The Lost Stars: Imperfect Sword

by Jack Campbell

  “Everything was going great a few days ago,” Marphissa reminded him, “right before a Syndicate battleship jumped out at us.” Still, she had to admit that the operation was proceeding flawlessly. Reverse-reading the snoop sats gave her warships views of the transports that were depending on the sats to watch Marphissa’s ships and stay hidden. Even though the troop transports remained behind the star relative to her warships, thanks to the snoop sats, Marphissa could see them maintaining orbits about three light-minutes on the other side of the star. The ten troop transports looked like a pod of immense whales swimming placidly through space. “We turned their snoop sats into traitor sats,” she remarked.

  “Kommodor?” Senior Watch Specialist Czilla asked. “Is this similar to what the enigmas did to us for so many years?”

  “No one has briefed you on that?” Marphissa asked, giving Diaz a look.

  Diaz shook his head. “It’s not authorized. Classification Level Two, Special Circumstances.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Marphissa said. “Who are we keeping it secret from? The Alliance told us about it, the Syndicate got the same information from CEO Boyens, and the enigmas certainly already know all about what they were doing. Someone must have classified it that way when we first learned of it and never reviewed the classification level even when things changed.”

  It would be half an hour before her ships got close enough to the sun to see around it and get visuals on the transports. Plenty of time to explain things to the specialists so they would understand their jobs better. She turned in her seat to look at Czilla and the other watch specialists. “What we are doing here is close to what the enigmas did to us, but not the same. We are feeding the Syndicate transports a false picture of what we are doing by using worms we inserted into the snoop sat control systems. The enigmas had placed worms into our sensor systems as well, but those worms completely blocked any detecting or sighting of enigma ships. That’s why we couldn’t see them at all. And the enigmas use some sort of worm that we can’t copy. The Alliance can’t copy them, either. They learned how to spot the enigma worms and cancel them out, but they can’t make anything like them.”

  “That’s what the Alliance told us, anyway,” Diaz said, drawing mocking smiles from the specialists.

  “That’s what Black Jack told President Iceni,” Marphissa corrected. “And Captain Bradamont told me the same.”

  The specialists all nodded at that news. “The Captain,” Czilla said, “would not mislead us.”

  “No, she would not,” Marphissa agreed, marveling that she could say something like that about an Alliance officer and really mean it. It was almost as amazing as the fact that to the crew of Manticore, Bradamont was the Captain.

  “The sanitation routines we have to run daily in all the systems,” the weapons specialist said, “are those to find the enigma tricks? We’ve never understood how they work since they are nothing like any security or antiviral programs we are familiar with.”

  “Yes,” Marphissa said. “That’s what they are doing. Do you want to become famous? Figure out how the enigmas do it. They code their worms using quantum-level programming.”

  Jaws dropped among the specialists.

  “All right,” Marphissa said, “keep a close eye on the links and false feeds. Every minute that we accelerate and draw closer to the star without the transports’ knowing we’re coming makes it less likely that the transports can have any hope of fleeing from us. But I want to nail them without any long chases,” she added as she turned back to face her display.

  “It’s not the chases that are worrying you, is it?” Diaz asked in a low voice.

  “Not nearly as much as how many snakes are on each of those transports to keep their crews in line,” Marphissa said, “and whether the snakes have outfitted transports as well as warships with those devices that can cause power-core overloads on command. If those devices are on the transports, all it would take is one fanatic snake on each ship willing to give everything for the Syndicate and all we would end up with is ten balls of debris orbiting near this star.”

  Would all that debris have time to form a ring of wreckage about the sun before the solar winds kicked it farther out? The vision surprised and haunted her for the next few minutes as she did the only thing that she could, keep an eye on the status of her ships and on what the still-unsuspecting Syndicate transports were doing.

  “Our systems estimate twenty minutes until visual contact,” Czilla reported.

