TAV Dewdrop
“… a reminder to all ships that the Walter Protocol is in full effect. Any ships found to be in violation shall be destroyed without warning. Please restrict all transmissions to tight-beam…
The deep, commanding voice of the radio announcer stabbed into Tweetie’s skull and jolted him awake. Three of his eyes struggled open. The fourth refused to budge. He lifted a grasping-arm up to it, but the claw scraped against a bandage before it found the eyelid. That wasn’t good. He let the exhausted limb flop back down onto his soft mattress.
Tweetie could just make out the beeping of a vitals monitor over the drone of the radio. His vitals monitor, probably. He inched his head around, trying to scan the room, and managed to flop it over to one side. Rusty, Calloway’s massive German Shepherd, was curled up in the corner of the room, and Flaring was working at a small desk nearby. The Nedji’s back was turned.
Tweetie tried to call out the medic’s name, but all that came out was a soft wheeze of air. That wasn’t a problem. He could just walk over there. He felt like he could do anything, really.
“… squadron rosters have gone out to all ship’s captains. If your vessel has not received an assignment, immediately contact the Admiralty’s Desk using the priority band. Please note that unauthorized use of the priority band is punishable by up to…
He heard the beeping of the vital monitor spike as he heaved his four slegs over the side of the bed. He couldn’t seem to get them to untangle, but that wasn’t something to worry about. Standing up seemed a lot more important. A dog barked, but it sounded distant and weak. He pushed himself off the bed and his legs gave way. His face slammed into the floor.
Too late he noticed that Flaring was already turning, the feathers on his crest rising with alarm. Rusty gently poked at Tweetie’s sprawled form with his nose.
“Jenkins,” called the Nedji, “get in here. I need you.”
“…though casualties are high, we have not been defeated. We would like to take a moment honor the sacrifices of the brave men, women, and aliens who…“
The door hissed open and Tweetie saw Jenkins’ hulking silhouette rush through. The Nedji slipped back into unconsciousness.
Ark-205
“…have given their lives today. Based upon traffic logs and the black-box reports of the Home Fleet, the Office of the Chair has posthumously awarded the Unification Cross to…“
Spik bounced happily on the smaller of the cabin’s two beds, pushing off from the low ceiling at the peak of every jump. The cub seemed immune to her parent’s worries and the steady drone of the radio announcer.
“We’ll have to leave the rifles,” said Whep. “No way we’ll get them signed out discretely.”
“We could still get them later,” said Leil offhandedly. Her gaze flicked rapidly between the three screens she’d laid out on the table in front of her.
“Sure hope so,” replied Whep. “That pulse rifle of mine’s a work of art. Cost a whole month’s worth of fab time.”
“Won’t do you much good if you’re languishing in a marshal prison.”
“…Master Warrant Officer Caleb Walt, for conspicuous gallantry and bravery. Master Warrant Officer Walt’s actions allowed the successful launch of an Ark-class transport, saving upwards of 20,000 lives…“
Leil glanced up from her screens and fixed Whep with a stare. “Do you think we did the right thing?”
Whep’s ears crossed into a frown. “Right thing? What do you mean by that?”
“Leaking those documents and fleeing Earth. “
“If we hadn’t leaked the files, a lot more people would be dead. And then what else could we have done? Got in the way of one of the militia crews running an AA battery? Died in one of the city’s bunkers? Hopped onto an evac sub and cowered beneath the waves?”
“We could have fought for our home. Instead we curled up our tails and ran.”
“If we’d stayed, we’d be dead. Spik would be dead. We didn’t have choice.”
“I guess.” Leil turned back to her screens. “Still feels a little wrong, though.”
Privately, Whep agreed — they’d made a life in Vancouver, and they’d left friends behind — although he didn’t want to add any more fuel to Leil’s doubts. The conversation died. The drone of the radio and the rhythmic slap of Spik’s paws against the ceiling was the only sound in the small cabin.
“…Corporal Odd-claw-swooping-wings, for conspicuous gallantry and bravery. Despite losing a wing to an enemy pulsar dart, the Nedji corporal continued to hold the entrance of the London nuclear silo against sustained enemy assault…“
“Found him!” said Leil. “TAV Dewdrop, one of the last ships of Earth.”
