violence and intensity.

  “Spin up the forward batteries and open a channel,” Bayne ordered from the edge of his captain’s chair. This was one of those interruptions. A welcome one that just turned an administrative mission into something with action.

  “They’ve acknowledged our hail, sir,” chirped Lieutenant Delphyne. She was a spritely thing, lithe and petite, but her demure appearance and mannerisms in no way reflected her nature. She could hold her own against anyone, in any arena one could imagine. “Captain on comms.”

  Bayne forced himself back in his chair, not wanting to appear an overeager child on his birthday, staring at a pile of presents just begging to be torn open. His six-and-a-half foot tall frame leaned back, paradoxically becoming more uncomfortable in the supple leather seat. “Wex Shill,” Bayne said.

  The haggard portrait of a man appeared on the monitor. What portion of his face wasn’t covered with an auburn beard was pocked with scars and the dry, red skin common to those who spent too much time in the sterile air of a ship. “That’s Captain Wex Shill. Or Terror of the Deep Black Wex Shill, if you prefer. That one’s new. I’m taking it for a spin. See how it feels on the tongue.”

  Bayne raised a hand to quiet the man. “Pirate Wex Shill, by order of the United Navy, I am placing you under arrest. Surrender, power down all nonessential systems, and a team will board your ship. Resist, and we will engage with all the force required to subdue or kill you.”

  It was a speech that, even though given too rarely for Bayne’s liking, had grown routine. He had once barked the words, in the early days of his assignment hunting pirates on the edge of known space—a time pregnant with the promise of adventure—but the speech lacked the fire it once did.

  “Well, that’s not very cordial, now is it?” Shill laughed to himself, likely thinking himself amusing. They always thought they were so funny.

  It was nothing Bayne hadn’t seen from a dozen other pirate captains over the years. They all fancied themselves the clever sort. It took a certain type of person to pursue pirating as a way of life—brash, aggressive, reckless, fearless. Some of those traits could even serve them should they reapply them in a more meaningful way. But the other trait they all shared prevented them from doing so—ego. Massive, blinding egos.

  “Where’s the nearest Navy base, Captain?”

  Shill’s question caught Bayne off guard. It wasn’t often that his targets would engage in conversation past this point. It was likely an attempt at stalling or distraction, but Bayne was in an indulgent mood.

  “One hundred thousand light-years,” Bayne responded. “Give or take.”

  Shill ran his fingers through his beard. The facial hair made him appear almost alien. Being this far out was no excuse to dismiss protocol. None aboard the Royal Blue had even a stray whisker on his face, and those were the faces Bayne spent all his time looking at.

  “A galaxy away.” Shill seemed to smile—it was hard to tell through the mass of hair, though his eyes gleamed like the muzzle of a blaster before putting a bolt through your heart. “You fly up my rear, bark orders in the name of the United Navy.” He elongated the name of the system’s military force, lacing each syllable with poison. “And they ain’t nowhere to be seen. They’re a hundred thousand light-years away, and my cannons are right here.”

  Shill stepped forward. The projection of his face grew larger, taking up more room on the Royal Blue’s monitors. It threw a sense of claustrophobia over the bridge crew. “The United Navy ain’t but a hollow name way out here. Invoking it won’t bring you naught but trouble.”

  Bayne scratched his chin, at the whiskers he might have if not for protocol. He stood from his chair. The urge to smile, to return Shill’s blaster muzzle glare, crept up on him. He suppressed it, brushed it away, and locked his hands in an officer’s stance behind his back.

  The Royal Blue was in this sector of the Deep Black to make contact with Ore Town, a mining outpost that had gone off the grid. The Byers Clan, an influential conglomerate, struck a deal with the United Systems to police its own operations in the Deep Black, with the understanding that they must maintain regular contact to ensure the safety of the operation. Long-range relays were constantly going down, and so the Royal Blue spent half its time checking in. They were nanny missions.

  “By the authority of the United Navy, I hereby declare you a hostile entity. Henshaw,” he said to the gunner, a broad man, who had been growing broader as of late, swollen with boredom. “Acquire a target lock on the Blighter.”

  Given Shill’s proximity to Ore Town, Bayne could only assume he had a hand in it going dark.

  Shill’s laughter echoed on the bridge. A high cackle, like electricity in the air, that you could feel in your teeth. “Navy,” he said. “Don’t mean nothing.” Shill paced his bridge, the image of his face floating about like a ghost. “But I suppose them railguns you got do.” He nodded to someone Bayne could not see.

  “Sir,” Callet, the engineer, a short, balding man with the voice of a sucking air lock, said. “The Blighter is powering down.”

  For a moment, Captain Bayne felt like a hole had been opened in his veins. The adrenaline in his blood seeped out and he was drained of the increasingly unfamiliar feeling of excitement, but then he reminded himself that an engagement only brought with it the chance of casualty. His crew was more important than any amount of excitement.

