Argent’s bridge deck began to vibrate noticeably. It didn’t look like it from the relatively peaceful view of space on the forward screen, but one human being forcing a 200,000-ton object traveling more than 22,000 MPH to fight a planet’s gravity with four fusion-powered engines each the diameter of a twelve story building was having more than a little effect on the outer hull and navigational screens. A violent fire began to heat Argent’s port quarter armor array. High-energy flames trailed more than 200 miles behind the enormous ship.
“Starboard course delta now eleven degrees!” Islington shouted.
“Trailing feedback levels now three percent and rising!” Cal replied. Everyone realized it at once. The ship was skidding: Traveling faster forward than starboard with its leading edge pointed away from the direction of fastest travel.
Brogan’s voice howled over the intraship. “We’re skipping on the atmosphere, captain! Don’t overthrust your port engines or we’ll buckle the escape track!”
“Acknowledged, engineer! Port engines to forty percent!”
Lieutenant Islington could feel the gigantic ship fighting the forces of physics. Ultimately Argent had to win. That’s what these big heavy vessels were made to do. It was the principle that allowed humans into space in the first place. That said, the laws of physics never made things easy.
As she pushed the manual navigation to starboard, the energetic reactions from her engines and the very real physical obstacle of an entire planet’s extreme upper atmosphere sheared against the battleship’s drive field. She nudged the throttle forward, holding the huge handle with all the strength she could muster.
The bridge was experiencing the spacecraft equivalent of a medium-sized earthquake now. Rebecca Islington held on to the pilot’s controls, wondering if she was going to fly the biggest fireball in Skywatch history right into the Bayone ocean.
“Feedback energy six percent! Climbing!”
Islington cursed under her breath. The engine power balance wasn’t right. That wasn’t necessarily to say it was wrong. A pilot more experienced with the idiosyncrasies of a heavy ship’s flight envelope would likely spot the problem and have an instant fix. The captain’s problem was she didn’t have the experience and she was being asked to get that experience while clawing her way out of a big object’s very dangerous maneuver and a much larger object’s gravity well at the same time.
“Starboard course delta now 27 degrees!”
“Feedback energy now eight point eight and climbing!”
Brogan’s voice barked again over the intraship. “We hit ten and we’ll cavitate our drive field!” He ran across auxiliary control to do a quick inspection of the coolant transfers. What he saw was more terrifying than what his captain was attempting on the bridge. The relay valve was white hot and filling the entire chamber with a ghostly pale glow.
“Corporal! Open auxiliary coolant transfers!”
“Say again?” the marine shouted from the other side of the machinery.
“Open the transfers! All of them!”
“Negative, chief! The control console reports mechanical assists are all locked in the closed position! It will take ten minutes to disassemble the braces and standards!”
Brogan stumbled backwards and grabbed an overhead gantry ledge for support. He gasped for air. He could feel the ambient heat from the valve from where he was standing almost 100 feet away. If it ruptured, the backblast would vaporize three decks. He activated his commlink.
“Bridge, you’ve got thirty seconds to power down or we’re going to lose primary engine cooling.”
Islington’s blood ran cold. She fought the urge to bank the ship further and just run for the heading goal of forty degrees. The problem was if she overshot, the big ship would end up flying engines-first into a ten-thousand degree firestorm. If the ruptured drive field and cataclysmic heat didn’t kill everyone, the G forces would.
The problem wasn’t heading. It was the thrust vector. There was too much lateral power and not enough medial power. The captain made a snap decision.
“Engineering, bring port engines to forty five percent and increase counter-power only one-half-percent every clock second on your starboard engines! Decrease coolant volume to match power output!”
“Affirmative, ma’am. Port engines to 45% power!” Brogan shouted. It was a long shot, but still a rather inventive idea. The engineering chief knew his captain was no slouch. But he never expected potentially brilliant last-second solutions. That was what engineers were supposed to do. Not flight officers!
“Feedback energy now nine point five percent and climbing!”
“Come on Argent! I know I’m just a frigate skipper but give me a break!” Islington held her helm, using every ounce of strength to will the huge ship where she wanted her to go.
From Minstrel’s point of view, what happened next would have made even friendly captains hold their shock frames a little tighter. A giant of a ship banked powerfully and began her turn out of Bayone Three’s orbital track. When the forward hull crossed the forty degree delta and the engines synchronized into a forward course, the frigate was momentarily caught in its fleet-mate’s gargantuan shadow. It was enough to steal the breath of everyone on Minstrel’s bridge.
A cheer from Skywatch personnel went up over the command net as destroyer three suddenly found itself out of position and in the path of an awakened leviathan. The Sarn vessel dove away and kicked up its engines into an evasive course.
“Target Kilo Alpha Three veering off, sir!”
Meanwhile the lead Sarn destroyer was now head to head with a vessel that outgunned it sixty to one.
“Alright, Cal, open a hailing frequency. Engage real-time translation protocols,” Islington stood, fidding with something at her collar.
“Ma’am, I–”
Islington squared herself to the forward viewscreen. Ensign Grant decided not to press the issue and tentatively activated the battleship’s transmitters.
“Channel open.”
