A violent twitch took hold of Tiller’s upper lip. “Return…to Earth Local Space, sir? Do you really think that’s possible?”
“Possible? I refuse to accept any other outcome. I have a pregnant wife back there. Someone I love, scared and waiting for me to come back to her. Just like your daughter. Until the day I hold Lin again, I will spend every second fighting to get back to her. I promise you I’ll hold her again. And that means I’m promising you that you’ll hold your daughter again. But I need your help to do that. Which is why I’m telling you to put down that scalpel this instant, and start working on getting yourself better, so that you can rejoin this crew. That’s an order, Seaman.”
Slowly, and still trembling, Tiller lowered the hand holding the scalpel. His grip loosened, and it fell to the floor.
Doctor Cruz rushed in with another corpsman, and together the three of them restrained Tiller. But as they manhandled him, he barely seemed to take notice. He smiled at Thatcher through a curtain of tears.
“Thank you,” he mouthed.
Chapter Eleven
Aboard the New Jersey
Ramage System, Dupliss Region
Earth Year 2290
As captain, Thatcher didn’t resent regularly being woken from his slumber, or having to leave meals half-eaten. It was part of the job. What he’d signed up for.
All the same, if he’d been offered a choice, he would have elected to skip that part of the job.
“You’re sure it’s a UNC ship?” he asked Guerrero.
“Yes, sir.”
“Patch the visual feed through to my holoscreen.”
“Aye, sir.”
It wasn’t that he distrusted Guerrero. The woman was nothing if not devastatingly competent. He simply wanted to look on the leviathan himself.
A zoomed-in visual popped up on his display, the AI quickly extrapolating the rest of the ship based on available data along with information it had stored in its database, so that Thatcher could view the vessel from any angle. He did so now, using his finger to slowly drag his view, panning to her port side, then her bow, then her starboard side, and ending with her belly.
A monstrous beauty. His holoscreen identified her as the UNCS Ulysses. That was that novel by an ancient Irish writer, wasn’t it?
Yes, that’s right. The name also sounded Greek, so the writer might have named his book for someone or something else—Thatcher didn’t know. Lin had given him Ulysses to read once, and he’d gotten approximately five pages before tossing his reader aside in disgust. “The author must have lived so far inside his own belly button that he forgot all about the outside world, and its taste for straightforward stories.”
Lin had just laughed at that. Part of him suspected she’d gotten him to read it solely for his reaction.
There was nothing confounding about the super-ship Ulysses—not unless you found yourself on the receiving end of that arsenal. Her broadsides bristled with massive cannons, interspersed with laser ports and turret batteries. Halfway along her port and starboard sides, massive flight decks yawned, open to space. From there, fleets of drones—attack drones and repair drones—would launch when needed. The Ulysses would eat her foes alive, unless they came at her in great numbers, and even then she would inflict terrible damage on them.
The question was, what was she doing out here in Dupliss, a warm zone?
“Should I establish contact with her, sir?” Guerrero asked.
“Negative. Not yet, anyway. Request Ms. Rose’s presence in the CIC. Inform her it would be best to come quickly.”
“Aye, sir.”
With that, they waited, maintaining course across the system on yet another leg of their journey toward Tempore Region, and then to Olent, and finally Lacuna.
Rose would appreciate his consulting her before making the decision to contact the vessel. She’d specifically said that any communication with outside parties should be principally conducted by her, as Frontier’s CEO. He knew he hadn’t followed that rule with perfect consistence, but he was trying. After all, she was doing a much better job of respecting his authority as New Jersey’s commander, leaving the CIC to him for the most part, as well as the ship’s day-to-day affairs.
After the meeting with Sunder and Kibishii executives, he’d tried to convince her to remain on Oasis while he investigated possible Xanthic activity in Lacuna. He still thought that would have been wisest, but she’d insisted on coming, saying she wouldn’t be able to sleep properly until the threat had been dealt with.
Thatcher switched his holoscreen to an extrapolated view of the ships flying with the Jersey. The Kibishii troop ship kept her distance, and would engage her stealth capabilities more and more as they traveled deeper into pirate territory. Her ability to wage ship-to-ship combat was limited, but having her flank an unsuspecting foe would still prove valuable, Thatcher suspected.
Then there were the Frontier ships Rose had also assigned to the mission. For damage dealing, she’d fielded the Lancer, another cruiser that had been fully repaired after the battle for Oasis; a frigate named Georgia; and Charger and Nightingale, both corvettes. Their logistics squad consisted of two ships—Lightfoot and North Star—and for eWar they had Squall, Redpole, and Lively. Thatcher had had more than a little input on their battle group’s composition. After fighting Reardon, he’d gained a distinct appreciation for the impact logistics and eWar ships had on battles, and he’d wanted both well-represented on this mission.
None of them approached the Ulysses’ terrifying majesty. The things I could accomplish with a ship like that…
The rep drones he could stock. The modules he could equip. We’d be nearly invincible. Where weaponry was concerned, right now his light armored cruiser felt like a gnat flying beside a fire-breathing dragon.
He patted his chair’s armrest. I still love you, though, old girl.
