Star Thrust (Working Title) - Prologue/Ch. 1

Pilot’s Log, Terran Date 12-07-2432. Time: 1400 hrs.

I find myself orbiting Far Space 5, the Vultarian station that satellites the planet of Vultar. I have been told that Captain Trebec of the U.S.S. George Washington will be waiting for me there with my next assignment.

Piloting the Patriot for the last two years running courier missions for the Allied Planetary Confederation has been quite the adventure, but I find myself tired of working mostly alone. If the Captain’s insinuations are to be believed, I might be granted a slightly larger vessel with a few crew members of my own to command. I am looking forward to such an assignment. It is of course the dream of many a young man to captain his own crew among the stars, and to think that at the young age of twenty-five I might already be achieving this goal in some modest form humbles me beyond belief.

However, I am managing my expectations. It would be rare indeed for such a command of any scope to be offered to someone with my limited experience. Moreover, my scores at the academy, while more than passing, were not all exemplary, and I did not graduate with honors like a few of my peers—all who have yet to establish their own captainhood, so far as I know. All this to say I find myself wondering just what might make me uniquely suited for such an assignment.

And yet, here I am, about to be reassigned. Computer, end recording.

The New Captain

Officer Jay Callahan-Hawke, known primarily as Lieutenant Hawke, docked his vessel deftly in the Vultarian starport. The magnetic clamps engaged with a satisfying thunk that reverberated through the Patriot’s hull. He ran through the shutdown sequence, his fingers moving across the controls while his mind wandered ahead to the meeting with Captain Trebec.

Twenty minutes later, he stepped onto the promenade with his duffel slung over one shoulder.

The Vultarian station always impressed him. The architecture favored clean lines and efficient use of space, but there was an aesthetic quality to it that human stations often lacked. The corridor opened into a vast commercial district where storefronts of various sizes lined both sides of the walkway. Overhead, a transparent dome revealed the swirling orange and red atmosphere of Vultar below.

Hawke walked past a group of Tribbs gathered near what looked like a bar. Their pale skin almost glowed under the station’s lighting, and their solid black eyes followed him briefly before returning to their own conversation. One of them gestured with a frail-looking hand, her antennae twitching as she made some point to her companions.

The diversity of species present always struck him as remarkable. There were humans everywhere, of course, but also Vultarians with their characteristically sharp features and perpetually stern or otherwise neutral expressions. A pair of Kandorians passed by, too. Near a textile shop, he spotted a hulking Grendari examining bolts of fabric with almost comical delicacy given his massive hands.

Most of these species looked remarkably humanoid. It wasn’t a coincidence. The prevailing theory among xenobiologists held that some ancient progenitor race had seeded the galaxy with the building blocks of life millions of years ago. When those seeds took root on different worlds under different conditions, evolution followed similar but divergent paths. The result was a galaxy full of species that could recognize themselves in each other even as they remained distinctly alien.

That commonality had made first contact far less jarring than the old science fiction stories predicted. When humanity finally cracked wormhole technology and ventured beyond their own system, they found neighbors and friendly faces instead of incomprehensible monsters from beyond. The Allied Planetary Confederation formed not long after, though not without considerable diplomatic growing pains and a war or two for good measure.

A Vultarian woman passed close enough that Hawke caught a hint of her perfume. She wore the traditional maroon robes of a merchant class citizen, a color that looked odd against her pale skin. Her dark hair was cropped short, and her stark green eyes met his for just a fraction of a second before she looked away. No smile. Vultarians didn't really do smiles. The best he ever got was just that brief, neutral glance.

He’d always found Vultarian women intensely attractive. There was something about their sharp, flawless features and the way they carried themselves with such control and severity. But that control was also the problem. Vultarians prized logic and emotional discipline above nearly everything else. Romance with them was complicated. Not impossible, but it required a level of patience and understanding that most humans found frustrating.

And then there was the other issue. The biological one.

Humans and aliens couldn’t produce offspring together. Not naturally. The genetic divergence was too great, even with the theoretical common ancestor. Hawke wanted children someday. He’d always imagined a family, maybe settling down on one of the colony worlds after his service years were complete. That dream didn’t mesh well with cross-species relationships.

So he appreciated the view and kept his fantasies to himself.

The restaurant Captain Trebec had specified was near the central hub of the promenade. Hawke spotted it easily enough. The sign proclaimed it to be the “Stellar Fork,” and through the windows he could see a mixture of species occupying the tables within. He pushed through the entrance and immediately spotted Trebec at a corner table.