“Attention Sarn warships. This is Captain Rebecca Islington of the Skywatch battleship Argent. We have you under our weapons. You are ordered to stand down and retreat from Core space. If you do not comply at once we will engage your formation with lethal force. Acknowledge.”
Cal had to admit his captain was doing a magnificent job of being in command of a 34-deck ship with a crew of five. All of them knew if the Sarn took a moment to run a clean life signs scan of Argent the jig would be up. All Cal could do was flood local space with as much ECM noise as possible and pray.
All at once the forward viewscreen snapped into a view of the emblem of the Sarn Star Empire. Islington swallowed reflexively and raised her chin. Either she looked the part or her words weren’t likely to be heeded.
Aboard Minstrel , Meier sat up straight in the command chair. Their view of the Argent transmission was the same as the Sarn commander’s. Islington’s XO, however, was the first to notice his captain was wearing twin eagle rank insignia. It was a flagrant violation of regulations to impersonate a superior officer, especially one three full ranks higher, but Hollis had to admit it was a clever touch. The Sarn might be ill acquainted with Skywatch regulations, but they certainly knew the difference between a lieutenant and a captain. Hollis wasn’t entirely sure if this particular Sarn officer would know how relatively young and attractive Islington was compared to most other Skywatch captains, but it was too late now.
“Captain Isssslington.”
Humans never seemed to get the hang of Sarn appearance. Their ships were built like volcanic caverns, with atmospheres that would incinerate a human respiratory system in seconds. Their visages were a close match.
“Thisssss is Firsssssst Sssscale Yalaa of Ssssarn Invector Glissssss. You invade Sssssarn sssspayyssss and desssstroy our vesssssselssss. Thissss isssss an act of waaaaaaaar.” The seething red interiors with the distorted dark reptilian faces made it difficult for human personnel to gauge reactions in these confrontations. Yalaa,
however, wasn’t hard to read at all.
Cal’s face had long since drained of its color. He did note with a small tinge of optimism the Sarn captain wasn’t quite as belligerent as their race normally was. Being literally in the shadow of your opponent’s ship would tend to moderate one’s attitude, the tactical officer thought. But he also remembered he and his dice-rolling CO represented 40% of Argent’s manpower.
“Come now, First Scale. The Bayone system was ceded to the Core Council in the Gitairn Compact years ago. Surely you have been advised by your government this is Core space. Your ships were weapons hot and on an obvious attack course. We simply defended ourselves.”
“You annexssssed our triluminum claimssssss! That issss forbidden under the termssssss! We claim this ssspace as reparationsssss!”
“What do you propose, First Scale? I cannot speak for my government, but I will speak for my ship. You are intruding in my command area while we are engaged in rescue operations. We’ve already sunk one member of your task force. I have three flight decks full of fighters just waiting for a green light and a target. If you want to see Sarn space again, I recommend you disengage.”
First Scale Yalaa looked askance at his own screen, performing the reptilian-equivalent of a raised eyebrow. “How long have you been in command of ssssssuch a powerful ssssship, captain?”
“I relieved Jason Hunter a month ago. He was injured during a recent engagement.”
Interesting story Cal thought. And not far from the truth!
“Indeed. Pleassss ssssend my condolensesssss. You ssssseem sssso... how do the humanssss ssssay... adolesssssent?”
“I’ll take that as a complement, First Scale. I have a rather grueling training regimen that keeps me in shape. I spend my off-time studying weapons and tactics.”
Nice! Cal thought.
Hollis Meier sat open-mouthed at his captain’s brinksmanship. At best, his side had a pair of threes. By Captain Islington’s manner, you would think she was betting kings full of nines.
Meanwhile, First Scale Yalaa was far less impressed. Although he was fairly certain there was something not quite right about the situation, he had to respect the fact if Argent fell over drunk she would crush what was left of his task force. He had been advised the ship was abandoned. As a target for military intelligence and plunder, she was one thing. If she were minimally crewed and opened up with even a wildly inaccurate barrage, it would be devastating. Toe-to-toe, even three full-strength destroyers didn’t stand a chance against the fury of a fully-combat-capable battleship, to say nothing of her fighter and gunship wings. Yalaa also had to concede the fact he no longer had three destroyers.
“Very well, Argent. We will leave it to the emperor to dessssside your fatesssssss. I sssstrongly sssssuggest you return to Core sssssspace before we return. Invector Glissssss transmisssssssion endssssss–”
The screen snapped back to the Sarn emblem. Before the autosystems reactivated the internal carrier signal, Islington started unfastening her borrowed rank insignia and whirled on her tactical officer.
“Recover Black Seven right this second. I don’t care how many ships or personnel it takes. Clear?”
“Clear, ma’am. Coding your message.”
Twenty-Five
The entire crew of Nightwing Six watched in stomach-churning silence as three enemy vessels approached their position. They had already apparently written off the Saratoga, as none of the three even bothered to scan it for range, position or signatures. This put to rest, for all intents and purposes, any chance of survivors, which only made the possible consequences of Doverly’s risky decision that much greater. If detected, the best an SAR vessel could hope for in this situation was to run, but they were too far away from any friendly reinforcements to have a clear direction. Even if they managed to survive the chase, they simply had nowhere to go except back to Argent, and that vessel was on the other side of a jump gate. Navigating that far while being shot at would be eventual suicide, no matter how skillful their evasive maneuvers.