  In a blunt reminder that estimate meant an approximate value and not a firm quantity, it actually only took eighteen minutes before Hawk got a direct visual on one of the troop transports. By then, Marphissa’s flotilla was only four light-minutes from the transports, spreading out to pass the star close by on all sides in a maneuver formally called a High-Velocity Stellar Close Approach and Transit but informally known among warship crews as a Hot and Flat. Close by in stellar terms meant less than a light-minute, or about eighteen million kilometers. When Marphissa had been new to the mobile forces and had first heard the distance translated into kilometers, she had thought it was very large. But when skimming past the enormous uncontrolled nuclear-fusion furnace that was a star, even eighteen million kilometers seemed far too close.

  “It really brings home how very small we are, doesn’t it?” Kapitan Diaz murmured.

  Marphissa didn’t answer. She was reaching for her comm controls now that the element of surprise had been lost. “Syndicate transports, this is Kommodor Marphissa of the Free and Independent Midway Star System. We can destroy you at will. You are directed to surrender immediately. Reduce your shields to the minimum safe level for your distance from the star and refrain from changing vectors. Any attempt to flee will be met with force. Any resistance to boarding parties will result in your ships’ being fired upon. Each transport is to acknowledge its surrender to me. For the people, Marphissa, out.”

  She gestured to the comm specialist. “Repeat that every minute for the next ten minutes.”

  “Yes, Kommodor.”

  The transports would not see Hawk for another four minutes, and on the heels of seeing the light cruiser not only would see Marphissa’s other warships coming into view as they cleared the star but would also receive Marphissa’s demand that they surrender.

  What would happen then? It would depend in great part on how many snakes were on each transport and how loyal the transport crews were to the Syndicate.

  “The Syndicate never sent the best to troop-transport duty,” Diaz said, echoing Marphissa’s thoughts. “The transports are slower, not much armor, fairly weak shields, and no weapons except some point-defense grapeshot launchers. The Syndicate figured if someone was the sort most likely to mutiny or disobey orders in some other way, having them on a troop transport made a lot more sense than having them on a warship.”

  “I’d heard that, too,” she said.

  “But it’s true,” Diaz said. “It’s not just a rumor or a put-down of transport crews. My sister got sent to a transport, and she told me it was true.”

  “Your sister?” Marphissa gave him a surprised look. She vaguely recalled a reference to a sister in the mobile forces in Diaz’s service files, but he had never spoken of her before.

  “She died when her transport was destroyed,” Diaz said, looking steadily at his display, his expression that of a man recalling something that even now he had trouble believing had happened. “She and the rest of the crew and about five hundred ground forces soldiers when an Alliance warship got through the Syndicate escorts.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” Marphissa said.

  Diaz looked down, then over at her, his eyes shadowed. “How many sisters and brothers do you think I have killed? I have no idea. I can’t hate them, the crew of that Alliance ship. I wish they had never come near my sister’s ship, but the odds are very good that they all died, too. If not in that battle, then in another soon after. And they were just doing their job. Just like me. No, I hate the Syndi
cate that put my sister on that transport and sent that transport to that star without enough escorts and started the war and kept the war going. But my sister told me, and would have told you, that the crews of the transports knew they were chosen because they weren’t considered good enough or trustworthy enough to be on warships. It’s true.”

  She had to look away. “Thank you . . . for informing me . . . of that important information, Kapitan.”

  “It’s why I still fight, Kommodor.”

  “I understand. The Syndicate killed my brother, and even though I was able to avenge myself on the one responsible, it could not bring him back. All I can do is try to protect others.”

  There were about two minutes left before the Syndicate transports saw Hawk and received her surrender demand. Then, as the range kept closing, another three to four minutes before she would see whatever the initial reactions of the transports were.

  Her warships raced past their closest point of approach to the star, bending in flat curves around its colossal mass and nuclear fires, their courses now converging on the Syndicate transports.

  If any of the transports had immediately decided to surrender, she would have received their transmission by now.

