USS Crusader: Echoes of Sheentah

Book 16: USS Hamilton

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

Genres: Colonization; Space Exploration; Military Sci-Fi

Synopsis

The enemy didn't go extinct. They went hunting.

Retired (again) from the U.S. Space Navy and settling into ranch life with Captain Gail Pristy—the woman he loves—Quintos thought his war-fighting days were behind him. Then Admiral Gilbert called in an old debt, and suddenly he's back aboard USS Crusader—once the most powerful omninought in the fleet, now stripped down and converted into a glorified luxury liner for wealthy colonists.

But the mission to escort passengers to a newly terraformed world goes sideways the moment a group of massive warships appear at the wormhole exit. Ships that shouldn't exist. Ships belonging to the Sheentah—an alien species everyone believed went extinct three centuries ago.

They didn't go extinct. They went into hiding. And they've been waiting. For three hundred years, the Sheentah have been baiting traps across the galaxy, luring unsuspecting colonists to harvesting grounds where they extract genetic material in a desperate search for a cure to the disease destroying their species. Now they've found what they're looking for—and she's one of Quintos's own crew.

Lieutenant Akari James isn't just a prisoner. She's the genetic key to Sheentah's survival. They will never let her go.

With an undermanned ship, a skeleton fleet, and a ChronoBot slowly losing his mind to enemy programming, Quintos faces impossible odds. Thousands of human captives. Twelve alien dreadnoughts. And a ticking clock before the enemy jumps away forever.

Then the message arrives: Ranch under attack. Bastion alive. Help. A thousand light-years from home, Quintos can do nothing as Pristy and his niece Sonya fight for their lives against a Pylor warlord everyone thought was dead. Two battles. Two fronts. And no way to be in both places at once.

Some debts cost more than you ever agreed to pay.

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Release date: December 26, 2025

