Legacy Fleet: The Complete Trilogy

by Nick Webb

  Granger swore. “We’ve got even less time now, then.” He glanced at the screen and saw two freighters still hugging close to the Constitution. “Is the Rainbow aboard?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Signal the rest of the caravan. Tell them to scatter. Full speed. Preferably away from Earth—the aliens will be less likely to chase them down.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the comm officer.

  He waited until the comm station had finished warning the rest of the caravan, then pointed to Ensign Prince. “Go. Get us out of here.”

  Ensign Prince punched the initiator control, and the telltale distortion shimmered in the air all around them as the quantum field established itself around the ship. Within a moment, the view on the monitor shifted, and the alien ships disappeared.

  Replaced only by empty space.

  “Where the hell is Valhalla Station?” murmured Granger.

  Chapter 41

  Near Earth

  Flightdeck, ISS Constitution

  Jessica Miller jumped out of her cockpit the moment the hatch opened, nearly tumbling down the stepladder the tech had pushed up to the fighter.

  As she descended, a platoon of armored marines rushed past her, assault rifles at the ready. “EVERYBODY OUT!” shouted the man in the lead, whom Miller recognized as Colonel Hanrahan. They rushed towards the smoking remains of the Swarm fighter that had followed them in.

  It looked relatively unthreatening, given that half of it was a mangled wreck of smashed metal and the other half sported a dozen holes where Ballsy had punched through with his fighter’s rounds, but the harrowing idea of aliens on the flight deck made her rush for the exit, towards the debriefing room. Commander Pierce, who was surrounded by a shell-shocked crowd of pilots from the Qantas, motioned all the Constitution’s pilots back to the locker room.

  Her head was light, her feet heavy, and she didn’t know whether to shout and celebrate that she was alive, or mourn her fallen comrades. Celebrating felt premature, and it struck her that they had little to feel good about. Glancing around the packed fighter deck, she saw that they’d taken on all the remaining fighters from the Qantas, swelling their numbers, but realized that nearly half of the Constitution’s pilots hadn’t come back.

  Including Hotbox. He was young. Just out of the academy. Full of life and enthusiasm and charisma. It just wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

  And the thought of fairness drew her mind back to the thing she was suppressing. The thing she couldn’t think about, or risk facing a breakdown right there on the fighter deck. Plus, there were probably search crews going through the wreckage of the Clyburne, looking for survivors, right?

  Of course not. But she couldn’t think about it. Not yet. Still too many battles to fight. She had to come home to Zack-Zack whole.

  “Fishtail!” Ballsy bounded up to her.

  “Hey.”

  Dogtown joined up with them, and they retreated back to their lockers to sit and recover before they were inevitably called up again. She eyed Dogtown. He was an older pilot, maybe in his mid forties—in stark contrast to Jessica and Ballsy, who were both in their early twenties.

  The locker room was subdued. It was only half as full as before, and several of the pilots sat on the benches, their heads in their hands.

  Dogtown punched his locker and swore. He punched it several more times, bloodying his knuckles.

  “Stop,” said Ballsy. “Breaking your hand won’t bring him back.”

  The older pilot collapsed on his bench. “He was twenty. Shit, my son is almost as old as he was. He was just a kid.”

  Ballsy nodded. He was barely older than Hotbox had been. He reached into his locker and extracted a tiny bottle, and sat down in between Dogtown and Miller.

  “To Hotbox,” he said, twisting the cap off and raising the bottle up. He took a small swig and passed it to the other two. Miller winced as the burning liquid went down.

  A moment of silence passed between the three of them, and they watched the other pilots stream through the doors, some dazed, some amped up on adrenaline. All with a haunted, shadowy look behind their eyes—the look of people who’d seen death.

  “Why was he Hotbox?” she asked, turning to Volz. “How did he get his callsign?”

