Gunboat

by James Evans

  According to company gossip, the chairman wouldn’t visit any company site that didn’t yet include an office equivalent to the one on his home planet. Chairman Khan would surely never set foot in this system, nor have personal involvement in the day to day operations. He was, however, in the habit of checking in on the direct actions of GKI’s military, and many of Yegorovich’s colleagues had told him that they, too, had been honoured by direct communication with Khan during a critical mission.

  Then the occupant of the huge and opulent chair turned slowly to face him, and the audience began. The screen in Yegorovich’s office was large and had such excellent image quality that it felt almost as if he was in the same room as his superior.

  “Ah, Captain Yegorovich. Do you have good news for me?” Khan said. As he spoke, his fingers gently scratched between the ears of a large albino mandrill. The monkey was perched on a platform built into the right-hand side of the chairman’s chair. The creature looked content, tilting its head to encourage scratching in a different area.

  Most of the mandrills wore engineering power suits which aided them with tasks such as forest clearance or shipboard maintenance and repair. This one wore a suit that was clearly military, and to Yegorovich’s eyes it seemed to be dramatically more expensive than the equipment issued to Petrovna and her CIT team.

  Rumour had it that the monkey had received comprehensive combat training and was, in fact, a bodyguard. Wild stories were told of the capabilities of Khan’s mandrill and its famous suit of power armour. Some said it had cybernetic limbs, or that its gauntlets fired vibro-bladed shuriken, or there was a railgun mounted in the forearm.

  Then Yegorovich realised he’d taken too long to reply, distracted by the infamous albino monkey, and he spoke suddenly. “Yes, Chairman Khan. The assault on the mining station went to plan. Captain Petrovna controls the facility.”

  “It would be more accurate to refer to this as the recovery of a GKI mining claim, Captain Yegorovich, and I expect your official reports to reflect that. Casualties?”

  “I understand, sir, my report will use the correct wording. The miners – I mean, the pirates who were illegally mining the asteroid belt – did sustain some casualties.”

  Khan cut him off irritably. “Not the criminals, Yegorovich. Where there GKI casualties?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Captain Petrovna said the pirates crumpled before her troopers like the cowardly scum we took them to be. One or two of her team took minor scrapes during the boarding pod impact, but she assures me that her troops incurred no serious injuries and that getting banged about a bit is expected in an action like this.”

  “That is excellent news. Since this is your first such action, I will remind you to keep your report brief and to the facts. We don’t need colourful descriptions of this minor operation leaking to the press. Gather Petrovna’s report, write your sections and submit a draft to Ms Afanasievna. My team will check for inappropriate language, potential factual errors or missing information. Understood?” Chairman Khan asked, his demeanour unexpectedly that of an employer who cared about the future of a junior employee enough to help them improve their reporting skills.

  Yegorovich went with it. “Yes, sir. Thank you for your help, sir. I’ll send my draft shortly.”

  “First things first, if you haven’t already, get the installation of cloning bays under way. It is critical that the deployment of GKI mining personnel and the permanent security team take place as soon as possible. I want that facility turning a profit as soon as possible.”

  Yegorovich only had time to acknowledge the order before the chairman cut the call. He waited a moment then let out a sigh of relief. Reaching for a tissue, he wiped the sweat from his face and neck.

  He wondered if he would ever get used to dealing with the founder of the company. Then he winced as he played back the conversation in his mind.

  Of course the chairman of GKI wouldn’t need to know about the casualties amongst the pirates who had set up a rogue operation in the asteroid belt. They’d even had the gall to have families here, probably kidnapped from some unprotected merchant ship or another small outpost. Worse still, they had put children in harm’s way, according to Petrovna, and their criminal actions had gotten them killed. Petrovna had said the bodies were irretrievable and there likely weren’t any records they could use to deploy the pirates’ victims to new clones.

