Oort Rising

by Magnus Victor

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “We first heard about their Podera base from interrogation. Intelligence gives it a fifty-fifty probability. We confirmed with trace navigational data on one of the enemy boarding craft. Data that had been deleted, but not overwritten.” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “It smells like a plant.”

  "A plant?" asked Petrakov. He blinked, and sat upright. "Are you suggesting that they sacrificed all those ships and troops just to draw us into a trap?"

  "Improbable, I admit," she said, and then she sat forward. "Unless they have some bigger objective in mind, something big enough to warrant such a sacrifice."

  "Such as?"

  "I admit I don't know." She leaned on her desk. "But it feels wrong. So far, they have not made those kinds of mistakes."

  The Commodore snorted. “No mistakes? Hardly. Their attack obviously hadn't expected the Overlord. That was a mistake. This ship” he gestured to the room around them “is an unexpected development for them. A monkey-wrench in their gears. If we hit them with both the Tannenberg and the Overlord, we'll have them. Besides,” he flashed a grin “I happen to know that the boarding craft represented most of this rebel cell's space-worthy craft.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  The Commodore tapped on his datapad. “I got a message today from Bill— ah, the miner’s union representative.” He handed the datapad to the Captain. “They finally managed to get a mole into the enemy command-communications network.”

  Conagher nodded, but she had strong doubts. The message certainly seemed to come from the union. It even had the proper codes and e-seals. And her mission brief said the union were allies out here in the Cloud.

  Then again, these were the same 'allies' who rarely lifted so much as a finger to actually hunt down the insurgents, even with all of the fleet-surplus equipment they had been given. Not if they could get the Navy to do it for them.

  She hated doing the dirty work for others, especially if it might cost good men their lives. She tapped the bottom of the screen. “There's no information here about exactly who their mole is, and how they got him into the enemy's confidences.” Of course, Navy Intelligence branch had been trying to get their infiltrators into a vital position like that for years without success. So if the union had succeeded where the Navy had not, it stood to reason that they would protect the mole's identity. Still, something did not sit right with her. “Besides, it’s too detailed to be reliable.” Real intelligence would never be this…specific.

  “Of course they don’t want to reveal their sources.”

  “That makes no sense, unless they do not trust us. After all, we’re on their side.” Although she was not too certain the reverse held true. “Besides, this” she tapped the datapad “says nothing about where the rebels got their equipment in the first place.”

  Petrakov shrugged. “The equipment’s probably stolen from the union. They wouldn’t want to admit that their security is awful.” He tapped the arm of his chair with two fingers. "As for trust, don't forget those IFFs the rebels had. There was obviously a leak somewhere. Maybe the union thinks it came from us."

  Plausible. And yet they claimed that they'd landed an intelligence coup that her Navy had not. She sighed. “Very well. Accepting that on a provisional basis, we still have the issue of actually pinning down the enemy leadership.” She switched her display to show the area around Podera, highlighting the planetoid itself. “They are most likely either well-ensconced in a bunker on the planetoid, or—” a bright red dot appeared on the display “—onboard the captured Verdun. She wasn't commissioned as a command vessel, but she's still the closest they'll have to a flagship.”

  The Commodore leaned in towards the display. “So we have to find some way of both destroying any emplacements or bunkers on the planetoid and preventing any enemy craft from escaping, while fighting the Tannenberg's own sister-ship?” He shook his head. “The Overlord may be a great ship, but she can't be everywhere at once." He paused. "Correct?"

  She shook her head, wondering just how much the Commodore knew about their trial results. Still, he was flag, and had a high security level. "QMP is not working yet. Our man made some progress. Not enough."

  Petrakov frowned. "Wish we had more ships to cover their escape.”

  “Perhaps. But we do have the advantage of being the attackers here. The enemy doesn't know exactly when we'll be arriving. We can use that. Give us a week for repairs, and we'll have a workaround on the targeting systems. If the enemy has more stolen transponders, it won't help them this time.”

  She highlighted the very center of the display, right on top of Podera. The image zoomed in, showing a cargo-transshipment station reaching out from the planetoid's surface. “And then we exit FTL right on top of this station. It's got the only proper hangar space on the whole rock. If the enemy has escape ships, they'll be there." Petrakov started to object, but she held up her hand to stop him. "Yes, I know Navy regs call for exiting FTL further away. So far, the rebels know far too much about Navy regs, so chances are they won't expect this. That is exactly why we need to do it."

  She zoomed the display in closer. "The Overlord stands off just far enough from the station so that her batteries can cover it and the planetoid, while the Tannenberg moves in closer.” She grinned. “While the Tannenberg may not be the Overlord's equal, she is an intimidating sight, especially at close range. It'd take a disciplined captain to not flee from her. Discipline born from proper training. Discipline that these rebels don't have.”

  The Commodore nodded. “I see. So when any enemy ships leave, the Tannenberg disables them for boarding. If the enemy leadership tries to flee aboard their ships, they're captured. If they stay on the planetoid, then they're trapped.”

