by Jake Elwood
"Have you got any details?"
"Just a star that got covered for a moment." O'Reilly was distracted, gaze fixed on his console. "Nothing on a preliminary visual scan, so it's either a very small ship or it's very far away."
There was no urgency to Tom's next decision, so he took his time, weighing his options. A ship flying directly toward an observer was comparatively hard to spot, the bulk of the ship hiding the burn of the engines. You were most visible when flying directly away from another vessel, or when braking on an approach.
He checked the angles. If the Kestrel made the maneuver he had in mind, the ship would be side-on to the planet. Not impossible to spot, but at least the engines wouldn't be pointed directly at the planet and the orbiting ship.
Considering the range, the odds of being spotted were vanishingly small. And it would take quite a while for a Dawn Alliance ship to respond, even if they were spotted.
"Point us at that ship," Tom said.
O'Reilly lifted an eyebrow. "The new contact, Sir?"
Tom sighed. "Designate the ship in orbit around Parkland as Contact One. Designate the second ship, the one in deep space, as Contact Two."
"Got it," said O'Reilly.
"Point us at Contact Two."
The stars shifted as the Kestrel turned.
"Now, let's head in that direction. Give me a … moderate amount of thrust?" I should really know the syntax. Dammit, I was never trained for this post.
There might have been the tiniest hint of a grin on O'Reilly's face as he turned away. "Moderate thrust, aye."
"We're in no hurry," Tom said. "Let's save fuel and keep a low profile."
O'Reilly nodded. "I'll give it about fifteen minutes of thrust. Then we'll coast." He glanced over his shoulder, lifting an eyebrow, and Tom nodded.
After that, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait and watch, scanning the vast empty expanse of the star system, hoping that if more ships were out there they would reveal themselves.
Hoping the mysterious ship ahead of them – and the ship in orbit around Parkland – were friendly.
Or at least neutral. Tom no longer thought of ships from the Green Zone worlds as friendly, even if they were nominally part of the United Worlds. Well, if the war does nothing else, it'll unite us all.
Scanner data trickled in as the Kestrel coasted through the void. Long-range telescopes showed the other ship as a tiny metal oval, much too distant to discern any details. The range was something like a hundred and fifty thousand kilometers, though it was impossible to be precise. At their current velocity, the two ships would rendezvous in about nine hours.
Onda suggested sending a tight-beam message, and Tom was tempted to agree. If the ship was hostile, they could bug out from a safe distance. However, the Kestrel was undetected, at least as far as he could tell. His instincts told him to hang onto that slim advantage. He had Onda record a brief message and prepare it for immediate broadcast if the mystery ship opened a hyperspace portal.
Otherwise, he decided he'd keep the Kestrel's presence a secret for as long as he could.
The shift changed, new crew filing in to take their posts. Tom didn't want to leave the bridge, and he could see that most of the bridge crew felt the same way. However, he didn't need exhausted people staying stubbornly at their stations and making mistakes. He stood reluctantly and decided to set an example by walking out of the bridge.
He lasted thirty minutes. He ate, spent five minutes jogging around the shuttle bay, took a quick shower, and returned to the bridge. He made O'Reilly leave, then sat in the captain's chair and watched as nothing happened.
Two hours later, worn down from a combination of tension and growing boredom, he stood, stretched, and decided to take another break. O'Reilly was back at the navigation console, so Tom told him, "You have the bridge." Then he headed for the exit.
He had one foot on the bridge and one foot in the corridor when O'Reilly said, "Hyperspace portal opening!"
Tom spun. "Onda. Send that message."
O'Reilly said, "Belay that." To Tom he said, "It's not Contact Two opening the portal. It's new."
Onda gave Tom an inquiring look. Tom said, "Stand by," and hurried to his chair. He sat, checked the navigation display, and felt his pulse quicken.
The portal, which would have looked like a glowing rectangle to the naked eye, appeared as a vivid white circle on his console. It was a scant couple of thousand kilometers from Parkland.