  “The Blighter’s weapons are offline, sir,” Callet said a moment later.

  Bayne turned to his executive officer, Taliesen Mao. A steady man, always pointed in the right direction and never faltering in his pursuits. As reliable as the stars. “Ready the shuttle and your boarding party.”

  Mao nodded and walked off the bridge.

  Bayne fell back into his chair.

  And that was that, he thought. Another pirate crossed off the list. The edge of known space a little bit safer and more secure for the interests of the United Systems.

  Drummond Bayne had been a young man when he’d enlisted in what had since become the United Navy. The mining clans were warring. Warlords and their fleets were attacking everything. A dozen different militaries were tripping over each other trying to establish some semblance of peace. There was never a day that lacked for action.

  He was still a young man when he was awarded his own ship. Rather, he was awarded his legitimate captaincy. He took the ship off a warlord he put down i
n the southern rim. He was a Ranger then, as he was now, though that title carried with it a different meaning. The Rangers of the early days were outliers, showing no allegiance to any particular military or government, only to their own pursuits. They were made an official unit within the Navy after the wars, offered officer ranks, and thus Drummond Bayne became a captain, and the Deep Blue became the Royal Blue.

  He was not quite as young when he accepted his mission to secure the edge of the system, the Deep Black. He was 33 then, now only 36, but he felt like an old man, squinting against the flare of distant stars reflecting off the hull of the Blighter.

  “The shuttle is away, sir,” Lieutenant Delphyne said.

  Bayne nodded and grunted an affirmative into his knuckles. The shuttle came into view a moment later as it closed the distance between the two ships. The captain couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy for Mao and the away team.

  The Deep Black was about as away as one could get, but Bayne couldn’t help but feel like he was tied to something.

  “Sir!” Callet shouted. “The Blighter has acquired a target lock on the shuttle!”

  “How the hell did they spool up their weapon systems so fast?”

  “It seems they never actually took them offline, sir. They must have masked the energy signature.”

  Sudden dread flooded Bayne’s mind. The space in front of him swam, became infinite and black. His legs were unsteady.

  “Signal the shuttle,” he commanded. “Tell Mao to take evasive action.”

  The black space lit up with weapons fire. The Blighter’s forward guns pelted the shuttle with laser blasts, searing the hull. The small vessel, big enough to hold a dozen but carrying only six, rolled to starboard then ducked beneath the Blighter’s range of fire.

  Patch was at the helm. He could make a ship dance.

  The pirate vessel’s sub-cannons whirred to life on its belly. They dropped concussive blasts, shaking the shuttle but never quite finding their mark. Either that ship was manned by the most incompetent crew in the Deep Black, or Shill wasn’t trying to hit the shuttle. He was disorienting it, keeping it from escaping.

  Keeping it close.

  “Shall I open fire, sir?” Henshaw asked.

  “No,” Bayne said. “The shuttle is too close. If we destroy the Blighter, then the shuttle will be caught in the explosion.”

  A voice came over comms. “Any time, sir.” Even bombarded by cannons, Mao sounded steady. “We could use a hand.”

  “Working on it, XO.”

  Standard engagement protocol: Hail hostile vessel, relay terms, fire warning shot, then shoot to kill. There is to be no negotiation once hostile party refuses terms. There is to be no engagement that does not have the express purpose of eliminating hostile party.

  A kill shot. Standard protocol.

  And there was no higher authority out in the Deep Black than standard protocol.

  “Lieutenant Delphyne,” Bayne said. “Turn off the mission recorder.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  2

  Standard protocol.

  There was no standard protocol in the early days. A Ranger did what he needed to do to complete his mission. He may have been assigned the objective, but he set the mission parameters himself. Achieving the objective meant success. How success was met did not matter.

  In the Navy, protocol was gospel. It was the pillar of your life, woven into every second, every interaction, every decision.

  No, there was no decision. There was only protocol.

  In the Deep Black, thousands of light-years from anything resembling order, where anarchy was always a bad day away, protocol was the fission drive of the ship—kept it running smooth—but neglect it, and it will eventually explode.

  Lacking proximity to a direct superior to breathe down your neck, there was the mission recorder. When hostile action was taken, it activated, recording every word spoken on the bridge, every keystroke of the computer.

  “Mission recorder offline, sir.” Delphyne’s voice had a singsong quality to it when she was pleased, and it was singing.

  “Mister Henshaw, power up the drill.” There was even a singsong quality to Bayne’s voice, the happy howl of a dog whose collar had just come off.

  After its first tour in the Deep Black, the Royal Blue was fitted with a mining drill—a high-powered laser with a pinpoint focus. The ship returned to port all banged up from the level of asteroid activity along the edge. The drill allowed the ship to cut through asteroid fields and save the hull the pain, but it was an expensive modification, one that Central Command was reluctant to provide. The Byers Clan also didn’t like having their tech appropriated. It was not to be used lightly.

