Supercarrier: The Ixan Prophecies Trilogy Book 1

by Scott Bartlett

  Husher’s blond eyebrows met. “Thank me?”

  “For standing up to the admiralty and inspiring the others to rebel against them. That’s not to say I think it was a sensible move. But it demonstrated a faith in me that, frankly, I wasn’t sure you possessed.”

  Husher took a few moments to respond. “I didn’t know I did either, actually. Not until that moment.”

  “I see.”

  “As for sensibleness, I lost all of that when they robbed me of my command for doing the right thing. I don’t care about my career anymore, Captain. If following my principles means getting dishonorably discharged or arrested or killed, then I’d prefer those to the alternative, to be honest.”

  “Fair enough.” Keyes lifted his warmed coffee to his lips, using it to gesture at Husher’s com just before sipping from it. “What are you looking at?” The lukewarm liquid hit his tongue, which always caused him to grimace at first. Those self-heating powders never grew hot enough for his liking.

  Husher turned the com to face him, showing an Ixan wearing the scarlet robes of a Priest of Ardent.

  “The Prophecies.”

  “Yes.”

  Keyes sighed. “Don’t tell me that bastard Ochrim got to you.”

  “Well, between him and Fesky…” Husher sniffed. “The Prophecies don’t just predict humanity’s downfall. They say the Ixa will save the galaxy from us, by defeating us. And Ochrim said he’s working for the galaxy.”

  “The Ixa aren’t saviors of anything. Besides, they aren’t even here. We’re fighting Gok and Wingers, not Ixa.”

  “Ochrim’s here. It’s fair to say he’s had a pretty big impact on this war already, don’t you think? Maybe they’re just getting warmed up.”

  “Regardless, I can’t build our strategy around tea leaves and interpretations of prophecy.”

  “Ochrim said whatever we do next, we’ll end up fulfilling the Prophecies. I think we need to start taking them more seriously, Captain. They appear to have predicted those people dying, too.”

  That made Keyes take a deep breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, following up with a prolonged swig of coffee and wishing it contained brandy. “All right. Recite me the God damned verse.”

  “At a word from the disruptor, a flock of flying monkeys is cleft in twain. The juggernaut moves to answer, dust in her master’s eyes, ash in his mouth. The silencer’s son keeps pace, and inside him wait the impossible tears he will shed.”

  “Silencer could refer to the Ixan ship we encountered.”

  “That would be pretty on the nose. What do you think it means for the juggernaut’s master to have dust in his eyes? And ash in his mouth?”

  Keyes got to his feet. “If you’re suggesting that refers to me, then I’ll save you the trouble of deciphering it by telling you what I intend to do. I intend to show the Wingers what happens when they decide to align themselves with the Ixa’s favorite ally. I plan to demonstrate that this was not the correct way to make their displeasure with our policies known.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  “By defeating them.” Keyes marched out of the wardroom, leaving his cold coffee on the table half-drunk.

  Chapter 50

  The Wrong Question

  “Report,” he barked as he strode for the Captain’s chair.

  “The situation hasn’t changed much, sir,” the sensor operator said. “They’re still keeping the Fleet at bay near the darkgate. And the enemy still isn’t taking us very seriously.”

  “That’s about to change. Tactical, how’s our salvo looking?”

  Arsenyev studied her console as she spoke. “Our targets haven’t moved much, and my firing solutions have needed only minimal adjustment. We’re on track to start firing in eleven minutes.”

  “If we’re lucky, they’ll continue sitting around.” With the rounds traveling at such high speeds, their targets’ reaction time would be whittled down to almost nothing. Neither the Gok nor the Wingers had experience fighting against Ocharium-boosted ordnance, given it had been developed since the First Galactic War. Keyes considered this an excellent way to introduce them to the concept.

  “Rounds away, sir.”

  “Very good. Time to impact?”

  “Seventeen minutes.”

