Taylor laced his fingers. “It belonged to a friend of the family.”
“Indeed?” Haju said. “How delightfully native.”
“Sure, whatever.”
Haju keyed off the slate and handed it over. “Very well. I think I have everything I need to process your new vessel and clear her for gate access as early as tomorrow. Will that suffice for your purposes?”
Taylor rose and pushed in his stool. “Yep. Much obliged for the—”
“There is, however, the matter of the one-time expedience fee.”
Taylor froze. “The what?”
“All mercenaries, Human or otherwise, are required to register their ships through the Commerce and Information Guilds, at which time those credentials are relayed to the Cartography Guild, then to us, the gate masters.” Haju shifted on his seat. “Since you are opting to navigate the process in reverse, you are in effect creating additional work for the Cartography Guild. Naturally, there is a fee for that.”
Taylor blinked. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“No, Chief Van Zant.” Haju smirked. “I can assure you that I am most certainly not shitting you. That would imply that I am being dishonest, and as you well know, such behavior is beneath my kind.”
Taylor slumped back onto his stool, beyond annoyed, and reminded himself that his grievance was with the Cartography Guild, not the gate master. If Haju said the fee wasn’t his call, then that was the reality. For all the Sumatozou’s faults, of which there were plenty, honesty issues weren’t on the list. If a member of the species gave their word, then that was that. To violate such a pact was to dishonor one’s family.
Floppy-eared putz sure seems happy to play messenger, though. Taylor stared at the grinning alien and rubbed his own temples. “How much?”
“Ten thousand Union credits.”
“Ten thou—” Taylor guffawed. “That’s half my company’s retainer!”
“So it would seem.” Haju steepled his massive hands at his chest. “Alas, business is business, and the Cartography Guild has its own financial obligations to meet. So, now that we understand each other, how would you prefer to pay?”
Taylor allowed himself a brief fantasy involving alien strangulation then presented his yack and flipped it skittering across the desk.
“Many thanks,” Haju said. He then plugged the card into a device and waited for the latter’s indicator to flash red to green, signaling a finished transaction. The whole process took seconds.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Chief Van Zant.” Haju returned the yack to its owner. “I do sincerely hope this won’t be our only encounter.”
Taylor didn’t dignify that with a response. He snatched up his card, tipped his cap, and whirled for the door.
* * * * *
Chapter 6: Launch Day
The next four days were a whirlwind of preparations as Taylor’s crews worked overtime to get the Eagles ready for Sakall. The first order of business was to get Keeto and the engineering staff up to speed with the Osyrys. Luckily, that process proved relatively straightforward, thanks to Ron and the Steeldriver folks who’d taken exquisite care of her the last six years. Of course, that hadn’t stopped Earth’s most obsessive-compulsive Athal from going over the cruiser’s systems with a fine-toothed comb. But such was the hallmark of a good engineer.
On the morning of launch, Taylor said goodbye to his jeans and flannels for something more businesslike—hunter-green BDUs with all the usual accessories—then locked up his Firestorm compact in favor of his duty weapon, a full-sized version of the same model. Finally, he traded in his Generals cap for a black one with his company’s insignia, then fed his ponytail through the back and headed for the door.
In many respects, the Ryley Osyrys’s interior wasn’t unlike the stargate station, in that both carried an overwhelmingly industrial aesthetic. Steel-paneled walls, exposed ventilation, metal-grated floors. The difference, however, came in the design. Whereas the stargates had clearly been constructed with large species like the Sumatozou in mind, the Osyrys had been built by a Human for Humans. That meant eight-foot ceilings instead of fifteen in the corridors, plus tighter quarters and a more confined all-around vibe in the common areas to maximize space.
Boarding the cruiser on E Deck, which housed the main cargo bay and debarkation hatch, Taylor rounded a series of junctions en route to the lift that would take him to the Osyrys’ bridge on C Deck. When the door opened, Taylor emerged onto a catwalk overlooking the bi-leveled room that, for all intents and purposes, served as the central hub for all ship’s operations.
