She glanced at Kraft as another shudder ran through the deck. She could almost see the bulkheads around her vibrate from the impact.
“Chief, hazard screen status?”
Kraft checked his text readout. “Thirty-six percent and holding. Secondary systems at full, tertiary system on hot standby.”
She nodded, appreciating his efficiency all over again. “Thank you.” She snorted. “Someone send a memo to the Union—they should double up on the number of scatterbombs they toss into a shipping lane. One is bad enough, but two would be enough to wipe out a ship our size.”
Kraft gave her a grin, but Ndomo managed just a weak curve of lip that might have been a grimace.
Vance crossed her arms. “Can we get center screen online? How far through the debris field are we?”
The buzzing of debris hitting the hazard field hadn’t abated, though now that she focused on it, she heard a change in timbre, a lessening somewhat of intensity.
Ndomo checked the data displayed on her small screen. “No power available for the large screen, but my screen shows we’re through the worst of it.”
The deck shuddered underneath them again, as if mocking her statement. An amber light flickered to life on Vance’s command pedestal. She glanced down at the tiny text screen set into it.
Gint. Chief’s OL but ok—magboot failure but he had his crash suit on. Livingstone and I ½ thru FTL shutdown seq; yr order?
Vance nodded to herself. Shitty thing that Tolle ended up OL—offline—but thank the gods he wasn’t KIA. She glanced at Ndomo. “How soon until we’re out of the debris field?” The buzzing had lowered a few more decibels and the hull shook less often.
Ndomo worked her console. “Thirty seconds to edge of debris field, mark.”
Vance leaned down to type on her screen. Shutdown FTL 1 min, mark.
Gint’s reply was swift: 1 min ack.
Which meant he had acknowledged it. She could just imagine him and Livingstone, the engineer’s mate, rushing like madmen around the engine room as fast as their magboots would allow, shutting off power flow valves, compensators, and failsafes with the intention of creating an unscheduled FTL shutdown.
A skipper hoped to never have to shut the drives down early, because getting them back online was a pain in the ass, especially with depleted cryo, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped.
Like when you run into a Union scatterbomb planted in your way. Bastards.
Vance had Ndomo call out the remaining seconds until they cleared the debris field. Once she hit ‘zero, mark’, Vance braced herself on the command pedestal again and breathed shallowly, willing herself to remain calm. Any second now…
A subtle shudder rippled through the deck and up her legs, and then stopped. A sudden, muffled bang echoed through the ship, but was soon followed by silence. After a couple heartbeats, the lighting in the command deck brightened slightly, and two of the three display screens flickered to life.
Vance pushed herself up to a standing position and glanced at Kraft. “Gravfield?”
He nodded. “Artificial grav restored.”
Vance sighed in relief and used her big toes to disengage her magboots. Lack of artigrav would have been a major inconvenience, but not an insurmountable one. Easier to not have to deal with it, anyway.
“Ndomo, status?”
Ndomo flipped a toggle on her console and checked her screen for the results. “FTL drive fully disengaged. Sublight engines warming up.”
Had they had more time, they could have warmed up the sublights before spiraling out of FTL, but as with everything on a starship, it was a matter of available power and how best to allocate that power. It had been more important to keep the ship from getting damaged by debris and to keep the crew alive than it had been to have the sublights warmed up and ready to go on re-entry.
Vance shook her head—as an amendment to that memo she’d theoretically send to the Union—have a warship standing by in sublight to board or destroy any ship forced out of FTL by your stupid scatterbombs. As much as she hated to admit it, with the sublights cold but warming up, they were an immobile target. Any Union ship or pirate out there would make easy pickings of them.
Over her dead body, anyway. And her crew’s bodies.
Except… She frowned as she flipped toggles on her console, and brought up the last set of telemetry from their flight plan on the center screen. The placement of the scatterbomb had either been an odds-shattering coincidence on the part of some hyper-lucky Union captain, or had been an intentional attack against her ship.
