Flashpoint (Hellgate)

by Mel Keegan

  “Is anyone bothering to listen to their comm?” Alexis Rusch asked in a taut voice. “They’re screaming on the highband, bouncing sensors off each other and everything else.”

  “Of course they are,” Vaurien said with an ice-cold calm. “They’re also about to lose a second cruiser.”

  As he spoke, the ship that had target-locked the clipper docks plowed into the mines which had seeded its path, and Travers was watching the marker in the navtank, waiting. Twenty Zunshu weapons activated in under three seconds, and –

  “She’s gone,” Rusch whispered.

  “Track it, Etienne,” Vaurien said sharply.

  “Collapsed object measures 64.2 picometers,” the AI reported, “and is on vector for the sun.”

  In the half minute following, Fleet comm lit up with a storm of signal activity, and Travers switched up from the Wastrel’s own loop to listen in. AIs and comm officers were calling with an urgency bordering on panic, while the two surviving cruisers and their cloak of six frigates continued to close with the targets they had marked.

  “They’re not breaking off.” Marin was looking at Rusch and Vidal. “Why don’t the idiots break off the engagement and just – go away?”

  “Engagement?” Vidal’s brows arched. “What engagement? They don’t see an enemy, and if they did, they’d open fire on it.”

  He was still speaking when Sergei van Donne and his partners hurried into the ops room. Ramon was at the navtank immediately, eyes everywhere. He had the instincts of a master gunner, and the shooting gallery was irresistible. Rafe Byrne was less amused. He had spent most of his conscription hitch on the flightdeck of a cruiser, Travers remembered. It could have been Byrne himself on any of these ships, killed without ever knowing what was happening. He was at the ’chef, fetching coffee for himself and van Donne, while Sergei joined Vaurien and Jazinsky.

  “The third and fourth cruisers are coming up on their mines.” Jazinsky ignored van Donne. She stepped back from the threedee and looked through the blue-mauve haze of the navtank at Chandra Liang. “Robert, you’re monitoring your emergency services?”

  He nodded, intent on his combug. “The deep space tracking net picked up the battle group when they crossed the orbit of Meredith. They’re also watching the ships vanish, and … ATC is wondering if they’re reading sensor phantoms. Ships don’t just vanish.”

  “They do,” Shapiro said acidly as the flag marking the third cruiser winked out in the navtank. “Etienne, get me the Chicago on highband, level seven encryption, as arranged.”

  The encryption algorithm was Resalq, and had been supplied to Allan Bronhill for his private comm line. The carrier was holding just inside the orbit of Guanyu, the blue gas giant sixth from Velcastra’s yellow star. The tachyon band would compress the signal lag to just a few seconds, and as Shapiro stepped into the backwash of light from the tank, Allan Bronhill’s voice said, thin, distorted, metallic,

  “Chicago, on station. Good Christ, Harrison, the data can’t be right!”

  “It can,” Shapiro said grimly. His eyes remained on the navtank, and he saw the same situation Travers saw. The last cruiser was heading into the Zunshu mines which had been seeded ahead of it. “Allan, if you recall the frigates to your position, can you control them?”

  “You mean, can I issue surrender orders?” Bronhill made negative noises. “Nothing’s changed in the last six hours. Those commanders speak for their own officers and crew. I can pull the frigates out, and I can order their surrender, but you know as well as I do, I can’t force any captain to roll over and play dead. If they want to fight, they’ll mark Velcastran targets and open fire. If they want to run, they’ll be out of here as fast as they can manage a Weimann ignition. They’ll rendezvous with the London battle group and you’ll fight them again at Jagreth.”

  As he spoke, the fourth flag blinked off in the navtank, and the Fleet comm channels exploded with frantic transmissions from the frigates. Shapiro drew together with Liang and Vaurien, and moments later Bronhill swore passionately over the hollow, distorted tachyon band. “Holy shit. The data’s right? Those ships –?”

  “Are gone,” Shapiro said quietly. “We told you, Allan, we’re well defended.”

  Bronhill skipped a beat. “Can you disable the frigates?”