“Ten-hut!” Quint announced in his best formal voice. “Commanding officer on the bridge.”
“Knock that fargin crap off, man,” Taylor said with a smirk.
Quint snickered and returned to his terminal.
Stepping to the guardrail beneath the soft glow of the overhead lighting, Taylor took a moment to refamiliarize himself with the bridge’s layout. A horseshoe-shaped chamber with officer posts on each side, the center featured a massive Tri-V unit in front with the navigation post staggered slightly right behind it.
“Where’s Smitty?” Taylor looked around, finding only Quint and Billy, plus a newcomer he guessed to be their new navigator. Everyone was in uniform.
“She’s down on D Deck with the platoon sergeants,” Quint said. “They needed some help getting the troopers organized into crew quarters before launch. Smitty went to help out.”
Taylor nodded. “How about our reporter friend? She aboard yet?”
Quint’s grin pulled abruptly downward with his tone. “Ms. Kouvaris is settled into crew quarters on B Deck. I told her you’d have to sign off on her bridge access.”
“Good man.” Taylor’s gaze lingered on the lush green scene in the Tri-V as he descended the steps to join the others. “I reckon this is the new navigator I’ve heard so much about.”
The three-foot-tall alien with owl-like features snapped out a salute.
“Relax, dude,” Taylor said. “The only time we get that formal around here is when we’ve got a diplomat aboard. Which, you know, is never.”
The Buma exhaled and dropped his arm. “Oh, thank the gods.”
Taylor arched an eyebrow at the alien’s accent. New York?
“I kid you not,” the Buma continued. “During all my time in the Brooklyn MST program, I never could get my digits right for those Human salutations.” He waggled his fingers. “Besquith? Sure. Oogar, no problem. Although between us, I’d just as soon have my feathers plucked out than spend six weeks trapped in deep space with those big moody bastards.”
Taylor spotted his XO chuckling from the corner of his eye.
“What?” The Buma looked around, clearly confused.
“Oh, it’s nothin’,” Taylor said. “You’re just…not what I expected.”
The Buma scratched his head. “You may find this hard to believe, but I get that a lot.”
“Ya don’t say,” Taylor remarked.
“I do say,” the Buma answered. “My great grandfather was on the Galactic Union welcome wagon that made first contact with humanity last century. He liked the place, so much so that he took a post at the first embassy in Manhattan after Earth signed its charter with the Mercenary Guild. Fast-forward a few generations, and you get yours truly.”
Taylor pocketed his hands. “Does yours truly have a name?”
“Tuzana Ibansk Phrankolith,” The Buma took a bow. “Or Frank, as they call me back in the neighborhood.”
“Word has it The Golden Horde called you a coveted nav recruit,” Taylor said. “Them and about two dozen other outfits.”
“That’s the rumor,” Frank said.
“So why us?” Taylor asked. “Why come to Jax instead of headin’ for the bigtime in Houston?”
Frank gave a sideways tilt of his beak. “Honestly? I got eight older siblings, all turned merc straight out of school like me, and all now in Houston. Don’t get me wrong, I dig Space City. It
’s a great town. I just wanted to go someplace where I could make my mark on the business. Know what I mean? That, and well.” He shrugged. “Taste of Home rated Jacksonville as one of the top five cities in the South for food.”
Taylor blinked. “You’re a foodie?”
“Damn skippy,” Frank said. “You like Italian, yeah? Gimme your galley for an afternoon. I’ll whip up some linguine with a white wine clam sauce that’ll have you pissin’ your Wranglers before you leave my table.”
Taylor got the distinct impression he was gonna like having this alien around. “All right then, Frank. Take your post and get us clear with orbital control to move out.”
“You got it, boss.” The Buma spun back to his post, where a set of plugs waited for insertion into his pinplants.
“Billy?” Taylor turned to the tactical station on the bridge’s right side. “Is the Osyrys packed up for our trip?”
