Henricksen eyed the Heliotrope darkly and then looked back to the camera. “The AI swap. That in the logs?” he asked softly.
“Some of it. Some of its guesswork. But one thing’s for sure—the AI in that Heliotrope is not the original.”
Henricksen chewed his lip, watching the DSR fleet inch closer, studying the Heliotrope’s shape at its center. “Second generation. That’s pretty desperate.”
“Indeed,” Serengeti murmured. “Indeed it is.”
But they’d seen that, hadn’t they? The DSR was every bit the outsider, rebel-resistance force its name implied. Which meant shoestring budgets and salvaged equipment—retrofits of older models rather than shiny new designs. Even their damned name was a retread, the original Dark Star Revolution having died out centuries ago. Henricksen called them a bunch of terrorists—a bunch of up-jumped opportunists with a grandiose name—and, in truth, that’s how things started out.
The second coming of the DSR spawned from unrest on just a single planet—a backwater named Isikatamaharu—and from there it spread like wildfire. Like a plague hopping from one planet to another, infecting hundreds of colonies along the way, pulling in the people at the fringes—the angry and disenfranchised, the desperate and destitute. There’d been a point to it all once, way back when. A dream of separation, of an independent planet, separate from Meridian Alliance rule that the DSR could call home. But that dream got lost along the way—forgotten or just given up long ago. Now the DSR was all about guerrilla warfare and quasi-terrorist tactics. About surgical strikes to secure resources and keep themselves going.
Anything they captured—ships included—got pressed into service. That’s what happened to Trinidad. That much was in his records. And as for the other ships out there…
Serengeti ran a quick analysis of the data she’d gathered, found other ships of Trinidad’s vintage, some newer models, others that were even older than the Heliotrope. Desperate, she thought, reading the signs, knowing the ancient fleet out there meant DSR was almost at an end. This fleet, this cobbled together collection of ships driven far out into unsettled space…it felt like a last stand. A last suicidal act of defiance.
“Pointless,” Serengeti said. “All of it.”
“No argument here.” Kusikov studied the information scrolling across the bridge’s windows, shaking his head. “Look at ‘em. It’s like a museum out there. The greatest hits of junk transport.” He leaned forward, squinting his eyes as he focused on one shape in particular. “Is that an Aphelion?” he asked, pointing at an elongated vessel with a forking metal rod protruding from its nose.
“Can’t be,” Finlay told him. “Aphelion’s are ancient. First generation AI. Minds are based on chip sets rather than the crystal matrix standard they introduced with the fifth generation AI. Totally inefficient. They retired the last of that class a decade ago.”
Kusikov gave her a haughty look. “Oh, so you’re an AI mindset expert now, huh?”
Finlay glared at him across the bridge and then pointedly turned away, adjusting the settings on the Scan station to add yet more data to the front displays.
Serengeti almost laughed, watching the two of them. Kusikov’s know-it-all attitude got under most people’s skin, but he and Finlay has a special relation. Those two were forever arguing and never quite seemed to get along. Today was worse, though. The arrival of those DSR ships made everyone nervous and snappish, Finlay and Kusikov included.
Finlay fiddled with her display for a few seconds, pointedly ignoring Kusikov at Comms. Curious, Serengeti tapped into her station, found she’d focused in on the ship in question and pulled its data feed onto her screen so she could parse through the ocean of information it had on offer.
“See? Like I said—not an—” Finlay blinked and leaned forward, taking another look. “Ho-lee-shit,” she breathed. “He’s right, Captain. That’s an Aphelion out there, alright.”
Kusikov smiled in victory. “Told you.”
Finlay gave him a dirty look.
“Focus, Finlay,” Henricksen growled.
“Yes, sir.”
Finlay flushed and faced around, tapping busily at her station, sneaking glances now and then at the windows in front of her.
Quite the collection out there—a hodge-podge of vessels of various classes and designations that bore only a passing resemblance to a military fleet. Oh the Aphelion—Parallax, its beacon named it—had been built as a ship of war. An ancient one admittedly, and severely outclassed by the Valkyries and Dreadnoughts the Meridian Alliance brought with them. Even the Titans and Auroras were better equipped, their guns more powerful, their AIs several generations newer than what the Aphelion had on board. And Serengeti spotted Sunstorms and Scimitars scattered throughout the fleet, even a few Cyclone-class cruisers sprinkled here and there, but the bulk of the fleet had never been designed for combat. Merchant ships and retrofitted passenger vessels floated alongside ore haulers, canister containers, and other working-class ships.
