Transient Signal

Prologue: 2461 C.E.

        There was a pounding on the metal door of the apartment. It was the echoingly loud sound of metal on metal. Combined with the mother of all hangovers, it was the most unpleasant sound in the universe.

        Jack Wells groggily woke up on his small, old-style, spring mattress. The apartment spire he lived in was in one of the poorest sectors of the Concordia space habitat, a hundred of kilometres long cylindrical orbital space station. Concordia orbited a small moon that was rich in resources, but inhospitable for human life. As a result, many of the inhabitants of the habitat were miners that had been contracted to harvest the wealth of the moon (also called Concordia) for the Orion Deep Space Mining Company, one of the largest Confederation mining companies.

        Jack was not one of these miners, although his soul belonged to the Orion company for the past five years just as much as the miners’ did. He did something far less glamorous for the company. Jack had been a former member of the Confederation of Sovereign Planets Armed Forces—specifically a Sergeant in the Confederation Special Commando Unit.  Five years ago he left the Forces and was hired by Orion as a security consultant—which translated into him becoming a hired mercenary for them, used to break up any attempts by the miners to unionize or change their contracts. Jack and the other two dozen or so mercenaries were highly unpopular with the miners and as a result, Orion dumped them into the slums of Concordia station to hide them when they were not on duty. Hence the old mattress and extremely poor living conditions.

        As his head cleared, Jack figured it was just one of his guys coming to get him for shift work.

        “Gim-Gimme a minute,” he managed to say as he stumbled towards the door. His vision doubled for a split second and he just about fell over. Whatever money Jack had left after his pay was usually spent on the only form of entertainment on the station—very shady nightclubs and even shadier alcohol.

        Jack managed to balance himself and press the sensor on the door to unlock it. “I didn’t over sleep g—,” he started to say.

        Before he could finish, Jack was tackled to the ground by two individuals. His senses were dulled but fortunately years of training took over and Jack tried to fight them off. However, they were both wearing combat suits—Kevlar and nanite by-weaves and hardened plates of titanium and ceramic—making them heavy and resilient to his punches and his kicks. They flipped him over onto his stomach and one of them grabbed the back of Jack’s head by the hair—which to his chagrin had grown out well past the normally cropped cut he had—and slammed his face into the floor of the apartment. When he continued to struggle, his head was again slammed into the floor. He saw a small stream of blood trickle out of his mouth and the right side of his face had gone numb from the impacts. He finally gave up and went limp in the two intruders’ arms.

        They lifted him up and unceremoniously dropped him into an old chair he had salvaged from a dump pile. The combination of pain and adrenaline snapped Jack out enough of his hangover for him to be able to finally focus on his attackers. Their combat suits were nearly identical to the ones Jack had seen while serving the Confederation, except these were coloured grey, black and white—urban camouflage. Their helmets completely concealed their faces and there was only a tell-tale flicker of red light that indicated an internal Heads-Up Display.  These were not ordinary soldiers; there were no insignias or any kind of identification on their suits.  Jack remembered a few units like that during his service. It meant Black Ops, which meant serious trouble.

        “Jack Wells, former Sergeant, service number 343-560-27X, Confederation Armed Forces Special Commando Unit,” one of them said. Jack was not sure if it was a statement or a question.

        “That’s me,” Jack said regardless. He spat out a wad of blood onto the floor. He had been trained to resist interrogation in his service but that was then, this was now and he did not care.

        “Five years ago, your unit was assigned as part of a protection detail for an expedition to outside of Confederation space,” said the other one, “Were you a part of that detail?”

        Jack spit out some more blood; this time one of his back molars came out with it. Shame I don’t have any dental benefits he mused darkly. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business,” said Jack fiercely, “but yes. I was the 2 I-C under Captain Jeb Miller. That fucking maniac.”

        The two Black Ops soldiers exchanged glances.

        “You’re going to tell us what happened,” said the first one. “All of it. Particularly why a nuclear device was detonated before the expedition returned.”

        “You’re Dominion Special Forces,” said Jack with a smirk. If they had been Confederation Special Forces, they would have had access to Captain Miller’s confidential after-action report.

        “Just tell us what happened,” demanded the first soldier again sharply.

        Jack reclined back into the chair. Those events were forever scorched into his memory. It was not hard for him to remember them. Or the horror.