A few meters to the left of the great holotank at the CIC’s fore, the hatch leading to the rest of the ship clanked, then opened. Veronica Rose stepped through. “Commander.” Her eyes flicked to Lucy Guerrero, then back to him. “Your Ops officer said you needed me. What’s going on?”
He nodded at the holotank, which showed a close-in visual of the Ulysses.
Rose’s eyebrows shot up. “Here, in Dupliss?”
“Apparently.”
She crossed the CIC, taking a position next to him rather than heading for one of the observation seats at the back. “Lieutenant Guerrero, could you expand the camera’s view to include both the captain and I once we establish contact with the super-ship?”
Guerrero nodded. “The transmitted image won’t be 3D, but I can do it.”
“Please do.”
Thatcher tamped down an upwelling of gratitude that she didn’t plan to make him give up his chair. He didn’t think doing so would do much for his authority, and apparently Rose understood that. I shouldn’t feel grateful for a gesture that serves the ship. Even so, he did. At least a little.
Thatcher plucked at a piece of lint on his sleeve, then glanced at his Ops officer. “Hail the Ulysses, Guerrero.”
Several seconds passed as he waited for the vessel’s commander to appear inside the two-and-a-half-meter-high holotank.
Nothing happened.
Guerrero stiffened slightly. She didn’t seem nearly as tense as she had during the Xanthic attack on New Houston—but somewhat tense all the same. Thatcher had noticed that she didn’t enjoy reporting failure to her captain. “They’re not answering our transmission, sir.”
“Keep trying.” He glanced at Rose. “And switch to an intercept course. Let’s show them we’re serious about establishing contact. Relay our new course to the other ships and instruct them to follow.”
“Bold.” Rose’s lips twitched into a brief smile. “I like it.”
Long minutes passed with still no response, as the Ulysses plodded along its course, showing no sign of veering off. And why should she? It would be absurd for a ship that size to change course for ships su
ch as the ones Frontier and Kibishii had sent sailing the Dawn Cluster. Even if there were eleven of them.
But the intercept course did give the Ulysses a need to accept the Jersey’s transmission, in order to clarify their intentions—unless the UNC captain planned to blow the approaching ships from space, which Thatcher doubted. The UNC was many things, but irrationally violent wasn’t one of them.
At last, the Ulysses’ captain appeared inside the holoscreen, a tanned, bald man. “Frontier Security ship New Jersey. This is Captain Santos of the UNCS Ulysses. Please state your reason for adopting an intercept course with my ship.” He spoke with a slight Brazilian accent.
Thatcher stayed silent, determined to let Rose do the talking.
She shook out her hair, running a hand backward through it with a businesslike flick. “You weren’t responding to our transmissions.”
Santos remained silent.
So this is how it’s going to go. Thatcher pressed his lips together. Do not interject. This is Rose’s show, not yours.
“Why is the Ulysses all the way out here in the northern parts of Dupliss, Captain Santos? We were told that all UNC super-ships had been assigned to cold-zone regions until further notice. We’ve received no such notice, and yet as recently as two weeks ago we would have welcomed military aid from the UNC in ridding Dupliss of pirates.”
“The reason for my ship’s presence is classified.”
Thatcher shook his head slightly, his eyes on his holoscreen, where the Ulysses crept ever-closer to the formation of Frontier ships. There was next to zero chance of a collision, and Santos would likely terminate the transmission as soon as they’d bypassed his ship.
He isn’t giving us anything.
But Rose wasn’t giving up. “Surely the Ulysses’ presence signifies something important happening in this region. As CEO of Frontier Security, Dupliss’ primary corporate steward, I would appreciate knowing what it is.”
“And yet it remains classified, Ms. Rose,” Santos said with the same intonation as before, the same impassive expression.
We might as well try interrogating an egg.
“Can you tell me anything about nanofab tech, then? Surely the UNC must recognize that Frontier shares their aim of establishing peace and security throughout the Cluster. Grant us the ability to speed up our ship production, and we will quickly prove a powerful partner in achieving those aims.”
“There are no plans to distribute nanofab tech.”
The flat statement hung between them for several long seconds, as Rose clenched and unclenched her fists, looking as tense as Guerrero did. “Captain Santos, is the UNC aware the Xanthic attacked Oasis four days ago?”
“We have received word, yes.”
“Well, we have evidence to suggest that next they plan to strike at the Lacuna Region. In fact, it seems likely that’s where they’ll launch their primary offensive to take over the entire Cluster. If the Ulysses came with us, it could make the difference between stopping them and allowing them to rampage unchecked across the north.”
“Ms. Rose, I have my orders and I cannot deviate from them for any reason. All I can tell you is that the UNC is already taking the actions we deem likeliest to lead to stability across the Dawn Cluster. More than that, I cannot say.”
Rose was biting her bottom lip, now, and shaking her head at Santos. Deja vu struck Thatcher—that was how Lin sometimes reacted when frustrated.
“Very well, Captain Santos. It seems we have nothing more to say to each other.”
“Kindly adjust your course.”
“We will. Cut the transmission, Guerrero.”
