MAYA

May 13, 1969

The storm rolled in slowly, the sky a deep dark grew as the temperature noticeably dropped. The warm air was supplanted by a cold one, biting and reaching to the core. Jenna shivered, then noticed that it had been one of the few times she had actually done so since she'd been on the island. She sat in the research boat with Palmer, Dr. Fritz, and McGrath. Three other assistants accompanied them, each fresh faced college students, eyes wide at the prospect of their first expedition. She hated to think so, but she was quite jaded. She sat alone in the front of the boat, holding her scuba gear. In a small pack strapped around one shoulder was the orb. She decided to bring it along this time. Beside them, flanking her boat on either side were sleek crafts, manned by U.S. Army soldiers and crew. McGrath had brought some friends along.

The voices and sounds she’d heard seemed to grow louder, yet she realized she heard nothing with her ears. There was something that was strange about this object. And if she could relocate the temple where she’d originally found it, she was convinced she could solve what it was that puzzled her.

The boats cut a white foamy path out to sea. The boats were filled with doctors and a few native islanders, an army documentary crew, and soldiers standing menacingly with long gleaming spear guns and automatic weapons. They sat along the sides of the boat, two checking on the camera and the others waiting to arrive at the dive site.

Jenna had fought with McGrath and the Army Colonel Mikintrick, arguing that the weapons would not be necessary on an underwater archeological dig. But she knew that there had to be something going on if the army had been called in. Besides, after being threatened with being left behind, she closed her mouth, quiet but simmering with anger over her project being taken over.

Soon they would be in the water, searching for the temple ruins. McGrath and

Mikintrick knew something and they weren’t saying.

"Great," Jenna thought, while looking at a fierce looking young soldier,

fiercely holding his spear gun. "Just great."

The anterior sensor array probed ahead of the Valkerie at over 100,000 kilometers. It scanned and picked up everything from small amounts of trace dust; to micro meteors, to the large planetoids that the swung heavily around the sun. The asteroids in the belt seemed to be engaged in some slow dance of giants moving independent of each other, but somehow apart of a greater phenomenon unobservable by human eyes. They had done tests and studies in the belt the past thirty years. Even with all of the advancements in technology, scientists still did not understand why the great belt of asteroids swirled around the sun as the planets did. Truman looked intently at the scattering of rock. They stretched out before him looking like tiny grains of sand in the distance. Looking closer he saw something, a distance sparkle of light moving quickly, then disappear. It was at least 600,000 kilometers away. He leaned closer to the forward port and tried to get a better look.

"What do you mean..." he began, then caught on before his sentence was through. "I saw something out there, I don't know what it was. I don't think it's anything, but I just wanted to make sure is all," he said defensively. Everyone seemed to be a little too patronizing to him since he had come onboard a week prior. "I'm not so sure I like this," he said.

Henrickson took the cue. "Listen sir," he said to Truman even though he technically outranked the older man. "I don't know if you know this but you've been a hero of mine. Ever since I was a boy, and you took that first squadron up into space." Henrickson was grinning. Sanders could see the boyishness through his visage as the young pilot visualized the squadron beaming though space.

Henrickson didn't continue, he let his face tell what he thought. "The rest of them don't know what I know about you. Save the captain they think you're just some over the hill specialist. A Zero, who's got no experience, but power enough to pull rank anytime he wants. I know better though. Even if you may not have the stuff now, I know you had it once. You were the first up here, fighting the good fight," he said. "You can't be all bad, can you?"

Truman had turned and looked out the port again, looking for more movement. The sensors that bristled along the ship were very sensitive, but any technology, he thought could be fooled. Humans had a way of outdoing their most technologically superior advancements. "Okay," he said.

The general alarm sounded. Truman took another glance at the asteroid field. HE hadn’t seen one face-to-face in years, but he knew it when he saw it--a Marauder Frigate--headed straight for the Valkerie. Trumans’ heart leaped. He could feel its pulse pounding within his throat. The two pilots headed for the bridge. Combat. The hairs on Truman’s neck stood briskly, as the possibility of battle grew closer.

*****

The corridors wound seemingly endless through the ship. Truman was lost amongst the bundles of wires and conduits that traversed the vessel. Henrickson moved hand over hand ahead of Truman. He looked assured, placing his hands and feet consecutively in grips along the wall as he floated bridgeward.