Given the odds, she had to believe it was intentional. Which meant that the Union had good intelligence operatives hard at work.
And that line of thinking made her grimace. She flipped a switch on her console. The red lights on the command deck switched off and were replaced by the regular, soft white tones.
She toggled the ship comm. “All hands, stand down from collision alert. Remain at condition one. Stand by for orders.”
Her crew would be tense but secure in their battle stations. She was confident she had their trust—in seventeen missions over three tours of duty she hadn’t let them down yet. She had the lowest turnover rate in the fleet—most of the crew who had started with her four years ago were still with her, even when promotions and more profitable posts for able spacers on privateers and warships had opened up.
Her crew was more loyal than most, which is why these hard, cold data readings chilled her to the core. She had a traitor aboard. There could be no other option. The Union had somehow infiltrated the Resistance’s navy and the Commodore’s own spy network and planted a loyalist among her crew. And that loyalist had managed to send out a message detailing their flight plan, if not their mission.
No…she amended her thought. If the loyalist and the Union had known of their mission, there would have been a warship or three lurking out there in sublight in wait, and they’d be in a Union brig right about now. Or dead.
She glanced at Kraft. “Sensor readings?”
“Negligible, Skip. Some echoes here and there, but no ships. We’re alone as best as I can tell.”
Vance nodded and then focused on Ndomo. “Where the hell are we, anyway?”
Ndomo worked her console. The right-hand screen flickered to life and displayed a simple star map. Their intended flight path to Lovaro VI was highlighted in white, with their current position noted by a white Resistance icon.
“We’re a few hours sublight from Venkerman’s Folly, an outlying independent colony.”
Vance nodded. “I know the place. Neutral for most of the war, at least officially. Not a lot there, but they do have a fully kitted supply port and a booster ring if we really need it.”
Fitting a FTL booster ring to the Aethenne would take some doing and might risk damaging the ship, but if they couldn’t secure enough cryo from the port, they didn’t really have a choice. She wasn’t sure how they’d afford it either—Resistance scrip wasn’t worth much to these outlying colonies, which were by and large more interested in trade, and the Commodore’s good name carried only so much weight.
She sighed. “All right. Kraft, get two of your marines kitted up. I’ll have Gint start repairs and you and I will go into port to try and secure the cryo we’ll need plus any spare parts and plating they’re willing to part with.”
Gint cleared his throat as he returned to the command deck. “Reporting in, Skip. Engine room is secure, FTL engines off-line but intact. Chief Tolle is awake but very pissed off.”
Vance snorted. “I can imagine.” She turned serious. “Casualties?”
Gint shook his head. “A couple broken arms, a concussion, some rattled teeth. We’ve had worse. Patrice is sorting them out.”
Vance released the breath she had been holding. Lucky again. “Gracious gods, thank you.” Specialist Patrice Mauthion was a weapons technician with three emergency first-aid classes on her record and was the closest thing they had to a ship’s doctor. Vance hadn’t fou
nd a replacement yet for their last surgeon, Doctor Huuv, who’d met an untimely end in their last engagement with the Union during that ugly sortie near Copperhead Nebula.
“Gint, we’re en route to Venkerman’s Folly. Once in orbit, I’ll head for port in the gig. Get the crew working on repairs. We’ve got two damaged cryo tanks and some hull breaches to shore up.”
Gint nodded. “Aye, Skip.” He glanced at the telemetry displayed on the screen above. “What do you think happened?”
She glanced at the screen, and then focused on him. Tell him all, suspect him, wait it out? The thoughts crashed into each other. Finally, she picked honesty. “I think a Union missile officer just won the lottery. That was an incredibly fortuitous shot.”
Gint frowned. “You think it was luck?”
She shrugged. “I don’t necessarily want to think of the alternatives.” She shifted focus to Ndomo. “Plot a sublight course to the colony and get us there at best speed.”