  Keyes tapped his fingers against his chair’s armrest, part of him wishing he’d brought his coffee along to finish. Of course, another part of him would never have allowed himself to do that. He didn’t like his CIC treated like a food court, and it would be the height of hypocrisy to do so himself.

  “Impact in two minutes,” the sensor operator said.

  “Bring up a magnified visual of the targets, full viewscreen.”

  Werner did so.

  When the rounds hit, the CIC burst into cheering. All five targets had exploded in brief flashes of light. Keyes allowed them to celebrate their victory, though he couldn’t quiet the voice that whispered inside his head: you just killed three ships’ worth of Fesky’s people. Fesky wouldn’t fault him for that, but it bothered him all the same. The two Gok ships, he cared less for.

  “Coms, patch me through to shipwide.”

  “It’s done, sir.”

  “All crew, brace for deceleration.” He gestured at the Coms officer to end the transmission and buckled himself into his seat. “Everyone strap in. Helm, begin deceleration burn.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The arrested momentum threw Keyes forward, the straps digging into his torso. It took the Majorana matrix in the Providence’s deck a few seconds to recalibrate with the Ocharium nanites threaded through their uniforms and bodies, restoring ‘normal’ gravity.

  I’m just glad no one puked. Bodily fluids contained no Ocharium, so they tended to float until someone found time to vacuum them out of the air. Or until they collided with someone’s face.

  “Sir,” Arsenyev said, “I’m exploring new targets for our primary laser, and I have a Gok frigate and a Roostship at comparable ranges. Which species do we dislike more?”

  Keyes paused in the middle of unstrapping himself from the Captain’s chair, then he let the strap go, causing it to recoil into his seat at speed.

  We dislike the Gok more.

  That was the answer to Arsenyev’s question. But she’d asked the wrong one. The right question was which ship poses the biggest threat to us as we pass?

  “Target the Roostship, Chief Warrant Officer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It took them seven more minutes to draw near enough to fire their primary with a reasonable chance of success. Waiting any longer would involve an unacceptable level of risk, since taking a direct hit with their main capacitor fully charged could prove catastrophic.

  “Firing primary!” Arsenyev yelled, and Keyes watched as the Roostship’s aft boiled away into space. “We’ve taken out their mains, Captain. Will I follow up with Banshees?”

  Keyes considered. Unlike the Providence, Roostships only had two main engine nacelles, in the aft. Their Talons had more maneuverability than everything in space other than Condors, but not so the Roostships, which depended on the fighters to cover their blind spots.

  “Negative,” he answered. Even though the Wingers were allied with the Gok, he couldn’t be sure they even knew anything about how those hundreds of thousands of people had died. He would not behave as ruthlessly as the Ixan had, and anyway, he expected the Roostship’s captain would limp her away from the fighting, vulnerable as she was without her mains. Hopefully his act of mercy would end up meaning something.

  “We’ll soon be amidst the main body of the combined enemy fleet, Captain,” the sensor operator said.

  Keyes nodded. “Coms, get me a status report from Fesky. Make sure her Condor pilots are combat-ready.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your orders, Captain, as we progress through the enemy?” Arsenyev gripped the sides of her console without seeming to realize she was doing it. She wasn’t the only one showing signs of stress. Throughout the CIC
, his officers fidgeted, stared hard at their consoles, bit their lips, or exhibited other nervous habits.

  Keyes realized his foot was tapping on the deck, and he stilled it.

  “Our course has us moving past them at speed and then braking hard beyond the darkgate, at a remove that should give us space to regroup,” he said. “Ready point defense turrets to deal with any incoming missiles or kinetic impactors. For the most part, we’ll be moving too fast for them to train lasers on us for any length of time. It’s as we come around that we really need to start worrying. I want Condors launched the instant we pass the darkgate. Following that, we brake hard and return to back them up, flying against the darkgate’s orbital trajectory, as well as that of the enemy fleets. This is an all-out assault to knock the Wingers and Gok back on their heels and give Fleet the time to establish a meaningful presence in the Larkspur system.”