Captain James Trebec stood as Hawke approached. He was an older man, probably in his late fifties, with gray streaking through his dark hair and the kind of wrinkle-lined face that came from decades on the job. His uniform was immaculate, as expected of any officer of his station.

Trebec extended his hand. “Lieutenant Hawke.”

Hawke clasped it firmly. “Captain Trebec. Thank you for meeting with me, sir.”

“At ease, Lieutenant. Have a seat.”

They settled into their chairs. A Kandorian server approached and asked if they needed menus.

Trebec waved him off. “We’ll need a few minutes.” The server nodded and departed with a short bow, leaving the pair of confederation men alone together.

“How was the journey from Sector Seven?” Trebec asked.

“Uneventful, sir. The Patriot performed admirably as always.”

“Good little boat, that one. You’ve taken excellent care of her from what I’ve read in your reports.”

Hawke nodded. “I do my best, sir.”

They continued in this vein for a few minutes, trading professional pleasantries Hawke coud almost recite by heart, in order. These were the standard bullshit chit-chats between officers of different ranks, and though it had never been codified as some official point of protocol, it really could feel like it sometimes. Hawke could feel his impatience building, but he kept it carefully under wraps. You didn’t rush a captain, especially one who was jangling the keys to your future assignment.

Finally, Trebec seemed to relax slightly. His posture shifted, becoming less formal. Was this it? Was he ready to get down to business?

“I imagine you’ve been wondering what this is all about.”

“The thought has crossed my mind, sir.”

Trebec smiled at that. “I’ll bet. You’ve been running courier missions for the last two years. You were an ensign on the U.S.S. Liberation before that, mostly working in the engine room and, from what I gather, frequently sent into harm's way on away missions by a careless captain about to retire. Your record is full of good work, but I know none of it is what most young officers dream of.”

Hawke shifted in his seat. “I serve where I’m needed, sir. For the record, I liked Captain Graves. He was adventurous, but he wasn't at all a coward, and his crew and he made a difference.”

“They made a mess just as often, present company not included, of course. Anyway, spare me the academy lines, Hawke.” But thankfully Trebec’s tone was warm when he said it. “You want a command of your own. You want a crew. You want to actually chart your own course instead of ferrying data chips between administrative posts and following someone else's orders.”

Hawke felt his guard drop slightly. “Yes sir. I do.”

Trebec gestured to the server, who had reappeared nearby. “Then you’re in luck. Let’s order. I recommend the Vultarian spiced cresh. It’s an acquired taste, but this place does it better than most.”

Hawke swallowed air and nodded. “I’ll trust your judgment, sir.”

Trebec ordered for both of them, adding a request for something called Kandorian hard cider. The server departed again, leaving them alone in their corner.

Hawke leaned forward slightly. “Sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you seem to enjoy keeping me in suspense here. What exactly is my assignment? Any hints, at least? When is the promotion ceremony? Am I joining someone else’s bridge crew, or...” He let the hope creep into his voice. “Am I getting command of my own vessel? Even a small one with just three or four crew would be—”

Trebec held up a hand. “Hawke.”

His expression shifted. The warmth remained, but something else crept in. Caution, maybe. Or concern. He glanced around the restaurant, checking nearby tables. Then he leaned in and lowered his voice.

“What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this table. Not yet. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“The Confederation keeps biological data on every member of Star Force. You knew that already, I’m sure.”

Hawke nodded. Everyone knew that. Regular physicals, genetic screening for hereditary diseases, blood type on file in case of emergency transfusions. Standard procedure, nothing to write an op ed about.

Trebec studied his face for a moment. “What you don't know is that we’ve been working on something. A treatment. An injection, really. It’s designed to bridge the genetic gap between humans and our alien cousins.”

Hawke blinked. “Sir?”

“You heard me. We’ve developed a serum that could potentially allow for interspecies compatibility. Reproduction, Hawke. Children.”

Hawke sat back in his chair. If that was true, if they’d actually cracked that particular problem, it would change everything. Diplomatic relations, cultural exchange, the very nature of the Confederation itself would turn upside down. It was hard to overstate the sort of far reaching changes that would cause.

Trebec continued before he could respond. “But there’s a problem. The serum exists, but we haven’t been able to test it properly. We screened the entire database looking for an ideal candidate, someone whose genetic profile suggested the highest compatibility with the current version of the serum. We did find one candidate, in the end, whose name came back time and time again with a near one hundred percent chance of success in bonding with the injection.”

