The second of her whispers showed all enemy vessels within five hundred megameters. Lacking the deep integration she enjoyed with her squadron, this display only updated every 0.8 seconds.
Three tiny dots flash to life. “Drone launch, N 38.04°z-10.15 E. Flight 3 engage.”
Engaged.
Four seconds later—Down. Down. A pause. Down.
She could see the small explosions on the whisper of course, but it built pride and confidence for pilots to announce their successes, and she encouraged it.
Two larger dots appeared. Alliance frigates; they would represent the forward flank.
A sea of red pinpoints fanned out from the frigates. “Sixteen missiles away. Engage.”
Faster than she was capable of speaking, she assigned every fighter a missile based on proximity and trajectory. That left six free missiles—but first things first.
The swarm dissolved into precise, directed movements. Her primary attention diverted to her own missile tracking across the translucent screen overlaying her viewport. She banked in a controlled slide to its right until its entire length was centered in the reticle.
Lock. Fire.
“Down.”
Five missiles had now been destroyed. She moved to the closest free one.
Track. Drop. Invert. Lock. Fire.
“Down.”
Epsilon took out a second missile. Twelve down—and four were through their net.
“Command, four missiles free.”
Acknowledged.
The third whisper displayed strategically relevant information from the other two squadron leaders, the captains of the ten frigates (also down two after Arcadia) and the commander of the Catania, Commodore Pachis.
2nd squadron (defense) engaging.
Seven seconds later—All missiles destroyed.
The attackers likely didn’t expect any of the missiles to survive to impact. It was merely an opening volley, designed to occupy and distract. And to some extent, it worked. Three stealth electronic jammer craft had snuck through the outer defensive line and set about scrambling several of the Senecan vessels’ targeting ware.
Combat formation active. Begin primary engagement.
“Harass on my mark. Two…one…mark.”
It was the job of the 1st squadron to engage the frontal force of Alliance fighters and of the 2nd squadron to fly defensive patrol around the carrier and rear frigates. It was the job of Lekkas’ squadron to create chaos behind the lines and on the edges, to chase outliers and take advantage of opportunities as the battle spread out across megameters of space.
Though she continued to monitor the status of each of the ships under her command, to a large extent the individual pilots now gained freedom of movement and decision, subject to guidance from the Flight primaries.
She also served as Primary of Flight 1. “Our target is Alliance frigate bearing N 24.51°z18.06 E. Weapons and engines.”
Slipping behind enemy lines was not an easy matter. They possessed robust dampener fields, but the fields interfered with targeting and constituted a hindrance while firing. Therefore, her preferred tactic was to activate the field and swing wide out and low in order to pass through the outer Alliance defenses, deactivate the field and use her ship’s agility to avoid destruction while making several quick hits, then vanish again.
Her speed, trajectory and ship vitals shone brightly in the fourth whisper. For a moment, beyond it there existed only the blackness of space, lit by the stars outside her cockpit and the faint glow of a sun behind her, as she dropped in near free-fall.
The agility and maneuverability Commander Lekkas’ squadron would use to their benefit amidst the Alliance fleet was far less of an advantage in head-to-head space combat. With no obstacles to avoid or atmosphere to fight against, the lightweight construction of Senecan fighters was of marginal value against the tougher, hardier Alliance fighters. Even rapid maneuverability couldn’t escape plasma weapons which once locked were able to track movement up to 0.6 light speed. The 1st squadron fought hard but quickly suffered heavy losses on the front lines.
The fire of massive plasma cannons on both sides lit the field of battle, at times meeting each other mid-arc in tremendous explosions of light. Though better protected than the fighters, Senecan frigates were still more lightweight and maneuverable than their Alliance counterparts. But the Alliance ships were workhorses and exceedingly difficult to destroy.
Worse, the Alliance had come prepared. Having taken due note of the size of the detachment sent to Arcadia, Admiral Rychen’s forces had arrived in strength. In the time it took Senecan vessels to destroy one Alliance frigate, two Senecan ones were disabled or destroyed—and the Alliance enjoyed more to begin with.
For this battle, in this space and under these circumstances, the outcome was inevitable almost before it had begun.
Lekkas did more than most to try to even the odds. Skimming so close beneath the hull of a frigate she was able to clearly see the shimmer of its plasma shield, she accelerated past the stern weapons assembly and pivoted 180°.
Target. Lock. Fire.
The assembly splintered apart in a burst of flame and free plasma. She was already gone, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. The impulse engine was her next target.
A frigate’s impulse engine was too sturdily built to be easily destroyed by small pulse laser weapons—but with concentrated fire it could be disabled. She met her flight members beneath the rear of the ship for a brief, directed, coordinated assault. They had 3.4 seconds before Alliance reserve fighters arrived to annihilate them. In 3.3 seconds the glow of the impulse engine shifted from pale blue to fiery orange in an unstoppable chain reaction which would soon result in a critical overload—and they vanished.
Lekkas and her team disabled the weapons and partially or wholly disabled the engines of an additional three frigates as well as four electronic warfare vessels before Commodore Pachis signaled the retreat. While they likely saved a number of soldiers’ lives through their actions, they ultimately didn’t change the outcome of the battle.