“That’s what Calloway ended up naming his yacht?” asked Whep. “I would’ve thought he’d gone for something more warlike.”
“His ‘yacht’ is an old, partially decommissioned Grasshopper. It doesn’t need a tough-sounding name to earn its machismo.”
“Fair enough, I guess. You made contact?”
“Yep. We’ll be hearing back shortly.”
TAV Dewdrop
It was silent in the Dewdrop‘s cramped shuttle bay. Calloway had turned the radio off when the citations had started.
“We are going to return to the council,” said Eldest-of-Fields. “It is necessary for us to bring our full weight to bear as a counterweight against the Chair.”
“I’ll be going too,” said Twisted. “I’m not passing off Mottled’s guard until I’ve thoroughly vetted my replacement. And I’m still a little choked that the marshals left us for dead in Chicago.”
“Fair enough,” said Calloway. “We can link up again once things have settled back down. But before you go, I have a favor to ask of you. Of Founder, really.” He turned to the marshal. “Think you’re up for a quick extract before you go?”
“How much shit will this land me in?”
“If it goes well, none.”
“And when it doesn’t?”
Calloway shrugged. “It won’t be the most treasonous thing I’ve had a part in today.”
“Fuck it,” said Founder. “I owe you guys, and my outfit has been shitting on me for years. Count me in.”
Calloway smiled. “Wonderful. Now, it just so happens that we’ve misplaced two close friends of mine. You’re going to help get them back.”
TAV Dewdrop
“…Sub-lieutenant Stacey Carter, for conspicuous gallantry and bravery. Five times Sub-lieutenant Carter piloted her shuttle into besieged urban areas, evacuating upwards of two thousand…“
Tweetie leaned heavily on Flaring as he hobbled over to the operation room’s one large table, Rusty following close behind. Cromley was seated at the far end of the table, his fingers chopping awkwardly at an old-fashioned keyboard. Tweetie collapsed into a chair near the wiry human.
“Still can’t use the implants?” asked Tweetie.
“No,” said Cromley, “and working without them is a damn pain. I should’ve remembered the first rule of NavInt.”
Flaring settled himself down into a seat across from Tweetie. When Cromley didn’t continue, he broke the silence. “Care to enlighten us?”
“Never tell anyone you’re NavInt. You’ll forget what ‘free time’ means within a week.”
Tweetie let out a weak cough of amusement. “You at least making progress?”
“Some. It’s hard without an open net to listen in on. Have to fight for space on the tight-beam network.”
“What’ve you got so far?”
Cromley leaned back with a sigh. “Earth’s gone. We got some people off with the arks, and we hid some more in the oceans, but every major metropolitan center’s glass. Rest of the surface is crawling with replicators.
“Mars is a lost cause. There’s still volunteer squads manning the AA, but the rest of the population’s pulled out of the cities and into the catacombs. A billion people crammed into shelters meant for half that.
“The Belt’s a little different. Most of those installations still run with full emissions discipline, so there’s only the odd pocket of replicators drifting towards ’em. Nothing rushed, though. The smaller settlements should be able to play cat-and-mouse for quite some time. The bigger ones — Ganymede, Eros, and the like — have already joined us around the Hephaestus.”
“…Lieutenant George Slater, for conspicuous gallantry and bravery. Lieutenant Slater led the last defense of the TAV Redoubtable’s reactor core, and manually triggered an improvised explosive device to deny the replicators ground. This is Lieutenant Slater’s second Unification Cross, the first…“
“Shit,” breathed Tweetie. “I thought he was stationed on the Heph.”
“Guess not,” said Cromley. “Wasn’t he the ERT who got his first Cross on Askra? How’d you know him?”
“Lotus Station. Got mixed up in the fighting with me and Jenkins.” Tweetie twitched his crest up into a weak grin. “Always did have a flair for the heroic.”
“Damn shame,” said Flaring.
“Agreed,” said Cromley. He reached over and flicked off the radio. “But we can’t afford to mourn now. There’s work to do.”
The room fell quiet, with only the clack of Cromley’s awkward typing staving off total silence. Tweetie slumped in his chair with his head down. Flaring fidgeted.