“Mine,” Hawke said quietly.

“Yours indeed.” Trebec nodded. “You’re the ideal test subject, Lieutenant. Your genetic markers, immune response patterns, and your physical health profile are all a match. If one line in your DNA signature was off by a hair, it might not be so, but as it is, everything lines up perfectly.”

The server returned with their drinks and meals, but by this time, food was the last thing on his mind. Both men leaned back, staying silent until it was all arranged and they were alone again. Hawke stared down at the strange dish on his plate. Steam rose from it, carrying an aroma that was simultaneously spicy and sweet.

Trebec raised his glass. “Before we go any further, let me offer a toast. To your future success as a captain in the Confederation.”

Hawke picked up his own glass automatically. His mind was still trying to catch up with the conversation. A captain. Trebec had just called him a captain, so that was good, but it didn't really seem to fit with the current conversation. He clinked his glass against Trebec’s and took a cautious sip. The Kandorian cider was smoother than he expected, with a slight burn that warmed his throat.

Trebec cut into his meal, took a bite, and then continued in a lower tone. “This mission is beyond top secret, Lieutenant. There are factions within the Confederation, even within Terra’s own government, that would try to shut down this research if they knew about it. We can't let them succeed. The human supremacy movement has been gaining traction lately. You’ve heard about it.”

“Hard to miss, sir.”

Trebec’s jaw tightened. “If they get their way, we'd end up in a stellar war that would likely see us and most of our allies wiped off the galactic map by the end of it all. They’d see this serum as an abomination. A dilution of humanity’s genetic purity, or some such nonsense. Vice Admiral Montgomery, my commanding officer, wants this research completed in silence. Once we have irrefutable proof that it works, we release the findings publicly before anyone can bury them. Montgomery believes that functional interspecies families are the key to bringing humanity closer to our allies. To earning a much bigger seat at the Confederation table, and securing galactic peace for years to come.”

Hawke picked up his fork and prodded at his food. “What exactly is it you need me to do, sir? Are you assigning me to some hidden moon base laboratory? Taking samples all day? Do you just need me to sign some waivers, or what?”

“If only it were that simple.” Trebec shook his head. “We can’t have you disappearing in some secret lab. Your courier experience means too many top brass know your name, and some of them will check on you. Lab assignments require top-level clearance, and the facility that supposedly developed this serum is already a fabrication on paper. No, we need you visible. We need you in space, performing your tests in secret while also conducting legitimate exploratory and trade missions that you can share with high command.”

Hawke’s pulse quickened. “You’re giving me a ship.”

“Correct. The U.S.S. Bruce Campbell. She’s a science vessel, well-equipped for her class. You’ll have a bridge crew of four, not counting yourself, plus an engineering crew of five. General maintenance, fabricators, comfortable accommodations. The ship can hold about fifty passengers if needed, but you’ll start with closer to fifteen total personnel.”

His own ship. His own crew. Hawke felt a rush of adrenaline that he immediately tried to control. He was a Confederation officer. He could maintain his composure.

“That’s...” He cleared his throat. “Sir, that’s incredible. I accept, wholeheartedly. Just tell me how to send you whatever data you need.”

Trebec took another bite of his meal. “There can’t be a paper trail. Your captain’s logs that relate to your true mission will be locked down to your ship only. You'll do additional logs for any other tasks you complete that are more standard for a ship of your type, and artificial logs will be generated each day for the official record to fill in any gaps, in case you’re ever forced to host a nosy superior officer.”

“I understand, sir. But what exactly is my mission? What will I actually be doing?”

Trebec set down his fork. “You’d better have another drink first.”

Hawke felt something cold settle in his stomach. He took a longer pull from his glass, feeling the warmth spread through his chest.

“Sir?”

“You’re being assigned an all-female crew. Your bridge in particular is four alien women, specifically selected. All of them are exceptionally qualified for their positions, of course. But they were also chosen for other factors. Attractiveness, fertility, youth, agreeability. They each have many fertile years remaining.”

Hawke’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. His eye twitched.

Trebec met his gaze with a sigh. “They’ve been briefed. What few of them aren’t aboard the ship already are here in Far Space 5, waiting to board. Each of them has studied your psychological profile, your biological data, and your service record. They’ve all volunteered for this mission willingly. In fact, all four were particularly impressed by your actions on Nigel IV.”