“Jesus,” Finlay breathed, panning Number Four’s camera around. “Look at ‘em.” She zoomed in on a slab-sided rectangle off Serengeti’s port side. “Where’d they find that hunk of junk?” She frowned at her panel, tapped in a few places and then looked up at the schematic showing in the window. “Huh. No name.”
Just a series of numbers and letters repeating over and over again in the feed it threw at the stars.
“What do you suppose it is?” Finlay wondered, pulling the camera in tighter. “I’ve never even seen a ship like that.”
“Golem,” Kusikov told her, nodding at Number Four’s feed. “Major throwback. Long-range hauler, probably built a couple of centuries ago. Thought they were myth, honestly.” Kusikov rubbed his chin, devouring the Golem with his eyes. “It’s got jump drives, though. Looks like early plasma burners—buggy as hell.”
They were also pre-AI. The Aphelion was a wonder of modern technology compared to that Golem out there.
“Heard rumors the DSR was running cloned copies of those glitchy, gen seven AIs. But pre-AI?” Kusikov shook his head in disbelief. “Never imagined they’d resort to something like that.”
“Scrounging up non-AI ships to fill out their ranks. Foregoing ship’s intelligence entirely and relying solely on human crews.” Finlay shuddered. “Scary. Truly scary.”
“Finlay!” Henricksen smacked the panel in front of him. “What did I say?”
Finlay flinched and whirled around, eyes wide, a spot of color blooming on each cheek. “I—I—I—”
“What did I say?”
“I—Focus. Sir.”
“Right. Focus. Do your damn job. But instead you and your boyfriend over there are mooning over that collection of scrap heaps the DSR calls a fleet.”
“I didn’t—He’s not—” Finlay stammered.
“Look. We’re not dating, we just—”
“Shut it, Kusikov!”
Kusikov froze, mouth hanging open beneath the comms visor covering his eyes. A flush of anger crept across his cheeks, suffusing his face. “Like I’d waste my time—”
“You wanna think real hard before you finish that sentence,” Henricksen said quietly. “Real hard.”
Kusikov ignored the warning. Either that or he just didn’t get it. “I’m just trying to explain—”
“I can relieve you if you want,” Henricksen interrupted. He cocked his head to one side, giving Kusikov an icy-eyed look. “I can bring someone else up here who can take this situation seriously if you can’t. Someone who’ll treat this crew with the respect they deserve.”
Kusikov licked his lips, eyes flicking to Finlay. “No, sir,” he muttered, stabbing surlily at his station. “I’m on it.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I can see that,” Henricksen grunted. “Alright. Everyone—eyes front. Things are about to get nasty and I need my bridge crew focused and dialed in tight, you hear me?”
A chorus of ‘ayes’ spread across the bridge.
“Good. Sikuuku—”
&
nbsp; “Weapons signature,” Serengeti cut in.
Sikuuku swore softly and yanked hard on the joystick in his left hand. The gimbaled artillery pod swiveled, motors whirring softly as the gunner reoriented, data scrolling in long strings across the targeting visor obscuring his face. “Parallax,” he called. “The Aphelion’s powered up that big gun stuck to its nose.”
Serengeti turned the Number Four probe toward the Aphelion to get a better look. A cobalt blue charge crackled up and down the length of metal rod sticking out from its bow. A ball formed at the end closest to the ship’s hull and quickly spread outward, expanding until it measured nearly a meter across. It hovered there, sparking wildly and then crept forward, growing larger, brighter as it went.
“What the hell is that?” Henricksen asked.