“We’re going back on active, then?” asked Flaring. “Only news I’ve gotten is the fleet radio.”
“No, we’re not,” said Cromley. “They only concentrated 1st and 4th SOR. Hell, even what’s left of our second company got stood down. What’s left of the pie isn’t big enough for everyone to get a slice, and we’re not needed.”
“Makes sense, I guess” said Flaring. “Limited resources, and counter-insurgency and EVA could come in handy.”
“Jenkins must be excited about that,” said Tweetie, glancing up at Flaring. “Means he gets to hang out with us for a bit longer.”
“Him and Walsh took one of the shuttles over to our new, antiquated sister ship. The HAV Machina. Ship’s so goddamn ancient that nobody bothered to update its registry after contact.”
“Sister ship?”
“Some Navy puke decided that two lightly-armed civvy yachts are worth about as much as a FAC. We got paired off an hour ago.”
“Damn. I didn’t realize we were that short on warships.”
“We’re hurting for a lot more than that.”
HAV Machina
Walsh pulled up short and stared through the open door.
“Is that a goat?” she asked.
“Yep,” said Mance, the ship’s engineer. “Cap’n’s goat. Billy. Nice fella.”
Jenkins took a few steps back and peered through the door. It was indeed a goat. Slightly curled horns, mouth steadily munching on cud, and a bored glaze over its elongated face. It swallowed.
“Bleat,” said the goat.
“He don’ like me much,” said Mance.
When it became obvious that the surly crewman wasn’t about to explain any further, Jenkins turned away from the oddly hypnotic animal and struck out for the bridge. This tour just kept getting better.
They’d stepped out of their shuttle into a leaky hangar. Literally. The hiss had been audible, and the hood of Jenkins skinsuit had slammed shut as soon as it detected the steady loss of pressure. Their guides, a tall bastard named Casey and the small blob of a man that was Mance, hadn’t seemed concerned.
“Welcome to the Machina,” Casey had said. “I’m Casey, and this is Mance. My sincerest apologies for the state of our hangar — we took a micro-meteor hit a few days back, and haven’t had a chance to getting it fixed. We’ll have to continue this in the corridors.”
Casey had been convincing. Jenkins would have believed him if Walsh hadn’t tagged three smuggling compartments on his helmet’s HUD before they’d left the hangar. It was at this point that he’d insisted, over Casey’s vocal objections and Mance’s silent glare, on a full tour of the ship.
The corridors had been a mess, an endless maze of unlabeled intersections and sudden dead ends that had seemed designed to assault Jenkins’ sense of direction. It didn’t help that the stench of cheap booze had besieged his sense of smell the minute he’d popped his helmet. He’d barely kept his bearings.
They’d seen the messy-but-functional engineering deck, a grimy porthole that was the ship’s only real window, and the pigsty that passed for the Machina‘s crew quarters before losing Casey to a game of poker and a fresh bottle of vodka. The tour had gotten a lot quieter with Mance leading. The surly engineer hadn’t said a word until they’d stumbled across the goat.
Jenkins slowed to let Mance overtake him. No use letting the pudgy bastard in on the fact that he didn’t know where the bridge was.
“Is this captain of yours nice?” Walsh asked. No response, although Jenkins cracked a smile. Mance took a right turn.
“You been a spacer for a while?” she tried. Still nothing. For reasons unknown to Jenkins, Mance made another right at the next intersection.
“Got a last name?” Not a peep. Jenkins chuckled at Walsh’s increasingly desperate attempts at conversation, and Mance turned right again.
“Don’ see what’s so funny,” said Mance. His hand slapped against a panel, and he turned and marched off.
“Chatty fellow,” muttered Walsh.
Jenkins stepped through the door, then gagged. He could taste the stench. He heard Walsh deploy her helmet. That was a good idea. He fumbled for the neck button and popped his own.
“This definitely isn’t the bridge,” said Jenkins.
“Bleat,” said the goat.
Both humans turned to look at Billy, who forced his way between them and sauntered into the room. He nudged a discarded can upright with his nose and started licking out the contents.