  “Drill’s ready, sir.”

  “Take aim at the Blighter’s rear thrusters,” the captain ordered. “I want that ship dead in the water. And relay these orders to Mao.”

  Delphyne communicated the plan to the shuttle.

  Henshaw hunkered down in his chair. Unlike the forward batteries and cannons, the drill did not have an auto-lock functionality; it had to be aimed manually. If Henshaw spoke at that moment, his voice would have been singing too. “Rear thrusters in my sights, sir.” Yup, singing.

  “Fire.”

  The mining drill lit the black space with a blue light. It reminded Bayne of winter. It had been years since he’d seen snow, or any seasonal weather at all. The bow shook from the sheer power of the weapon. It was built to cut space rock in half, after all, but it was still a beautiful thing to see—such a delicate-looking beam coming out of such a powerful machine.

  The casing around the Blighter’s rear thruster glowed red-hot, and then exploded.

  As if it were a starter pistol, the shuttle banked hard to starboard and double-timed it back to the Royal Blue, dropping counter measures behind it just to be safe.

  And just like that, the excitement of the moment was gone. The pirate’s clever ploy was undone. The time for standard protocol returned.

  “Lieutenant Delphyne, turn the mission recorder back on and hail the Blighter. Repeat our conditions for surrender.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Mao stepped onto the bridge minutes later, carrying with him a restrained sense of relief. “That was more eventful than planned.”

  Bayne clapped his friend and XO on the back.

  “Techs are checking the shuttle now,” Mao said. “Once they give it the okay to fly, I’ll go get our pirate. It didn’t take any direct hits, so it will only be a moment.”

  Standard away mission protocol: The executive Officer shall lead all off-ship missions, assuming operational control of the away team, unless he is deemed unfit. If executive officer is deemed unfit, operational control of away team is given at the captain’s discretion.

  Bayne took Mao by the shoulders, as if to steady him. “Easy, XO. Are you all right?”

  Mao looked confused. “Fine, sir.”

  Bayne leaned in close, studying Mao’s eyes like a physician. “There will be no posturing on my bridge, XO.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

  “You’re unsteady, confused. Possible you took a harder hit aboard the shuttle than you thought. Could be a concussion. I’m ordering you to Doctor Simms in medical for evaluation.”

  “Due respect, sir, but I’m fine.”

  Delphyne cleared her throat, an unsubtle attempt to interject. “Engineering has cleared the shuttle, Captain.”

  At that, Mao’s eye’s narrowed like a parent at a persistent child. “Of course, sir. I’ll report right away.” Before exiting the bridge, he said over his shoulder, “Be careful, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Delphyne, you have the bridge,” Bayne said as he cinched his belt, feeling the welcome pat of his blaster against his hip. “Have Sigurd assemble the away team, and make sure they’re waiting and ready. We disembark in five.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The docking bay of the Royal Blue was a cramped space that smelled of solvents. One de
ep inhale set your head spinning, and the fumes clung to your tongue.

  Sigurd Tor was security chief aboard the ship. Which, on the long stretches of nothing that had become common of late, meant he had less than the rest of the crew to occupy his time. Much of it was spent taking the mechanics’ money in Bok Lo, a dice game from somewhere in the eastern reach. He was bored, and his trigger finger had gotten itchy.

  “Ready to roll, sir,” Sigurd said, bouncing on the balls of his feet, tapping a frantic rhythm on his pulse rifle. His curly black hair bounced in short ringlets as he did, adding to the youthful air already given him by his exuberant nature.

  “This is just a grab job, Sig,” Bayne said. “Picking up a disgraced pirate and bringing him into custody. Not an assault mission.”

  “Understood, sir. Just rare having you along is all. Must be what’s got me all excited.”

  Bayne unholstered his sidearm, inspected it, put it back. “Doesn’t take much.”

  “I’ll take anything other than writing folks up for stealing silverware from the mess at this point.” Sig checked his rifle, the blades sheathed in an “x” on his chest, his body armor, everything that wasn’t his own skin.

  The pilot, a narrow-faced man named Patch, stepped out of the cockpit of the shuttle as he tied his helmet on. “Ready to fly, sir.”

  “Load up,” Bayne said.

  The away team, five in all—excluding Patch, who would never leave the shuttle—climbed aboard and strapped in. The straps did nothing to keep Sigurd from bouncing.

  Delphyne’s voice sounded in the cockpit as the shuttle disembarked from the Royal Blue and made its way across the black, to the floundering pirate vessel. “We have a lock on the Blighter, shuttle. We ran a deep scan. All of its systems are powered down. You are clear to approach.”