  “All units,” Marphissa said. “Combat readiness at maximum, so the Syndicate ships will know we are ready to engage them, but no one is to fire on any of the transports until I specifically authorize each encounter. We want these transports intact if possible.”

  “We’ve got a couple of runners,” Diaz noted.

  Marphissa’s display highlighted the same two transports, which had lit off their main propulsion at the same time as their thrusters pitched them up and over toward a vector aimed at the jump point for Kiribati. She tapped the transports, and her display immediately presented vectors which would allow fairly quick intercepts. “To the two Syndicate transports attempting to flee, you know we can intercept and destroy you without difficulty. Brake your movement immediately to remain in your current orbits.”

  “Incoming transmission from Syndicate Unit HTTU 458,” the comm specialist announced. “We are complying with your orders and submit to your authority.”

  The symbol that represented Heavy Troop Transport Unit 458 was not one of those who were trying to run. “Gryphon, alter vector to a direct intercept on HTTU 380. Hawk, alter vector to a direct intercept on HTTU 743,” Marphissa ordered.

  “We have received surrender messages from HTTU 236, HTTU 643, and HTTU 322,” the comm specialist reported.

  An alarm sounded as one of the symbols on Marphissa’s display vanished. “HTTU 481 has been destroyed by a power-core overload,” Senior Watch Specialist Czilla said, his voice grim.

  “The signature of the event matches that of the snake power-core-overload device,” the engineering specialist said, her words full of impotent anger.

  “How will that inspire the others?” Marphissa said to Diaz. “Fear or defiance? We’ll see.”

  “Ten minutes until we are within weapons range of the transports,” Czilla said.

  “I am detecting power core shutdowns on HTTU 333 and HTTU 712,” the engineering specialist announced.

  “There is your answer, Kommodor. Someone is trying to preempt the snakes,” Diaz said with satisfaction. “Ah, HTTU 380 is braking.”

  “But 743 is still trying to run,” Marphissa grumbled.

  “HTTU 532 has surrendered.”

  Hawk’s commanding officer called in. “I’m almost within range of 743, Kommodor, and he’s not showing any signs of slowing down.”

  “Try warning shots,” Marphissa directed.

  “Kommodor,” the comm specialist reported, “HTTU 333 and HTTU 712 have surrendered but say they must restart their power cores.”

  “Inform all surrendered units that they must report to me the status of any snakes aboard them,” Marphissa said.

  “No response to warning shots,” Hawk’s commanding officer said. “Still accelerating all out. I can stay with HTTU 743 as long as you want, Kommodor, but— There are escape pods coming off.”

  Marphissa watched as the transport’s entire complement of escape pods shot free in a staggered volley.

  “We have communications with the escape pods,” Hawk reported. “They say the snakes on 743 have control of engineering and the bridge, that they have barricaded themselves into those compartments.”

  “Transports don’t have citadels,” Diaz said. “The snakes must have improvised something.”

  “That doesn’t leave us any choice,” Marphissa said. “Hawk, fire upon HTTU 743. Target main propulsion units.” She glared at her display, knowing that a substantial fraction of 743’s crew must be stranded aboard since there hadn’t been enough escape pods for the whole crew. She wondered if the crew had selected places in the pods in a disciplined and fair process, or if there had been bloody rioting at the pod bays as men and women fought for what could well be their only chance at life.

  “Kommodor,” Diaz said. “From the reports from the surrendered transports, they each had three or four snakes aboard. Two transports say they took one of their snakes prisoner. The other snakes are all reported to have been killed.”

  “Two snakes left alive?” she asked. “That’s odd.”

  “Maybe they weren’t bad, for snakes.”

  “Maybe. The snakes wouldn’t occasionally execute one of their own if they didn’t sometimes let someone with a tiny bit of humanity through the cracks of their selection system. Have word sent back to those two transports to ensure those two snakes are heavily guarded, under constant visual watch by multiple people, and cannot access anything.”

  Hawk had matched velocity to HTTU 743 and swung in directly astern, slamming shots at the transport that collapsed its relatively weak rear shields and went on to impact on 743’s main propulsion units.