The 3rd Wing of the Senecan Federation Southern Fleet arrived with ten frigates and left with three. Sixteen of twenty-six
fighters survived, but the relatively high survival ratio was due solely to the fact Commander Morgan Lekkas’ squadron did not lose a single ship.
53 Earth
San Francisco
A heavy, damp fog blanketed the streets as far as the eye could see. Which, given it was 0100 and the previously mentioned fog, wasn’t particularly far.
The street lights gave the fog a washed-out champagne glow and created an aura of eerie otherworldliness. This time of year the fog shrouded the Outer Sunset District and Ocean Beach day and night, seeing only the occasional brief clearing after a storm front passed through.
Alex felt the moisture condensing on the fine hairs of her arms. The night air was cold as hell, but she had needed to dress the part. A deep crimson camisole woven with gossamer optic fibers draped to her navel; black leather pants clung low on her hips as she hurried down Taraval. It was even later now, and she still had a lot to do.
The club was almost to the beach, and she could hear the surf crashing against the shore. It brought back memories…memories she did not have time to entertain. She pushed them aside and located the unmarked door beneath one of the refabbed Victorian row houses.
The music assaulted her ears as she descended the stairs. Pure synth—no beat and no lyrics, merely a constant wave of complex tonals designed to soothe the mind and body into a state of open relaxation. It was warmer inside at least, though she suspected it would soon feel too humid as a result.
The warehouse space appeared pitch black save for vague shadows of moving bodies and the neon painted sensory address floating near the ceiling. With a sigh she accessed it. She’d never find her way in the dark.
The overlay shimmered to life. Stars materialized beneath her feet and the cool glow of a pale green nebula in th
e space around her. A triple star system spun in the air above her, comets dancing merrily amongst it in concentric orbits.
She wouldn’t spoil everyone’s fun, but even a full-sensory overlay didn’t come close to matching the real thing.
Men and women danced in the center of the room in slow, languorous, sensual movements to the synth music or occasionally to their own beat. Others slumped against the wall, lost in head trips. Small groups formed circles, each leaning on the other to remain standing while they engaged in group illusoires set in what was doubtless fantastical worlds. A few couples pawed at each other in the shadowed corners. A few did more.
Alex. The prodigal daughter returns. You can find me on the balcony.
Her eyes scanned the room until she made out the outline of an overhang high above the rear section of the dance floor. She wound her way through the crowd, most of whom didn’t notice her. At the sensation of a hand running along the small of her back and dipping into her pants, however, she did pause to casually knee a strapping young man in the balls then keep moving.
The balcony was nearly as crowded as the floor below—but Claire Zabroi was difficult to miss.
Not because of the cropped, jet black spiked hair or the skintight white leather pants and tunic. No, Claire was difficult to miss primarily because of the full-body network of saffron hued glyphs. They didn’t swirl or entwine softly like most glyphs did to double as tattoo art. Instead they mimicked the intricate patterns of a circuit board, all straight lines and hard angles. They wound up her neck to run along her jaw and disappear behind her ears, leaving her face the sole visible part of her body untattooed.
She had a woman on one arm and a drink in the other hand, but upon spotting Alex a smile pulled at her lips. She nudged the woman off and motioned to a table in the corner. Alex grabbed a cocktail off a waiter’s tray on the way over.
Claire greeted her with a smooth hug. “Alex, babe. It’s been far too long. However do you entertain yourself these days?”
“Oh, I manage.” She slid into the chair opposite her old…acquaintance. Claire was from a very different time in her life. A time after university, when freed of the rigors of study and serving an externship which was interesting enough but hardly filled the hours, she and Kennedy had found themselves in The City by the Bay while young and single, with money, freedom and few responsibilities.
They had soon met Ethan, then Drake and Alice, and through Alice, Claire. Claire was a hedonist, adrenaline junkie and casual chimeral dealer. But most of all, Claire was a hacker—and not your average hacker.
Though not many people knew it—i.e., she had not thus far been caught—she was responsible for the hacking of TransBank and ‘redistribution’ of more than six billion credits to seventeen thousand random individuals. She was also behind the hacking and leaking of government documents which brought down the North American Eastern District Governor in 2309, as well as half a dozen less infamous exploits.
Alex may or may not have assisted in any small or large way in all, some or none of those exploits. It was, as she had noted, a different time in her life.
“So what brings you back into the underworld? Your message said it was urgent.” Claire grinned; it was a harsh, predatory look on her. “Or are you jonesing? I can drop you some Surf if you want—on the house, for old times’ sake.”
Alex gave a wry chuckle. “No thanks, I don’t indulge anymore. Not often anyway….”
* * *
Ethan’s penthouse on Rue de Rivoli occupied the entire top floor of the condo tower. The elevator led to a sterile tile and marble foyer and a single door. There was no visible security, no handlers, no lackeys or groupies. She assumed his address must be kept extremely confidential. But though she had never been to this residence, she had always known where to find him.