  Ballsy smiled. “Funny story.” He looked around at the pilots surrounding him, apparently gauging whether it was an appropriate time for said funny story. “There’s the official version he wanted everyone to know, and then there’s the real story. Officially, it goes like this. He’d been on board for a month, and late one night the master chief walks in on him in the showers, smoking a joint. The whole shower was filled with the smoke. Master Chief says he got high just by walking in. Hotbox.” Ballsy shrugged, to conclude the story.

  “That’s the story he wanted people to know? He could get discharged for drug use.” Jessica shook her head in disbelief.

  “Well, that’s because the real story is a little more, ahem, embarrassing. In reality, he was in that shower all right, but he brought a portable long-range comm device with him. You know, those little boxes that let you video call people up to a few hundred thousand klicks away, without passing through the ship’s comm array?” He held up his hands to indicate the size of the box, just a few inches square.

  “Oh no….” Jessica began.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Ballsy with a smile. “His girlfriend’s in San Diego, see, and well, let’s just say things got pretty hot and heavy in the shower that night. When Master Chief stumbled in there … well … yeah. Hotbox.”

  Ballsy chuckled. Jessica rolled her eyes. “And Master Chief? What did he do?”

  Ballsy laughed even harder. “Old bastard just went right on showering. Didn’t phase him a bit. Hotbox keeps right on going—didn’t hear the chief come in. Then, after he’s done, when he realizes he’d not been alone the whole time, he blubbers to the chief to keep it quiet, and made up the whole story about the reefer just so Chief could have a juicy story to tell in its place. And … well, obviously both stories got out, which makes it even better.”

  Miller snorted.

  Ballsy laughed, and wiped his eyes with the back of a hand. “All right, get cleaned up, Fishtail. We could get called up again soon and there’s nothing worse than flying in a cockpit with your own rank BO.”

  “How did you get yours, Ballsy? Your callsign, that is.”

  Ballsy smirked. “By being Ballsy, of course.”

  Dogtown pointed at the younger man. “You’re looking at the only pilot in the history of the Constitution who’s managed to break into her q-jump field as she was jumping away.”

  “But, that’s impossible, isn’t it?”

  Dogtown shook his head. “Not impossible. Just incredibly dangerous, and stupid, since the quantum field can materialize at any second, and if it does when you’re only halfway in, well, it takes that half of the ship with it and leaves the rest behind. Ballsy here,” he continued, pointing his thumb at Volz, “was busy meeting up with his girlfriend on Valhalla Station a few years ago and things went a little long—”

  “So to speak,” interrupted Volz with a mischievous grin.

  “—didn’t realize the Constitution was about to jump away. So he pulls his pants up, jumps into his fighter, and races off towards the Old Bird, just barely clearing the quantum field in the nick of time. When we appear at Europa station a moment later, there’s this little X-25 fighter that’s jumped in with us, barreling towards the closed fighter bay doors.” Dogtown was chuckling by this point. “Got quite a dressing down by Commander Haws, the old drunk.”

  “Ballsy,” said Jessica, raising her eyebrows at Volz.

  “Yeah, sure was.” He pointed at her, his head cocked towards Dogtown. “But not half as ballsy as our little Fishtail here. That little stunt you pulled against that weapons installation? Corkscrewing in like that? Crazy. Absolutely chop-off-my-own-left-nut crazy batshit bonkers.”

  Fishtail shrugged. “Yeah, well. They had it coming.�
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  Ballsy smirked and wiggled out of his sweat-stained undershirt before he stalked off to the shower. “Keep that up and we’ll have to exchange callsigns, Fishtail.”

  A hush fell over the room as Commander Pierce stepped through the door. “CAG on deck!” shouted one of the pilots nearest him.

  “Thank you. You performed like rockstars out there today, people. Absolutely brilliant. You should all be proud.” He paused, biting his lower lip. “A moment of silence for our fallen.”

  The locker room fell absolutely silent as everyone bowed their heads, or averted their gaze from each other to avoid tears.