“Forced ion cannon,” Sikuuku told him. “All the rage a hundred years ago. Awful thing. Massive amounts of damage. Slow as hell, though. Takes a good three minutes to recharge between shots. And from what I hear, they have tendency to overload. Design’s all wrong,” he explained. “See that?” He released one of the pod’s joysticks and pointed to where the charging gun connected to the Aphelion’s nose. “Too much energy too soon and the charge arcs backward. Take the whole ship out, neat as you please. That’s why we stopped using ‘em. Too chancy. Not worth the risk. Give me one of these babies any day,” he said, patting the Artillery station’s seat. “Bertha never back talks.”
“Bertha?” Kusikov snorted. “You named it Bertha?”
“Shut it, Kusikov.” Henricksen flashed a look of warning. Kusikov subsided into surly silence. Henricksen watched him a moment and then went back to studying the Aphelion, rubbing at his chin as he considered the crackling blue orb making its slow way down the length of its protruding gun. “So we’ve got…what? Two minutes give or take before that thing fires?”
Sikuuku checked the Chron and then nodded. “Right bastard of a weapon, that is. When it goes off…well, let’s just say you really don’t wanna get in its way.”
“Can you take it out?”
“Not in range yet, but…” Sikuuku pivoted in his Artillery pod, motors whirring as he adjusted the main cannon, nudging the controls up and down, a bit left then right. “Damn. Smaller ships are blocking it. Can’t get a clear line of fire. Pound away long enough and I might be able to get through. Might,” he said meaningfully. “No guarantees.”
“Forget it then. I want you focused on Trinidad. I know you can hit that. Tell the starboard-side batteries to focus on the Aphelion.”
“Aye, sir.” Sikuuku muttered something into the comms unit attached to his targeting helmet and then pivoted away, refocusing on Trinidad’s mutated Heliotrope shape.
Henricksen left him to it and spun back toward Scan. “Finlay. Keep an eye on the Aphelion. Not sure there’s much we can do about it, but I’d at least like a little advance warning before that thing goes off.”
Finlay nodded and split the view on her Scan station screen, devoting one panel to Parallax, another to the wide crescent of DSR vessels ahead of them, and a third to Trinidad at its center. Serengeti watched with her, leaving one sub-mind to monitor the Scan feeds while her primary consciousness focused on the Meridian Fleet around them, and the DSR ships ahead.
More energy signatures appeared—weapons firing up all across the DSR fleet as the Meridian Alliance closed in. They’d halved the distance to Trinidad by now, and from the looks of things, the DSR seemed to be on to what Brutus had planned. Ships’ engines fired, DSR vessels sliding forward, tightening the crescent up a bit, diverting more ships to the center where the tip of the Meridian Alliance spear pointed.
“Targets are coming in range.” Sikuuku flexed his fingers, wrapping them tight around the pod’s firing mechanisms. “Brutus’s main batteries are on-line. He’s firing!” he warned.
Flare of blue outside as Brutus opened fire with his cannons—massive, powerful weapons whose range outclassed anything else in the Meridian Alliance fleet. Bright bars marched in a straight line through space, slicing through the darkness as they tracked toward Trinidad and its entourage. Everyone waited, holding their breath, counting the seconds as Brutus’s shots crossed the gap between the two fleets and finally connected.
Trinidad’s prickling hull lit up, charged energy munitions arcing wildly as they connected with the Heliotrope front end, crawling in spidering tendrils across his composite metal skin.
Cheers erupted on Serengeti’s bridge. Kusikov opened up comms, broadcasting the yells and screams of victory issuing from the other ships in the fleet.
“Targets coming into range,” Serengeti said calmly, cutting through all that noise.
The cheers faded. Kusikov cut the comms as everyone got down to business.
“Main gun primed and ready,” Sikuuku called. The gimbaled pod ticked to one side and then the other as he made a last few adjustments. Nervous movements. Nervous and excited—both came with the territory. Sikuuku was a veteran like Henricksen—the scars he wore, marks of pride and shame, earned in encounters just like this one. He knew what was coming and wanted it to come, because the sooner the battle began, the sooner the dying would be done. “Sir?” he prompted, awaiting the order to fire.
“Wait,” Henricksen told him.
He glanced over to the Artillery station and then returned his gaze to the front windows, locking onto the schematic showing the Meridian Alliance fleet and the DSR ships. A counter glowed next to it, spiraling steadily downward as Brutus pounded away at Trinidad. The fleet moved closer, bringing the Titans and Auroras into range. They opened up as well, adding their smaller weapons fire to the mix.