  What an appalling life these people must lead, he thought, as he loosened his collar and poured himself a stiff drink. One day, perhaps, he would be able to put an end to all such pirates, and then he wouldn’t have to see the frozen remains of a child tumbling out into space. Yes. That was a fine goal for his career. Commodore Yegorovich, the man who ended space piracy and organised crime throughout Koschite space.

  He sat back with his drink, lost in his daydream.

  1

  “Good morning, ma’am,” said Admiral Morgan, sitting upright before the video link. In front of him, at the other end of a wormhole that stretched untold hundreds of lightyears across the galaxy, sat the always serious Admiral of the Fleet, Norma Crown.

  When they had last spoken, she had been calm, serene even. Now she was agitated, and she seemed to have aged over the last few weeks. This crisis, the arrival of the Deathless at the colony world of New Bristol, had aged them all.

  “Morgan,” nodded Crown, her tones clipped and precise. “Your mission briefing is downloading at the moment,” she said, flicking at a tablet Morgan couldn’t quite see, “but it’s really quite simple. You are to take your fleet and proceed to the location identified by Lieutenant Commander Cohen and his team. In a number of systems en route, you will deploy intelligence drones to forewarn us of any future visitors.”

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Cohen, but he kept the rest of his face carefully neutral. Everyone else seemed to think Cohen could do no wrong, especially his mentor, Vice Admiral Staines. But Morgan had seen Cohen come up through the training academy and he knew better. Whatever Staines thought, Morgan wasn’t going to let an over-promoted puppy like Cohen derail his mission. Crown went on.

  “This shipyard, U-235, and the other facilities we suspect accompany it,” she said as the lower right quarter of the screen broke out to show a star chart and a route, “are key.”

  Morgan nodded, grinding his teeth at the ridiculous identifier Cohen’s team had given the shipyard. U-235. A stupid, child-like joke, as if this was something exciting and interesting, and now it was the official designation and they were stuck with it. He hid his annoyance and nodded.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He had seen the files, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe them. The details were sparse, but they showed that U-235 was immense. The boffins had estimated that a structure the size of U-235 could host a dozen fleets and churn out new ships at a rate that far exceeded the production capacity of the Royal Navy’s combined ports. That was an unsettling thought, and the Admiralty was collectively in a state of mild panic.

  “The rest of the fleet, all that could be gathered in the available time, is either waiting for you at New Bristol already or will be there in the next eighteen hours. How long till you arrive?”

  Morgan checked the countdown timer on his data slate. “A little over three hours.”

  “Good,” said Crown, nodding, “and how long will you need to resupply?”

  “I don’t think we’ll need to. Duke of Norfolk is fully provisioned, so our in-system time should be short. A few hours, maybe, but no more.”

  “Very well. Go to U-235,” repeated Crown, “find out what’s going on, and then take whatever action is necessary to end or critically degrade the station’s ability to threaten our systems. Is that clear?”

  Morgan nodded, face hard and expression grim. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Vice Admiral Staines commands the in-system forces. He will remain at New Bristol to coordinate the ongoing defence and oversee the construction of a London-class starbase.”

  Morgan nodde
d, carefully keeping the surprise from his face. The London-class had only recently entered service and there were, so far, only two. That Staines had been given the task of constructing a third was, to say the least, unexpected.

  “A starbase?” he said, forcing out the words. “That should keep him busy.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Crown, “and it will eventually give you a base of operations, should it be necessary.”

  “I had rather expected this to be a short-lived deployment,” said Morgan, frowning slightly. “Get in, do the job, and then come home,” he summarised.

  Crown gave him a flat, mirthless smile. “That rather depends on what you find at U-235. I wish you the best of luck, Admiral. Happy hunting.”

  Then she was gone, and the display showed only the Royal Navy’s bland screen saver and a countdown timer to the next Trafalgar Day.

  Morgan sat back in his chair and shook his head. Investigating enemy starbases was one thing, but having to deal with idiots like Staines was quite another. If there was one person that Morgan truly couldn’t stand, it was Staines, who had an annoying knack for landing in the right place at the right time to scoop up the credit for someone else’s work.