Publisher: Avenstar Productions

Print pages: 442

Sample

Chapter One USS Crusader Captain Galvin Quintos Somewhere deep in space… Day three of a six-day transit to the Liberty Worlds System, specifically the planet of Topiaris. Three months retired, peaceful time at the ranch with Pristy—then Admiral Gilbert called. Reminded me about a certain still-yet-to-be-paid obligation owed. Sooner rather than later. It was complete bullshit. But here I am anyway. I sat within the padded confines of USS Crusader's captain's mount. Glancing up, a million-billion stars twinkled back at me via the 360° HatBand viewport. We were in between manufactured wormhole transits, a time necessary for the omninought's two massive propulsion drives to cool down to within nominal operating levels. Somewhere on Deck 52, passengers were attending a zero-gravity wine tasting in the Sommelier lounge. I'd seen the event schedule. Two thousand credits per person to sample wines while floating. Meanwhile, my crew was monitoring plasma temperatures that could vaporize the entire ship if they spiked three degrees. Soon enough, we would be entering our third wormhole. Everything was being done by the book. Word had come down from the highest level, safety protocols would be strictly enforced. That's what happens when you have thirty-two hundred quasi-tourists packed into what used to be one of the U.S. Space Navy's most feared warships. My minimized fifteen-hundred-person crew pretended this was normal duty. It wasn't. This was punishment dressed as logistics. The passenger manifest read like a celebrity directory—politicians, entertainment moguls, tech billionaires, the kind of people who considered luxury a baseline expectation rather than a privilege. EUNF had promised them "the ultimate frontier experience in uncompromising comfort." Marketing had delivered gold-embossed brochures with deck-by-deck amenities: three restaurants with real-Earth imported ingredients, an infinity pool with simulated ocean views, a botanical garden spanning two full decks, private suites larger than most single-family apartments. Grimes sat at Helm, shoulders hunched, jaw working like he was chewing words he couldn't say. He knew what everyone knew: we were glorified bus drivers now. I had been surprised to see Stephan Derrota amongst the crew. As of late, he had been assigned to the EUNF think tank labs back on earth, working on one of his pet projects. It was a type of smart avatar construct—the top-secret project having been coined Virtual Quantum Simulation. Some of them called it Virt-Q-SIM, but currently, it is simply referred to as the Q-SIM project. Apparently, Derrota had made a condition of his deployment… that his onboard lab here on USS Crusader mirror the same technologically sophisticated engineering and development facilities back at the EUNF. At present, Derrota worked the science station, recalibrating harmonic drift for the third time this shift. Busy work. Everything worked, everything was fine, everything was boring as hell. The lighting was dimmed for "passenger comfort"—make it feel like a cruise, not a planet-cracker. My scarred thumb ached. The old Varapin injury always flared under stress. The bridge auto-hatch slid open—Lieutenant Blunderton entered, tactical commander currently moonlighting as passenger liaison. Her collar had been smoothed twice already, hands rarely still. Here it comes… complaint thirty-seven today. I saw it in her eyes before she spoke. Blunderton had been through three weeks of mandatory hospitality training. EUNF had brought in actual cruise ship directors to teach tactical officers how to smile through complaints, de-escalate entitled passengers, and maintain "brand standards." She'd aced the course. Told me she hated every second. "Captain, I apologize for the interruption, but⁠—" "Which VIP wants what this time?" She winced. "Mr. Castellane is requesting that we adjust our approach vector. The current trajectory creates gravitational fluctuations that are disrupting his meditation schedule." I closed my eyes. Counted to three. "His meditation schedule?" I'd seen Castellane's suite on the manifest. Deck 47, forward section—floor-to-ceiling viewports, private meditation chamber with "quantum-attuned acoustics" (whatever the hell that meant), bathroom fixtures made from actual Italian Carrara marble shipped from Earth. His suite alone cost more than my annual salary. "Yes, sir. He mentioned his relationship with Governor Bromley several times. He's threatening to file a formal complaint with EUNF if we don't accommodate." "Tell Mr. Castellane that gravity doesn't care about his meditation, and we're maintaining course." "Sir, there's a broader concern." She hesitated. "It's not just one passenger. Several passengers have requested that we slow our approach prior to the next wormhole junction… um… to allow for scenic viewing opportunities of the Rygol Nebula, which should come fully into view within the next hour or so." The Observation Deck lounges—three of them, spanning Decks 55 through 57—had been specifically designed for moments like this. Floor-to-ceiling diamond-glass viewports, rotating platforms for optimal viewing angles, and champagne service. But apparently, passing the nebula at scheduled velocity wasn't scenic enough. Grimes made a sound between a laugh and a groan. "Mr. Grimes, would you care to explain the exasperated time-to-destination domino effect caused by a lack of adherence to timetable protocols?" "Time‑to‑destination is no longer constant because time itself ceases to behave predictably when relative velocity surpasses light speed. According to Einstein’s special relativity, as an object approaches the speed of light, its time relative to a stationary observer dilates—slows down…" Blunderton waved away Grimes’ ramblings. Offering up a condescending smile, she said, “Gee, thank you, Thom. I must have slept through all those weeks studying astrophysics and space-time relativity at the academy.” "Ms. Blunderton, inform our guests that their request is impossible. And do so with that customer service smile you have become so proficient at." "Yes, sir," she said, turning to leave, her left hand stopping mid-motion on the way to her collar. Derrota spoke without looking up. "Galvin, I would like to address the harmonic drift we encountered during the last wormhole transit. Sure, it was within