Artemis. A black arrow. Pebble smooth. Darker than the vacuum.

She slid gently from the lunar berth. Space-Tugs attached themselves to her underbelly, lifting her from the concrete hangar. The grey crater-stricken wastes of Mare Nectaris stretched away into the north and west; to the south, rocky slopes extended into hills, then sheer cliffs. Directly beneath, at the centre of this desolation, were the tell-tale signs of human activity. Domes. Lights. Movement.

This was Base Beaumont, a massive shipyard, constructed on the shores of Mare Nectaris, home to the collected engineering genius of Earth Command’s Starfleet. Here minds of scientific enquiry and endeavour masterminded and constructed craft of peril and power. Beaumont was an inspiring sight, a testimony to the technological innovations of homo sapiens sapiens, replete with massive hangars, towering cranes, and swivelling lazer turrets. The womb of Artemis.

This child of Beaumont embodied the finest principles of human military thinking; twin nuclear reactors combined to provide her with unprecedented thrust; sharp, streamlined dimensions made her swift, agile.

With a crew of five, Artemis was the supreme example of human-machine symbiosis. Informed by sensitive intelligence gathering instruments humans controlled decision-making, allocating tasks to the complex computer systems, tasks then carried out with unmatched speed, accuracy, and efficiency.

Seated at the Captain’s console, Wilkes smiled. She felt the nuclear power of Artemis coursing through her veins; the bristling weapons sharpened her mind. Her third assignment, and her most prized - what most space-jockeys only dream about. For Wilkes commanded the most sophisticated weapon of human inventory; armoured, stealthy, destructive. Artemis was lethal in all respects. As Artemis gradually gained altitude, Wilkes amused herself by concocting mission profiles, imagining the spectacular role of Earth Command’s latest weapon: Artemis as a counter-insurgent, infiltrating Sedition territories, terrorising them with their own guerrilla tactics; Artemis purging and purifying the Outer System of freelancers and pirates - ridding Free Space of their cunning and deceits; Artemis, the vanguard of Human Dominion, a peace-keeper, a policeman, an agent of uncompromising law.

An avid student of ancient military history, Wilkes imagined Rhodes of Africa, and his unquenchable thirst for discovery and conquest, or Nelson, surveying the seas from the helm of Victory, awaiting the French and Spanish battle fleets off the Cape of Trafalgar.

It was almost a sensual pleasure, she thought. No, primal. Somewhere in her mind the command of this powerful vessel activated a desire to explore, to hunt, to kill, like her ancestors millennia before.

Wilkes’ intelli-file classified her as an exceptional leader, astute, intuitive, and disciplined. She was not a beautiful woman, not like the glossy, painted women who draped themselves over the Our Space magazine covers. She had never desired beauty, nor was she contemptuous of those who possessed it. It was simply irrelevant. She possessed a far greater power - intelligence, perception, an empathic ability to assume her enemies’ role, to predict the next move. Wilkes had a reputation as a ruthless and experienced combatant, and she believed passionately in Earth Command objectives. Her hair was greying; and buried deep within her long, sloping forehead were eyes that burned like neutron stars. Intensely.

Wilkes ran her hand down her white crewsuit, enjoyed the sensation of crisp material, glanced at the She-Bear insignia sewn onto the left breast. She rested her hand on her hip, caressed the smooth black holster and the grip of her impact pistol. The gun was an anachronism, an archaic Starfleet tradition. She controlled a far more powerful weapon.

‘Ignite the reactors,’ growled a voice like gravel, ‘prepare for drop-off.’ Grodo, the pilot, was gnarled and experienced, a veteran of civil war, a hard-head, a man of craggy composure. His stubby fingers flicked over switches, thumbed relays; he licked his lips, eyes narrowing, as he focused on the evac-beacon, now within visible range. ‘Please advise.’

Artemis, at last, was operational. Her maiden voyage. Three months of reconnaissance, milk runs and courier work, and Artemis would be coded Green, combat-ready. It was Wilkes’ job to calculate the readiness of Artemis. With readiness confirmed this crew would depart, and Wilkes would resume her command of the converted freighter Sage, an intelligence gatherer, the thought-centre of Nept. Sector. The Captain considered the task-at-hand. ‘Increase thrust.’ A tremor of power shook the hull. ‘Execute drop-off.’

Heavy G’s.

Stomachs lurched.

Grodo grinned, though he may easily have been grimacing.