“A trash compactor?” asked Walsh. “Do we still build ships with these? And are they supposed to get this full?”
“It’s probably broken,” said Jenkins. “Even by pre-contact standards, this bucket is ancient. Can’t believe anyone bothered to retrofit it with impellers. Did you see which way Mance went?”
“My eyes were too busy tearing up.”
“Wonderful. Looks like we’re tracking the bridge down on our own. Helmets up?”
“Helmets up,” agreed Walsh. “I’ll lead the way. C’mon, Billy. That can looks gross.”
The goat trotted after them.
Ark-205
Whep absently scooped Spik up mid-bounce and settled her onto his lap. The cub squirmed a bit, trying to return to her fun, but Leil was already smoothing down the covers and repositioning the pillow. The rest of the room was already spotless — you’d never know that they’d sheltered in it for the past half day.
“So who’s this ‘Founder’ we’re waiting for, anyways?” asked Whep.
“A marshal,” said Leil, “and a pissed-off one at that. Got left out in the rain after the replicators hit Chicago — seems the marshal’s forgot to pick him and Eldest-of-Fields up.”
Whep curled his ears in contempt. “Sure. Forgot.”
“We still might not be able to trust him,” said Leil. “Those loyalty screenings are thorough. Treg flunked out of the test after the first round, and I prepped him for the better part of a month.”
“Wait, you prepped him? How come I never heard about that?”
“This was a little on the clandestine side for you. Makes it easier for you to lead the freedpack without knowing them.”
“For the last time, I don’t lead. I’m out as soon as we’ve picked a chief.”
“Nobody but you will be nominated and you know it. If you’d just perk your ears up and–“
The door hissed open and a short human — Whep must have been two feet taller — stepped through. The man looked like he’d been through hell: his face was a mess of blotchy, red patches of raw skin, and his left eye was bandaged shut.
“Whep?” he asked.
“Founder?” replied Whep. The man nodded. “Good. Let’s go.”
They made an odd procession, the four of them. Founder led the way, his marshal’s uniform clearing a path through the corridors more effectively than any gun. Spik trailed after him, making the odd swipe at his sidearm, and Leil walked a few steps behind, ears low with anxiety. Whep brought up the rear. Both adult Nyctra wore unlocked cuffs behind their backs. He would have killed to trade them for a rifle.
They dodged left and right, avoiding the main passageways and the two-man Marshal patrols that walked the halls. They took a maintenance hatch down two levels to the shuttle docks. Then they bumped into another human.
She was a young Marshal-Private, with MP’s markings rather than the dreaded Special Investigation’s insignia. That was good. She looked crisp enough to be fresh from training; it normally only took a few months for a marshal to realize they were all but immune to the typical military bullshit. She also didn’t seem confident enough to challenge Founder on his raw skin or eye patch.
Still recognized Whep and Leil, though. Founder pulled up short as she snapped off a salute, which he promptly returned.
“Sir!” she said, “May I help you transport your prisoners?”
Whep’s breath caught, and he saw Leil’s hand creep towards the knife tucked against her back. He could picture his own knife and hold-out blaster, strapped underneath his shirt, and mentally played out the scene in his head. Leil would step past Spik, cut Founder’s throat, and shift the dying man out of the way to give Whep a clear shot at the woman. It would be loud, messy, and probably blow their chance of escape, but he couldn’t picture any other way.
He relaxed at their human escort’s next words.
“That won’t be necessary, Private,” replied Founder. “If I wanted to make a scene, I’d have broken out the power armor and pulse rifles. The last thing we need right now is to rile up the public.”
“But, sir, there’s only–“
“I can handle two unarmed prisoners and a kid myself. What I need you to do is run interference. Even if these two came willingly, there’s some two hundred Nyctra on this ark who might still have objections. Forceful objections. Keep their attention away from the shuttle bay until I’m on my way.”
“Understood, sir.” She turned to go, and Whep breathed a sigh of relief. That’d been close. Leil’s hand shifted away from the hilt of her knife.
They reached the shuttle bay without further incident, and Founder guided them towards an unassuming-looking craft parked in the corner. Whep winced a bit at the sight. Once inside, he’d have to bend double to keep his head from banging against the ceiling.