Santos disappeared from the holoscreen, and Rose met Thatcher’s eyes, her face solemn as she held his gaze.
Something had just occurred to him, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing. If so, neither of them could say it out loud. Not here, in front of the CIC officers. Not without risking ship-wide morale.
It was this: everyone knew that one of the many technologies the UNC hoarded was the ability to live in space-based structures indefinitely. Their super-ships were self-contained ecosystems, with the ability to close themselves off from ever needing to interact with planetary societies, if they so chose.
UNC employees were spacers in every sense of the word.
The thoughts marching through Thatcher’s mind seemed insanely conspiratorial, but they wouldn’t go away.
What if the UNC was preparing to abandon every planetary colony in the Cluster to the Xanthic? That would mean abandoning all non-UNC ships, too, since they did depend on planets.
Maybe we can’t beat the Xanthic in planetside combat. But maybe the UNC have decided they don’t need to.
Rose still held his gaze. But he shook himself mentally, deciding not to bring up the possibility unless she brought it up first.
Chapter Twelve
Aboard the New Jersey
Agonic System, Dupliss Region
Earth Year 2290
“Sir…”
Thatcher looked up from the data on Lacuna Region he’d been reviewing and fixed his gaze on the Ops station. From Guerrero’s tone, he already knew something was wrong. “Yes?”
“I’m getting some strange readings. They’re coming from our new polarization sensors.”
He narrowed his eyes in thought. This was a fairly well-trafficked system, so it would make sense that the new sensors would collect plenty of data. But he hadn’t expected any of it to prove relevant enough to warrant mention.
Guerrero swiped a finger across her console, flicking through the sensor report. “Most of the antimatter trails in the system have logical termination points, like through jump gates or holding current orbit of a planet, moon or station. But one of them simply goes behind a planet and vanishes. No detectable orbit, no trail leading from behind the planet—whoever or whatever it is, it’s like they’re deliberately holding position out of our line of sight.”
That didn’t seem good. He made a mental note to commend Guerrero on adding the polarization sensors’ feeds to her usual rotation and staying on top of them. For his part, he’d all but forgotten about them, since he hadn’t really expected them to prove useful. “Which planet?”
“Sending you its coordinates now.”
The data popped up on his holoscreen, and he used them to establish his own visual on the planet in question—a rocky ball barely worthy of the name, whose current orbit had it fairly close to the regional jump gate into Tempore. “Share your findings with the other vessels, and tell them to stand by for orders to deal with any threat that emerges from that location. In the meantime, everyone should proceed as normal, as though we haven’t detected anything out of place.”
“Aye, sir.” The other officers in the CIC murmured the acknowledgment as well.
Fewer than ten minutes later, tension filled Guerrero’s body, and she went as stiff as a board at her console. “Sir, missiles inbound! Five of them, originating from the planet’s horizon!”
Thatcher fought off tension of his own, forcing his fingers to relax on the armrests. “Where are they headed, Lieutenant?”
“They’re all converging on the Swan.”
He bit off a curse. His intention had been to order the Swan to initiate stealth procedures in the very next system. If only I’d done it a little earlier… “Order her to withdraw through the Frontier formation, and tell all our ships to sail forward to meet the missiles. I want every one of them neutralized before they reach the Kibishii vessel’s shields.” That wasn’t a mere courtesy. He knew the troop ship’s shields to be rather weak. It was more than possible that a couple missiles could take them down, leaving the rest to slam into her hull and inflict serious damage.
He contemplated the incoming rockets, weighing his options. Having his autoturrets gun them down probably wasn’t viable—their transversal velocity relative to the Frontier ships would be too high, making them difficult to hit. Answering with missiles of their own would be risky, too. To in
tercept, every firing solution would have to be perfect, and their missiles wouldn’t have time to come about and pursue if they missed.
That left gunnery. “Order forward gunners aboard all ships to fire on the incoming ordnance at once. Put starboard and port gunners on standby, in case the forward crews don’t get the job done. Nav, you’ll need to coordinate with your counterparts to make sure every ship is firing at angles that don’t endanger any other ship.”
His officers acknowledged his orders and bent to their work. Inside the holotank, Thatcher watched as the first lasers lanced out from the bows of his ships toward the incoming missiles. He frowned. The Kibishii troop ship had been slow to respond, and her acceleration wasn’t great at the best of times. She’d barely begun to withdraw through the Frontier group.
Then, something completely new happened.
Every incoming missile jettisoned some sort of covering from its warhead. With that, each one began spraying lasers across the Kibishii ship’s retreating bow, causing its paper-thin shield to shimmer, then to tremble.
“Ortega? What am I seeing, here?”
His chief tactical officer snapped his mouth shut before answering. “Laser warheads, sir. I’m only familiar with them in theory. I didn’t think they were far enough along for deployment.”
“What are they supposed to be able to do?”
“Exactly what you’re seeing, sir. Weaken an enemy’s shields enough for the missiles themselves to punch through. Each missile’s explosive payload will be reduced, to make room for the additional weaponry, but the idea is that it’s preferable to having the missiles dash themselves against the shield to little effect.”
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