Post by Lorpius Prime on Oct 11, 2008 3:36:34 GMT -5
Epilogue
GJS Liberator, Uranus Orbit, 2206 AD.
"Peace be upon you."
Gazwah Michael finished the final prayer of his Asr and rose so that he could roll up his prayer mat for storage. The prayer had felt much more like a celebration than his usual humble declaration of faith. Undoubtedly the others felt the same way. No one had been this close to the Honored City since the Great Hijrah. The knowledge of their proximity had to be exhilarating for faithful and infidel alike.
The Liberator's bow, like that of every other ship in the flotilla, was currently pointing towards the Kabah with a precision impossible for most of the human race. There had been a debate after the Hijrah. Many among that first generation of Gazwaht had wanted to alter the Qiblah and pray facing the New Mosque. The reformers had lost, however, and the Kabah had remained the heart of Islam, despite its distance. For the faithful, knowledge of astronomy had become nearly as important as knowledge of the Koran itself.
Michael set his prayer mat aside in a cubbyhole of his tiny cabin. It was time to return to duty.
The battle had been a success beyond anything for which the Gazwaht had dared to hope. They had clearly caught the Maridjinn entirely unprepared, and though their ships had proven even faster than the best estimates of the Jihad and Fleet intelligence, they had not even attempted to evade until their maneuvers could do no good. The destroyers had run down both of the jinn vessels in less than ten minutes. The rest of Michael's flotilla had been able to simply wait and observe the slaughter.
Two jinn vessels destroyed in exchange for one destroyer was a better casualty ratio than even the most optimistic proponents of the Line had been willing to suggest. Michael had been prepared to lose half his flotilla and still call the engagement a victory.
Yet the manner of the destroyer's loss was worrisome. The Vindicator had disappeared. There had been no wreckage or other evidence of its destruction, the ship had simply vanished upon contact with the enemy. No one in the flotilla could offer an explanation for the disappearance. Michael assumed the worst, and had offered an extra prayer for the deliverance of the crew's souls.
On the bridge, Michael's command crew kept their silence as he entered. The Fleet's crews all clung to a noisy and distracting tradition of salutes and symbols. On a Great Jihad Ship, everyone knew his place and his purpose by heart, and did not need to be constantly reminded of such things. Discipline came easily to the servants of the Jihad, even to the infidel Fedayeen; they knew as well as any Mujahid that their mission would fail without it.
Michael walked briskly to his command chair and began calling up information on his monitor.
"Developments?" he asked. "Brother Suk?"
"Nothing local, sir," the tactical officer replied. "Still no movement on the surface, heat signatures remain unchanged. Brother Rashid has observed no more shadows within range of us. Board's stayed clear for the rest of our outer sentries, too. Our best guess is still that we've got the entire outer system to ourselves."
Michael nodded, "And the inner system?"
"Unpleasant, sir," Suk shook his head. "Deliverance has now observed a minimum five discrete simultaneous shadows. Simultaneous observations from Justice and Retribution bring the minimum to eight, but from our new estimates of their best acceleration, Deliverance puts it at highly probable that there have been at least twelve discrete shadows; still no maximum limit."
The tactical officer's report was disappointing, but not unexpected. The range of the flotilla's new sensors was painfully limited, and Michael simply did not have enough ships to develop a good picture of the strategic situation.
"Any discernible pattern?"
"Yes sir," Suk said, and Michael frowned. "We received a new report from Deliverance five minutes ago. Detections declined over five hours to zero one hour ago, not unusual with the traffic patterns they've been observing. But now the sentries are reporting six discrete shadows accelerating on a vector toward our station."
The jinn were responding. It had taken them a day, but they were responding at last. Michael inhaled slowly and carefully.
"Time to arrival?"
"At least two days if they continue current acceleration. If they have to decelerate, that will be closer to four."
"Very well," Michael folded his hands together, "order the Deliverance's group to follow the underway shadows. Make preparations to regroup the rest of the flotilla on us."
