TAV Dewdrop Sol
The last time Tweetie had left Sol, his wing hadn’t ached and he hadn’t had a view. Instead he’d been dressed in full powered armor and bundled into a cramped troopships with the rest of his platoon. The troopship had been hidden in a cargo container, and the cargo container had been slipped onto an intercepted Compact freighter. Then they’d spent a week pissing into catheters and vying for the two square meters of deck space not filled with crash couches or weapons.
It had been miserable, but at least then there’d been been the promise of return. When their operation was over, they’d known they could come home. This time the fleeing Terrans had no such guarantee. They might never return to Sol, or they might return too late to save anything.
The view was pretty, though.
The Dewdrop rode near the back of the Terran formation, and the bridge’s main viewscreen showed most of the fleet. Civilian ships were highlighted in green, armed naval auxiliaries in orange, and warships sported deep crimson outlines. Watching the fleet move was like staring down the grip of a blood-tipped spear, aimed at the Sol gate and launched with the force of an entire species. There were thousands of ships in the formation.
Tweetie could pick out the odd vessel built in the blocky Compact style rather than the sleek and predatory shapes the Terrans favored. Those were Remnant Flock ships, once more fleeing a defeated system. He still didn’t know how many Nedji had made it off Mars, but he wasn’t about to look. This evacuation wasn’t about any one race. It was about Terrans.
Behind them, a handful of civilian ships separated the Dewdrop from a small rearguard of heavy cruisers. The warships were manned by volunteers, and they were the only line of defence against the pursuing replicators. Few of them were expected to make it through the gate.
The combined footprint of more than four thousand impeller drives was hard to mask. They’d caught the attention of swarms orbiting Earth, Mars, and even pockets that were poking through the Belt. When they slowed for their final approach, their pursuers would overtake them. Their rearguard wouldn’t be enough. They’d be overwhelmed. But they couldn’t spare any more of their remaining warships for the rear. There were replicators waiting for them at the gate, too.
Roughly a third of the invader’s force had never ventured into the solar system, content to buzz around the gate like a giant swarm of locusts. When they’d sensed the fleets approach, they’d formed up into a wall.
Every surviving Terran dreadnought was clustered at the spear’s tip, ready to carve a path for the vulnerable civilian transports. Auxiliary forces — little more than merchant vessels and private yachts that boasted anti-piracy weaponry — would try and stop the replicators from closing back in, and the rearguard was already seeding mines behind the fleet. With luck, they’d get most of the arks through the gate.
If not, there wouldn’t be much of a human race left to mourn their failure.
Unnamed Cutter Sol
The bridge of Marshal-Colonel Carl Weber’s cutter was spotless. In the seven hours since he’d volunteered to become the biggest mass-murderer in the history of mankind, the only thing he’d been able to do was clean, methodically scrubbing and sterilizing every surface in the tiny craft. He figured that, by now, the floor could have been used for a surgery. He also thought that it needed another pass.
He was parked in a dangerously low orbit around the sun, breathing out of his skinsuit’s air bottle. Every system on his cutter was powered down save two: a hard-line communications link with his payload, and a lone console to show the results. Weber was powerless to stop his gaze from drifting towards the display, or to stop himself from reading that same line of text over and over again.
WEAPON ARMED AND AWAITING COMMAND TO FIRE
There’d be no redemption for his crimes. Millions, perhaps billions of humans had hidden themselves throughout Sol. His wife and daughter had never made it off Mars. Thanks to him, they’d die. The hundreds of thousands of humans fleeing the system did so with the dim hope, however slight, of return. The Council would dangle that carrot out in front of the civilians to urge them forward. The Admiralty would rally with cries to take back their home system, to charge back in and rescue their trapped brethren. Thanks to him, they’d lie.
They wouldn’t do so knowingly, of course, but their men might not see it that way. If the Chairman’s orders ever came to light, it could rip the Terran Alliance apart. Weber didn’t worry about that now, though. They had to stop the pursuit, yet they had to leave the fleet hope. That meant they had to use the weapon.
WEAPON ARMED AND AWAITING COMMAND TO FIRE
Weber rose from where he’d been scrubbing the deck plating and walked to the back of the bridge, behind the crash couch. He should check the lubricant on the seat’s gimbling again. That was important. It was, of course, pure coincidence that he couldn’t see the display from here.
