Battle Force

by Shane Lochlann Black

  Vessels like the Rhode Island were able to maintain high speeds within reason, but one of the key features of a drive-field enabled ship was the fact starships operating in normal space had a top speed. Every interstellar race had either adopted or stolen the Cantlon design or invented their own variation on it. Starship navigational computers were hard-coded to prevent a vessel from accelerating beyond a safe velocity, defined as the highest speed at which its drive field, without shields, would be able to absorb the energy of a collision with a rogue piece of debris like an asteroid fragment. Some warships could go a little faster with their screens up, but that caused a variety of other problems, mostly related to reactor capacity and the limits of energy transfer circuitry. Engineers had the best way of explaining it. “Every metal has a melting point.”

  Only a commanding officer and a manual hardware override could disengage the continuous acceleration limit. Captain Walsh wasn’t ready to make that decision yet, but there had been occasions in the past when he had seriously considered it.

  “Transmissions?”

  “Negative.”

  “Signals, open a hailing frequency. Engage translation protocols.”

  “Aye, captain. You’re on.”

  “Attention unidentified vessel. This is Captain Darragh Walsh of the Skywatch destroyer Rhode Island. We have you under our weapons. You are ordered to cut your engines, heave to and prepare to be boarded. Acknowledge.”

  The bridge crew waited the regulation ten seconds for a response. A moment before the captain was about to take a breath to repeat his demand, the tactical station lit up like a Las Vegas fire truck.

  “New contacts! Tracking one heavy with escorts! Bearing eight zero, range three million miles on oblique course to the Rho Theta frontier!”

  “Emissions? Signals?” Nessa barked.

  “Negative. No electronics at all. Just the drive fields, ma’am.”

  “Headed for Rho Theta, and the listening station,” Walsh said quietly.

  “Bird in the hand?” Nessa asked, knowing full well the Warlock wouldn’t be caught doing something conventional.

  “Negative. Rebecca is out there, and if what’s going on around here is what I think it is, even the two of us together won’t be enough. Tactical, engage our cloak. Helm, hard over. Set course for the Rho Theta frontier. All ahead emergency flank.”

  The sleek blade-like destroyer broke off her pursuit of Tropical Eight and banked angrily in space before fading into the stars like a phantasm.

  Twelve

  Annora Doverly arrived in the Executive Conference to find Captain Hunter bouncing a tennis ball against the reactive crystal display at the head of the room. He was reclined in a manner that would have infuriated Academy supervisors, but since he now outranked them all, he could look as disinterested as he liked.

  “Are you going to get like this every time we spin up a patrol?”

  “I rather thought you would encourage me to sulk in my tent.” The tennis ball hit the floor, ricocheted off the display and landed in Hunter’s hand again.

  “Oh, so now you’re rationalizing it,” Doverly shot back. “I’m going to log you as the captain who didn’t want to be captain.” She took her traditional seat at the spacious table. The high-backed chairs were as impressive as ever, now sporting black fabric with the Argent raptor emblem and the BBV 740 designator.

  “You’re enjoying your new job, aren’t you?” The tennis ball hit the floor, ricocheted off the display and landed in Hunter’s hand again.

  “I’m the battleship’s mad scientist,” Doverly quipped. “It won’t be long before we won’t need plasma rifles and gunships any more. We’ll be able to send my abominations into battle with sharp teeth, clouds of green vapor and disagreeable manners.”

  The tennis ball hit the floor, ricocheted off the display and landed in Hunter’s hand again.

  “This isn’t about fighter ops. You’re having a crisis of confidence.”

  “This whole deployment was my idea,” Hunter said. “I convinced Powers at Skywatch. I convinced him and Vice Admiral Jackson to hold off on the Victoria thing until we could be sure what was happening out here.”

  “And now you think you guessed wrong?” Doverly asked.