The sliver of lunar surface beneath them dropped away, receding into the starfield. The Space-Tugs fired their own thrusters, scattering like fireflies. Artemis paused momentarily, as launch boosters cut out, and the great twin nuclear reactors that were her soul erupted into life, accelerating Artemis, dart-like, silently, into the blackness.

* * *

Wilkes surveyed operations from the bridge. At the extreme front of the cockpit Grodo slumbered like a stone at the pilot’s console, drop-off concluded. To Wilkes’ right, Hassah - communications - flicked switches and droned instructions. The central computer responded to voice. Hassah was slight, even petite, excepting her thick dark-skinned arms and hard, bladed hands. She was a true professional; cool, vigilant, responding sensitively to the complex demands of Artemis.

On the left, Needra - weapons - played combat simulations, engrossed in the outcomes. She was the youngest on board, not yet 30, tireless and rigorous, tactically brilliant. She was stocky, short. Her eyes were cold black beads that measured and analysed. The eyes of an assassin, Hassah had once joked, though nobody had laughed.

In a circular pit sunken behind the bridge was Star-Nav - navigation - a vast array of computer power; number-crunchers, artificial minds that ensured Artemis never got lost, mastered and cajoled by the brilliant Narg. Wilkes smiled down at him, and he nodded acknowledgment. A serious fellow was Narg, bespectacled and grim, iron grey hair, a gaunt face rarely touched by emotion.

Wilkes, still smiling, opened the sealed envelope that contained their orders. Sucking her teeth, she began to read:

To : Captain Wilkes, Artemis.

Mission profile : Re - ARTEMIS - induct - special operations.

Destination : Oort’s Cloud - Southern Sector

Objectives : Activate stealth capability - maintain radio silence - photoscan area - detect and confirm locations of suspected Seditionist military bases on comets;

0011 - 2B23 - CC33.

Special : Do not seek to engage hostiles. Sensitive shipboard system inboard - code Andromeda. Ensure system does not fall into enemy hands.

Navcard co-ordinates contained in envelope.

From: Admiral Begin, Starfleet, Earth Command.

Wilkes felt the hot surge of adrenalin through her veins.

Andromeda. It was aboard. Until now, human expansion had been restricted to the outer fringes of the solar system, though unmanned probes had been sent to Barnards Star and the Alpha Centauri system. With Andromeda, the potential for human expansion was limitless. It had many practical civil functions; its inventors had envisioned exploration, scientific research and discovery. Other minds, bureaucratic minds, military minds, imagined other uses. Trade. Colonization. The projection of human might.

Andromeda was an inter-galactic drive. It allowed a ship to ‘blink’ from one galaxy to another, to transcend known human experience like nothing before. A spacecraft could feasibly leapfrog across the universe, collecting data, finding sites fit for human settlement. As far as Wilkes knew, Andromeda had never been used. Artemis must carry an advanced prototype. At an Officers’ conference last year she had been briefed concerning its use and capabilities; she didn’t know Artemis had been adapted to carry this equipment. And she didn’t know how to programme destinations, or how to refuel it once used. Trained technicians had that privilege, technicians who would probably someday crew this ship.

And suddenly Wilkes realized what Artemis really was. She was the first of the inter-galactic wanderers - this craft would, with others, explore and pioneer the universe. Wilkes felt her spirits rise - she commanded the most vaunted emissary of human existence! She nearly laughed with pride.

Concentrate.

A milk run.

Wilkes doubted the possibility of any Seditionist or pirate activity in the area. Starfleet had only recently cleansed the region, had even established their own robot mines to deter rebels from using the ancient comets as launch and refuel points in guerilla actions against Earth Command. In any case, the Sedition were ill-equipped to battle a formidable adversary like Artemis.

The crew of Artemis had received numerous briefings concerning the Sedition and their deep space capabilities. The Sedition membership were something akin to space environmentalists, opposed to human imperialism, and who regarded Earth Command as polluters, spreading the filth and degradations of human dealings. Lacking funds and technology, they had waged civil war for two decades, launching hit and run attacks against remote colonial outposts, with only minor success. Wilkes despised them, considering them misanthropes, traitors to the worthy ideals of expansion and aspiration.

‘Grodo. Course correction. Transferring co-ordinates now.’ Wilkes slid the silver card into the driver beside her console.

Grodo jerked into action, fluid stone, snapping his fingers, contemplating readouts. ‘Confirmed. The codes check-out.’

Wilkes felt a breath on the nape of her neck. Startled, she whipped around, gasping. Narg floated in the zero gravity, impassive, still. ‘Oort’s cloud,’ he said, plainly.