Ark-124 Sol
Kyla shifted her toe-claws around, desperately trying to settle them into a comfortable position. It was the damn EVA boots — she’d grabbed her fitted gloves when they’d evacuated Dallas, but it hadn’t even occurred to her to pack shoes. Askran weren’t much for footwear. Kyla had been forced to cram her massive shovel-like feet into the largest pair of human boots they had in the emergency locker. They felt about as comfortable as the bear-traps she’d seen in a human history books.
She’d already triple-checked her equipment. Thick heat-shielding coveralls snugged securely over her form-fitted vac suit. Emergency rebreather clipped securely in place on her belt. Fusion torch tucked in next to it. And a full seal on her suits, from her snout to her triple-toed feet.
Goddamn boots. She fidgeted her toe-claws again, then slumped her head in resignation. She’d just have to live with the itch.
Kyla was skimming through the ark’s floor plans, ensuring that she had it committed to memory, when she noticed her human partner frowning down at her. What was his name? Bruce? Boramere? No, that was a name from a human story. Benny? That didn’t sound right. Damn these humans and their endless names. The man had rattled more than eight syllables when they’d been paired, and Kyla had tried to fix all three in her mind. She’d barely held onto the first letter.
“You sure you’re up for it?” he asked. “There’s no shame in backing out. This jump’s going to be hard on the arks.”
His tone was kind, but Kyla still bristled. Typical human. Just because he was taller, faster, and a good bit stronger than her didn’t mean she couldn’t carry her weight. Try burying a human under a half-ton of dirt. See if they could dig themselves out before suffocating. Or try stuffing a hood onto one of their heads, spinning them around, and tossing them into an unfamiliar room. Fat chance they’d be able to stand up, avoid obstacles, and calmly walk back to the door.
Her partner — Bourne? Brian? — cleared his throat, and Kyla realized she’d completely forgotten about his question. She forced her thoughts into line and hastily stitched together a response that carried all the deliberate weight and gravitas of Askran speech.
“Huh?” she blurted.
Kyla winced. That was bad even for her.
“The rescue duty,” replied her partner. “Everyone here’s a volunteer. Nobody expects you to stay if it’s too much for you.”
“It’s not,” she said. “I learned from the best.” She left it at that. The man wasn’t kin, and had no right to expect anything more from her.
“Any certs to back that up? No offense, but you’re–“
“Short? Slow? Fluffy?” Forget discretion. She was angry now. Hasty. Eldest-of-Fields would’ve pulled her out of the room, but he was safely ensconced on the Council dreadnought. “My world’s almost as high-gravity as yours, and my species made our home under its hard soil for ten thousand generations. We bounce when rocks hit us. We shift boulders for fun. Our warrens make your subway tunnels look like graph axes. Just because I can’t beat you in the hurdles doesn’t mean I can’t shift a broken beam.”
Kyla stared up at her partner’s surprised face, then added, “I am also a certified Class-B emergency responder, and I graduated with distinction from the TASS Hephaestus pre-enlistment SAR technical school. Y’know, the one that flunks out two in every three human enrollees.” She paused, letting him process, before continuing. “Is that qualified enough for you?”
He nodded, then extended a hand. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Benjamin Ableson-Markovski, engineer’s mate on the TAV Iceberg. Well, the former Iceberg. She’s scrap now. Never made it out of Texas.”
Kyla grasped the man’s hand in her shovel-like paw and shook it. His grip was firm, but she matched it. Barely. “I may have been a little blunt myself. I am presently known as Kyla.”
“Let me know if I get in your way. Something tells me you’re a tad more qualified than me.”
The ark let out a steady groan as its inertial dampeners kicked. They were slowing, dropping down to their transit velocity. Kyla could feel the deck vibrating beneath her, and silently cursed whoever had decided to retrofit the seventy-year-old arks rather than build new ones. No amount of reinforcement could change the fact that they’d been designed around massive, rotating drums. She only hoped that the fleet’s approach speed was on the slow side.
Enough maps. Kyla lowered herself into a squat and closed her eyes. Deep breaths. Keep the heart-rate down. With a bit of luck, nothing would go wrong and she wouldn’t be needed, but if catastrophe struck, she’d be ready.