  Werner leaned forward, staring wide-eyed at his console. “Sir, they’ve taken notice of our success. Several Roostships are coming about to train their weapons on us. I have three Gok ships tracking us as well.”

  “Damn it.” So many. They’re bound to hit us with something, now. He clawed at his straps once more. “Everyone, secure yourselves again. Coms, put me through to shipwide.”

  “Done, sir.”

  “All crew brace again for impact.”

  Seconds later, the first barrage came—a coordinated volley from eight ships simultaneously, mostly kinetic weapons, though Keyes saw from his console’s tactical readout that one Gok ship was firing its laser. None of the kinetic shots missed. The Providence’s turrets dealt with most of it, but several rounds got through. The ship shook, and even gripped tightly by his straps, Keyes felt tossed about like a rag doll.

  “Werner, get me a damage report!”

  “Yes, sir. Hull breaches on the starboard side, Decks Nine and Ten, Sections Seventeen, Eighteen, and Nineteen. We lost some of the active sensors on our port side, and over there Decks Two through Six are open to space between Sections Thirty-Five and Forty-Three. So far, I’m only seeing two injured in terms of casualties, sir.”

  At least there’s that. “Mobilize damage control teams immediately, and tell them to stay alert for more impacts. Have the hatches been sealed in those sections?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Keyes twisted to face his Tactical officer. “Arsenyev, how in blazes did they achieve that level of accuracy? There wasn’t nearly enough time for them to calculate reliable firing solutions that took into account our speed and trajectory. They should have been firing almost blind.”

  Arsenyev took a shuddering breath. “I expect they were less distracted than we assumed, Captain. They were likely tracking our progress all along, with firing solutions ready should we break through the first five ships arrayed to confront us.”

  He made two fists with his hands, and he repressed the urge to pound on his armrests. I underestimated them. It had been decades since either the Gok or the Winger militaries had seen real combat, while the Providence had been fighting insurgents pretty much since the First Galactic War.

  But the Wingers were intelligent, and no doubt it had been their idea to feign a lack of concern over the Providence’s approach. I know they’re smart, and I should have accounted for it.

  Keyes ran a hand over his short hair, drawing a deep breath. Berating himself endlessly wouldn’t accomplish anything, either. This was the time for decisive action, and he was taking it. A leader who’s afraid to be wrong is useless.

  “How are the other enemy ships reacting to our passage?”

  “A few of them are trying lasers, with predictably negligible effect. Most of them seem genuinely focused on the darkgate. Which we’re nearing fast, Captain.”

  He nodded, forcing his fingers to uncurl. “Prepare to launch Condors.”

  Chapter 51

  Into the Fray

  Fesky drove her foot into the left leg of her g-suit with more force than necessary.

  I should have started the briefing earlier.

  Even with a battle looming, one that could conceivably see every one of them blown out of the sky, her stupid human subordinates had wasted time criticizing her strategies—as though they knew better than she did—or ridiculing the terminology she used.

  She stomped to settle her foot into the attached boot, which always made her talons feel crowded and cramped. Her pilots were already distributed across several flight decks, possibly waiting in their Condors already. She’d had to stay behind to answer questions for the slower pilots, and before she knew it she’d been the last one left in the ready room.

  Late. I’m late.

  They loved to make fun of her tendency to call squadrons “flocks,” a word ingrained in her since her days as a Talon pilot during the First Galactic War. Fesky tried so hard to remember to use Fleet terms, but she couldn’t help getting excited when discussing tactics and formations. It emptied her mind of all other considerations.

  Getting lost in battle planning reminded her of the old days, trading barbs with her roostmates, flying laps around the ship’s skyway. The humans wouldn’t let her have that, though. Where they saw joy, they had to stamp it out. That was just what they did. As a species.

  “You are frustrated.”

  Fesky’s head whipped toward the door to see Ek standing there.

  “Honored One.” She started trembling immediately. Ever since Keyes had addressed Ek with those awful slurs, Fesky had avoided her, so embarrassed she was that the Fin had suffered such disrespect at the hands of Fesky’s captain. An apology had come, eventually, but it fell far short of adequate. “I have failed you.”