  “Exactly. And if it turns out that the enemy leadership was aboard the Verdun, then we'd likely not catch them in this attack anyway. Most likely, she doesn't have any real weapons - no way the rebels could re-install the main guns. But she could run." Conagher drummed her fingers. Much as she would like to capture the Verdun along with the base, one step at a time. At least they could cripple the rebellion. "Either way, we would have located and isolated a major enemy base, one which we can then destroy. At which point we sit back from Podera, close enough to intercept any evacuation ships but far enough to be outside of the effective range of any enemy weapons emplacements.”

  She switched the display to a view of a new spaceship. To her eyes, it was misshapen - a long, thin cylinder as opposed to the rounded spheres and ovoids of proper combat vessels. It looked more like a merchantman than a military vessel. But it was the perfect shape to mount a battery of three-kilometer-long railguns, designed specifically to destroy hardened, fixed targets. The Artillerist class was the most specialized naval designs currently in service, with only one ship ever commissioned.

  Conagher stabbed her finger at the ship's image. “And then once we capture the enemy leaders, we call in the Gribeauval and let her reduce the target to powder. Either way, the rebels lose a major base, and most likely their leadership for this cell.”

  “Excellent point.” The Commodore nodded. “Very well. We’ll wait a week, and then come down on the enemy like a ton of bricks. See to it.”

  Chapter 12: Diplomacy

  Oh, now they showed up. Captain Conagher rolled her eyes as she watched the repair ship come alongside the Overlord. After all the critical work's done. Would have been nice if they’d shown up earlier and helped with getting the backup masts set up. Of course, she had herself to blame for that. After the ambush, she had insisted on extra vetting. She grinned humorlessly to herself. But if they thought they had missed the hard work, they clearly did not know the Navy.

  The Overlord's replacement sails had been fabricated, but the painstaking task of re-attaching them to their masts was only beginning. A perfect job for a civilian crew, which would free the Navy crew to supervise. The fricsim drive core also needed repairs, having drifted slightly out of al
ignment on its first voyage out of dry-dock. The core room was cramped and perpetually hot, as her chief engineer had explained, because the drive couldn't be taken offline and re-started in the shallow gravity field this far out-system. At least neither repair required Navy-specific training.

  Yet another job that could effectively be left to the civilians. She was mulling through the repair detail, when the intercom on her desk buzzed. She pressed the button. “Yes?”

  “A Miner’s Union representative just arrived on the repair ship, ma’am. A Mr. Jones. He says he needs to talk to you.” There was a muted conversation in the background, which she could not make out. "Ah, that is, he requests a meeting with you."

  That did not ring any bells. She assumed that they hadn't notified the ship's liaison officer beforehand, and checked her schedule. No Mr. Jones. Perhaps he was here to help with the repairs, but she doubted it. Perhaps he was here to explain just how the Union sent the squadron into a trap, but she held little hope for that, either. Whatever the man wanted, she would have to deal with it, as well as all the repair work.

  “I can see him in fifteen minutes. Then send him in.”

  Arrogant damn bureaucrats. Just because they were this far out-system, they acted like it was their own private country! Would it have killed them to arrange any of this before the last minute? But she couldn't afford to snub them, directly. At least she could make their representative wait a bit longer than protocol dictated. And see how he reacted.

  But that wasn't the important question. Why hadn't they asked to meet the Commodore, instead? The Union had enough contacts at Andromeda station that they must know he'd left, and a quick ping of the Overlord's systems would show her Flag status. Either they did not want to reveal what they knew, or they decided that they would rather talk to a less senior officer. She chuckled at that.

  She thought about notifying Petrakov, but decided to wait. If the Union wanted to talk to her specifically, they might have a good reason. If she disagreed, she could just as easily inform Petrakov afterward. Besides, it might be easier to get information from this 'Jones' without the Commodore in the room.

  She brought up the Union personnel file and looked up any representative by the name “Jones.” Only one result matched as likely, a nearly-blank file, just a name and a start-of-employment year. Lazy civilians – they didn't keep their records current. She re-read the date, and raised one eyebrow. This guy had only had his job for five months?

  She searched the Navy's own records for any interaction with this Jones, and came up empty. She was interrupted by the guard's voice from her anteroom. “Mr. Jones is clean. Credentials check out. No implants.”

  “Very well. Send him in.”

  The door to her office opened immediately, and a short, dapper man strode in. He barely came up to Conagher's chin, but was almost as wide as he was tall. His pale, smooth skin and short-cropped hair fit the bill of a person living far from the Sun's rays. He was dressed in one of those anonymous gray business suits, every crease in its proper place, that had never quite managed to go out of style over the centuries.

  She stood, giving him her professional smile, revealing nothing. “I am Captain Conagher. You wanted to see me, I believe?” She knew she was out of practice at talking to civilians, and might have left out some of the courtesies that politesse required, but decided that it worked to her advantage. Judging by the man's suit, he was well used to playing politics. Better to change the game, and make him play by her rules.

  “Yes.” He remained standing, his smile betraying no reaction to her brusqueness. He stepped forward and held out his hand. “Alex Jones.”

  She shook his hand, firmly, quickly, the Navy way. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones," she replied, her tone carefully neutral.