  Unable to accelerate anymore, but still moving at the same rate through space, HTTU 743 hurtled helplessly toward the distant jump point for Kiribati.

  “Put a boarding party on him and find out the exact situation,” Marphissa ordered.

  But as Hawk moved in to attach a boarding tube, thrusters fired on HTTU 743, creating vector changes. “We can’t get a boarding team over as long as the snakes can fire those thrusters and jerk the ship around,” Hawk’s commanding officer reported with frustration.

  “All right,” Marphissa said. “Match vectors with 743 as best you can, then use your hell lances to hit his bridge. Hit him enough times to be sure nothing is left working on the bridge.” Which would also mean no one was left alive on the bridge, but that didn’t need to be said.

  “I understand, Kommodor.”

  Normally, hitting a specific place on an enemy ship was simply impossible when tearing past each other at fractions of the speed of light with engagement times measured in tiny pieces of a second. Simply hitting the enemy at all was an amazing achievement under those circumstances.

  But with Hawk positioned near the crippled transport, matching speed and direction of travel, it was like shooting at a stationary target while also sitting still. And since the HTTU 743 was a Syndicate design, Hawk had a perfect set of deck plans for the transport, telling the warship exactly where to find the Syndicate ship’s bridge.

  It took a lot to stop hell lances. The streams of extremely-high-energy particles went through most obstacles without hindrance, leaving large, neat holes in hulls, equipment, and any humans unfortunate enough to be in the way. With 743’s shields down, and with only the light armor that transports boasted, Hawk’s hell lances could pierce right through the transport.

  The light cruiser fired again and again with merciless precision, tearing holes deep into HTTU 743 and completely through the transport’s bridge. Marphissa watched, trying not to feel sick at the thought of what was happening to everyone on the bridge of the transport. She managed to maintain her composure by switching her attention for brief periods to the process of her other warships’ intercepting, surrounding, and matching vectors with
the eight troop transports that had surrendered.

  “I need to rest my hell lances,” Hawk reported. “They’re overheating.”

  “Understood,” Marphissa said. “Try to get a boarding party over again. Give me a link to whoever leads it.”

  This time no thrusters fired when Hawk moved in close to HTTU 743 and latched a boarding tube onto the transport.

  Marphissa activated the link to the head of the boarding party from Hawk and called up a view from that person’s survival-suit helmet. She watched as breaching tape opened an access in the side of the transport where the boarding tube was attached, and as Hawk’s boarding party entered the transport.

  “Got some dead,” the officer leading the boarding party reported tersely. “Looks like they were fighting over places in the escape pods. Only here, though.”

  The transport was big inside, big enough to carry hundreds of ground force soldiers and their equipment. Hawk’s boarding party headed for the bridge to see what was left, the passageways of the transport spooky with only emergency lighting on and all atmosphere vented through damaged areas of the hull so that only the exact spot where a beam of light fell was illuminated, pitch-blackness reigning instantly beyond the margins of the beam.

  Marphissa pulled herself out of her focus on that, concentrating once more on the bigger situation. “Do we send boarding parties onto all of the surrendered transports?” Diaz asked.

  “No,” she decided. “We’ll have them go the planet, where Midway is waiting with all of the people in her crew to back up our boarding parties, and we’ll deal with all that there. As it is, we’re going to have our hands full picking up the survival pods from 743.” She tapped their current orbit, then a location in orbit about the habitable planet, waiting impatiently for the second it took for the automated systems to recommend a vector. Then she had to do it again because the automated systems had assumed only the warships were going back and had used accelerations based on that. After specifying this time that all ships here were going to the planet, the maneuvering systems produced a different vector that took into account the slower acceleration of the troop transports. Having spent way too much time shepherding around freighters, which made the clumsy troop transports look like sleek greyhounds of space, Marphissa didn’t waste any effort being annoyed at the extra time it would take for all of the ships to get to the planet.