Twenty five years of experience in space had freed the human mind from basic concepts in ship design. The outer hull was built with ascetics in mind, the rear section for propulsion and the forward sections for everything else, but the insides were a mix of zero-g theory and continuous studies on the effect of long term space habitation.

Everyone of the corridors were circular, long tubes that extended at length from one end of the ship to the other. Generally they broke of like capillaries from a main artery, but aboard the Valkerie, they remained whole and unbroken. Small side ports opened up at varying intervals along their sides to allow the crew to egress from one tube to the next. Periodically you could find a small poster stuck up on a tube's side, either of the latest Football hero or the newest swimsuit model. Truman saw both, as he and Henrickson made it to the Bridge artery.

The rear section of the ship was devoted to the propulsion units as well as some of the technical departments onboard. The main power drive, a nuclear reactor the size of a small building actually was the aft most piece to the ship, but the engines thrusters stretched around and behind the large device. In the event of an accident, the reactor could be safely ejected, or if there was not enough time, there would be minimal loss of life amongst the crew. In all of his years as a Starship consultant, he'd never heard of an accident although he knew there had been some close calls. There were just too many procedures and protocols to allow such a thing to happen. Besides that there were too many redundant systems to take over in the event the main one should fail. For all intents the Starships were infallible, iron buttresses that could only be devastated by something larger than themselves.He was a bit winded by the time they reached the bridge. Even here the environment was for maximum efficiency in a weightless environment. The room was a large circular shell. Various ship's operations and other stations spread across the room. At the center was the Captain's chair, suspended, or raised, depending from where stood, a large display set out before her. If necessary, she could command the entire ship from the one spot with a minimal crew detail. Yet another redundant system. Truman was much too relieved to have that one. He remembered his days as a Stellar Fighter pilot. The margin of error was almost nothing in space. There was little room for mistakes.

Closest to the Bridge atrium egress was the engineering stationCa large rectangular shaped projection from the back wall. Within the area sat Eric Allen Kobayashi a heavy-set Japanese-American nanotechnician, madly pounding away at the controls. He glanced back and forth from one panel to the next. Behind him floated Teresa Russell, taking readings from the master gauge and relaying them to Kobayashi. She looked boyish in her standard issue grey UNASA jumpsuit, hair pulled back tight in a ponytail and thin-rimmed glasses. The two formed a solid team, seamlessly working together. It was in complete contrast to the way they behaved toward each other, otherwise. Truman was surprised.

To the fore of engineering was the operations station, manned by Kristal Richardson, a dark-skinned RAF lieutenant from Edinburgh, Scotland. Tina Roberson, a very young ensign and assistant to Richardson sat behind her managing to compile ships reports from the outer hull section. Kristal sat comfortably rattling of stats in her peculiar Scottish roll. She was amazing to watch. She reminded Truman of his wife almost. Not so much physically although that was definitely there with their dark skin and their similar builds. What he saw was the quiet strength--the calmness, and the confidence. Perhaps in another time or another place he might have given it a shot.

"It's a craft. Markings...there are none. Composite metals. Steel, nano reinforced..."

"Pirates." Truman said dully. He'd seen them before. In his dreams, and in his mind. He knew it when he had seen them as nothing but a small pinpoint of light amid the field of asteroids. He felt his heart jump. Breathe, he said inwardly. He hoped the rust hadn't piled on too thick.

Richardson continued, visibly shaken a bit by his accurate assessment. "Affirmative Captain. Serial beacon registering it as ACF. The patchwork hull designates it as a Marauder vessel.

The ship’s crew felt tense upon hearing the word. The Marauders were large freight carrying transports. Their thick hulls known to withstand all sorts of armament bombardments for sustained periods of time. The short of it was that they were built to be able to withstand the meteors and micrometeorites within the Belt. Apparently they had done an adequate job. No UNASA vessel smaller than the Valkerie had ever stood toe to toe with one of the vessels without at least half her crew perishing. No one aboard the Valkerie wanted the mission to end before it had even began.

W.G. Brickstone , a man about Truman’s age with white wisps of hair covering a balding head, sat in the weapons booth, a semi-circle department on the far side of the bridge. He sat at the front of the controls, his men behind him making systems checks as some nervously stole quick looks upward at the forward instrument panel. Brickstone sat ready, fingers tensed, white knuckles showing as his hands fidgeted along the controls.

United Nations Starship policy was to give the recommended course of action from each department head. Engineering first, then Operations, Weapons then Navigation. There was silence at first, then Kobayashi sounded in, apparently previously too engrossed in his engineering duties to give his opinion.