The circle vanished as the portal closed. O'Reilly said, "I've got one new ship, heading for the planet. Her transponder's on. It's the Laureline, out of Earth. She's a freighter."
Tom smiled, feeling a tremendous weight of tension slide away. A UW ship was approaching the planet openly. Parkland had to be in friendly hands.
He almost told Onda to turn on the Kestrel's transponder and announce their presence. There was still that mystery ship ahead, though. It was best to be discreet until he knew who all the players were.
A cold prickle ran up his spine. It's best to be discreet. To be cautious. Conditions change rapidly during the war. Only the most foolhardy captain would open up a portal that close to the planet. He should have come out in deep space, like the Kestrel. Radioed the base, and verified it was still in friendly hands.
Popping out of hyperspace that close to the planet was downright stupid – unless the captain didn't know about the war.
It was possible, he realized. He'd been living with the reality of war day and night, with such intensity he'd lost track of just how short a time had passed since the opening of hostilities. If this freighter had bypassed Garnet and come straight to Parkland, they might not know the war had started.
"Onda! Contact that freighter. Tell them to keep away from Parkland. Tell them there's a chance of hostile forces."
"Contact One is moving," said O'Reilly. "It's moving toward the Laureline." He looked up, eyes wide. "Her transponder just came on. She's Dawn Alliance."
Oh, hell. "Onda, did you send that message?"
The man nodded.
"Did you send it tight-beam, or broadcast?"
"Broadcast, Sir. Tight-beam takes time to set up, and it sounded urgent …"
"That's fine," Tom said. It meant Contact Two knew about them, but every second counted if the Laureline was to have any chance of escape. "You made the right call."
I should sound Battle Stations. I should tell O'Reilly to open a portal. We need to get out of here. With adrenaline flooding his bloodstream, Tom felt the frantic need to do something. But the Kestrel was tens of thousands of kilometers from the nearest ship. She was in no immediate danger, and there was nothing she could do to protect herself or help the Laureline.
Not soon enough to matter, anyway.
"The Laureline's changing course," O'Reilly said. He shook his head. "Took 'em long enough."
The crew would have trouble believing there was really an interstellar war. They would have squandered precious seconds grappling with shock. Tom looked at his console, watching the range between the two ships drop. The Laureline had a lot of forward momentum that she had to overcome before she could even begin to flee. If the DA ship was a warship, and it almost certainly was, it would be faster than a freighter, and more maneuverable.
It would be armed, too.
"We're getting a distress call from the Laureline," Onda said. By the hollow sound of his voice he knew what Tom had already figured out.
There was nothing the Kestrel could do.
"They're taking fire," said Onda. "They've lost engines." Several seconds passed, and then he said, "They are surrendering unconditionally."
Damn it. I announced our presence to the Dawn Alliance. I put the ship in danger, and for what?
For nothing.
He watched helplessly as the red triangle marking Contact One on his display moved closer and closer to the blue circle that indicated the Laureline. Finally the two symbols merged. The warship was docking with the freighter. Troops would be pouri
ng into the captured ship, rounding up her crew, locking them up.
And there was nothing Tom could do.
Chapter 4
"Sir." Onda swiveled his chair around and looked at Tom. "I'm getting a message from Contact Two."
Tom's head snapped up.
"They want to know who we are."
Tom stared at Onda for a long moment, weighing his options. The other skipper was being understandably cautious, unless he was Dawn Alliance, in which case he was stalling for time.
The DA already knows we're out here somewhere. They don't know who we are, but does it really matter? We're not going to stand and fight. The realization tasted bitter, but he couldn't deny it. We're going to bug out, so it doesn't really matter if they know who we are.
And if it's not a DA ship ….
"Send a reply," Tom said. "Tight-beam. Give them our ship name and registration."
The reply came back a moment later. "It's the Hollister out of Jasmine," Onda reported. "She's an armed merchantman."
Which meant she was worried about pirates, or she was a pirate herself. Well, it hardly mattered. "Ask them if they have any news." Tom thought for a moment. "Tell them about Argo, and tell them what we know about Garnet." Sharing what they knew seemed like the quickest way to get the Hollister talking.