She had a debt to repay, after all.
HAV Machina Sol
Jenkins had to admit, he was a little impressed with the Machina and her captain. Charles was a blur of disorganized efficiency, prodding the two bridge crew from task to task while running what had to be two bridge stations from his implants. And the ship itself, despite its age and apparent disrepair, kept pace with the Dewdrop without the slightest sign of strain. If their weapons systems hid similar upgrades, Jenkins and Walsh just might get out of Sol alive.
The goat watched them all from the corner, chewing a mouthful of cud. Jenkins could’ve set a clock by the creature’s deliberate ruminations.
“Approach vector locked,” said Liam. “Beginning deceleration to target velocity in thirty seconds.”
“What’s the translation gonna be like?” asked Walsh.
“1500 fucking kilometers per fucking second.”
“Damn,” said Walsh.
“That’s bad?” asked Jenkins.
As part of their boarding training, every Fleet Marine had to qualified in at least one shipboard trade. Junior ranks filled the more menial roles, while warrants and up learned bridge duties. Jenkins could just about pass for competent at a tac console. Walsh, for reasons known only to her, had opted for the far more difficult field of navigation.
“Another couple hundred klicks faster and we’d come through as paste,” replied Walsh. “The Dewdrop‘ll make it just fine, and this piece of shit should, but the arks weren’t built with gate translations in mind. Could be messy.”
Charles broke in. “This piece of shit, as you so eloquently put it, will do fine. She’s quite the ship.”
Before anyone could answer, the deep bass chords of the Machina‘s graser turret echoed through the ship. Jenkins sat bolt upright.
“We’re at the blockade already?”
“No, but we just got overtaken by the rest of the swarms,” said Charle s. “They’re the reason we’re hitting the gate as quickly as we are. Here,let me turn on that station you’re sitting at. See if that won’t shut you up”
“Like that’ll work,” muttered Jenkins. He turned his gaze to the cracked screen. What he saw there made him lose all desire to keep talking.
The swarm had indeed overtaken the Terran formation, throwing themselves at the rearguard with reckless abandon. The warships clustered at the back answered their charge with grasers. Some replicator ships got through. The naval auxiliaries opened fire.
They held back the swarm for twenty-three seconds. On the screen, Jenkins watched as a neighboring squadron was overwhelmed, their captains detonating their reactors as writhing puddles of replicators overran their hulls. Neighbouring groups of ships shifted in response. Sweat beaded on Charles’s forehead as he nudged the Machina‘s course out of the blast. They grew closer to the waiting replicator blockade.
They punched through with a single, violent outpouring of graser fire. Replicator platforms swarmed in to plug the hole, but the leading dreadnoughts burned hard to slow their race towards the gate and screen the vulnerable civilian ships. The invaders died by the thousands.
The Machina did its part, accounting for a half-dozen of the smaller constructs. They were through in a heartbeat. Jenkins squeezed his eye shut as they hit the gate.
Unnamed Cutter Sol
WEAPON ARMED AND AWAITING COMMAND TO FIRE
Weber sat in his crash couch, both hands clenched into fists. His fingernails bit into his palms. His knuckles were white. His foot idly pushed a rag across the deck.
WEAPON ARMED AND AWAITING COMMAND TO FIRE
The text on the screen was no longer just a status report. It had become something more: an accusation, a demon, a promise of damnation. The small, unassuming grey button next to the screen stared at him with the fury of an entire race. When he woke, he’d wake in hell. His wife would be waiting there, and his daughter, and the billion other souls that would die by his hand. They’d flay him alive for all eternity.
WEAPON ARMED AND AWAITING COMMAND TO FIRE
Two counts now ticked down below the console. One, in green, showed the number of seconds left until the last fleeing Terran ship cleared the gate. The other, in red, was the computers best guess at how long he had until the replicators found him. Twenty-five seconds in green. A hundred and eight in red.
WEAPON ARMED AND AWAITING COMMAND TO FIRE
He cursed himself for offering to see this through himself. It was his proposal, he’d argued. His project. They didn’t know what the replicators were capable of, he’d said. Could they override a remote detonation signal? Could they destroy a failsafe loop before it could trigger? Would they really risk a weapon of this power to a simple timer?