  A moment later, the CAG went on. “I’m sorry, that’s all we have time for. We’ll have a proper celebration of their lives later. Right now, we’ve got a war to fight. The aliens are continuing on towards Earth. We should engage them again within the hour. All the Qantas’s pilots are now aboard, and we’ll be rotating them into our own squads. Team leaders, see me in fifteen. The rest of you newbies, get yourselves to the simulators with your trainers. I want you in those things nonstop until our next engagement.”

  Pierce stepped to the door to leave, but glanced back one more time. “We’re going to beat these Cumrats. From what I saw today out of you boys, they don’t stand a chance.”

  He left. Miller wrapped a towel around her to walk to the shower. Was he just pep-talking them to help them feel better, reassuring them before their impending deaths, or was it sincere? Did they really stand a chance?

  Her mind strayed to the picture on her dashboard, and she resolved: they did stand a chance. They would survive.

  Somehow.

  Chapter 42

  Near Earth

  Bridge, ISS Constitution

  “We’ve overshot Earth, sir,” came the reply from navigation, after the officer had conferred with his crew.

  “How? I thought you’d made the calculations.” This was unacceptable, and Granger was steamed.

  “The gravitational distortion from the singularity must have thrown off the numbers. It warped the space metric around us ever so slightly, enough for the quantum field to have decoupled from the vacuum wave function several hundred thousand kilometers farther than we planned.”

  Granger breathed, ignoring the pain in his chest. They were safe. For now at least.

  But Earth was not.

  If their experience with the Qantas was any indication, the alien fleet would make short work of whatever defenses IDF had mustered in the hours since the invasion.

  And the aliens would be there fast.

  Granger tapped his comm. “Commander Scott, what’s our capacitor status? How soon can we do another q-jump?”

  The comm speakers boomed with Rayna Scott’s voice. “They’re drained, Cap’n. It’ll take at least a few hours to get them charged back up enough for a jump.”

  “Even a short-range one?”

  “Right, Cap’n. It’ll take at least fifty petajoules, and our power plant took a beating during that scuffle.”

  He turned to the navigation station. “Fine. Get us to Earth. Full thrust. Do a full burn for the first half, and a full negative burn for the second half.”

  His comm indicator panel on his command console was going haywire with multiple department heads trying to get through to him. He punched through to Commander Pierce on the flight deck.

  “What is it, Pierce?”

  “Captain,” came the CAG’s voice, mixed with dozens of other pilots clamoring nearby, “you should know that I’ve called Hanrahan and the marines down here. A Swarm fighter crash landed on the flight deck.”

  Granger jumped to his feet. “Is it contained? What’s its status?”

  “We’re fine, Captain. The thing is shot up pretty good and half the ship is smashed from the landing. Not a chance anything survived. But Hanrahan is here all the same. Best to be safe.”

  “Good thinking, Commander. I’ll be there shortly. No one goes in that thing until I get there. Granger out.” He tapped a button and continued, “Doctor Wyatt, Bridge.”

  “Wyatt here.”

  “Doctor, meet me on the flight deck in five minutes. We have a Swarm ship that crash landed. I want you to take a look.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Granger tapped another indicator, and braced for bad news from engineering.

  “Cap’n,” Scott’s voice sounded out through the speakers, “engine three is still giving us trouble. I only just got the thing running a few hours ago and it took a beating during the battle.”

  Granger nodded his understanding, “How much power, Rayna?”

  “Forty percent. Maybe fifty.”

  “Fine. Get to work on restoring full power. I have a feeling we’ll be needed at Earth before too long.” It was an understatement, and he chided himself for tempting fate with a small joke in the midst of such grave circumstances and devastation. Even with the ten meters of solid tungsten shielding, the alien’s directed energy weapon had wreaked havoc on the ship. That last blast was especially devastating, cutting clear through the shielding and piercing straight through into the forward section, taking many lives.

  Too many lives, Granger thought, as he glanced at the damage report scrolling past the screen on his command station.

  Haws.

  His head snapped down to where his friend had lain.

  He was gone.

  “Where’s Commander Haws?” he asked the duty officer, who was busy dragging the body of a technician from under the fallen girder.