* * *

Oort’s cloud, a vast sphere of cometary material, encircling the Sun, far beyond the orbit of Pluto. From here the Sun was no more than another bright star, paler than both Sirius and Canopus. Huge comet nucleuii, frozen stones of ice and dust, floated in stasis. Occasionally the immense gravity of passing stars would send groups hurtling sunwards, plummeting into the core of the solar system, and they would form spectacular tails, and become the famous comets of human experience. Most drifted silently for eternity, tired and ancient remnants of the cosmic powers unleashed during the formation of the solar system. Trillions of them.

Wilkes sipped her coffee, pressing the plastic straw against her teeth. The ship’s sensitive radars had been switched off, though she maintained the uses of her weaker passive array. An active radar would attract too much attention. The stealth systems had been activated; Artemis drifted and darted between the great balls of ice and dust, invisible, photoscanning, watching and listening carefully to the void for signs of habitation or activity.

Nothing.

Wilkes mocked herself for her present agitation. This, after all, was exactly what she had anticipated. She looked behind her. Narg was busy, unperturbed, tending his systems. No. Something was wrong, awry. She watched viewscan. Another comet passed close-by; CC33, about 12km in diameter, primarily rock. Wilkes was unsurprised when Hassah stiffened and reported.

‘We have a distress signal emanating from CC33. Triangulating now. Source appears to be located on the far side of CC33. Single ship source. Code complies with Earth Command standards. Please advise.’

Wilkes examined the data thoughtfully. This was not a rescue mission, and even if she were so inclined, Artemis did not possess the capability to extract or sustain any survivors.

There would, however, be no harm in collecting more data, and if a downed Starfleet vessel was located, as the distress code implied, Artemis could direct rescue and salvage ships to the site. She would have preferred to contact Earth Command immediately, but the present situation did not justify breaking radio silence.

‘Grodo, decelerate, let’s get closer to 33.’ She swallowed coffee, gulping.

Grodo grunted acquiescence. Squinting at the viewscan, absorbing data, he expertly brought Artemis alongside CC33.

‘Needra, launch the probe. Program for a... ah, full orbital recce.’ Needra’s black eyes flashed as she leapt to her console, tapping commands furiously. Wilkes sucked down the last of her coffee. ‘Hassah. Pilot the probe. Let’s see what’s down there.’

Hassah nodded. ‘Advised. Probe powering up, launch in exactly 3 minutes.’

The probe was a giant electronic eye. It was launched from a mother-ship and could then be remotely manoeuvred. With cameras capable of astonishing resolutions, the probe was ideal for scanning and charting asteroids and planetoids. Or finding wrecked ships.

‘Probe launched,’ said Hassah. ‘Manoeuvring. Switching probe images to viewscan.’ Hassah manipulated a small yoke - outside the probe began sharp shifts in direction. Wilkes watched viewscan intently as the mechanical eye descended on CC33, scrutinizing the images and data that the probe was reporting. ‘Orbiting the nucleuii now. We should have clear images of the far side in a few moments.’

Inexplicably, the probe slowed, accelerated, began jerking uncontrollably towards CC33. ‘Probe failure.’ The image on viewscan broke up in a crackle of static. Hassah fiddled with the yoke, attempting to steer the probe away from the rocky surface. It refused to respond, smashing into CC33, disintergrating. ‘Probe destroyed.’ Hassah sounded calm, almost casual. She began examining the last of the probe’s transmitted data, searching for a explanation. This time, her voice seemed strained. ‘Probe was jammed.’

Wilkes dried her hands on her crewsuit. The sweat left grey smudges on the fabric. Her instincts warned her. She had been into combat three times, and always the same alertness, intentness, came over her. It kept her alive.

‘Grodo, maximum acceleration, let’s get out of here!’ Wilkes barked the order.

An electronic pulse burst from CC33, illuminating Artemis like a nav-beacon. An alarm sounded into action.

‘We’ve been detected, advise hostiles in the vicinity,’ said Wilkes. ‘Engage radar.’ The powerful radar on board Artemis blazed into life. Wilkes looked at the scopes. ‘Nothing. They must be behind the nucleuii, or within the nucleuii itself.’ A tone of anxiety had crept into her voice.

Needra yelled, her voice sounding coarse and abrupt. ‘Incoming! Six rockets at 185. They’re behind us!’

Impossible. Another burst of electromagnetic radiation swept along the hull of Artemis. Wilkes studied the scopes. There they were. Their radars had revealed them. Four of them. A Sedition raiding group, and they were closing.