  “No.” Shapiro was looking at Jazinsky as he answered. Her lips were pursed, her head was shaking. “That’s not the way our defenses work. I’m afraid it’s a doomsday system – there are no degrees of destruction.”

  The flocks of tiny pinpoints which glittered in the tank had begun to scatter, and Marin said sharply, “The Zunshu mines are swarming.”

  “Like locusts,” van Donne said to no one in particular. “Damn, Ramon, look at this. I never saw anything like it.”

  “Alien,” Ramon agreed. “They move like a swarm of hornets.”

  “They can do that,” Jazinsky murmured. “They’re gravity weapons, with a Zunshunium power core. They’re riding micro-fields, a little like Arago technology, enough to surf on the gravity well of Velcastra’s own star … and the little buggers are fast.”

  It was an understatement, Travers saw, dry-mouthed. The mines were attracted to the mass and the super-hot engine wakes of the frigates, and the rudimentary AI at the heart of each device was smart enough to project a course and plot an intercept.

  “Two minutes, max, and the frigates are not going to have the option,” Vaurien guessed. “We’ve seen this behavior before, Harrison. The Resalq term for these devices was hunter-killer. They were spat out of Hellgate events, the way Lai’a exited, then they drifted for years at just under lightspeed, fell into the gravity well of a star, and went dormant till a ship or a colony started to make a noise and get dirty … industry. When the time is right they swarm, and we’ve been seeing our own colonies go down the same way.”

  For a moment Shapiro covered his eyes and seemed to force his brain to grapple with the odds. “The frigates are dead either way,” he rasped. “We destroy them here, or we destroy them at Jagreth or Borushek. Those commanders are as capable of returning to the carrier, or jumping right out of this system, as they’re capable of refusing to accept a surrender order from Allan.”

  “They should be given a choice,” Chandra Liang said in a hoarse, unfamiliar voice. “They know they’re outgunned, or outmatched, however you want to term it. Can’t they be told, if they start Weimann ignition procedures, they’ll be destroyed? You have the ability to detect the activity in the drive engines, as they power up, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” Vaurien said with a glance at Travers, Marin and Vidal, “we have. It’s your call, Harrison. I’m listening to a lot of panic between those frigates, but we’re not seeing Weimann signatures yet. There’s plenty of activity in the weapons systems. Every cannon they possess is online, and they’re only waiting for firing orders from the Chicago.”

  “Wondering what the fuck to fire at,” van Donne guessed.

  Vidal did not even blink as he watched the data streaming through the threedees. “Goddamn it, the bastards have sensor-painted the clipper dock and the freight terminal. They’re about one minute out from firing range.”

  “And half that long before they’re in the swarm,” Jazinsky warned. “Robert, if you’re going to give them a chance to surrender, you’re running out of time.”

  “Do it,” Liang said to Shapiro between clenched teeth.

  “All right.” Shapiro adjusted his combug. “Fleet vessels on approach to Velcastran orbital facilities, you have thirty seconds to disengage, power down your weapons and heave to, awaiting escort,” he said crisply, in clear and without any level of encryption. “Etienne, repeat the transmission until they break off.”

  “If they break off,” Vidal muttered. “You don’t know these buggers the way we do. Alexis?”

  She had drifted to the side of the navtank, and stood with one hand on Vidal’s shoulder. “He’s right, Harrison. You never served with the main body of the DeepSky Fleet, espe
cially in these last years, when the service began to lose its integrity and replace it with a kind of insanity. Frigate commanders are on the promotion ladder. They want a cruiser, then a carrier.”

  “And they smell a battle,” Vidal added. “They’re itchy to fight, and they already painted their targets.”

  “In eight seconds, it’s all academic.” Jazinsky took the combug out of her ear and turned her back on the navtank, where the six frigate flags were converging on the big, bright marks of the orbital docks, and the tiny, scudding pinpricks of the swarming mines.

  Travers’s heart skipped and double-thudded as the chrono counted to zero. Like Vidal, he knew how easy it would have been for him to have been assigned to any one of these ships. Well over a thousand people were aboard the four cruisers and six frigates, and he could not look away as, one by one, the marker flags winked off.

  “Mother of gods,” Chandra Liang whispered. His knuckles were bone white on the Daku ankh, just below his throat, and his eyes closed. His lips began to move in an old prayer, a Daku ritual.