"Yes, sir" Suk acknowledged, and began entering commands into his console.
While he did that, Michael called up the feed from the Liberator's external cameras onto his monitor.
Unmagnified, the surface of the moon below was dark and dull. But its unremarkable appearance belied its history. The moon was named Titania, after a magical character in some infidel story from long before the Hijrah. In humanity's final years before that crisis, it had been settled by aliens who had given mankind its first hope for survival.
Michael knew he was allowing emotional sentiments to interfere with his decision; but his faith taught him to love, and even he could not fully detach himself from the enormity of what he must do. The Tadpoles had saved humanity, without them the Hijrah would not have been possible. All of Michael's Mujahideen, every Fedayeen, and the entire Fleet, owed their existence to the aliens.
But the Tadpoles had not been so fortunate. Their homeworld was beyond the Line. The jinn had consumed it. None of their ships had escaped.
Michael increased the magnification of the cameras. Without a true atmosphere, his view of the surface was clear. There was no longer any hint of the original colony. The jinn had claimed it all. The wicked spires of their dark temples covered a quarter of the moon's surface. Michael could not even begin to fathom how many Tadpoles the jinn must have imprisoned within that grim outpost like so much cattle.
Only they would not be true Tadpoles. They would be the same soulless, lifeless, mindless husks which the jinn made of all their captives. The Tadpoles were dead, what remained on Titania were only ghosts, a cruel memory of the species. All were thralls of the jinn now. Michael knew this, and still he had ordered that attempts be made to establish communication with the settlement. Silence had been the only answer, as he'd known it would be. But he'd still felt the need to try, if only because he did not want to ask God to forgive him for what he knew he had to do.
"There has been no change of any kind on the surface, Brother Suk?" he asked one last time.
"No, sir," the tactical officer said. Michael noticed that he had finished inputting his other orders. Everyone on the bridge was looking at him.
"Then I release the weapons to you," he said, and tapped a command on his own console. "Burn it all."
GJS Liberator, Uranus Orbit, 2206 AD.
"Peace be upon you."
Gazwah Michael finished the final prayer of his Asr and rose so that he could roll up his prayer mat for storage. The prayer had felt much more like a celebration than his usual humble declaration of faith. Undoubtedly the others felt the same way. No one had been this close to the Honored City since the Great Hijrah. The knowledge of their proximity had to be exhilarating for faithful and infidel alike.
The Liberator's bow, like that of every other ship in the flotilla, was currently pointing towards the Kabah with a precision impossible for most of the human race. There had been a debate after the Hijrah. Many among that first generation of Gazwaht had wanted to alter the Qiblah and pray facing the New Mosque. The reformers had lost, however, and the Kabah had remained the heart of Islam, despite its distance. For the faithful, knowledge of astronomy had become nearly as important as knowledge of the Koran itself.
Michael set his prayer mat aside in a cubbyhole of his tiny cabin. It was time to return to duty.
* * *
The battle had been a success beyond anything for which the Gazwaht had dared to hope. They had clearly caught the Maridjinn entirely unprepared, and though their ships had proven even faster than the best estimates of the Jihad and Fleet intelligence, they had not even attempted to evade until their maneuvers could do no good. The destroyers had run down both of the jinn vessels in less than ten minutes. The rest of Michael's flotilla had been able to simply wait and observe the slaughter.
Two jinn vessels destroyed in exchange for one destroyer was a better casualty ratio than even the most optimistic proponents of the Line had been willing to suggest. Michael had been prepared to lose half his flotilla and still call the engagement a victory.
Yet the manner of the destroyer's loss was worrisome. The Vindicator had disappeared. There had been no wreckage or other evidence of its destruction, the ship had simply vanished upon contact with the enemy. No one in the flotilla could offer an explanation for the disappearance. Michael assumed the worst, and had offered an extra prayer for the deliverance of the crew's souls.