Grodo threw Artemis into a vicious loop, frantically trying to increase thrust as Needra activated the laser defence system. Four rockets were intercepted, the laser bursts obliterating them. One skipped off the heavily armoured aft - and deflected away into space. The last exploded above and behind the cockpit of Artemis.

Detonation. Concussion. Shock waves crushed them crew into their seats, then shook them violently. Grodo’s harness snapped, and he flew forward, cracking his skull on the forward console. The lights cut out, and blackness engulfed them.

There was a pause. Silence.

The emergency globes cut in, casting the cabin in a garish, scarlet light.

Wilkes steadied. Her eyes focused. Her mouth was dry. She was aware that she was bleeding, aware of pain. She looked at her right thumb, saw the exposed bone, noted that it was cruelly torn and twisted. ‘Hassah, status check,’ she managed to utter.

Hassah was busy, talking to the central computer, assessing damage. ‘Essentially undamaged. Some minor structural damage to the cockpit. Viewscan is down, med-lab is damaged. These functions will both be back on line in 5-10 minutes. Repairs commencing.’

Wilkes looked down at Grodo. His head was resting at an obscene angle. He was at least unconscious, probably dead.

Needra was staring at the scopes, her black eyes reflecting the greens and reds of the data readouts. ‘They’ve disappeared. They’re probably behind CC33, waiting to jump us again. Threat classified as extremely dangerous. Looks as if they were prepared for our arrival.’ The weapons expert paused, and her eyes narrowed vengefully. ‘Our nuclear assault torps are armed and ready. Please advise.’

Impossible, thought Wilkes. They must have known we were coming. ‘Grodo’s wounded. Hassah, pilot Artemis.’ Hassah was an experienced pilot and she could control the ship from her console.

‘Narg, look after the computers. It appears to be an ambush. Communicate our co-ordinates to Earth Command, see if there’s any reinforcements in the area.’ Wilkes turned around, looked directly into Narg’s eyes, was surprised to see them grey and spiteful; she watched his wiry fringe, damp with sweat, slide across his brow, as he tilted his head forwards. Her perceptions seemed to slow, as if she were viewing a frame advance in the Video Tacticians Lab at Beaumont.

Fast forward. ‘F--- you,’ he said, with venom. ‘And f--- Earth Command.’ With a jerk he raised his impact pistol, snapped off two shots. The bullets smashed into a screen beside Wilkes, spraying her with glass, lashing her face. Thousands of tiny shards of glass filled the cabin, like rubies, incandescent and hypnotic. Needra was the first to respond, swivelling in her chair, unstrapping her harness, drawing her gun from its holster. Before she could level and fire, Narg had swallowed the barrel of his pistol. A muffled report. Bone and blood seemed to erupt from the base of his skull. He slumped forward in his harness, his eyes already glazing over, drained of spite. Of life. Wilkes watched, beguiled, as Narg’s black-rimmed glasses slid slowly down his nose, then drifted away, as if they had been jettisoned. Closing her eyes to the scarlet jewels of light, now mingling with globs of Narg’s blood, Wilkes became aware of the painful hammering of her heart, the numb shock of respiration.

Wilkes’ mind whirled with possibilities, with shock. Known we were coming. Narg must have known the content of the orders, must have communicated their destination to the Sedition, must have known they were carrying Andromeda. She had never before suspected the possibility of espionage. Narg! A traitor? A Sedition agent? A sleeper? They had worked together for two years, had been friends - no, more than friends, comrades. Impossible. Impossible that they should fail. No.

‘Commander, get a handle. We have a situation here. Please advise.’ Needra sounded harsh, irritable. ‘We’re sitting ducks!’

Wilkes stared vacantly at Needra. Her thumb pounded in agony, making her feel nauseous. The odds had never been stacked against her like this before. Always there had been back-up, the Sedition forces never more than a disorganized rout. She felt her face flush, her bladder tighten. Narg! Why? She pressed the ulna side of her palms into her eye-sockets, tried to clear her vision. It was impossible that he might be connected in some way to the Sedition. Dr Wood himself had given Narg clearance.

Focus. ‘I’ll look after the computers. Hassah, reverse us away from CC33. Needra, if anything pops out into view, eliminate it. As soon as we’re a hundred clicks away, let’s run. Re-activate stealth systems.’

‘Advised.’ Hassah said, as if in a trance.