WEAPON ARMED AND AWAITING COMMAND TO FIRE
He’d quietly shared the plan with the seven other Marshal engineers who’d worked under him. Young, smart, and unflinchingly dedicated to the survival of mankind. Two months ago, they’d excitedly unveiled the first prototype: a scaled-up version of the technology the Compact had used to destabilize the core of Asrka’s sun. Their work had been simple. All they’d really had to do was build it bigger.
None of them had gone in thinking they were creating anything other than a superweapon, but they’d all rationalized it away somehow. For most, the implication that it would never be used against humans was enough.
Hearing the plan had left them broken. As far as Weber was aware, none of them were still alive.
WEAPON ARMED AND AWAITING COMMAND TO FIRE
Four green seconds left. Weber’s finger hovered over the grey button. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, tried to tear his gaze away, but he couldn’t.
Three seconds.
When he sent the command, the weapon would fire, pumping terrajoules of energy into the sun.
Two seconds.
The sun wouldn’t collapse. It’s core wouldn’t even destabilize. Instead, a unique gravitational signature would ripple out across the galaxy at velocities well beyond the speed of light. It would find the gate.
One second.
If their math was right, the gate would respond. It would try and launch the sun across the galaxy. It would fail. Catastrophically.
The counter reached zero. He pushed the button with a shaking hand.
WEAPON FIRED
Somewhere across the solar system, waves of destruction started to pulse out from the gate. By the time the first reached Weber, its potency would have waned, but it would still dwarf the hundreds of solar flares being torn from the sun.
Weber couldn’t remember how long the first pulse would take to reach him, or whether or not his ship would be vaporized before Earth. He couldn’t recall how long it would take for the sun to re-stabilize, or whether or not the gate would eventually recover. Even the damage projections they’d run for the Sol system escaped him.
His forgetfulness didn’t bother him, though. As soon as Weber’s job was done, he reached for his sidearm like a drowning man gasping for air.
TAS Relentless Midway
Rear Admiral Joseph Grant leaned forward in his chair, fingers steepled, and watched the Galactic Compact maneuver. There were two hostile formations, officially designated Bogey One and Bogey Two, but to him they looked more like sharks who’d smelled blood in the water. They could strike at any minute.
They wouldn’t, though, at least not while Second Fleet had a Sling-class battlecruiser left. The ugly ships were little more than an impeller drive bolted onto a short-range accelerator cannon, but they were damned effective. When the Compact had first poured through the gate and rushed at Second Fleet, the four Slings had crippled one superdreadnought and left another drifting dead through space. Grant’s dreadnought squadron and screen had hounded the wounded behemoth, their grasers widening the rents left by the GANC cannons until the ship’s matt-ann plant was exposed. The other squadron of Stalwart-class dreadnoughts, under Rear Admiral Singh, had turned with the rest of the fleet to face the Compact’s next charge.
Of the two dreadnought squadron commanders, Grant had gotten the better assignment. Singh had died in that charge, his ship’s reactor cracked open by a graser strike seconds after his screens failed.
The crew of one other dreadnought had been forced to abandon ship, and Grant had lost three more while finishing off his target. When Second Fleet turned to face a third charge, they hadn’t expected to survive. Their tonnage had been reduced by half, with only seven dreadnoughts left to break the charge. The last Sling was hiding in the fleet’s chop, prepared to fire off one last shot before they were focused down by the Compact’s screen. They’d waited. They’d braced. They’d prepared to defend the Sol vector to the last. But the Compact hadn’t come.
The standoff had lasted for three hours, the Compact unwilling to risk any more of their superdreadnoughts and the Terrans too weakened to try a charge. The two fleets had been reduced to dodging each other’s long-range graser shots, hoping to score a lucky hit but mostly just killing time. Second Fleet had sent courier buoys through the gate, but they’d received no response. Grant had grown worried.
Then the refugees fleeing Sol had arrived, confirming his worst fears. Evidently, the Compact had been just as surprised as them when civilian ships started to pour through the gate. The hostile fleet had split into two formations, positioning themselves to intercept the Terrans well before they could build up the velocity needed to jump retreat back through the gate, while Second Fleet and their meager reinforcements had placed themselves between the enemy and the remnants of mankind.
Now Grant was left to wonder why the civilians didn’t seem to be slowing down. The only thing the hastily-written CUB he’d received had been able to say was “technical difficulties.”