Kristal took her turn, first clearing her throat. Truman knew what she was doing. Making sure everyone heard her loud and clear, because they weren't going to like what she had to say. "Two more ships at maximum range Captain. Too far to identify," she said. "Recommend diverting to course heading 37-9-577 around asteroid designated Vermillus sir."

The Captain nodded her head, matter-of-factly then turned toward Brickstone.

"I agree with Lt. Richardson, sir." Truman said. "Marauder-class vessels are slow and we could outrun it and the other longer range vessels before we got outside of the Belt."

The captain sunk into her chair for a moment. Then just as suddenly she gave her order.

Truman's hands tensed when she gave the order. What was she thinking?

Besides the pinging of the ship’s sensors, the bridge was quiet. "You'd need something a little thicker than a knife to cut this tension," Henrickson whispered, leaning over to Truman. "What gives? No weapons guy would be so concerned about a ship's price tag.' Truman nodded, agreeing quietly. >I don't know what his angle is, but you won't catch me turning my back to him."

Truman agreed, but turned his attention toward the viewscreen. If there was a problem with Brickstone, it would have to wait for later. "Captain," he said. He clenched the throttle ready to make a move. His heart pounded. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "The craft is maintaining it's course. We're going to collide sir."

The captain sat motionless. Proximity sirens sounded above the bridge chatter and red alert claxons. Captain Ramirez grabbed a firm hold of the support bars at her sides. "Everyone hold on," she said calmly and determined.

The two ships lumbered toward each other. One sleek ship, the Valkerie, antennae bristling from it's side. The pirate ship, a large leviathan chugged steady and unyielding. It was no mystery who would win this battle.

The ships grew closer. There was not one heart aboard the Valkerie that was beating it's normal rhythm. The proximity alert screeched to an almost deafening crescendo. Truman could hardly breathe.

The ships were one hundred meters apart. Seventy-five. Fifty. The crew held on. Twenty. Ten. Five. One.

The proximity meter remained there.

The two craft slid past each other, the hulking freighter looking as though it might tip upward and demolish the thinner craft. Another twelve seconds. Finally they separated. The two ships distances growing. Neither ship had been touched. The crew let out a sigh of relief.

Truman couldn't move. Henrickson, almost looking concerned glanced at his helm mate. Seeing that he would not move, he pushed the throttle control all the way forward. The ship suddenly leaped, jerking ahead, as the crew felt the gravity forces pushing them backward into their seats. The distance between the ships increased. The large freighter was beginning to turn around, but the bulky crafts thruster column wasn't designed for quick maneuvering.

Truman didn't hear him. He couldn't hear anything. He only saw blackness and a field of stars spinning before him. He could not hear the proximity alarm sound again as the two other craft came clearer into view. They were escort craft. Small ships one eighht the size of the Valkerie. They'd be fools to try," Kristal said. She summed up the thought s of the entire crew with her statement. Everyone grew a little less tense, but still remained on edge, the feeling of battle lingering as the adrenaline still coursed through their bodies. Slowly the crafts drifted on by and met up with the larger freighter. Suddenly they stopped while the Valkerie skated over the upper crest of the Belt.

"It wasn't her calling a bluff so much as it was her assessing the pirates' intentions," Tina said. She stood perkily behind Kristal. If anyone had looked at the Scottish woman they might have seen smile crack as she felt a tinge of pride swelling.

"And we had a warning," Henrickson said.

Richardson snapped off a crisp salute then unfastened her harness as she floated toward a group of computers opposite her operations station.

Truman looked as though he had been scolded.

*****

I didn't want to reprimand you in front of the crew," she said floating above him as the hovered near the observation window. "You deserve better than that."

"But?" he said. There was always a "but" in times like this.

"Fine," Truman said. He was at a loss for words.

He had to withhold the anger from his face. If his skin weren't so dark, he knew hat the Captain would only be seeing the red in his face.

Aye," he said snapping a salute. He floated one hundred eighty degrees then left the briefing room. He made his way across the bridge. They all were silent. Their eyes seemed to pierce him as if probing his person.

When he was left alone in the main artery his thoughts began to move to the battle. What had happened? Why did he freeze? And most important what did the captain think she'd change by sending his to his quarters? Didn't she know that now there would be nothing between him and his dreams but the cold quiet of solitude? He shuddered at the thought as he made his way deep into the ship.

"Great," Truman said. "Just Great."

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