“This is where I leave you,” said Founder. “Tell Calloway that we’re even.”
“Of course,” said Leil. Whep gave a nod of his own, and Founder left without another word.
Leil palmed open the ship’s hatch and shepherded Spik in. She turned to Whep.
“Mind if I drive?”
“Have you ever flown everything larger than an airskimmer?”
“Nope. Have you?”
Whep sighed. “No. Let’s hope there’s a decent autopilot.”
HAV Machina
Jenkins trailed after Walsh onto the bridge. The actual bridge, this time, and not a busted trash compactor heaped with goat shit. Smelt like alcohol instead of rotting meat.
Everyone’s got their own way of coping, thought Jenkins, although some are definitely worse than others.
It looked as if someone had scattered stations throughout an empty room at random. None of the terminal faced the same direction, and Jenkins couldn’t pick out anything that looked like a captain’s chair. Or an external display, for that matter. Only the three men working inside assured Jenkins that they’d found the bridge.
Two of them were hunched over a single station, arguing in low voices. He thought he caught the words “slip away” and “exit vector,” but it was hard to tell. Their backs were turned. The third man, leaning against the far bulkhead, was unmistakably the ship’s captain. Jenkins immediately hated him.
The balding human had squeezed his immense gut into a Fleet captain’s mess jacket. Not the whole uniform, though. Just the jacket. He’d swapped out the rest of the ensemble for pair of mismatched dress pants and aging leather combat boots, and a stained wifebeater was visible beneath the unbuttoned coat.
“Welcome!” bellowed the captain. “I see you found your way here. What happened to your guides? I trust you didn’t have to wander too far?”
“Walked off,” said Jenkins. Then, for fun, he added, “You the captain?”
The man frowned. “You wound me, sir. Do I need to fetch my cap?”
“That won’t be necessary. I think I’ve got it figured out now.”
“Excellent. Well, in that case, I’m Charles. I own and operate the Machina. The two confused looking gentleman are Liam and Fing– Finnigan. Liam and Finnigan.”
Walsh snorted. “Sure he is. Hey, Finnigan!”
There was an awkward pause before the second man turned his head and let out a tentative, “Me?”
Charles sighed. “It’s so hard to find good help these days. His name is Fingers. Harmless bit of fun, really, on account of his card-dealing shenanigans, but I didn’t think you military types would look too kindly on it.”
Jenkins leaned back against a bulkhead and savored the ensuing silence. Walsh wandered over to the two puzzled crewmen and started reading their display.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, anyways?” asked Charles. “I would’ve thought that myself and your captain could have made our introductions remotely.”
“We tried,” said Walsh. “Your tight-beam comms package is shot. Calloway sent us instead.”
Charles wrung his hands. “Is it, now? I’ll get Mance on that post-haste. Thank you for carrying that message. I can show you back to your shuttle now.”
“Nah,” said Jenkins. “I’ve decided that we’re staying put.” He dropped into a chair and, satisfied that he could watch both the door and the room’s three occupants, threw his feet up over a nearby console. The screen was cracked. He didn’t think he’d be in the way. “Walsh, you may want to grab a seat.”
TAV Dewdrop
“Master Corporal Gregory Hammond, for conspicuous gallantry and bravery. Master Corporal Hammond refused evacuation and continued to work to free the trapped members of his platoon while replicator forces advanced on his position. His actions saved the lives of three…”
Rusty’s massive head rested on Tweetie’s leg. The dog’s weight was oddly comforting.
“So we’ve got five full-strength dreadnoughts and a couple dozen FACs,” said Tweetie. “That’s all we had at the Heph?”
“Something like that,” said Cromley. “There’s another fifteen hulls we can take with us — six of them are shiny new Redoubtable-class supers — but they’re running with skeleton crews and incomplete systems. We’re leaving another twenty-three in their drydocks.”
“At least we’ll get some of them out..” Tweetie paused. “Wait. Take them with us? To where?”
“Full evac through the gate.”
“Is that even possible?”
“What’s left of the admiralty seems to think so. Most of the replicator swarm’s moved on from the gate, and we’ve got enough capital ships to punch a hole.”