Billy rolled his eyes, clearly still sour over the lack of a name change. “We’re packed and ready.”
“Did Hemming come through with our order?” Taylor asked.
“It took them an extra day, but yeah,” Billy said. “The shipment came in last night. You’ll also be happy to know that I pulled some strings through a logistics buddy of mine with Harvick’s Hurricanes to get us a few of their old CASPers. They’re stowed with the others down below.”
“Sweet.” Taylor did love a CASPer. Then again, who didn’t love a nine-foot-tall, powered armor suit that was strapped to the hilt with four hundred pounds of onboard weaponry? “Which model did we get? The Mk 6 or Mk 7?”
“Two sevens and four sixes,” Billy said. “That gives us one seven for every member of the command staff, plus platoon sergeants and most of the trooper threes. The T1s and T2s will have to stick with Mk 6s until I can find us another deal to upgrade.”
Taylor nodded. “Good lookin’ out. I appreciate that.”
Billy’s uninspired look said he’d have preferred to get with the times via the CASPer Mk 8.
Taylor would’ve, too. If only they weren’t four times the cost. He turned to astrometrics on his left. “Quint? We good on your end?”
“Gold as gold can be,” the ex-slugger said. “I’ll have to recalibrate once we’re in orbit, of course. But for now, all scopes read us in the clear.”
The lift doors opened and the last member of Taylor’s command staff emerged onto the bridge.
“Hey Smitty,” Taylor said. “How are the kiddos? Tucked in good and tight?”
“They seem to be for now,” the Aussie said en route to her post next to Quint at communications. “Call me in an hour, though, when the probies are floating through globules of their own puke in zero G.”
“I’m so not cleaning that up,” Quint muttered.
Smitty sat down and keyed her ident code into her terminal. “I’ve gotta hand it to you, Chief. You really do know how to pick your recruits.”
“How do you figure?” Taylor asked.
“Those two old farts you signed?” Smitty turned to face him. “They came aboard, all right. The one called Jack bloody well made a pass at me outside the mess hall.”
Taylor snickered on his way to the command chair at center-deck. Once there, he buckled in for launch, then swiped open a channel using the display console on his chair arm. “Engineerin’, this is the bridge. You copy?”
“Ayew,” Keeto’s voice said. “We read you loud and clear. What do you require?”
“Best I can tell, we’re all set for launch up here,” Taylor said. “What’s your status?”
“Reactors One and Two are active and engaged,” Keeto said. “Reactor Three is online and standing by. F11 reserves are fully charged and primed for core injection.”
Per Taylor’s schooling, fusion power was the mainstay of power generation in the galaxy, be it for propelling ships like the Osyrys through the cosmos or powering cities like Jax through the night. This was made possible by way of a neutron-dampening element known as F11. A rare isotope of fluorine, F11 served as a stabilizing agent for the fusion process. Without it, there was no space travel.
“The Ryley Osyrys is as ready as I can make her,” Keeto concluded. “You may launch when ready.”
“Copy that. Bridge out.” Taylor killed the channel and considered his next words. He’d stood on a starship bridge for more launches than he could count with Terry, events which were always preceded by some rousing speech that inevitably brought the crew to their feet in applause.
Taylor cleared his throat and thumbed open a ship-wide channel. “All crew, this is the bridge. EMS Ryley Osyrys shows green across the board. Stand by at your stations. We’re a go for launch.”
A brief silence filled the room.
“Well done, Chief,” Billy said. “Really.”
Taylor appreciated his friend’s sentiment, even if it was crap. “Okay, Frank, she’s all yours. Just do us all a favor and don’t ding the paint on the way out of the garage.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Chief.” Frank keyed a series of commands into his nav console before taking over with his pinplants. A second later, a low rumble reverberated through the deck, followed by a series of tremors as the waking thrusters outside built to crescendo.
“Liftoff in three…” Frank called over the roar, “two…one…mark.”