  They sat. He leaned forward and cleared his throat. “We - that is to say, the Union of the Workers of the Oort Cloud – believe that it would be wise to have a local liaison go along with your force. To help wherever we can."

  "Excellent idea, Mr. Jones. We always appreciate help from the Union." She made a point to check her datapad, then looked across at the diminutive man. "I do not see any communiqué on the matter. What sort of help do you propose to provide, exactly?"

  "To ensure that there are no civilian casualties.”

  'No civilian casualties, my ass'. thought the Captain. If that was their goal, they would have cracked down on the rebels earlier, and not left it all to the Fleet. “A liaison, you say? When will he arrive?”

  “I am the liaison.” His matter-of-fact tone revealed no emotion.

  “Ah.” She looked at his immaculately-well-kept suit. She wagered that this was the closest to ‘field work’ he’d ever been. “I trust, then, that you are familiar with the local area?”

  “I’ve been a full-time employee at our local offices for five months, and a public-relations management intern for thirteen before that.”

  "I see.” His answer sounded wrong. That was not nearly long enough to learn the ropes. Nor to earn the trust of the workers. She had heard they were the suspicious type. The question was, did Mr. Jones realize that? Besides, he was clearly older than such a résumé would suggest. Had he earned the trust of Union management in some other position, perhaps?

  She waited, but Mr. Jones volunteered nothing.

  “We will, of course, extend every appropriate courtesy to the Union.” She brought up the man's credentials. Top-level security clearance from the Union. Odd for a junior liaison. On the plus side, it gave her an opening to find out what the man really knew.

  She tapped her console. “Perhaps you can start helping us right away. We received a message from your Union a few days ago. It had some rather detailed information about what equipment and numbers the insurgents have. Would you, by any chance, have equally detailed information on what the rebel defenses are?”

  “I'm afraid that our information does not cover the insurgent's weaponry. But we do not believe that they have acquired anything to threaten the Fleet.” He smiled, a slight movement of the mouth that did not reach his eyes.

  "I see," Captain Conagher nodded, and kept any emotion off her face. The man had said absolutely nothing of value, which would actually fit with a junior liaison. But he had not been surprised by the question, and had answered far too quickly, and far too glibly. She could hardly believe that by now, the top Union brass would be unaware of the disappearance of the Verdun. Either he really was the junior rep he professed to be, but with pretensions far above his station, or he was a more senior rep with instructions to lie. Her money was on the latter.

  Captain Conagher stood and extended her hand. "Welcome aboard, Mr Jones. I will have my protocol officer extend you every courtesy while you are on board." With instructions to keep him well away from anything in the least bit important, she added silently. This man had given her absolutely nothing, and that is exactly what he would get in return.

  "Thank you, ma'am. I look forward to working closely with you." Jones shook hands, and left her office as smoothly as he had entered.

  Conagher stared idly at the closed door. Why had the man come to see her, specifically? For that matter, why had he come at all? They had made no secret of their prisoners, yet he had asked absolutely nothing about them. And he had left her office too quickly, not asking for anything, really. So clearly his mission must be something else. He had also said nothing of any value about the rebel base.

  The final tell, though, had been his reaction to being assigned a protocol officer. No reaction. Almost as if he had been expecting it. If so, that confirmed her suspicion that he was not some junior liaison. What was it, then, that he wanted?

  Not knowing bothered her, so she keyed her datapad, and changed her instructions to the protocol officer. Mr. Jones would not be restricted. Let him go where he wanted. Maybe his choices of what to visit would tell her something. However, he would be accompanied everywhere he went, and he would see only what she wanted him to see.

  Chapter
13: O'Rourke

  “So, you're assigned to my section?” Klaus walked around the newly-arrived repairman. The man was tall and skinny, normal for a man born and raised in free fall. A local, the file said, a miner.

  “Yeah.”

  He didn't say much, either. Well, another wrench-turner would still come in handy. “I see. What experience do you have?”

  The miner shrugged. “Worked on ships most of m' life. Enough experience.”

  “Uh-huh.” Klaus patted the corridor wall next to him. They were just outside the damage control room, and the walls were still scarred and pitted from the earlier combat, but at least the gaping holes had been repaired. “You’re on a warship now, not some rock-hauler. The man you’re replacing is still in sickbay, getting both his lungs replaced. You still think you’re ready?”

  “Yeah.” No change of expression.

  “All right. Here's your chance, then. You're chipped, right?” The miner nodded. “Good. Go find Lieutenant Queridos. His team’s working on getting the grav corridors working properly. Something the bridge did to the systems during the fight has them completely futzed.” Should take a few hours, a good way to get the new kid worked up to speed. Klaus turned to leave. “By the way, the grav corridors are limited to eight gees, on account of the damage. Don’t go over that.” Better check with Queridos later. The last thing he wanted on his record was a civilian casualty.

  As Klaus walked into the damage-control center, he realized that he hadn't asked for the miner's name.

  *^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

  “What do you mean, ‘he fixed it already?’ I just sent him down there an hour ago!” Klaus yelled into his datapad.

  On the other end of the call, Lieutenant Queridos shrugged. “I mean, he worked through the code for all of fifty minutes, and fixed it!”

  “What, he went through the entire program?”