“What do we do from there, though? We can’t hope to rebuild without shipyards, and we can’t exactly take the Hephaestus with us.”
“Not the main ones, no, but some of the smaller fabber and refinery modules could be hauled by a tug. The station’s already in pieces.”
“Fuck. I was out for longer than I thought.”
TAV Dewdrop
Whep relaxed his deathgrip on his seat as the shuttle’s autopilot touched them down inside the Dewdrop. Leil had been eyeing the manual controls with far too much interest during their brief jaunt through the fleet.
He rose from his seat, banged his head on the four-man craft’s low ceiling, then shuffled over to the hatch. Spik bounced happily out of the craft and into the Dewdrop‘s shuttle bay.
“I could have done that just as well as the computer,” complained Leil. “It didn’t look that hard.”
“The computer plotted a course through more than than four thousand ships, then executed it flawlessly,” said Whep. “I’d call that pretty hard.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I know.”
Calloway was waiting for them in the shuttle bay. He scooped Spik up in a hug and twirled her around, ignoring the cub’s joyful shrieks, then dropped her onto the ground and walked over to her parents. Spik landed with a practiced roll.
“You guys cut that rather close,” he said.
“Had to be careful,” said Leil. “Never can tell who you can trust these days. How’d you turn that Marshal, anyways? I saw he was wearing a CPO’s shield.”
“He got fucked over in Chicago. Someone in his chain must have decided that the invasion would be a convenient time to lose their two most troublesome councilors. We got them out instead.”
“That ought to do it,” said Whep. “The close-protection guys are a cut above regular marshals. Where’s everyone, by the way? You guys from 3rd don’t normally skimp on your receptions this much.”
“The admiralty just passed out the final movement orders. Rest of the crew’s on the bridge awaiting the signal. Care to join us?”
“Nah,” said Whep, “I’ve got to make sure Spik’s settled. Don’t let her boundless energy fool you — she hasn’t slept in a day and a half.”
“I’ll come,” said Leil. “It’s his turn to cub-sit anyways.”
HAV Machina
One of the consoles in the far corner let out a sharp ringing sound. Out of all the Machina‘s crew, only Billy seemed the least bit interested, and his interest only extended as far as his slightly raised head. He was too busy munching cud in the corner.
Jenkins eased himself to his feet and walked over. The station was running an outdated comms package. He accepted the call with a sigh.
Calloway’s face sprang to life on the display. Jenkins smiled, then dialed the volume down.
“Jenkins?” asked the aging NCO. “How long are you planning on staying over there?”
“Whole trip,” replied Jenkins. “I’m not sure that they won’t scuttle off the minute things get hot.”
“I’m not sure that it’d make much of a difference,” said Calloway. “That aging piece of crap won’t be able to do much in a fight. Its turret barely qualifies as a weapon.”
Jenkins saw Charles stiffen out of the corner of his eye. That was interesting. The Marshals still hadn’t distributed the re-activation packages for the implants, which meant that the Machina‘s captain should have been running blind.
“We just got our escort assignment,” continued Calloway. “A half-dozen unarmed and overcrowded civvy ships, plus one of the Heph‘s smelter/fabber modules. Clocks in at a little under four hundred souls.”
“And it’s just the Dewdrop and the Machina on escort?”
“Yep. We’re going to have to punch above our weight class.”
“I’m sure you’re looking forward to that. When do we strike out?”
“Final plans go out in seven minutes,” said Calloway.
“Seven minutes? You used to be able to call a warning orders a week in advance. How fucked is the Admiralty if you’re only working ten minutes ahead?”
Calloway grimaced. “It’s pretty bad. Zhao, Markos, and Sun are missing, presumed dead, and Karmazov and Brock are in a stalemate. If it weren’t for the Chair’s orders, we’d be dead in the water.”
“Well, thank god the system works. Anything else?”
“There is one thing.” Calloway hesitated, indecision plain on his face. “Have you been following the radio updates?”
“No, they’re not playing them over here. Some bullshit about their tight-beam array. Why, what came up?”
“It’s Slater.” Another pause, longer this time. “He was part of an inspection tour on the Redoubtable, helping to revise the SOPs on some of the ship’s new systems. We… the black box made it out untouched.” Calloway’s voice was hoarse. “Bastard made a hero out of himself again. Went down fighting.”
