Trespassers: Book 1 of the Chaos Shift Cycle

by Cameron, TR

  Time and space bent again, ejecting first the Gagarin and then the Washington into normal reality, further apart than before the jump. The tunnel quickly fell in upon itself and disappeared. A countdown clock appeared on the display tracking the time until the drive would be reset and ready for another transit. This was also a function of distance jumped. In this case, the two ships could not jump again until about six minutes had passed.

  Cross failed to understand the science behind this as well, but was aware collecting microscopic reaction mass was somehow pivotal. All he knew for sure was that for the next five minutes and fifty-two seconds, both ships were restricted to operations that occurred within the normal confines of reality.

  “He’s closing at 80% max, and angling to come at us from below.” Claire Martin’s voice was matter-of-fact, but Cross heard the slight tremor underneath the words. It occurred to Cross that like Martin, several other officers may not have had any non-simulated battle experience. When the new officers arrived under his command during their last base visit, he had reviewed each of their jackets. Many of them were newly minted and still going through the rotations process to hone their skillsets. He would need to check in with each of them once this altercation was over to make sure they handled actual combat without problems.

  The rest of his crew were officers content to be masters of a single position on a succession of ships, like his weapons officer, who lived to shoot things.

  Martin’s voice was slightly less deadpan as she reported, “Six torpedoes inbound on a direct path. Computer suggests high probability they are standard explosive. Bow shields reinforced.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant Martin. Helm, we’ll make our first pass to their starboard side. Weapons, prepare our port broadside. When we reach 5000, launch forward tubes, and set torpedoes to circle behind to strike his engines. Once in broadside position, fire at will. Tactical, don’t neglect the other areas of the ship as you shift shields. That devious bastard may have up some surprises up his sleeve.” His officers confirmed his orders.

  “Comm, verify the tunnel beacons are recording.” Inspired by the black boxes used on airplanes in days long gone by, the beacon was a small tunnel drive with a recording chip in it. That chip contained recordings of all the ship’s data up to the second. It also held updated information on the location of the nearest friendly ship or base. Individual beacons could be launched manually, and all would launch automatically if the ship’s condition deteriorated to a point where the computer calculated destruction was imminent. After detaching from the ship, the beacons were programmed to tunnel to the closest ally and communicate its data in the hope that any survivors might be rescued.

  “Verified, sir.”

  Both ships closed, and the officers obeyed their instructions. Vibration thrummed with the launch of the Washington’s torpedoes, and a moment later the enemy’s missiles slammed into the Washington’s forward shields. The humans were knocked around just enough to slow their reaction time, but the computer executed its pre-planned operations without flaw. A broadside of energy weapons and torpedoes slammed against the shields of the Gagarin. He responded in kind, opening up with everything in his starboard broadside. Both emerged unscathed from the exchange and traded launches and blasts from their aft armaments as they sought separate corners.

  “Well, that was inconclusive,” Cross said. “Okay people, time to try something a little different. One thing this old girl has going for her is ridiculously overpowered maneuvering thrusters. Let’s use those. Helm, set up for a pass on his starboard side again. This time, do an old-fashioned barrel roll alongside him, cutting our velocity to keep us in contact as long as possible. Weapons, program a sequence to match the helm’s actions and fire every weapon on the ship as it comes into alignment with the Gagarin. Instead of a single broadside, we’ll hit him with everything we’ve got. Tactical, plot the rotation to have our shields angled throughout the roll.”

  Cross waited as the bridge crew–his bridge crew–worked to fulfill the tasks he had set for them. Time acted oddly in moments like these, simultaneously compressing and stretching. Eons passed during the short seconds as he watched them calculate navigation, offense, and defense. One by one, stations reported ready. He took a deep breath, smiled at his people, and bared his teeth at his distant enemy. “Execute.”

  The Gagarin was already in motion as the Washington’s engines pushed her ahead, and the distance between the ships evaporated. The enemy commander showed he was also capable of clever tactics, and launched torpedoes from all his ports at a distance. Their flight patterns revealed they would curve in and strike the Washington from multiple angles at once.

  “Countermeasures,” Cross commanded.

  “Countermeasures, aye” the tactical officer said, and a flurry of small projectiles ejected from defensive emplacements spotting the hull, quickly lighting up with the blooms of engaging thrusters. These miniature rockets were all engine behind an explosive nose, and they moved at twice the velocity of the incoming barrage. Impact crushed the triggers within the warheads, setting off shaped charges that detonated their targets, eliminating the majority of them. The ones that remained could not get through the Washington’s shields.

  “Countermeasures successful,” Martin reported.

  Upon reaching broadside position, the Gagarin unloaded a torrent of energy that spread across the strengthened shields and dissipated, failing to find a breach to exploit. The Washington’s first broadside did the same. Then she rolled and brought her second broadside to bear on the aft portion of the Gagarin’s starboard defenses. His shields were still recovering, and the additional onslaught penetrated, scouring gun emplacements from the hull and sending flames into the missile tubes. A chain of explosions began within the magazines for the starboard launchers, and sections of the ship blew out into space.