Vance switched focus to Gint. “I’m going to gather some things and survey the ship. I’ll head for the gig after that and we’ll disembark once we’re in orbit. The command deck is yours, Mister Gint.”
Gint stood up straight and nodded, the extent of a salute she bothered with on board. The Navy expected more from her officers, but she ran a more informal ship. ‘Save the salute for the Commodore’ was a saying in more than one officer’s mess around the Resistance Navy.
She left the command deck, focused on what she had to do in the short term to get ready for going planet-side, but also musing on the bigger ramifications before her.
Chapter 3
No great solution presented itself by the time Vance finished walking the Aethenne. Partly because she had been distracted by checking in on her crew to ensure they were all well and had what they needed to get their work done. And partly because she examined what she could of the damaged sections of the ship and swore a few times, most quite vocally, at the Union captain who had thrown a huge bomb in her path.
If she ever met that fool, she’d have words for him. Followed by a shaped plasma charge shoved in a place usually better left unfilled.
After her tour of the ship, she stopped off at the ship’s small armory and collected a sidearm. Kraft and two of his marines were there as well, getting kitted out in nondescript body armor and gear. While the Resistance did have its own uniform system, there was no point parading around in them on an unaligned colony, formally neutral or not.
Might as well paint a big red dot on themselves and call it good. She pulled a blast vest off the rack and fitted it around her flight suit, and then fastened the holstered pistol to the vest.
She glanced at Kraft. “Ready to go?”
Kraft plugged a loaded magazine into his sidearm and flicked the charge toggle with a practiced motion, then holstered it. He nodded and said, “Squared away, Skip.” He glanced at his two marines. They nodded to him in unison, silent as was their wont.
Vance studied them, careful to not stare too hard at them. The two marines, both full-blooded Calper natives judging from their boulder-like frames, elaborate facial tattoos, and stony expressions, hadn’t said more than a handful of words to her in the year since they had joined her crew. They were polite to a fault, able-rated spacers, clever with any tool put into their hands, and absolutely terrifying demons in battle.
Calper mercenaries were among the most sought-after and highest-paid soldiers either side employed, and if the descendants of their colony as a whole fought half as effectively, as ruthlessly, as these two did, then she figured it was money well spent. The Resistance hired as many as they could afford, though that was a paltry amount compared to what the Union could field given their nearly-bottomless well of funds.
Vance smiled at the two Calpers. She was pretty sure they were both male, though she hadn’t thought to ask and figured it was none of her business anyway. It didn’t matter what genitals they had—they were both deadly effective soldiers, and she was very comfortable with having them along for the jaunt to the port.
She nodded to the three of them, then turned and led the way to the gig bay. She suspected the two Calpers might also be lovers, but again, she didn’t give a damn who slept with who, so long as the ship was ready and they got what rest they needed to function effectively.
The hatch to the flight deck was open, so she stepped through and onto the flight deck. She grinned to herself at the ridiculousness of calling this closet a flight deck. It was just big enough for the ship’s gig, the large boat used to shuttle crew on and off the Aethenne when it wasn’t convenient or possible to use the ship’s boarding hatches.
The flight decks on the Navy’s carriers were true to the name—vast open bays filled with technicians, pilots, fighters, skimmers, and other such tools of war. To call this place a flight deck was almost insulting to the real thing.
Of course, she wasn’t a carrier skipper; never had been and never would be either, if she had anything to say about it. As powerful as the things were and as well armed and protected, the eight carriers in the fleet were among the highest-profile targets in the Resistance, right up there with the august members of the Preliminary Congress and the Commodore himself. She wasn’t afraid of combat, but she had better things to do than be constantly hunted down and shot at.
Not that being a blockade runner wasn’t without its share of excitement; current circumstances a good example.
Chief Tolle’s primary engineer’s mate, a wispy slip of a girl named Livingstone, was clambering over the ship’s gig, a multi-tool in one hand and a scanner in the other.