"The Hollister apologizes and suggests leaving the system promptly," Onda said. "They're requesting a rendezvous."
Tom thought furiously. A rendezvous was a risk. Contact Two could still be a Dawn Alliance warship trying to lure them into a trap. But blundering around, knowing nothing, was also a risk.
"Pick a location," he said. "Something fairly close by, but not too close. In hyperspace."
Onda nodded, conferred briefly with O'Reilly, then murmured into his microphone.
The Hollister's portal, when it opened, was too far away to see with the naked eye. Tom watched a white circle glow briefly on his display, then wink out. "Contact Two is gone," said O'Reilly.
"Take us into hyperspace," Tom said. "Then bring us toward the rendezvous by a nice roundabout route."
He checked his tactical display. The captured freighter was in orbit around Parkland now, still docked to the warship. Her crew would all be in custody, facing a nightmare that wouldn't end for a long, long time. He stared at the blip on the screen, fuming, then did his best to push it from his mind. It's too late for that crew. Concentrate on your own crew. Concentrate on the people you can still help.
Light flooded through the bridge windows as a hyperspace portal opened in front of the Kestrel. "Take us through," said Tom, and the ship plunged into seventh-dimensional space.
"How far away is our rendezvous?"
"Fifty thousand K," O'Reilly said. That meant fifty thousand kilometers within hyperspace, which would translate as much further in normal space. "That's as the photon flies. We'll go a bit farther." He peered through the bridge windows. "We'll start by circling around that mess."
'That mess' was a hyperspace storm, a sphere of dark red shot through with streaks of pure black. It loomed in their path, big as a planet, quivering with energy.
"Give it lots of room," Tom said. "I don't like the look of it at all."
"Roger that." The storm slid sideways as the Kestrel turned.
"Let's not dawdle," Tom said. "Don't give me top speed. Try to go somewhat easy on the fuel. But I want to get to the rendezvous before anyone has time to set up an ambush."
"Aye aye," O'Reilly said, and the ship began a long, graceful curve around the bulk of the storm. "Should take us, let me see, maybe a quarter of an hour."
Tom nodded. "We'll stay at Battle Stations, then."
After that there was nothing to do but wait, and worry. His best guess was that the Hollister was legitimate. It was, however, a guess. There was no way to be sure, either. All he could do was approach the rendezvous with caution and hope for the best.
"Stop us five thousand kilometers short of the rendezvous," he told O'Reilly. "We'll take a good look from a safe distance."
Safe was a relative term, but O'Reilly acknowledged the order without offering any further comment.
The rendezvous point turned out to be on the fringes of a light storm. That reassured Tom. The Kestrel could flee into the storm if necessary. There would be enough ambient energy to make a ship difficult to spot, but not enough – he hoped – to damage the Kestrel.
The problem was, they'd never find the Hollister in the storm, not without going blindly to the exact rendezvous point. But the Hollister, if it was legitimate, would have similar concerns.
"Take us around the fringe of the storm," he told O'Reilly. "Keep us close to the storm front."
The Kestrel followed a meandering path around a bank of glowing saffron storm energy, trying to find the closest point to the rendezvous coordinates. From time to time the storm would fluctuate, a finger of energy stretching out to engulf the ship. Each time it happened O'Reilly steered the ship into clear space and they continued on their way. The Kestrel took no damage, but Tom fretted over the fuel they were burning.
"Keep a sharp outlook," he said. "I want to see them before they see us."
Almost immediately Onda said, "We've got a call from the Hollister." At Tom's nod he tapped his console and a woman's voice crackled over the bridge speakers.
"Kestrel, is that you approaching?"
So much for seeing them first. Tom nodded again to Onda, who said, "Your mic is live."
"This is Captain Thrush of the United Worlds frigate Kestrel."
"I'm Captain Moussa. I'm sorry about what happened to the Laureline."