Whatever they were, they’d better be resolved fast. Every kilometer they drifted from the gate only made it easier for the Compact to trap them in the system.
TAV Dewdrop Midway
Tweetie blinked frantically, trying to banish the post-jump nausea. From the corner of his eye, he could see Flaring straightening up. Cromley was clutching at his station. Calloway didn’t look as if he’d noticed the translation.
There were no replicators coming after them. The mines seemed to be working.
“Compact’s here,” said Calloway. His calm voice contrasted sharply with the ice running through Tweetie’s veins.
The Galactic Compact had attacked in force, with hundreds cruisers and four Ram-sized superdreadnoughts. No, seven superdreadnoughts. Three of the drifting hulks were too massive to be anything else.
Those weren’t the only ships venting atmosphere, though. Second Fleet was in tatters, their strength reduced to a little more than a third. They’d formed up into a ragged wall to shield the civilian fleet. And in the heart of the Terran formation, there were the arks.
Tweetie’s crest dropped as he read the message on his screen. “Calloway, I just bounced our new orders over to you. Our squadron is to proceed with haste to a vector near the edge of the civvie fleet and cut acceleration. We are also to advise all unarmed craft in our squadron to stand by to receive additional passengers.”
“Why the change in plans? And where the hell are we finding extra passengers?”
“The arks,” said Tweetie. “Not all of them survived the jump.”
Ark-124 Midway
The jump had transformed Ark-124 from a sanctuary to a hell. Thick, greasy smoke choked her shattered corridors, and almost every pre-contact system had failed catastrophically. Not the inertial dampeners, though. Those had survived to cushion the ship’s re-emergence in Midway, and were still projecting one standard gravity across the dying ark.
Kyla was gulping down water in the shuttle bay, steeling herself for her fifth trip into the chaos, when she noticed Benjamin arguing with the hangar chief. She dropped her small paper cup and shuffled over.
“We don’t have time,” the chief was saying, exasperation plain on his smoke-stained features. “We’re down to half a foot of vis in the corridors, and the evac cutoff’s in less than seven minutes. Keep your sweep in near our ingress. Look for any survivors you might have missed. It’s too risky to go any further.”
“I’m not saying that we need to go any further,” said Benjamin, “just that we need some heavy cutting tools to get through the blockage at 23B. It’s not even two hundred meters in.”
“Why the hell do you want to get through 23B?”
“There’s an occupied cabin on the other side. Not in our sector, but we’re the only ones who can reach it. Give me ten minutes–“
“You don’t have ten minutes, you have seven, and by the time you’ve got the equipment set up, it’ll be one. Request denied. We need to cut our losses at some point.”
“I’m small. I can get through,” said Kyla. Both humans turned to stare down at her. “Which cabin?”
“82389,” said Benjamin. His gaze swept the hangar deck as he hunted for his helmet.
“There’s no fucking way you’ll be able to get through,” said the chief. “It’s a fools–”
“Watch me,” said Kyla. She grabbed her respirator and goggles — during the jump, her helmet had been cracked clean in two after a brief but violent relationship with a bulkhead — and pushed through the thick curtain holding back the smoke. “We don’t leave men behind.”
HAV Machina Midway
Charles was pacing across the small bridge. “How long do you expect us to wait here, soldier boy? We’re drifting further and further from the gate. We should cut our losses and run.”
“And leave close to a third of the fleet’s population in dead ships?” asked Jenkins. “Not a chance. We hold until ordered to move.”
“But there’s an opening. The Compact won’t chase down a lone freighter. If we leave now–“
“Not a fucking chance,” repeated Jenkins. “Don’t ask again. That’d make me angry.”
Ark-124 Midway
Kyla moved with the steady, deliberate plod of an Askran. By now, she’d memorized every twisted floor panel, each blown conduit, and every red-hot stretch of deck. Finding her way through to bulkhead 23B was fosterling’s play. It only cost her thirty heartbeats.
She ran her blunt digging claws along the blockage, feeling for the gap she remembered. It was a half-meter above the ground, and just wide enough for her to wriggle through. Kyla ducked down, fusion torch in hand, and started to crawl through. Another twenty beats down the drain.