  “That’s the whole point. I didn’t guess. I had all the historical data. I had it figured down to days and times. I spent weeks studying First Praetorian at the Academy, and then more weeks and months looking up facts and dates to prepare my report. I dragged Walsh and Islington out of their conventional assignments and I even managed to bluff Admiral Hafnetz into listening to my crazy theories about how Strike Fleet Athena could achieve victory in the counter-offensive. Now it’s going to get out of control and they’re going to hang it around my neck.”

  The tennis ball hit the floor, ricocheted off the display and landed in Hunter’s hand again.

  “You’re still blaming yourself for Bayone, and now you think it’s becoming a trend.”

  Hunter didn’t answer.

  “Well, I can say this much,” Doverly sighed. “We’re going to be down one captain if we don’t find a way through this.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because if you don’t stop this second-guessing yourself, I’m going to chew your ass.”

  The tennis ball hit the floor, ricocheted off the display and landed in Hunter’s hand again.

  “I’m evaluating a less-than-optimal outcome.”

  “Oh nonsense. You’re turning yourself into a backwards-looking what-if bureaucrat. We don’t do that out here. It makes the crew nervous and it deprives us of our assuredness we’re on the right side.”

  “It’s not my responsibility to convince the crew–”

  “The hell it isn’t!” Doverly snapped. “Every single one of them looks to you first to make sure they are doing the right thing. If they see you are certain, they are certain. You know that. You know more about leadership than any officer I’ve ever served with.”

  “Everyone has to make up their own mind.”

  “Those are the words of a responsibility-avoiding lieutenant. Not a skipper.”

  Hunter grinned. “Is this the doctor talking, or the bridge officer?”

  “This is your former wingman talking. We didn’t win because of missiles or engines. We won because you refused to believe we could lose.”

  “That may have been youth and inexperience masquerading as confidence, commander.”

  The tennis ball hit the floor, ricocheted off the display and stopped in Annora’s hand.

  Annora pointed with the ball as she gestured. “Doesn’t matter where it comes from. All that matters is that you believe it. That’s what gets us the extra yard on fourth down. That’s what makes you swing at the 0-2 pitch in the ninth. It’s the mark of a starship captain.”

  “I sure trained you to be a lioness among deer, didn’t I?”

  The doctor flipped the ball in the air. Jason caught it. “You gave me a chance to fly with the greatest squadron in the fleet. You made me first officer of a battleship, and you gave me a chance to realize my dream of being a Skywatch medical chief, even though you didn’t want to. You fought for me when nobody else would. You’re the only officer in Skywatch who didn’t buy the ‘Doctor Blood’ story, and I’ll never be able to tell you how grateful I’ll always be.”

  “You earned every post, Annora. I was just there to hold the door.”

  “That means a lot to me, Jason. But it’s not going to save you. You gave me the stick, and I’m going to thump you over the head with it if you don’t square your ass away and bring our CO back.”

  “Nothing like an order from a commander to a captain,” Hunter said with another trademark grin.

  “I learned it from your sister.” Annora smirked back.

  The battalion corporal at the door straightened as a large man returned her salute. “So it’s come to this!?” Lieutenant Colonel Lucas Moody roared. “Half the Jacks hiding in the room with the big table!”

&n
bsp; “Come on in, colonel,” Jason said as he swiveled his chair around to sit straight at the head of the conference. “My chief medical officer was just threatening me with blunt force trauma and various other kinds of violence.”

  “Good,” the marine officer said as he commandeered a chair and spoke while facetiously ignoring the irony. “We’ve been out here watching clouds of noble gas drift by for hours. It’s about time someone started a fight.”

  “We’re not going through the channel, Moo,” Jason said as he swiveled again and activated the display. “I’m sending the two battlecruisers in on one vector and we’re coming around from the nebula. My plan is to use the Kraken Effect to mask our position and numbers until we can rendezvous at the station. Islington and Walsh are already out there making sure we don’t have any unannounced welcoming committees.”