  “You have failed me? How?”

  “I…I should have come to you. Made sure you were being treated well.”

  “I can look after myself, Fesky. I have survived among aliens for four years, and I am well acquainted with human impulsiveness.” Ek crossed the locker room and cupped Fesky’s cheek with a hand that brushed against her beak.

  “H-Honored One, I—I must go—”

  “You skydwellers always act with such gratitude toward us. You pay us such homage. Rarely the reverse. It is true that our species have benefited each other immensely, but our current relationship was not inevitable. You might have terminated us.”

  Fesky jerked away from Ek’s hand in shock. The notion the Fin had raised manifested as physical pain in Fesky’s breast. She felt she might cry, which was not a productive mindset minutes before a major battle. “Don’t speak of such things!”

  Ek stepped forward once more, replacing her hand. “Be calm. My touch is not sacred, and you should not fear it. The Fins are not sacred. Yet your kind has an unhealthy level of adulation for us. Adulation that Fins have not done enough to discourage, I fear.”

  “That’s not true.” But Fesky didn’t pull away this time.

  “No other intelligent species ever bothered sharing a planet with anyone, Fesky. Not for long. Instead, they used every available advantage to exterminate their evolutionary competition. The humans slaughtered their Neanderthal cousins. The Gok smashed the Treyans. And so on. But not you.”

  “We recognized your gifts.”

  “Not at first. You couldn’t even speak our language, at first. And you certainly had advantages. You literally held the high ground. You could have ended us in a hundred different ways. But you didn’t. It is we that should shower you with gifts, respect, and gratitude.”

  Fesky still wanted to protest, but she didn’t. Instead, she covered Fin’s hand with her talons and pressed it closer to her face. She took a deep breath and let it out in a long, ragged sigh.

  “The humans upset you,” Ek said. “But give them time. And please, do not take your reckless pride with you onto the battlefield today.”

  “Okay,” Fesky said.

  “When you return, I would talk with you. More often. As equals.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Thank you, Fesky.”

  “Thank you…E
k.”

  Ek smiled.

  Chapter 52

  The Battle of Larkspur-Caprice

  “Fesky, are you there, God damn it?” Senior Airman Bradley transmitted for the fourth time, his exasperation coming in loud and clear.

  Other than their CAG, every Condor pilot on the Providence was waiting in a fighter on one of six different flight decks.

  Two EW squadrons of twelve and four strike fighter squadrons of sixteen. They were distributed across so many flight decks to allow for a simultaneous launch with minimal hiccups.

  Husher performed his checks for what felt like the millionth time since he’d climbed into his Condor. Nav computer: set. Tactical sensors: up. Interior lights: on. Pressure suit: okay. Fuel tanks: full. Loose articles: stowed. Hatch: locked. Oxygen valve: on. Oxygen levels…fine, but slowly being wasted while waiting for our CAG.

  With so many enemy craft confronting them, he expected to rely heavily on his onboard AI to assist with trajectory and firing solution calculations. He still remembered the video he’d seen on the micronet, of Keyes getting grilled by an interviewer about why he refused to allow fully automated fighters on his ship.

  “It brings too much distance into warfare,” the captain had said. “Too great a remove between the person unleashing the weapon and the weapon’s target. Turns killing into too much of a video game.”

  No one else in the military spoke to the public that way. It wasn’t hard to see why they loved Keyes so much. And why Fleet Command hates him.

  Bradley spoke again. “Fesky, for Christ’s—”

  “I’m here! I’m here. Shut up, I’m here.”

  “Finally. Captain wants us to launch in less than two minutes.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Good.” Bradley sniffed, which he chose to leave his transponder on for. Bradley’s callsign was Meteor—he’d made out a lot better than most, in that department. “I still can’t see why we aren’t striking together with the Providence. Seems like that’s the way to maximize our force potential, not launching to fight on our own until Keyes comes about.”