Her makeshift tunnel came to an end after two meters, blocked by a twisted reinforcement girder. Kyla’s torch came to life and carved out a slice. She felt every second tick by. When the metal dropped off, the Askran didn’t wait for the edge to cool. She flattened herself and tried to wriggle under.
She misjudged, not accounting for her bulky gear, and the glowing edge of the metal seared a line of flesh, fur, and suit across her back. Her focus shattered. For an instant, all she could think about was scrambling out from under the beam. She lost the count. Had thirty beats passed? Forty? She couldn’t tell.
Hasty, she swore. Why do I always have to be so hasty?
Kyla could feel her carefully ordered plan trembling at its base. Without the count, her deliberate advance felt like more of a mad scramble. How would she pace herself? When would she turn back?
She snorted at the thought. She’d turn back when she was done, not before. She owed as much.
Kyla picked herself up, ignoring the new pain, and pushed onwards. This was new territory, with hidden obstacles that forced her to slow her pace. The Askran found her calm again, committing every step to memory.
The cabin door was thirty-eight meters from the rubble. Kyla started to work her way out to the corridor’s edges at the thirty-six meter mark. It proved difficult. More than half the deck still burned red-hot from overloaded power conduits. The tips of her boots were singed from probing the ground in front of her.
Kyla’s gloved claws closed around the door’s manual release and twisted. It stuck halfway. Wonderful. A few quick slices with her fusion torch drained the hydraulics and cut the lock out.
She heaved the door open and sucked in a quick gulp of fresh, unfiltered air before the smoke could pour in after her. The grandfather was slumped over by a mangled emergency locker, unmoving. Kyla couldn’t find a pulse. The granddaughter was sobbing in the corner.
Kyla scooped up the tiny child and, after peeling back her coveralls and skinsuit, tucked the girl in against her fur. The fragile human stared up at the Askran with wide, terrified eyes.
Kyla knew what to say. Slater had whispered the same words to her, right after he’d bundled her up in his arms and placed his body between her and the wrath of her species’ dying planet.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said. “I’ve got you now. Nothing else is going to hurt you.”
HAV Machina Midway
Jenkins caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and sprang out of his chair, drawing his sidearm as he spun towards the Machina‘s captain. Cheeky bastard had tried to use his random pacing to reposition himself in the bridge.
Charles’s own gun had barely left its holster. Disbelief flicked across the overweight captains face, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. He brought his weapon up with a shrug.
“You needn’t have bothered getting up,” said Charles. “We don’t want to hurt you. It’s just that we don’t feel like dying here with the fleet when there’s a clean shot at escape. We’ll drop you off at the first fringe port we find.” He smiled apologetically. “Besides, you can’t fly this ship without my implants. Shooting me won’t do you much good.”
Jenkins eyes flicked over to Fingers and Liam, who had both risen from their seats with drawn hold-outs. They were at his four o’clock. No way he could cover all three. Charles was still in front of him, brandishing another of the pathetic little toys. Jenkins had carried a pistol like that on Lotus Station. You were better off throwing the damn things rather than waiting for a second shot.
Jenkins had an idea.
“Fine,” he said. “You win.” He slowly lowered his gun. “No need for us to get violent in here.”
Walsh’s elbow slammed into Finger’s throat as she broke Liam’s wrist. Both men dropped their guns and gasped with pain. Jenkins smiled. She had a knack for fading into the background.
He rushed Charles. The captain’s gun went off, but Jenkins’s vac suit absorbed the shot. Well, most of it. It still punched a whole through his shoulder, but it didn’t blow the whole joint apart. He slammed into Charles with his uninjured side. They both went down struggling.
Something hard hit Jenkins’s nose. He grunted with pain as it broke. Had Charles headbutted him? How could someone that overweight be this goddamn slippery? With his left arm hanging limp, he couldn’t quite put the bastard into a hold. Instead, he kneed Charles in the groin. Hard.
The Machina‘s captain groaned, then went limp. Jenkins disentangled himself and stood up.
“Anyone else feel like breaking ranks?” he asked. “No? Good. Let’s never do this again.”
He collapsed back into his seat, fishing in his belt-pouch for field nanites. Charles was still rolling around in pain, face ashen. Fingers and Liam kept sneaking fearful looks at Walsh.