Trinidad fired back, spitting out old-fashioned torpedoes of all things, tips glowing blood-red as the contents inside them swirled angrily. ‘Liquid laser’ they dubbed that weapon, but the torpedoes’ contents were chemical, not light-based—a toxic, corrosive substance that chewed through composite metal like a hot knife cutting through butter.
Highly effective, that concoction, and extremely deadly. Once the torpedo connected, the chemical containment pod shattered, releasing the deadly contents inside, creating an outer layer of insulation to protect an inner layer of acid that dissolved the ship’s hull and worked its way to the vessel’s softer, more vulnerable insides.
The Meridian Alliance had experimented with something similar, once upon a time, but ultimately given up. See, the thing was, the chemicals in that weapon weren’t only toxic, they were highly unstable. The Meridian Alliance had outfitted a dozen or so vessels with weapons like Trinidad’s, and all but four of them imploded when the gun’s chemical containers ruptured, spilling toxic goo inside the ship. Ships ended up being a total loss, and their crews were killed instantly by the fumes that worked their way into the atmosphere generators. The Meridian Alliance almost kept the damned things anyway, but the powers-that-be had run the numbers and worked their way through several cost-benefit scenarios before deciding the risk the guns posed outweighed the reward they offered. Just. That’s why they’d scrapped them, and went through all the trouble and expense to rip the guns back out the ship that carried them.
Apparently, the DSR had done the same calculations and come to a different conclusion. Or else they’d found a way around the weapons flaws. Developed some sort of shielding, maybe, to prevent a similar tragic event.
Or maybe they just don’t care, Serengeti thought to herself. Maybe they’re willing to risk their crews for the firepower the gun offers.
Trinidad’s liquid laser rounds smashed into the leading edge of the Meridian Alliance spearhead, splattering themselves across the Titans and Auroras at its tip. A few swirling red globes passed through the front line and slammed into the next wave of ships. At first it looked like nothing happened, then damage reports started flowing in.
Intrafleet comms erupted with communications, ships slowed and skipped aside, trying to dodge Trinidad’s fire. Those near the edges were successful but the center of the ships at the center
of the spearhead were packed in tight with almost nowhere to go, no room to maneuver. A bright flare erupted at the front of the spearhead—an Aurora named Sorrow, drifting off line, breaking formation. She veered hard to starboard, scraping against Percival, obliterating two side cannons, taking out the plating around them for good measure, leaving Percival with a sparking, gaping wound.
Percival recovered and brought himself back in line. Sorrow wasn’t so lucky.
“Breach,” Finlay called. “Sorrow’s got a breach!”
“Dammit,” Henricksen swore.
A yellow-white plume puffed from the Aurora’s side, flickering, flaring as it licked at empty space. The plume burned brightly for a few seconds and then abruptly died. And a half second later, Sorrow exploded.
Shocked silence engulfed the bridge, everyone staring as Sorrow’s hull cracked and cracked again, shredded into half a dozen large pieces. Bits of metal flew outward, peppering the ships around her as the remains of Sorrow’s body spun lazily, drifting off into darkness.
The fleet moved, leaving Sorrow’s dead carcass behind.
“God speed, Sorrow,” Henricksen whispered as Serengeti passed her by. “God speed.”
“Trinidad in range,” Serengeti announced. “Brutus sends word: All ships are to fire at will.”
“Right.” Henricksen scrubbed a hand through his short-cropped hair. “You heard the man, Sikuuku. Destroy that bastard. And get the starboard batteries on Parallax and its damned gun.”
“Aye, sir!” Sikuuku relayed the second half of Henricksen’s message to the other batteries and then hunkered down in the Artillery pod. His fingers squeezed the triggers, sending bright blue orbs of death spinning into the darkness.
Henricksen slammed his hand against a panel, sounding the ship’s alarm. “Kusikov! Comms! Wide open. Ship-wide address.”
Kusikov twiddled his fingers. “Floor’s yours, sir!”
“All hands,” Henricksen called, addressing his crew. “All hands to stations. We’ve engaged the enemy fleet. We’re going in.”
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