Nigel IV. Where he’d held position in a deteriorating defensive line long enough for two hundred colonists to evacuate ahead of the Snergle infestation. He’d earned a commendation for that, and the trauma he experienced on that mission was a big part of why they decided to give him a cushy courier gig for a while, even if he didn't particularly want it. He still had nightmares about Nigel IV sometimes.

Trebec continued, his voice still low. “In addition, you’ll have a female medical officer uniquely suited to this mission, but she will rendezvous with you at a later date. She’ll help manage the biological aspects of the mission. Monitoring your virility and fertility throughout the process, as well as helping the women aboard the ship handle their issues.”

Hawke finally managed to close his mouth. He set down his fork and forced himself to swallow the food he’d been chewing.

“Sir, I need you to spell this out for me. Clearly.”

Trebec met his eyes directly. “Your mission is to establish romantic and sexual relationships with your bridge crew. To engage with them physically. And ultimately, Lieutenant, to produce viable pregnancies in each of them, which they will carry to term and raise with the Confederation's support. Even better if you can include some of your engine room and maintenance crew in the experiment. The more data the better.”

Hawke heard the words. He understood them on their own. But together they formed a picture that seemed completely surreal. The sounds of other diners talking and the clink of silverware became distant and muffled.

Trebec kept talking. “It won’t happen overnight. The serum is adaptive. As you’re exposed to their biologies, your own biology will mutate slightly, enhancing itself to meet the needs of your partners, and allowing them to do the same. Additionally, you’ll need to understand their cultures, their individual personalities, their sexual preferences. All this is important to the mission. This is as much a diplomatic mission as a biological one. Maybe more so.”

Hawke realized after a pause that it was his turn to speak. He shoved another bite of food into his mouth, chewing slowly to buy himself time. His mind spun through the implications as fast as it cuold. They wanted him to... with his crew... to produce children with alien women as part of a secret experiment to prove humanity could biologically integrate with other species.

It was insane.

It was also, if he was being honest with himself, not exactly a hardship assignment.

But what would it mean for his career? For his future?

He swallowed and took another drink. “Sir, I have to ask. Once this becomes public knowledge, once everyone knows what I did...” He struggled to find the right words. “Will I be able to maintain any kind of serious career? Or will I forever be labeled as the human guy who impregnated a lot of alien women? Will anyone take me seriously again?”

Trebec’s expression softened. “I don’t have a good answer for that, Lieutenant. I won’t lie to you. There’s a real possibility that certain circles will never let you forget it. But the Confederation will take care of you. At minimum, you’ll keep command of the Bruce Campbell and be able to continue with the women most bonded to you. The crew will remain with you as long as you all wish to continue, and resources for child-rearing will be provided in the form of nannies and tutors and anything else that may be necessary. As for promotions beyond that..." He spread his hands. “Unknown. But there’s also a very real possibility that you’ll be lauded as a hero. The Vultarians especially will have your back, and I could see a ceremonial ambassadorial post here on Far Space 5 or even on Vultar for your retirement. They’ve been funding significant portions of this research for their own reasons.”

“The Vultarians? Really?” That surprised him.

“They have their own interest in breaking down the barriers between species. Political, social, genetic. And they also prize their relationship with humankind as their closest allies and want to deepen those ties. They take the long view on these things.”

Hawke thought about the Vultarian woman on the promenade. That kind of ethereal beauty, around him at all times? It didn't seem so bad. This also seemed to imply that one of his bridge crew would be Vultarian. Probably his first officer, if he had to make an educated guess.

“I’ll take the command,” he heard himself say.

Trebec smiled broadly. “Good man. I thought you would.”

“When do I meet my crew?”

The Captain reached into his jacket. “Soon enough. But first things first.”

He pulled out what looked like a compact medical device. It could have been mistaken for a small energy pistol from afar.

“You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

“What are you—”

Trebec leaned across the table and pressed the device against Hawke’s neck. There was a sharp hiss of pressurized air and a sting like a wasp strike. Hawke jerked back, his hand flying to his neck.

“Son of a...”

Trebec tucked the device back into his jacket and chuckled to himself. “There. That’s done. The serum is in your system now. It’ll take a few days to fully integrate, but you’re officially part of the program, Lieutenant. Congratulations.”

Hawke rubbed his neck, feeling a small raised bump where the injection had gone in. “A little warning would have been nice, sir.”

“If I’d warned you, you’d have tensed up. Better to just get it done.” Trebec picked up his fork again. “Now finish your meal. We need to hail your ship. They should be docking soon, and your new crew is waiting to meet their captain.”