  With a heavy sigh, Shapiro touched his combug to switch back from the Fleet band to the heavily-encrypted highband channel to Bronhill. “Recall the tender, Allan. It’s over. Bring the carrier in to the Fleet docks at the pole, and stand down your crew. I presume you can trust your own security corps?”

  The signal lag was three infuriating seconds, before Bronhill said, “We trust them implicitly.” The tremor in his voice transmitted clearly through the signal distortion. “The officers who declined to take part in the defection have already placed themselves into voluntary custody. They can join the crew complement from the Fleet dock.” He paused, cleared his throat. “There’s massive shock among my people. They … we never saw anything like your weapon. It’s new, then, your own technology?”

  “It’s ancient,” Shapiro corrected acidly, “and alien. This is the Deep Sky, Allan. The Confederacy has been warned repeatedly about the Zunshu, and they’ve chosen to disregard the warning, which is a liberty we never had. We’re losing worlds to them, all the time. Albeniz wasn’t our strike – I can tell you this now. Look, dock the carrier, let me organize security for the Fleet personnel and put a skeleton crew aboard the Chicago. I’ll send a shuttle for you. By tonight you’ll be on StarCity, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t be made aware of everything.”

  As Shapiro spoke, Chandra Liang had already begun conferencing with his own people. He had visibly taken hold of himself, shaken himself hard, like an old rug, and it was President Liang on the comm now, issuing orders in the smooth, almost mellifluous voice that would set gears in motion fast.

  Dawn would not even break over Elstrom City for another hour. The vast majority of the population would wake to the news on CNS, while CityNet went wild with personal stories from people who eavesdropped on the Tactical and ATC bands, and had heard the screaming about incoming warships, phantom sensor data, disappearing vessels.

  The public statement had been recorded hours before. Chandra Liang had stood at the podium in front of the crisp new Commonwealth flag, and read a speech prepared by a team of Daku political scientists from the University of Velcastra, Elstrom.

  One muscle at a time, Travers relaxed. His belly was sour, his mouth acid, and he lit a second Ice Blue. The kip grass soothed, and he blinked on the smoke, seeing pale faces in the backwash of light from the tank. The fat gold tag marking the position of the Chicago was coming in fast, and already the orbital platforms were alive with launches. More than forty vessels were headed up over the pole to the Fleet dock, where the complement of clerks, techs and security squaddies would have watched the event. Their surrender was not an issue.

  It was as good as over, and Travers found himself cold, trembling slightly in the aftermath of an adrenalin rush for which there was no outlet. Vidal and Rusch had joined Shapiro, and Rusch was saying,

  “The offer’s still open, Robert. Put me on the Chicago, with an armed squad. I’ll liaise with Allan and Valerie, make the handover smooth.”

  “We’re leaving soon,” Vaurien warned. “The Wastrel is headed directly to Hellgate – a day at maximum.”

  “That’ll be long enough,” Rusch said with grim determination. “Allan’s going to know who he can trust, who he can’t. Every department head on that ship will be putting the question to their people right about now. Do they defect and go free in the Deep Sky, or do they want to be shuttled home? The homing pigeons will accept voluntary custody.”

  “You don’t expect a fight, or reprisals, later?” Marin asked.

  She had no doubts. “Not after what they just saw. The carrier could have been destroyed too. You know what every soul aboard the Chicago is thinking, at this moment? They’re wondering if Jagreth and Borushek and Omaru are defended by the same weapon. Because if they are, the slaughter that happened here will only repeat, over and over, till the Confederacy learns how to quit. Robert?”

  “Yes.” Chandra Liang rubbed his palms together slowly, with a papery sound. “I’ve begun the custody arrangements, Alexis. There’s a very beautiful island called Padthaway, at the low end of an archipelago in the southern hemisphere. Construction drones are dropping in there now, with the makings of accommodations. We’re allowing for a thousand people to be held in custody for several months.”

  “It might be fewer than you think,” Shapiro mused. “We’ll know better by tonight. If you’re willing, I’d like to bring Allan and Valerie to your house on StarCity for a major briefing.”