Jenkins sighed. This was going to be a long trip.
TAS Relentless Midway
The fleet was too far from the gate.
Rear Admiral Grant kept staring at the plot, running vectors and escape routes in his head. The Midway gate could be used to reach four other systems, but as far as the fleet was concerned, it was nothing but a giant dead end. The Compact stood between them and escape. No amount of clever maneuvering would stop their superdreadnoughts from tearing through the unarmoured civilian ships.
A quick glance around the room confirmed that his flag staff had reached the same conclusion. Commodore Yu, Commander Forester, and Commander Smith all stared dejectedly at the plot, and Lieutenant Tanners kept sneaking glances from the comms station. Major Harsanyi, was lurking in the corner, staring down the two armed Marshal officers standing guard at the door.
They were trapped. There was no way out. Unless…
“Yu,” said Grant, “how many of the old Payloads do we have left?”
“One per Stalwart, sir,” replied Yu. “We had them fuelled and ready for a boarding op after the first charge, but they aborted.”
“Aborted? Why the hell did they abort? And why didn’t I hear about this?”
“The ingress points we used on the Ram were blocked. Massive armored plates.”
“And you were told,” said Harsanyi. “You just had more pressing concerns at the time.”
Grant frowned, thinking back. Yes, Harsanyi had definitely delivered the report. That had been when he was absorbing the remains of Singh’s dreadnought squadron into his own, though. He hadn’t paid much attention.
“My apologies, Major. It slipped my mind. But the main thing is that we still have stealth-capable shuttles, and they’re flyable, right?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Excellent. Lieutenant Tanners, get me a direct line to Admiral Hugh.” Grant smiled. “I have an idea.”
Ark-124 Midway
Kyla stumbled through the smoke-filled corridor, barely managing to swerve around the countless obstacles that littered the floor. The return trip was proving far more difficult without the benefit of her respirator.
She could feel the strain building in her lungs, hear some corner of her mind screaming at her to draw in a breath. This was nothing like digging her way out of a cave-in, where every move was carefully planned and executed to use the barest minimum of efforts. This was chaos. Kyla had no clue why she’d thought she could make it back to the shuttle bay on one breath.
The girl shifted against her chest, tickling her fur, and Kyla remembered. That was why she could do it. Take one step at a time. Never stop moving forward. Slater had taught her that. This was just like the training course back on the Heph.
Something caught her foot and sent her sprawling. Kyla got both arms out and caught herself awkwardly before she crushed the girl under her, but the impact broke one of the Askran’s wrist. She bit down on her tongue to stop the scream and accidentally sucked in a bit of smoke. A cough wracked her body before she could could stop it. Precious air slipped out.
Somehow, Kyla managed to get herself under control and hold in the last of her air, but there was still smoke in her lungs. The urge to cough was almost overwhelming. She held it back. Barely.
Kyla heaved herself up with one good arm, and felt a surge of relief when she made out the steady hiss of the girl’s respirator over the pounding in her ears. The kid was still breathing. That was all that mattered.
She probed drunkenly with one foot-claw, testing the path in front of her, and resumed her forward stagger. Her legs weren’t quite behaving like they were supposed to. She’d try and raise one up, intending to step over an obstruction, only to have it drag across the ground. The deck felt like it was swaying constantly, despite the fact that the artificial gravity and dampeners still held. It was all she could do to stay upright.
One step. Then another. Keep moving towards the shuttle bay. Fight back the urge to cough. If she stopped, the girl would be dead.
Then, suddenly, there were hands gripping her, holding her upright. Hauling her into clean air. She blinked in surprise as the smoke vanished, then doubled over as the coughing fit she’d been holding back burst out with a vengeance. Benjamin held her up as she fumbled at her coverall’s zipper, exposing the girl’s respirator-masked face to the bay.
“C’mon, Kyla, we’ve got to go.” He was gesturing towards a small cutter parked nearby. “Rest of the evac’s left. We can’t hang back much longer.”
“You…” she gasped, “you stayed.”
“Of course I did,” said Benjamin. The man was grinning like an idiot. “We don’t leave Terrans behind, remember?”
TAV Dewdrop Midway
“New orders, Calloway,” said Tweetie. “The Fleet’s going to try some maneuvers in three minutes. All vessels are to cut their matt-ann reactors and go dark at their designated time, and all ships with cold-start capabilities are to make ready to perform jump-start procedures.”