A siren yelped. ‘Three more torpedoes, bearing 92. The whole belt is crawling with Sedition. They’re hidden amongst the comets!’ said Needra, battling hysteria. ‘Three more at bearing 275.’

The laser system challenged the first group of torpedoes, charging in from the starboard. The high powered bolts exploded them easily. The second group ploughed into the port of Artemis, rupturing her, twisting metal, leaving a gaping sore in her side. The great ship limped, surrounded by enemies.

‘We’re hit!’ screamed Needra, needlessly.

Wilkes didn’t want to die. That was clear now. She wasn’t going to die like this, not suffer this ignimony. She would not die like a common animal, afraid, at the hands of the Sedition rabble.

Somewhere within the blurring of her senses, the maelstrom of her mind, a clear voice compelled her to move to the pilot’s console. Andromeda. She would activate Andromeda. Artemis must survive, must fulfil its destiny as an inter-galactic traveller, must not fall prey to Sedition subterfuge! Wilkes gnashed her teeth in fury. She unstrapped herself, propelled herself from the bridge, and drifted towards the pilot console.

Captain Wilkes lifted Grodo gently from his seat, as if concerned that she might break his peaceful, shallow sleep. He floated towards the disabled viewscan, his head lolling hideously.

Nothing would wake him now.

Artemis was crippled; secondary explosions tore through her hull, sending great clouds of debris and pressurized oxygen billowing into space.

Sirens wailed.

‘Pluton Torpedoes, count three, bearing down 235,’ droned Hassah, though a single, glinting bead of sweat betrayed her terror. Pluton torpedoes were tipped with plutonium. The next hit would be their last.

‘Weapons are down!’ Needra alerted, her black eyes seeming to fade.

Wilkes strapped herself into the pilot’s seat. Needra and Hassah watched her, afraid to move, awaiting death.

Wilkes grinned grotesquely, saliva flecking her stretched lips. Will not die. She still had an ace up her sleeve, and she exulted to consider it.

‘Impact in exactly 60 seconds. Reactor drive damaged. Please advise.’ Hassah looked smaller, drawn, resigned to fate. The torpedoes wheeled and sprinted, carcass in sight, armed their proximity warheads, eager for their nuclear flash.

Wilkes activated the pilot’s command screen; frienzedly she began punching commands, ignoring the agony of her thumb. The Sedition would not have her, would not have Andromeda. She cackled maniacally, in triumph. Heart thumping, breath laboured. Bile caused her to cough.

A message flashed across the console. Andromeda drive initiated.

* * *

Drive bay.

Core drive hummed, colliding atoms crooning.

Deeper.

Past core drive, into the smooth, glistening black hull of Artemis, through endless, dim grey corridors, hissing shield doors, access lifts.

A room. Jet black. Octagonal. Corridors stretching off like spider limbs. A central pylon. Panels. Blinking electronic eyes, a mass of circuitry, a pulsing silicon brain.

Andromeda.

An inter-galactic drive.

The electronic eyes blinked green in recognition.

* * *

The torpedoes, confused, whirled relentlessly onwards, already scanning for alternative targets. Two selected a peanut-shaped comet, and impacted harmlessly upon its icy surface.

The third, utterly bewildered, self-destructed in a silent atomic spray

* * *

Dr Peter Wood, mission leader, Earth Command Special Forces, stood and stared at the sleek black communicator, concentrating deeply. He was a willowy man, with a creased face, and thick, coarse grey eyebrows. At this time of the morning, 2am, he was dressed in drab blue pyjamas. The desk lamp in his study left him half in shadow, like an eclipsed planet. A closer examination of his face revealed that he was worried. Jewels of sweat had formed in the creases in his brow, and his lips were thin and stretched. The hollows of his eyes were grey, shrivelled pits. He had not slept for forty-eight hours.

Seating himself, he pressed ‘replay’ on the communicator, as he had done four times in the last half hour. Once again, he scrutinized the tone of the voice, the intent, the word choice, as though attention to the slightest detail might save his life.

‘Dr Wood?’ the cold voice had queried.

‘Yes, Wood here, for God’s sake it’s-’

‘Yes, I know what time it is Dr Wood. I am authorised to relay a message to you. The message is ‘Artemis is lost.’ The voice paused. ‘I repeat, Dr Wood, ‘Artemis is lost’. Admiral Begin requests that you tidy this up. All available intelligence has been dumped in your file. Please report back on the secure channel by 0600 hours. Lateness will not be tolerated. That is all, Dr Wood.’

Sighing hard, shivering from exultation and fear, Wood activated his computer console.