  The Gagarin’s shields flickered, and Cross seized the opportunity to clear the board. “Weapons, target his engines. Fire all aft torpedoes, then add the plasma cannon right as they hit.”

  Cross watched as the missiles leapt from their tubes, the main display now segmented by one of his crew into forward and aft views. Time stretched again, and it seemed a lifetime until the projectiles met and battered the unstable shields of the enemy ship. The cannon pierced the compromised defenses, its beam of coherent energy drilling deeply into the engine housing. An explosion rocked the Gagarin as it lost half of its power. Cheers erupted around him. Cross smothered his wide grin and got back to work.

  “Helm, put us at a safe distance. Comm, message to the Gagarin: Take your remaining engine off-line and stand down. Once you have stabilized your ship, we are ready to assist. We will tow you to the nearest UAL base, where your ship will be impounded and your crew released.”

  Additional explosions shook the Gagarin. They shrank in both size and frequency as the damage control teams on the Alliance ship fought them. Low-volume conversations began on the bridge, replaying moments of the battle. The tension that had sustained all of them through the terrifying experience of combat bled off, leaving everyone a little unsteady. Among them, only the helmsman noticed the numbers in the corner click down to zero.

  The communication officer spoke up. “Lieutenant Commander Cross, the Gagarin requests a visual.”

  “Put him on, Casco.” Cross adjusted his tunic and ran a hand through his hair in the moments before the pickup activated. The bridge of the other ship was a flurry of activity behind the captain’s chair. The commander nodded in his direction.

  “Well fought, Washington. The rolling broadside was a useful tactic, one we will better defend against in the future, and one we will use against other less innovative Union ships.” Cross cringed at his maneuver being used against his own side, but that back-and-forth exchange of technology, strategy, and tactics was a hallmark of the war between the divided children of Earth. “We require nothing from you at this time. Help has already arrived.”

  Chapter Three

 
; Captain Dima Petryaev arrived at the appointed time for his rendezvous with the Gagarin. The Beijing was one of the Alliance’s biggest ships, and he had been in command of him for less than a year. The previous commander was now an admiral, and Dima imagined one day he might be forced to advance to that lofty posting. Then again, he wasn’t very good at playing the political games required of the admiralty. At least at this level, he could take care of the crew under his command and watch with pride as they advanced through their own careers.

  He took a sip of the strong, black gunpowder tea that was ever-present in the holder on his chair. The countdown clock on the screen clicked over to zero, and the ship transitioned out of the tunnel and back into real-space. Standard protocol required an immediate scan of the area, so his tactical officer should be—

  “Multiple contacts, Captain. The Gagarin is here, but has taken damage. Computer identifies UAL Washington, DC also present. She is showing signs of minimal injury. Indications of weapons discharged from both ships.”

  “Sound General Quarters. Launch ready fighters in defensive formation around us and the Gagarin. Maneuver the Beijing between those two.” Dima’s quiet commands were followed with calm efficiency. “Communication officer, please initiate visual contact with the Gagarin.” He took another sip of tea. A long career had taught him to embrace the stillness between moments of action.

  Once the connection was established, the main monitor screen split into thirds to display real-time view, battle schematic, and the damaged ship’s commander. “Captain Petryaev, we were attacked without provocation by the Union. I ask that you destroy them. Slowly, if possible.”

  Dima laughed at the request. “Mikhail, we know each other well, do we not? So, tell me truly, without provocation?”

  The commander of the Gagarin looked sheepish. “Nothing out of the ordinary, Captain.”

  “So, hotheaded boasting on both sides led to an exchange of more,” he paused briefly, “pointed pleasantries?” Dima shook his head in mild frustration. “It’s unfortunate that young rams need to butt heads using tools that endanger so many lives. Have you any casualties?”

  “Negative, Captain. Only equipment damage. The Gagarin’s design protected the crew from the actions of the Washington.”

  Dima shook his head again. It was difficult to compete with the mindset drilled into the Allied Asian Nations’ soldiers and sailors during training. Everything from unexpected changes in weather to mistakes made from inexperience to legitimate transgressions were blamed upon the “evil” United Atlantic League. Actually, he thought to himself, that particular tradition started long before the two factions took their disagreements into space. The war on Earth that made all further planet-bound wars too dangerous to contemplate resulted from the same thinking. On both sides. Centuries later, millions of kilometers away from home, and they had gotten exactly nowhere.

  “Continue damage control, Commander. We will speak in more detail once this crisis is behind us. At that time, you will transfer command to your executive officer and report to me on the Beijing. Petryaev out.” He waved an arm and Mikhail disappeared from the screen. “Let’s talk to the other hothead, shall we?”

  The communication officer had served under Dima across multiple postings and had anticipated the command. After a moment of hushed conversation, a handsome young man with piercing green eyes appeared on the monitor. Dima sighed, remembering a time when his white hair was coal black, when his skin stretched over sharp bones in just that same way. Youth. A small smile curved his lips as he remembered at least he was smarter now, if not nearly so attractive.