  “It’s a six/half-dozen thing, sir. We don’t have current intel on this region, so it’s anyone’s guess where the hell the best approach route is.”

  “I brought Komanov.”

  “Then why–?” Annora looked shocked.

  “She didn’t brief us first because her information is highly classified. We can’t act like we have the goods until the Sarn think we don’t.” Jason didn’t look enthusiastic about the idea, and it was fairly clear he had been ordered to cooperate.

  “With all due– ah, forget it. Let’s just hope we don’t get waylaid before we can re-join the formation.”

  “A second combat space patrol?” Annora asked. “Let’s at least have some eyes and ears of our own out there.”

  “I thought you might agree with me,” Hunter said with a grin. “I’ll have Commander O’Malley get some cats in space after we pass Repeater Three.”

  “What about Black Prince and Montpelier?” Moo asked.

  “As long as they operate in tandem, the Sarn aren’t going to have the tonnage to go toe-to-toe,” Hunter replied.

  “You hope,” Moo added.

  Thirteen

  Every Skywatch vessel was manned by a minimum of four marines. On ships without a fleet marine force, they were designated security and reported directly to the commanding officer. On heavier line vessels with combat marines, security forces were under the command of a Master at Arms who in turn reported to the Surface Warfare officer, who was traditionally in charge of the fleet marine force and reported to the first officer.

  Fleet marines fought wars. Security marines protected the captain.

  Lighter vessels mustered boarding parties around their marine security detail, since their training was in small unit tactics, exploration and ground operations. Fleet crew and officers provided the medical, technical and operations specialists to round out a boarding operation. Aboard Minstrel, the captain traditionally led off-ship missions for two reasons. One, it was her prerogative, and two, Rebecca Islington hated the anxious feeling of being cooped up on her bridge while she ordered other crew members into harm’s way. She just wasn’t that kind of captain. Her policies had led to more than one confrontation with higher-ups. She had been specifically ordered on more than one occasion to follow the orthodoxy. She freely ignored those orders on the grounds that higher-ranking officers who wanted things done differently were at liberty to relieve her of her command. So far, they hadn’t. At least as far as that decision was concerned, they seemed to know better.

  Inside Minstrel’s port-side airlock prep chamber, Islington’s boarding party had almost completed its equipment and weapons check. The green and gray color scheme of the heavier powered armor exo-frames made the more heavily armed marines stand out among the blue and gray environmental suits worn by the fleet crew members. The captain had already ordered rank insignia removed so the officers and specialists wouldn’t be placed in unnecessary danger. Engineering chief Brogan had his field repair kit and the corpsman was equipped with a mobile medical kit. The ranking marine was the frigate’s technical specialist. His exo-frame was outfitted with an electronics board and all the patch interfaces in case they ran into some kind of unusual interface or equipment.

  The captain called up the external bay view from the cameras on the frigate’s outer hull. They provided a view of anything outside the port airlock hatch. She had to smile. Finn had lined up the station airlock and the ship’s hatch so precisely they could have extended a wooden plank across the short distance from ship to hard seal. The frigate was even following the station’s rotation to keep the two hatches aligned. It was the fleet pilot’s version of leaving a mint on the pillow.

  “Alright,” Islington began. “I want the hatch secured first. Then we’ll transit the specialists. I want weapons tight. These are allies we’re looking for in here, so keep it frosty and pay attention. Affirmative?”

  “Aye ma’am,” the marine tech replied. “Overs, you’re up.” The lead marine reversed the seal on the inner airlock door. All four men filed in before the hatch was re-secured. “Confirm airlock secure.”

  “Affirmative,” Brogan replied. “Stand by for de-pressurization.” A countdown series appeared on the universal display above the hatch controls. A few seconds later, the lights shifted blue to indicate an environmental systems event. Pressure, gravity and oxygen content in the airlock gradually decreased to zero. The tech marine activated the outer hatch. It slid away, revealing thousands of visible stars and the stark metallic surface of the nearby listening station. The emblem of the Proximan Kingdom was visible next to the external airlock hatch only a few dozen yards from Minstrel’s hull.