She pressed the bell and leaned nonchalantly on the wall to wait. Only then did it occur to her the door might be answered by…well, virtually anyone. She hadn’t messaged ahead. She hadn’t planned or thought any of this through. She was simply here.
But it wasn’t anyone who answered. It was him.
He would have accessed a cam of the foyer of course and opened the door already knowing who awaited. He rested on the doorframe and mimicked her pose. His coffee-colored hair was cut shorter than when she had seen him last and barely grazed his shoulders. Chocolate irises sparkled with mischief; that had not changed.
“Alex, love. My birthday isn’t until next month, yet here you are.”
“Yet here I am.” She realized she was biting her lower lip when one of his eyebrows arched and the sparkle in his eyes flared. She didn’t stop.
“To what do I owe this smashing surprise?”
Her expression darkened as she stared at him and tried to find a way to respond glibly. ‘My lover of two years walked out on me and I don’t want to talk about it, think about it or even remember it, I just want to feel’ somehow didn’t seem a suitable answer, but her brain was not currently operating with enough functionality to craft a lie.
He must have read her mood, because he smiled and crossed the foyer to grasp her hands in his. “Never mind. What matters is you’re here.” He began backing up, drawing her along with him toward the door and into the penthouse.
She grinned in what she hoped resembled playful seductiveness. “Do you have plans for the weekend?”
Still grasping her hands, he wound her arms around his waist as the door closed behind them. “I do now….” His gaze caressed her face, down her neck to the hollow of her throat, then returned to her eyes. “Miss Solovy, I do believe you’re high.”
Yes, she most certainly was. “Is that a problem?”
“Bien au contraire, ma chérie.”
He was hardly French, but she supposed ‘when in Paris’…and true to the stereotype, the words sent a delightful shiver up her spine.
He maneuvered her so her back pressed into the wall and closed the remaining space until his lips hovered a breath above hers. “Stay that way. Stay with me. For the weekend, for however long you have.”
She responded by spinning him around, pinning him against the wall and crushing her mouth against his.
* * *
Alex forcefully blinked away the memory…damn but it had been a hell of a way to get over a broken heart.
Her voice lowered beneath the din of the crowd. “I need a spoofing routine—military grade, the best you have. Cost is not a concern, but I need it now.”
Claire sipped on her drink. “If it were anyone else I’d be tempted to take advantage of your obvious desperation and charge you double for half-assed ware. But once upon a time you had my back, and you never let me down. Also, you know several of my secrets.”
She set the glass on the table and eyed Alex a moment. “I do have something which meets your requirements. One of a kind and thus far solely for me. It’s not on the market.”
“It will be used only once, after which I will wipe it. My word.”
Claire’s gaze drifted up and across the balcony before settling again on Alex. “I keep it in here—” she tapped her temple with a razor square fingernail, causing a ripple along the glyphs on her forearm “—too valuable to store anywhere else. I can burn you a copy. Twenty-one thousand. And it’s worth twice the price.”
Alex smacked her lips and took a sip of her drink. It represented a good deal of money, but nothing she couldn’t pay. She nodded. “Do it.”
“You got it.” She reached into a pocket of the utility belt slung over her hips and removed a slim burner interface. She reached behind her head, rested the tiny oval at the nape of her neck and secured the harness above her ears. “Watch my drink for me?” Her eyes glazed over.
Alex scanned the area with careful nonchalance while she waited. The downstairs may be for mindless trips, partying and hookups, but upstairs serious business was being conducted.
The balcony was much larger than it first appeared and sported a number of couches, tables and private
alcoves. Certainly, much in the way of alcohol and recreational chimerals were being consumed—but hard tech was also trading hands. Judging from the hints of trunk lines winding along the walls, she expected active hacks were presently ongoing as well—likely some for sport, others for friendly competition, others for thousands of credits…and still others for real stakes.
She noted in her peripheral vision when Claire’s vision sharpened. The woman removed the interface from her neck, ejected a tiny reflective crystal disk and pocketed the equipment. Beneath the table she extended her hand, palm open. Alex did the same, placing her hand over Claire’s and holding it there as she transferred the funds. She took the disk and slipped it in the tiny pocket in the front of her pants.
“Thank you, Claire. I do appreciate this.”
Claire laughed and sank back in the chair. “Fair business trade. You just bought me some fancy new hardware for my lair. Good luck with whatever adventure you’re diving into. I’m glad to know you’re still in the game.”
She started to protest that she wasn’t, not really…instead she merely smiled. “Thanks.”
“Sure you don’t want to stick around awhile? Sandi, Markos and I were thinking of flying the bridge a little later. I seem to remember you enjoy it?”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “I seem to remember being the one who taught you how to do it in the first place.” Diving off the top of the Golden Gate Bridge using nothing but a tensile double-fiber strand when she was sixteen had gotten her arrested; by twenty-four she had gotten far smarter about it.
“That’s right….”
She chuckled lightly and stood. “As tempting as it is, I’m afraid I must go. Urgent doings and all.” She leaned over and gave Claire a quick one-armed hug. “Stay frosty. Don’t get caught.”
“Never.”
Rogue Stars Page 106