  “Of course.” Chandra Liang was listening to the comm again. “They’ll be indispensable, as we get the Chicago restaffed and back up to speed. I’ve been wondering if they wouldn’t retain nominal command, at least for a time. I confess, I never possessed a military mind. Wrangling a carrier would be far outside my expertise, but several of my associates were highly placed when they left Fleet. Colonel Bronhill and Major Sung might select the replacements for their outgoing officers.”

  “And some officers,” Vidal added, “will volunteer to stay on. If I were cleared for duty myself, and not reassigned to Lai’a, I’d be offering to command the defense squadron. I’d call it an honor.”

  “Then, thank gods you’re sicklisted,” Rusch said tartly, “and your first priority is transspace!”

  “I just said that, Alexis,” Vidal growled.

  Travers leaned his hip on the side of the tank and folded both arms. He and Marin were waiting for Liang to find a break in his comm conferencing, and when he paused for a moment Marin asked, “Do you have adequate security to manage the handover? We can be there.”

  “Unnecessary,” Liang assured him, “but thank you. I’ll ask you to be available for consultancy, in the event of difficulties. But as Alexis pointed out, the crews on the carrier, tender and the Fleet docks should have been shocked into cooperation. They’re lucky to be alive, and I doubt they’re too stupid to know this. Only Confederate loyalists will be disagreeable, and by the time they’re recovered enough composure to be belligerent, they’ll find themselves incarcerated on a white beach by a green ocean, without the means to leave, much less start a fight in Elstrom. They’ll be safe, comfortable – isolated. Supplies and entertainment will be dropped in by drone every day, and their own medics can take care of them.”

  “Nothing to do but lie in the sun, swim, eat and get laid,” Travers observed. “There were times on the crewdeck of the Intrepid, if you’d made us the offer, you’d have been knocked down in the rush. We all knew, years ago, we’d be assigned to crush the colonies. You think the kids on those ships wanted the duty? But there’s a flogging waiting for them, if they don’t do as they’re told.” He watched an expression of pain race across Liang’s face, and sighed. “Keep your eyes on the officers,” he added in a gentler tone. “If there’s going to be trouble, that’s where it’ll come from – but Colonel Bronhill will already know which ones to arrest and ship out first.”

  The carrier was driving in fast. Jazinsky was leaning on the
side of the tank on both flat palms, still monitoring the swarms of surviving Zunshu mines. “They devices are still hunting,” she reported. “You did good, Sergei.”

  He only shrugged. “Nothing much to do. Just drop the containers where they were needed, fire off a signal sequence, and stay well out of their way.”

  “If we’re sure about the Chicago,” Jazinsky suggested, “I’ll transmit the deactivation code.”

  “Please do,” Shapiro invited. “The carrier will be docking in forty minutes, and I’m not hearing any reports of a struggle at the Fleet platform. If it was going to happen, it would be happening by now.”

  The squadron of small ships had begun to dock, and the Fleet comm bands remained quiet. The platform was running almost dark, with weapons shut down, communications and life support ticking over. Seventy permanent crew were stationed on the docks, and ten times as many drones, but even the drones had been returned to storage.

  “It’s over,” Marin breathed as he watched the Zunshu mines.

  “Barring the shouting,” Travers added. “Liang is going to be wading in it for weeks.” He gestured at the flags marking the positions of the key government members who had been brought up to high orbit, well out of the shipping roads. They had begun to return to Elstrom, and a dozen secretaries were already fielding calls from ATC, Tactical, CNS, CityNet and the public. “I think,” Neil said thoughtfully, “we’re going to be on shuttle duty. Richard?”

  Vaurien turned toward them, and Marin said over the growing noise in the ops room, “You want us to take President Liang back to StarCity, and then get Alexis over to the Chicago and bring Bronhill and Sung to the Liang estate?”

  “Use the Capricorn,” Vaurien agreed. “It’s armored, and armed … Mick, are you well enough to take weapons?”

  “You’re expecting shooting?” Vidal was surprised.

  “Old fashioned paranoia,” Vaurien said dismissively. “With the exception of Neil, until very recently I never trusted anything wearing a Fleet uniform. Old habits die hard.”