"Thank you." Tom took a moment to check the tactical display on his console. O'Reilly was keeping the ship close to the storm front. The Hollister was finally visible, a yellow triangle a hundred kilometers or so distant. "We're pretty sure Garnet has been attacked by Dawn Alliance bombers. We know Sunshine Base at Argo has been attacked. Aside from that, we're starved for news. What can you tell us?"
"Garnet survived the attack," Moussa said, and Tom had to force himself to keep listening as a wave of relief crashed over him. If the base at Garnet had been destroyed the Kestrel would have been doomed.
"There was a passenger ship from Jasmine at Garnet during the attack. We heard about it from them. Apparently it was pretty bad. The majority of your fleet was damaged or destroyed, Captain."
Tom swallowed. "Go on."
"They ignored our passenger ship. Bigger fish to fry, I guess. The captain and crew didn't stick around to gather a lot of details. They made a run for it as soon as the worst of the fighting was over."
Tom said, "I understand."
"I don't know anything specific about other UW ships or bases, I'm sorry."
"All right." Tom thought for a moment. "We have some Free Planets people on board. I'm sure they're worried about their homes." He hesitated, afraid to ask the question. "Do you know what's happened to the colonies in the Green Zone?"
When Moussa replied, her voice was surprisingly chipper. "It hasn't been too bad. The Free Planets met with ambassadors from the Dawn Alliance. Most of the Green Zone colonies have negotiated a peace with the DA. There's a Dawn Alliance presence on every world, but no invasions, no atrocities." After a moment she added, "Mostly."
Tom leaned forward in his chair. "What do you mean, 'mostly'?"
"There are rumors," said Moussa. "We don't know anything for sure. But a couple of colonies opted out of the détente. Neorome and Tazenda."
"Have you heard anything about Hapsburg?"
"Nothing specific," Moussa said. "But it's a pretty significant UW colony." She clicked her tongue. "I wouldn't go there if I were you." There was a moment of silence. "Captain Thrush? I'm really not comfortable prolonging this conversation. Just meeting with a UW ship at a distance like this might be enough to provoke the Dawn Alliance. I wish you luck, Captain. But I have to go."
"Contact is moving away," O'Reilly said. Tom watched the yellow triangle on his tactical displa
y as it receded, faded, then vanished into the background static of hyperspace. O'Reilly said, "Contact lost." He glanced over his shoulder at Tom. "What now, Sir?"
"Hold this position." Tom stood. "Keep us out of the storm, but don't burn any more fuel than you can help." He headed for the bridge exit. "I'll be back."
He left the bridge, walking briskly with no destination. Ideas crowded his brain. Ideas and conflicting impulses. He needed time to sort it all out, so he walked, distracting himself while his subconscious went to work.
After a quick tour of the forward section he walked down the spine. When he got to Engineering he turned around and retraced his steps. By the time he returned to the bridge his mind was made up.
"Listen up," he said, dropping back into his chair. "We're returning to Parkinson's Star. Now, this is going to require some pretty careful navigating …"
Chapter 5
The ship came into normal space on the far side of the star from Parkland. They took their time fixing their position, then slid back into seventh-dimensional space. The ship re-emerged a short time later at a point directly between the star and the planet. The light from the star would drown out the light generated by the portal.
They accelerated hard toward the planet, coasted for several hours, then turned the ship around and decelerated hard. The ship was still a good hundred thousand kilometers from Parkland, but Tom wanted to brake while they were still a long way out. He wanted the engine flare lost in the light of the star.
At last the engine went quiet and the Kestrel let her momentum carry her toward Parkland at a stately several thousand kilometers per hour. At that speed it would take a day to reach the planet, which suited Tom fine. Time was one resource he had plenty of.
He left the bridge and headed for the wardroom, where he found Sawyer, her feet propped on a chair, staring out the window with her hands curled around a cup of cocoa. She looked half-asleep, and Tom was careful to make as little noise as possible. Sawyer was carrying an impossible burden, and she'd been carrying it for a while. If she'd finally managed to relax for a few minutes, he wasn't going to disturb her.