  “We took him to sick bay, sir. He was still alive, but barely.”

  He needed to see his friend. The only one who’d stayed with him all these years. The only officer truly loyal to him, following him to whatever dead end assignment Granger ended up in.

  “Commander Proctor, you have the bridge.” He turned to leave. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. When I return I want a status update on the mag-rail reloading. I want the rest of my fighters prepped for duty. And I want my engines at full power, dammit.” He looked back at her with a stern, but good-natured nod. “You got all that?”

  “Fifteen? We’ll do it in ten, sir,” she replied, with the barest hint of a grin.

  He could still hear her barking orders as he passed down the corridor from the bridge, saluting the two marines standing at attention.

  Damn, she’s good. Glad I didn’t toss her out the airlock.

  Chapter 43

  Near Earth

  Fighter Bay, ISS Constitution

  Granger burst through the door of the fighter bay, which had been cleared of most personnel. A dozen armored marines stood in a half circle around the wrecked alien craft near the warped, hazy force field holding in the atmosphere from the vacuum outside. Part of the fighter hung outside the field, preventing the giant bay doors from closing.

  “Sir, no indication anything is alive in there,” said Colonel Hanrahan, a gruff, mustached man who looked like he belonged in one of the old Swarm War holo-vids. His battle armor was sleek, pristine, and shiny, and the assault rifle he gripped looked as if it had been modded by him personally.

  “We need to get it out of the path of the doors. Chief?” He turned to the chief technician of the fighter bay who had just come in from the briefing room with Commander Pierce. “I want this moved.”

  “Aye, sir. I’ll get the hydraulics crew working on it.” The chief retreated to the rear of the bay where a handful of technicians were prepping fighters.

  Commander Pierce folded his arms. “Captain, I don’t want that thing in the fighter bay. How do we really know it’s dead? Can’t we just shove it out and forget about it?”

  Granger shook his head. “No. We need all the information we can get. If we make it through the next engagement and repel the fleet heading towards Earth, IDF intel will want an intact specimen, and this is about as intact as they come.”

  “But what if the bugger pops out of there in the middle of the next fighter deployment and starts a ground war here in the fighter bay?”<
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  Colonel Hanrahan grunted and stroked his rifle. “We’ll be ready for it, Commander.”

  Granger nodded. “No, you’re right. We need to be sure.” He inclined his head upward, indicating to the monitoring computer to open a comm channel. “Doctor Wyatt, you here yet?”

  He was loathe to bring the doctor there since the man was probably hard at work on Haws, but there was nothing for it—they had to be sure whatever was in the Swarm fighter was in fact dead.

  “Be there in a minute, Captain.”

  Moments later, Wyatt entered the bay through the rear lift. “What’s this about, Tim? I’ve got patients waiting for me.”

  Granger indicated the Swarm fighter. “We’re going to open that up, and you’re going to tell me if it’s dead.”

  Wyatt’s face paled: he gulped, but then nodded. Granger motioned to the marines to open up the small hatch on the side of the fighter. It was circular, and barely big enough for a human to pass through, which made Granger wonder just how large an individual Swarm was.

  The hatch opened and a grayish-green substance immediately started draining out of the opening, causing the marine who’d opened the hatch to spring out of the way. It was viscous—far thicker than oil—and oozed down the side of the craft towards the floor.

  “Doctor?” Granger took a step forward and bent down to look at the goo.

  Wyatt approached the fighter and held a scanner up to the hatch opening, waving it back and forth. He shook his head, and then held the scanner down to the oozing fluid running down the side of the hatch. “I’m getting no life readings. No heat generation. No electrical impulses. No chemical reactions other than oxidation with our atmosphere. Whatever was in there is dead.”

  Wyatt crouched down and examined the goo. “I bet they have an automatic system that destroys the body in the event of a catastrophic event. Liquifies it. Maybe as a way to ensure none of them will ever be taken prisoner. Who knows?” He crouched further, bending forward to run a finger through the fluid.