  And now he had been charged with building a London-class starbase. The ability of the man to fall on his feet and collect tasks beyond his limited capacity was truly astonishing.

  Morgan shook his head again at the ridiculous situation and stood up, smoothing down his uniform and flicking away a non-existent particle of dust.

  U-235 might be the mission, but Morgan was also going to get to the bottom of whatever it was that was going on at New Bristol. He was going to find out what Staines was up to.

  “That is a big ship,” said Captain Tom Warden, watching in awe from a viewing port on Ascendant. He was in the small observation room above the bridge with Lieutenant Commander Alistair Cohen and his XO, Lieutenant Tim White. All three men wore captured Deathless clones, a relic from their mission to infiltrate an enemy base on the planet of NewPet.

  “That’s HMS Duke of Norfolk,” said Cohen as the huge ship drifted across their view. Almost half as long again as Ascendant, it was one of the biggest and most modern ships in the Royal Navy’s fleet. “Admiral Morgan’s flagship. Makes Ascendant look like a pleasure cruiser.”

  Warden grinned. “You’re too hard on yourself, sir. I’ve always thought of Ascendant as more of a passenger ferry than a pleasure cruiser.”

  Cohen sniffed but didn’t respond.

  “A ferry might be more comfortable,” said White morosely. “A pleasure cruiser would definitely be more comfortable. Probably have a better supply of booze as well.”

  “They let people disembark from ferries,” observed Warden with a hint of bitterness, “even if only for a few days.” The ongoing emergency meant they had to be ready for action at short notice, so shore leave had been cancelled.

  “Even the rum on this ship is grim. I’m sure the machines are watering it,” complained White. “And the port is frankly awful. I wouldn’t use it to clean a table back home.”

  “Okay, knock it off,” said Cohen wearily. The good-natured complaints had been amusing at first, and Cohen had endured with little more than a tired frown. Now, after days in transit and longer in orbit around New Bristol awaiting orders, the novelty had worn off.

  “Have you met the admiral?” asked Warden to change the subject.

  “No,” said Cohen, “but I know a few people who served under him. He seems to be well respected, although he’s got a bit of a temper.”

  “He doesn’t like Staines,” said White. The other two looked at the XO. “That’s the chatter anyway. Some sort of falling out, years ago. They haven’t seen eye to eye since, and that’s the main reason Staines is stuck out in the backwaters with only two ships to his name.”

  Cohen looked back out at Duke of Norfolk, frowning. If there was one thing he liked less than inappropriate humour, it was rumour-mongering and gossip.

  “Let’s focus on the job at hand,” he said. “Is everything ready for our departure?”

  “Yes, sir, pretty much,” said White, pulling out his data slate. “The damage we took at NewPet has been repaired, and the external hull inspections were completed a few hours ago. We’ve taken on fuel, raw materials for the fabricators and our supplies of organics for the cloning bays have been restocked. The dropship has also been patched up, but the admiral has asked that we leave it here, so it’s preparing to leave.”

  “Good,” nodded Cohen, although he had kept tabs on the progress reports as they had come in and already knew most of this. “And the drop pods?”

  “Ah,” said White, “yes. The news there is less good. The techs think that the pods are loaded from outside. There’s certainly no way to load them from inside Ascendant. The theory is that they were installed when the ship was built and that, once used, the ship has to return to base for a refit.”

  “Use once then refit?” said Cohen, frowning hard at White. Then he shrugged. “I suppose they’re not a core part of the ship’s day-to-day operations.”

  “No, and if you’ve used them, your troops have been deployed, so you don’t need any more. The good news is that the fabricators can make the parts,” said White, “and the automated assembly suite can put most of them together. The bad news is that the final assembly has to be done by hand, and then they have to be walked around the outside of the ship. It’s fiddly work, and installation will be dangerous without a properly equipped shipyard.”