On the bridge, Michael's command crew kept their silence as he entered. The Fleet's crews all clung to a noisy and distracting tradition of salutes and symbols. On a Great Jihad Ship, everyone knew his place and his purpose by heart, and did not need to be constantly reminded of such things. Discipline came easily to the servants of the Jihad, even to the infidel Fedayeen; they knew as well as any Mujahid that their mission would fail without it.
Michael walked briskly to his command chair and began calling up information on his monitor.
"Developments?" he asked. "Brother Suk?"
"Nothing local, sir," the tactical officer replied. "Still no movement on the surface, heat signatures remain unchanged. Brother Rashid has observed no more shadows within range of us. Board's stayed clear for the rest of our outer sentries, too. Our best guess is still that we've got the entire outer system to ourselves."
Michael nodded, "And the inner system?"
"Unpleasant, sir," Suk shook his head. "Deliverance has now observed a minimum five discrete simultaneous shadows. Simultaneous observations from Justice and Retribution bring the minimum to eight, but from our new estimates of their best acceleration, Deliverance puts it at highly probable that there have been at least twelve discrete shadows; still no maximum limit."
The tactical officer's report was disappointing, but not unexpected. The range of the flotilla's new sensors was painfully limited, and Michael simply did not have enough ships to develop a good picture of the strategic situation.
"Any discernible pattern?"
"Yes sir," Suk said, and Michael frowned. "We received a new report from Deliverance five minutes ago. Detections declined over five hours to zero one hour ago, not unusual with the traffic patterns they've been observing. But now the sentries are reporting six discrete shadows accelerating on a vector toward our station."
The jinn were responding. It had taken them a day, but they were responding at last. Michael inhaled slowly and carefully.
"Time to arrival?"
"At least two days if they continue current acceleration. If they have to decelerate, that will be closer to four."
"Very well," Michael folded his hands together, "order the Deliverance's group to follow the underway shadows. Make preparations to regroup the rest of the flotilla on us."
"Yes, sir" Suk acknowledged, and began entering commands into his console.
While he did that, Michael called up the feed from the Liberator's external cameras onto his monitor.
Unmagnified, the surface of the moon below was dark and dull. But its unremarkable appearance belied its history. The moon was named Titania, after a magical character in some infidel story from long before the Hijrah. In humanity's final years before that crisis, it had been settled by aliens who had given mankind its first hope for survival.
Michael knew he was allowing emotional sentiments to interfere with his decision; but his faith taught him to love, and even he could not fully detach himself from the enormity of what he must do. The Tadpoles had saved humanity, without them the Hijrah would not have been possible. All of Michael's Mujahideen, every Fedayeen, and the entire Fleet, owed their existence to the aliens.
But the Tadpoles had not been so fortunate. Their homeworld was beyond the Line. The jinn had consumed it. None of their ships had escaped.
Michael increased the magnification of the cameras. Without a true atmosphere, his view of the surface was clear. There was no longer any hint of the original colony. The jinn had claimed it all. The wicked spires of their dark temples covered a quarter of the moon's surface. Michael could not even begin to fathom how many Tadpoles the jinn must have imprisoned within that grim outpost like so much cattle.
Only they would not be true Tadpoles. They would be the same soulless, lifeless, mindless husks which the jinn made of all their captives. The Tadpoles were dead, what remained on Titania were only ghosts, a cruel memory of the species. All were thralls of the jinn now. Michael knew this, and still he had ordered that attempts be made to establish communication with the settlement. Silence had been the only answer, as he'd known it would be. But he'd still felt the need to try, if only because he did not want to ask God to forgive him for what he knew he had to do.
"There has been no change of any kind on the surface, Brother Suk?" he asked one last time.
"No, sir," the tactical officer said. Michael noticed that he had finished inputting his other orders. Everyone on the bridge was looking at him.
"Then I release the weapons to you," he said, and tapped a command on his own console. "Burn it all."