  The first of the marine detail pushed off from the edge of the hatch frame and floated into space. The maneuvering jets on his exo-frame activated automatically to keep him on a more-or-less straight line course to the station airlock. He arrived a few seconds later and attached a magnetic clamp to the station’s frame before anchoring himself to it. He moved to one side as the tech arrived and anchored himself to the same clamp. Within moments, the airlock interface had been activated. The outer door to the station opened, allowing access to the airlock inside. The third marine drifted right through the door and powered his magnetic boots. The twin platforms adhered to the deck with a satisfying “thump.”

  The fleet crew drifted across next. Once the boarding party had transited, the tech deactivated the airlock interface and joined them inside. The outer hatches of the ship and station both closed and sealed automatically.

  “Stand by to re-pressurize,” Brogan said. He expertly manipulated the Proximan control panel. “Remember, their atmosphere is a little more oxygen-rich and the temperature is going to be a bit warmer.” The engineer was right. Among the things that had led to the species’ unusual size and strength were conditions on their home world. Proxima was a world teeming with life and dense jungles. It was damp, hot and perfectly suited to a warrior race consisting of seven-foot-tall feline sword-swinging humanoids. The magnetics on the exo-frames de-activated as the artificial gravity systems took over. The warning lights shifted back to normal as the air pressure normalized. Brogan activated the inner airlock door and the boarding party filed in to the Proximan equivalent of a prep chamber.

  “Tell me a story, corpsman,” Islington said.

  The fleet medic consulted his ATMAS handheld. “Life signs. Clean. Looks like the whole station’s crew is still here and alive.”

  “Then why didn’t they respond to our hail?”

  “Unknown, ma’am. They aren’t responding to the fact we just boarded the station either.”

  “No alien life signs other than the Proximans?”

  “Negative.”

  “I suppose no news is good news. Alright, I want a status on this place, and I want it now. What’s our next move, engineer?”

  “We need access to an ops console. If I remember the layout of these flying antennas, there should be some kind of life support control and monitoring station on this deck. They would use it for repair testing on the airlock facility and externals.”

  “This deck can’t be that big at this end of the sup
erstructure. The whole outer hull is perhaps 300 feet across. Let’s search by twos. Brogan, you take the tech. Corpsman you’re with me. Remember weapons tight and watch your corners. Move out.”

  Marines matched up with fleet two by two and moved quickly in opposite directions outside the prep chamber. The teams moved quietly, aiming their weapons and lights as they hurried along the dim corridors. For whatever reason, it seemed the station was on some kind of standby mode, with power expenditures reduced to minimal levels. Brogan verified life support was in full operation, so the boarding party deactivated their self-contained environmental controls.

  Captain Islington drew her TK10 sidearm and made her way towards a series of corridors that she surmised might lead to the auxiliary magneto-lift on the outer edge of the deck. The marine corpsman followed, covering her with his own TK40 assault rifle. The heavier marine exo-frame provided most of the light. There was no damage or evidence of a fight anywhere to be seen. All the hatches were sealed. The few consoles they examined seemed to be in standby mode.

  If Rebecca didn’t know better, she would have guessed the station had been ordered abandoned. That would answer a lot of questions, but it would raise others. The Proximans were not by any stretch known for their propensity to retreat. They were one of humanity’s greatest allies precisely because of their unswerving dedication to honor. Proximans didn’t run, even when faced with overwhelming force.

  She arrived at the magneto-lift and performed a quick evaluation of the electronics of the control console. The unit responded normally. The captain looked around again. There was nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact there was nobody home.

  “Islington to Brickert. Report.”

  “Still getting readings of life signs, ma’am. So far we haven’t located the control and monitoring station, but Overs located an ops console. Chief Brogan might be able to pull up a schematic or deck map.”