“That’s drastic,” said Calloway. “We’d better warm up the fusion bottle, then. You’ll pass the word to the engineering deck?”
“Already sent the message.”
“Of course you did. You Nedji make damn fine crew.”
“Thanks,” said Flaring. “Any word on why we’re killing the lights?”
“Some scheme of Rear Admiral Grant’s.”
The bridge fell silent. Rusty rested his head on Tweetie’s lap and let out a soft whine, and the Nedji idly stroked the German Shepherd’s oversized head.
“Wasn’t he the one who dreamed up the ship-in-a-container plan that got us into Mylar?” asked Cromley. He was frowning.
“Yeah,” said Flaring slowly. “Think so. Although he wasn’t a Rear Admiral back then.”
“He got a promotion out of the op, if I recall correctly,” said Tweetie.
“Well, I ended up with claustrophobia,” said Cromley. “Can’t say I’m too pleased that he’s cooking something up for the entire fleet.”
“All of you, quiet,” said Calloway. He sounded nervous. “We’re about to go dark.”
The artificial gravity cut out. The illumination died. The consoles went black. Then, a few seconds later, the fusion reactor kicked in and the light returned, although they remained weightless. Calloway breathed a sigh of relief.
“That’s the first time we’ve fired up the fusion bottle,” he said. “I’ll be honest, I’m a little surprised that it didn’t blow.”
TAS Relentless Midway
The Relentless‘s flag bridge felt lonely without Grant’s full staff. Commander Yu and Ensign Parker had stayed; the rest had evacuated with the crew. Only a small skeleton crew remained on each of the dreadnoughts.
Yu had draped over the comm station’s crash couch. Parker’s head was buried in an access panel. Grant was brooding.
“This had better work,” he said.
“It will,” said Yu. “Your schemes always work.”
“They don’t normally involve this many ships,” said Grant, “and I don’t think I’ve ever bet against the survival of the entire human race.”
There was a muffled squawk from the access panel and Parker popped out, face apologetic.
“Sorry, sirs. Brushed against a live wire.”
“How’s it coming?” asked Yu.
“Almost done. The Rear Admiral’s tablet will be wired in shortly.”
“It’s starting,” said Grant. Conversation stopped as all three men swiveled towards the holographic display.
The first Terran ship killed its impellers, her drive signature vanishing from the Relentless‘s display. A few seconds later it reappeared.
Grant smiled. The first step of his plan, it seemed, would work just fine.
The new drive signature wasn’t exactly the same as the first. For one, it was offset by a about forty meters. And two, it was ever so slightly stronger. The Fast Attack Craft couldn’t quite match the drive signature of the civilian freighter it was impersonating.
It wouldn’t matter. The distant Galactic Compact formations would never be able to tell the difference.
One by one the edges of the Terran formation went dark, the gaps quickly replaced by the fleet’s waiting small crafts. Some of the larger vessels required more than one vessel to fake them: replicating the drive signature of the only surviving Sling took four FACs and two light cutters flying in a dangerously close formation, and the heavier Vigilant(R)-class battleships needed three FACs apiece.
Soon, ships deep within the formation were powering down their reactors and vanishing from the tac plot. Nothing replaced them — they could hide in the chop left behind by the dreadnought’s impellers. Stalwart-class dreadnoughts were infamous for their massive drive footprint.
The illusion only held from a few carefully calculated angles. Examine the fleet from any other point of view — say, from the flag bridge of the Relentless — and it became painfully clear that the Terrans were putting on a show. But the Compact wouldn’t be able to tell.
They wouldn’t see the clusters of FACs and cutters imitating battleships and cruisers. They wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the edge of a vast civilian fleet and the few careful placed small craft revving their drives for all they were worth. And they certainly wouldn’t catch on to the fact that, with the exception of the seven dreadnoughts, not one of the ships was manned.
At least, Grant hoped they wouldn’t. He still wasn’t sure if they’d take the bait.
“All slave-ships accounted for,” reported Yu. “The load’s split between the squadron, and the processor banks aren’t even close to redlining.”
“Thank you, old friend,” said Grant. “Send out the move orders. Let’s see if the Compact takes the bait.”