  “This is Lieutenant Commander Anderson Cross, in charge of the UAL Washington, DC. We have tracked your fighter launches, and note you have been in contact with the Gagarin. I urge you not to engage in any more hostile activity. I also formally request you leave this area of space, which is United Atlantic League territory.” Dima admired the man’s brash, unproductive confidence.

  “I am Captain First Rank Dima Petryaev, in command of the Beijing. As you well know, Lieutenant Commander, we do not recognize your claim to this space. You have no bases here, no colonies, just words on paper that declare your ownership. I have little doubt that somewhere in my government, we have the same words on even fancier paper substantiating our own claim. Regardless, this giant rectangle of emptiness is not worth endangering the lives of your young men or mine. When he is ready for travel, I will escort the Gagarin from this sector into another, and you may go tell your higher-ups you defended this valuable source of radiation and vacuum.”

  He watched Cross process his words. It was a calculated insult, but not one that should trigger a violent response. Like the opening phase of a chess match, Dima was judging his counterpart’s mental strength and command style. So far, he wasn’t particularly impressed.

  “That is acceptable, Captain Petryaev. I respectfully suggest that you send a more challenging opponent for future encounters. My crew can only improve by facing those of at least equal skill and intelligence. Anything else would again be only a waste of time and resources.” Cross tipped an imaginary hat to him and finished speaking. “Washington out.”

  His screen reverted to the split display again—space and the battle schematic. He noted that his tactical officer had laid in several attack options to confront the Union ship. He gave the man a nod of appreciation, but implemented none of them.

  “Lieutenant Zian, send a message to fleet, letting them know what happened here. Suggest a formal complaint against Lieutenant Commander Anderson Cross for an unprovoked attack on the Gagarin in a disputed sector of space.” He paused, then continued in a more casual tone. “That ought to serve the arrogant young brat right. At the very least, it may make him think for an extra half-second before he engages next time.” Two senior officers smiled in response to their captain’s gambit.

  “Captain,” the tactical officer spoke, “we have indications that the Gagarin is increasing power to his drive.”

  Dima frowned at this information. “That’s not a good idea. Communication, find out what he’s doing. Wing officer, pull our fighters back to a safe distance in case something goes wrong. Tactical, images of the Gagarin, the Washington, and battle schematic please.” The main screen rearranged itself into the requested view, and he saw the small triangles that represented his fighters moving away from the Gagarin in the most expedient direction available.

  Lieutenant Loh Zian spoke, “He has refused our hails, Captain.”

  “What?” Dima barked incredulously and turned reflexively toward Zian. “No communication at all?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What the devil—” Dima’s voice trailed off as he realized there was only one likely explanation for Mikhail’s actions. “Helm, keep us between the two ships. Communication, open a channel to the Washington. Tactical, strengthen defenses facing both. Weapons, compute firing solutions on both ships and standby.”

  Senior Lieutenant Svetlana Ivanova, content until now to assist the most junior officer on the bridge with her tasks, walked to Dima’s side. “Both ships, Captain?”

  “Aye, Exec. I believe Mikhail is about to do something incredibly stupid.”

  Anderson Cross appeared in a corner of the main screen. “Captain Petryaev, the Gagarin is coming under power. What are the two of you planning?”

  Dima was formulating his response when Mikhail also appeared on the screen. By the way Cross reacted, Dima could tell that he was seeing the same communication.

  “Washington, on behalf of my ship and my crew, I reject your claim to this space. Before I leave, I have a parting gift for you.” The image cut off after a rude gesture from the Gagarin’s commander.

  “He’s bringing his engines to full, Captain” reported the tactical officer. Before Dima could reply, the commander of the Gagarin delivered on his promise. Torpedoes erupted from all of his tubes, exploding together at a notable distance from the Washington, creating a momentary barrier to sight and s
ensors.

  An officer on the Washington was the first to realize what was happening. Her shocked voice came through the connection between the ships. “He’s going to tunnel with only one engine,” she blurted out, the words running together in her haste to communicate them.

  Both Cross and Dima snapped, “Evasive,” at the same moment, and both vessels lurched into motion. Despite their immediate responses, there was not enough time to avoid the consequences of the Gagarin’s decision.

  The tunnel drive relied on a perfect balance of gravitational forces to create a stable connection between two points. In a ship, as large as the Gagarin, that balance required two engines working at peak efficiency. On the Beijing, it required four working in tandem. The engines on the Gagarin were wired in such a way that the tunnel drive should have been impossible to activate with less than two engines. Clearly the ship’s crew had spent the time since Dima’s arrival defeating those safety precautions.

  The rip that the Gagarin tore in space wasn’t stable. The gravitic forces displayed in wireframe on the battle schematic reminded Dima of a black hole. Several of his fighters were captured, their engines too weak to pull them free. They tumbled into the tear and imploded.

  “Maximum speed, Helm,” Dima commanded.

  The ship lurched as he came up to full power. Dima wasn’t concerned, he knew the Beijing had enough strength to avoid being pulled into the breach. “Wing commander, get our fighters back on board, right now.”