Vance walked up to the gig and cleared her throat. Livingstone glanced up from her work. “Oh, hey, Skip. I’m running one last check on the gig. She survived the, ah, the debris strikes just fine. She’s ready for launch.”
Vance waved her three companions aboard. “Thank you, Livingstone.” In the two years the girl had been aboard, she had never offered another name. “How is Tolle?”
Livingstone shut down her scanner and stowed it in a thigh pocket. “Tolerable. Patrice has him doped up but good, but just for a couple hours.” She gestured toward her head. “Thinks he knocked a few things loose in the ol’ gray bits and needs a few sleeps to get them sorted out.”
Vance couldn’t help but grin at the girl’s comments, but then pulled her face into a serious line. “That makes you the chief, at least until he’s up and at it again.”
Livingstone’s eyes widened. “Oh, I guess it does.”
Vance stepped toward the gig’s hatch. Its engines flickered in pale yellow light once, twice, and then the burners caught and settled into a soft amber glow. Kraft had clearly already started pre-flight.
Vance said, “Coordinate with Lieutenant Gint. I want you to lead the repair effort. Once Tolle is back in action, he can take over, but I need someone who knows what they’re doing to get started and tell the non-engineers what to do with their hands aside from sit on them.”
She studied Livingstone’s wide but eager eyes. “Think you can do that?”
Livingstone met her gaze. Her mouth split into a huge grin. “You know I can! I’ll get this ship into order before you’re back, Skip.”
Vance nodded, then tossed her a quick salute, then joined Kraft and the two Calpers in the gig. Kraft had strapped into the co-pilot’s seat and, judging from the green lights on the board, had already run most of the pre-flight tasks. The two Calpers had wedged themselves into harnesses running along both sides of the gig.
Vance pushed her way between them and wedged herself into the pilot’s seat and then strapped in. She took in the controls and readouts with a practiced glance. “Looks good, Kraft. I keep forgetting you’re a skilled pilot.”
Kraft grinned. “Spent most of my pre-Resistance life running tugs and lifters in and out of spaceports. Spend enough time around Union pilots and the clever privateers and merchants out there and you learn a few tricks.”
She had no argument with that. She affixed
an earset to her head, and then took the control yoke in hand. “Aethenne, this is Hambrill. Gig’s green and ready for debark.”
Ndomo’s tinny voice sounded in her ears. “Aye, Skip. Confirm seal on your hatch.”
Vance checked the readings on her screen and glanced at Kraft for the confirming nod. “Hatch dogged and sealed. We’re good to go.”
“Aye, Skip,” said Ndomo. “Depressurizing flight deck and opening up bay door.”
Vance set the ship to hover as the large bay door swiveled open, revealing the twinkling vastness of space outside the confines of the ship’s hull. Seeing space with her own naked eyes, never, ever got old or commonplace. If she hadn’t been so worried about the ship and its need for cryo, she might have thought the view beautiful.
But, no time for that now. “Gig debarking, mark.” She tapped power into the gig’s engines, and felt the boat slide over the flight deck and out through the opening set into the side of the ship.
She arced the gig away from the Aethenne, then circled back to hover and play the external lights on her ship. After a moment’s thought, she flipped on the gig’s external video cameras and patched them into the ship’s computer core.
“Ndomo, I’m taking what images I can before we have to turn about and head for Folly. Get the images processed and sent over to Livingstone so that she can prioritize the repair workload. We’ll be back soon.”
Ndomo confirmed the statement, then Vance brought the gig around and pointed it in the direction of the Venkerman’s Folly colony. With any luck, they could get there unmolested, get what they need, and then get out quick before any spies or Union troopers laid eyes on them.
But as she flew the gig toward the colony, she couldn’t shake the pressure growing within her mind that there was an ugly surprise waiting for her planetside.
Chapter 4
The trip from the Aethenne to the colony was uneventful, and thankfully quiet. Kraft was a steady presence in the co-pilot’s seat but he wasn’t one to engage in idle talk for the sake of filling the silence.
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