The entire crew braced as an explosion of force rocked the Osyrys’ hull, lurching her from her docking platform and prompting her skyward.
“Acceleration altitude achieved,” Frank called over the cacophony. “Throttling up; main engines for orbital boost…now.”
Taylor’s fingers became a claw at his chair arm, his teeth chattering in his head, as a low thrum pierced the thunder outside. That led to a sudden burst of momentum which planted Taylor’s skull even deeper into his headrest. Don’t hurl! Don’t hurl! Don’t hurl!
The whole experience felt like it lasted for an eternity. In reality, the Osyrys had barely been off the ground five minutes when the battering of nerves and steel subsided, and the smooth, even glide of null gravity flight took over.
“Earth orbit achieved, Chief,” Frank announced. “Proceeding to the stargate.”
That was so not a shuttle ride. Taylor caught his breath and fixed his gaze on the Tri-V. Gone were digital projections of the lush greens and blues of his homeworld. They’d been replaced by an endless tapestry of stars. I don’t care how many times I do this, I ain’t never gettin’ tired of that.
A series of pings chirped from Quint’s display. “Looks like we’ve got a packed house today.” He toggled the image for a better reading. “Sensors are picking up multiple ships to starboard.”
“Put it on the Tri-V, will ya?” Taylor asked from his seat.
Quint swiped a set of hand gestures over his console, prompting the Tri-V unit down front to project a three-dimensional render of the space to starboard. Sure enough, there were eighteen other ships preparing for transition.
“Stargate is coming into visual range now,” Quint reported.
“Confirmed,” Frank said. “Hyperspatial generator is online and active.”
Hyperspatial generator. Taylor could’ve gone the rest of his life without hearing those two words again.
Once into hyperspace, a ship’s fusion plant would power its generator. That in turn received instructions from the nav system to effectively draw the ship through the void from her starting point at the stargate to a designated emergence point at her destination. That, by all rights, was where humanity’s understanding of hyperspace technology ended.
Whereas many groups in the Union were fairly forthright about their tech, the Science Guild was anything but when it came to the machinations of their generators. The Guild built the drives offsite and programmed them to interface with each ship’s nav atlas, the directory of planets and stargates used throughout the Union which was maintained by the Cartography Guild. The Science Guild then issued the drives with one nonnegotiable condition—tamper with the tech and risk losing it. Mo
st mercs were good with that arrangement. After all, so long as one got to and from a payday on time, why should it matter if he understood the means by which that happened?
Taylor was not one of those mercs. He couldn’t be.
According to the Science Guild’s report, the likely cause of Terry’s accident had been a faulty engine. Taylor had always found that odd, given the reputation of Terry’s lead engineer, Rick Blaney, as a total efficiency hawk. If something was wrong with an Eagles ship, no matter the system, Blaney was on it. The lone exception to that came from the one system Humans were explicitly forbidden to explore.
The generator.
“Stargate is coming into range,” Frank said. “Stand by for hyperspace transition on my mark.”
Taylor wiped his palms on his shirt to get rid of the sweat. “ETA to transition?”
“Thirty seconds,” Frank answered.
The massive ring grew larger in the Tri-V.
“Fifteen seconds…” Frank said, “ten…nine…eight.”
Taylor’s heartrate ticked upward as the eighteen other ships closed into formation around the Osyrys, the stargate’s event horizon pulsing a dazzling cascade of luminescent blue ahead. It’d be gorgeous if it weren’t so damn terrifying.
“Five…” Frank said, “four…three…two…one.”
Taylor closed his eyes as a mild groan reverberated through the Osyrys’s hull. It was followed by the odd sense of disorientation. Then…nothing.
“Hyperspace transition successful,” Frank said. “Reactors One and Two are synchronized into a shared workflow. Hyperspatial generator is online and operating well within safety parameters.”
Taylor exhaled and opened his eyes. The sight in the Tri-V had shifted again, this time from a stunning starscape to the formless, colorless white of hyperspace. “Nice job, nav. Reset the clock.”
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