nominal range, but still… with half our sensor redundancy stripped so that it can power that immersive Central Park retreat on Decks 98/99⁠—" "Yup. Noted and logged, Stephan. We're all happy you're keeping an eye on that for us." Derrota glanced over to me, my smile letting him know I was purposely being patronizing. My TAC-Band vibrated. Hardy's voice came through, calm with that edge of mischief… meaning he'd done something technically correct but socially questionable. "Cap, civilian requesting guidance to the nearest restroom." I waited. "And you directed him where?" "Deck 47 waste reclamation. About two miles through maintenance corridors. He seemed displeased with the walking distance and ambiance." "Why are you bothering me with this trivial BS, Hardy? That's the fourth time today." "Precisely. I'm establishing a pattern. Perhaps they'll learn to read deck maps, which would reduce my workload considerably." "Or file more complaints. And thinking about it, you don't have any workload." "Now that hurts, Cap. Who do you think changes all those out-of-reach light bulbs in the boiler room?" Grimes snorted. Derrota's mouth twitched into almost a smile. "Last I checked, this isn't an 18th-century ocean barge. No boiler rooms. And no light bulbs." * * * Twenty minutes later, we were back within the surrounding blue plasma energetics of a manufactured wormhole. Our propulsion drives droned on with their familiar cadence while I tried not to think about where I wanted to be. I had had three months of quiet—me and Pristy at our Coyotes Crossing Ranch. The grove of aspens had just started to lose their leaves as fall was transitioning to winter—the smell of morning coffee brewing on the stove—actual peace. Then Gilbert destroyed all that. Derrota went very still. His fingers stopped moving, and that particular stillness made my combat instincts fire. Something was wrong, but he was processing first—the mark of a veteran. "Captain." His voice was quiet, careful. "Crusader's forward telemetry relays just went dark." I sat forward. "Clarify." "All six remaining telemetry relays providing our relative position as well as distance to our outpoint—what would be our final approach to the Liberty Worlds System—have gone offline. Simultaneously." "Power failure? Scheduled maintenance?" Margot Kemp, seated at the station directly behind Derrota, joined the conversation. "Sir, telemetry relays have triple-redundant power systems and fail-safes specifically designed to prevent this scenario. They're spaced roughly 3,000 feet apart—each on its own dedicated closed loop system." She looked at Derrota, looking bewildered. "All six failing simultaneously is statistically impossible," Derrota said. "Someone took them out deliberately." "Two questions. First, how will those nonfunctioning telemetry relays affect our current droned on with their familiar cadence while I tried not to think about where I wanted to be. I had had three months of quiet—me and Pristy at our Coyotes Crossing Ranch. The grove of aspens had just started to lose their leaves as fall was transitioning to winter—the smell of morning coffee brewing on the stove—actual peace. Then Gilbert destroyed all that. Derrota went very still. His fingers stopped moving, and that particular stillness made my combat instincts fire. Something was wrong, but he was processing first—the mark of a veteran. "Captain." His voice was quiet, careful. "Crusader's forward telemetry relays just went dark." I sat forward. "Clarify." "All six remaining telemetry relays providing our relative position as well as distance to our outpoint—what would be our final approach to the Liberty Worlds System—have gone offline. Simultaneously." "Power failure? Scheduled maintenance?" Margot Kemp, seated at the station directly behind Derrota, joined the conversation. "Sir, telemetry relays have triple-redundant power systems and fail-safes specifically designed to prevent this scenario. They're spaced roughly 3,000 feet apart—each on its own dedicated closed loop system." She looked at Derrota, looking bewildered. "All six failing simultaneously is statistically impossible," Derrota said. "Someone took them out deliberately." "Two questions. First, how will those nonfunctioning telemetry relays affect our current any of them. It's like they've been physically destroyed or removed. NELLA can't talk to circuitry that is no longer there." "So, you're sure about this? Someone destroyed them?" "Or something." He pulled up additional data on his 3-D display. "Okay, here we go. Galvin, I'm detecting debris. Metallic fragments, composition consistent with telemetry relays materials. They were definitely destroyed at their locations." I glanced up to the encircling overhead HatBand viewport, where blue-white plasma rippled past, hypnotic and deadly. We were inside folded space-time, traveling faster than light through a corridor barely wider than the ship. Nothing should exist in here except us and that all-too-unforgiving plasma. "NELLA bring us to battle stations. I want all hands to emergency positions." Yes, Captain. We are now at battle stations. Ms. Kemp, I want every functional sensor scanning for anomalies." The alarms started wailing, klaxons that would make passengers scream on a dozen decks. They'd complain later. Let them. "Copy that, sir," Margot Kemp said, working her board. "I'm picking up additional ship systems that have been tampered with. Whatever did this was thorough and systematic… but maybe had been forced to stop." She glanced my way with a shrug. "Meaning our saboteur is still in here with us." "That would be the concerning implication, yes." My TAC-Band vibrated again. It was Blunderton's voice, stress bleeding through: "Captain, passengers are panicking throughout the civilian sections. They're demanding to know what's happening⁠—" "Tell them we're experiencing minor technical difficulties that are completely normal. Keep them calm." "Sir, they heard the battle stations announcements⁠—" "Then tell them we're being cautiously prepared for any eventuality. Ms. Blunderton, do it with that customer service smile. That's an order." "Yes, sir." Six hours. Near blind navigation through a tunnel where the smallest error meant instant death. And something in here had systematically destroyed telemetry relays that should have guided us safely through. This retirement gig was going spectacularly. ...