Jenkins fist slammed into the top of the console, sending a spiderweb of cracks down the screen. Oddly enough, Slater was the first loss of the day to really hit him. His mother had been dead for some time, and his father was safely ensconced in the upper reaches of Fleet. The rest of his friends were military, and their were certain risks that came with the job. But Slater had been all but retired, working a cushy R&D gig. He should’ve been waiting for them at the Heph.
“Thanks for letting me know,” said Jenkins. He closed the connection and turned to the crew. Blood dripped off of his clenched fist.
“Right,” he said. “Here’s how this is going to work. Charles, you’re going to stop playing games. You’re a smuggler. Big whoop. Those implants of yours in direct violation of a Chair edict. I don’t give a fuck. What matters is that each and every one of you swore an oath when you got your spacer tickets. You’re Fleet Auxiliaries, and if you even think about shirking your duty, I’ll kill you. Painfully. Understood?”
Charles managed a frantic, pale-faced nod. Fingers gave a slack-jawed stare, and Liam tapped a few hasty commands on his terminal. Even Walsh looked a little surprised. Only Billy seemed oblivious to the murderous edge in Jenkin’s voice.
Jenkins settled himself back into his seat, feet up on the broken screen, and checked his sidearm. Fully charged. Good. He glanced up. “What’re you waiting for? Six minutes until the fleet moves out. Look busy.”
TAV Dewdrop
The Dewdrop‘s cramped bridge was stuffed full. Calloway sat rigid at the helm. Flaring manned the nav console, Cromley the tac. Tweetie was slumped into the chair at the comm station. Rusty had wedged himself in next to the recovering Nedji. Naomi and Leil lurked in the hatchway.
“All ships,” droned the radio, “it’s time. Your captains have already received their orders. They are to execute them immediately. All broadcasts will cease once the tight-beam network is broken; stand by to receive direct communications from your squadron leaders.”
The thousands of surviving Terran ships were clustered close enough to be visible to the naked eye. Small, personal vessels and Marshal hunter-killer ships skimmed over the surfaces of the massive Ark-class transports; colossal tugs and haulers blocked out the stars. Everywhere Tweetie looked he could see the telltale shimmer of idling impeller nacelles.
The scavenged bones of the TASS Hephaestus drifted at the edge of the formation, its cavernous dry docks little more than frail eggshells without its hundreds of support modules. Tweetie smiled grimly at the thought of the hundreds scuttling charges that Fleet egineers had left behind. If the Compact tried to pick through Sol’s remains, they were in for a surprise.
In the distance, Mars’s light glowed a bright red. Tweetie shuddered at the thought of the beautiful, rock planet — his home — crawling with replicators, and at the image of millions of refugees fleeing into tunnels cut deep beneath the regolith. And at the memory of Earth’s besieged cities, flinging their defiance into the sky with their last breaths.
They’d come back. If Tweetie could fall in love with this system in only a few short years, he couldn’t imagine how attached the humans must have grown over the millennia.
He hoped there’d be something left when they returned.
Across the solar system lay the gate, and around the gate waited swarms of replicators. Tweetie had no doubt that the Terran’s patchwork fleet would break through. There were humans at the helm, after all. But anything could lay beyond the gate. Was Second Fleet still standing guard over the Midway system? Were the replicators there as well, laying in wait? And where the hell was the Galactic Compact? When would they show up to sink their teeth into the Terran’s exposed heart?
“Navigation?” asked Calloway.
“Course plotted and awaiting execution,” said Flaring.
“Tac?”
“All weapons green,” said Cromley.
“Comms?”
“We just received the updated timings,” said Tweetie. “Thirty-five seconds to burn.”
“Thank you, Tweetie. Anyone ready with a speech?”
“Of course not. Jenkins isn’t here.”
“Guess you guys have to settle for a few words from me, then.” The Dewdrop‘s captain sucked in a breath. “This isn’t the end. One day, we’re going to come back home.”
Four thousand Terran ships flared their impellers and struck out. They sailed towards the replicators. Towards the gate. Towards the unknown.