  Cohen didn’t like the sound of that. Spacewalks, even in high-quality modern suits, were inherently risky. Manoeuvring large pieces of equipment at the same time would cause a serious set of problems.

  “Then let’s leave the drop pods to one side for the moment. See if Albion can come up with a way to fabricate and install them. I don’t want to go to the effort of building our own only to find they get stuck in the tubes when we try to launch them.”

  Warden nodded his agreement. Getting stuck in a drop pod, half-deployed from the ship and unable to move in either direction, did not sound like a lot of fun.

  “Will do,” said White. “That ought to mean we’re about done.”

  “And the crew?”

  “Last of the redeployments should be finished later today, sir. Growing the clones took a little longer than expected, and the cloning bays are still only able to produce Deathless models.”

  “Really?” said Cohen, frowning. “I thought we were going to redeploy to standard RN models now that the need for secrecy is over.” Warden’s face held an expression that suggested he was no happier with this state of affairs.

  “The techs are looking into it, sir,” said White, “but there’s some fundamental incompatibility or a technical restriction in the bays themselves. They’ll turn out all the Deathless models we might want, but uploading new patterns doesn’t seem to be possible, so RN and RMSC deployments are all being done on Albion.”

  Cohen held up his hand and looked at the long, slender fingers of the Rupert clone. These models had their advantages. They were fast, well-suited to high-G manoeuvres and tough. But they were also unfamiliar, and some of the crew were finding it difficult to adjust. The sooner they could get back to the RN’s standard clone, the better.

  “Keep working on the problem. I want the option to produce RN or RMSC clones as soon as possible.”

  “Will do.” White made a note on his slate. “Apart from that, everything is shipshape and in New Bristol fashion.” He grinned at his wit, but the room remained quiet.

  “How are the Marines holding up, Warden?” said Cohen, neatly passing the steaming corpse of White’s joke.

  “All redeployed, equipped and ready to go, sir. They seem to have settled into their Deathless clones,” said Warden. In fact, he was a bit worried that some of his team might be getting rather attached to their new flesh.

  “Anything else you need?” asked White, although as he reviewed the list of items the Marines had requisition
ed from stores or had custom fabricated by the ship’s manufactories, he couldn’t imagine what more they could possibly want.

  But Warden only grinned. “Actually, we were wondering about making a few tweaks to the armour.”

  “Fine,” said White before Warden could begin giving him the details. “Talk to the techs and keep it reasonable. No gold-plated pauldrons or gem-encrusted shin guards.” Warden raised his eyebrows, but White just shook his head and sighed. “A story for another day.”

  “Understood, sir, thank you,” said Warden, heading for the door. “I’ll let Milton know. No gold-plated Marines.”

  2

  Admiral Morgan’s flagship, HMS Duke of Norfolk led the fleet into hyperspace, closely followed by Rear Admiral Harper’s flagship, HMS Caernarfon. The rest of the fleet followed in strict order and within minutes, eight ships of the line and a dozen smaller vessels had left New Bristol with their support ships. Twenty-seven ships in total, making this one of the most formidable fleets ever assembled by the Admiralty.

  Ascendant was to remain in reserve with the support ships unless called on to deploy their complement of marines. Rear Admiral Harper had informed Cohen in no uncertain terms that Admiral Morgan had no intention of performing boarding actions and therefore, didn’t need a ‘glorified troop ship’ at the front of the battle formation.

  Now Cohen sat in the command chair, face cupped in his hand as he frowned at the monitors. Not that there was anything to see while they flew through hyperspace. All he was really doing was keeping the seat warm. He sighed and picked up his data slate checking the ship’s current state for the umpteenth time, before heading to the command suite to brief his executive officer, Lieutenant White and Captain Warden of the Royal Marines.

  “You’ve read the background information?” asked Cohen, taking his seat.

  “Yes,” said White, “but I had an espresso, if you can call it that, and I’m awake again, sir.” Warden seemed too intent on glowering to notice the quip.