What the Nightwing vessels were good at was infiltrating enemy territory, finding survivors and prisoners and getting them healed and home. Commander Doverly knew if her vessel remained stationary and maintained its quiet status, it was quite literally possible that the first clue they were there would be if one of the enemy vessels physically bumped into them. Even at ranges of less than a quarter-mile, a Nightwing was virtually impossible to detect with electronics, even without it activating an advanced cloak. The scientists and engineers in charge of inventing the design had perfected the art of low-power ECM to the point where minuscule transmissions were enough to scatter enemy rangefinding, RADAR and LASER-assisted tracking scanners and make it look to the enemy like they were all working properly at the same time. The first researcher to demonstrate a working prototype often told stories of onlookers using the word “voodoo” when trying to explain what they had seen.
Nevertheless, what those scientists had not perfected yet was a way to calm the nerves of the crews aboard their undetectable ships. For the crew of Nightwing Six, having three Sarn frigates within 10000 miles was like having three hungry mountain lions in the kitchen. For Commander Doverly, it was the hell of indecision that made her situation that much more unbearable. She got up from her chair and paced, trying to find a way to calm the fighting energy in her fingers and arms. Were she aboard her fighter and flying with the Jacks, the outcome of this battle would be unlikely to differ much from any of her other battles. The Jack of Hearts was as well known for her mastery of kinetic weaponry as she was for her skill in the surgical ward. Many were the occasions where Hearts put a round through the right electronic component at the wrong time for the enemy and won the day for her side. She desperately wished this was one of those times.
“What are they looking for, then?”
“Other ships. Emissions signatures or trails. Some clue as to why the Saratoga was here,” Annora replied, staring hard enough at the viewscreen to burn its surface. “They’ve got enormous firepower to back them up and little else to do, apparently. Maybe they think they’re just covering their tracks.”
“You sound frustrated, ma’am,” Joss said. He wore a concerned expression.
“Just one of the dangers of wandering around the galaxy with no weapons, Ensign,” Doverly replied. “Our job is to rescue and heal the sick. What I’d rather do at the moment is magnetize a couple of satchel charges and clamp them to their fuel relays.”
“If it makes you feel any better, they’ve swept our position four times and they haven’t generated a range signal. It’s pretty lazy scanner work, to be honest. Even if they got something, I’m at least a little unsure if they’d know what to do about it.”
Doverly didn’t answer right away. The rest of her crew could see that particular attentive posture, however, and they knew she was up to something, at least mentally. She continued staring at the Sarn formation on the forward tactical display. Her face now wore the expression of an experienced warrior instead of the concern of a livesaving physician.
“Our powersuits aren’t cloaked,” she said flatly.
Nobody answered. They just watched as she began formulating an attack plan, of all things. To be fair, it was to be expected. She didn’t earn the lofty rank of commander or the title of executive officer signing food requisitions in a Core systems warehouse.
“–but this ship can extend its scattering field if we power down non-essential systems and increase reactor output to match.”
“Aye, ma’am. We’ve got the extra power when we’re dark like this,” Joss replied, unsure of what his skipper was contemplating.
“And once inside any of those ships’ drive fields, a powersuit would be both impossible to get a fix on and impossible to target for any of the ships.”
The rest of the bridge crew remained silent. They all had their suspicions as to what Doverly was planning. The more she spoke, the more detail was being added until finally, the murky shadows of
the plan came into focus for the entire bridge crew.
“You’re going to attack three frigates in a powersuit, ma’am?”
Annora began cycling the ship’s munitions at one of the command consoles. “In a manner of speaking. We need to give them something else to look at instead of the Saratoga or whatever they are hunting for out here. A crippled frigate would be a good start. It might even be enough to prevent them from pursuing us back to our rendezvous with Argent.”
“But ma’am, you can’t just float out there and wire up one of their ships!” Joss exclaimed. “It’s too dangerous!”
“I ‘can’t,' Ensign?” Doverly raised an eyebrow.
Joss closed his eyes and reset his attitude. “Okay, okay. Begging the commander’s pardon, ma’am, you shouldn’t float out there, because you’re our best surgeon and we might still have casualties aboard the Saratoga!”
“Ensign, if its a choice between one doctor over another treating casualties on the Saratoga and losing this crew and ship, that’s no choice at all. If there are injured aboard, they are the top priority and we are expendable.” Doverly found what she was looking for and began drilling down to the technical specifications of the extra-vehicular toolsets available on a Nightwing powersuit. “It would be one thing if this were a rescue with fighter or gunship cover. But there’s no way we can expect to hack our way through two battlecruisers and a squadron of unusually curious frigates to rescue the Saratoga’s survivors with only our cloak. We need a diversion.”
“If we’re not here to save them, then why are we here at all?”
“If my plan works, Ensign, we just might solve both problems at once. What I need right now is a polarity field, and I think we’ve got just the components I need in our engineering bay.”
Twenty-Six
Yili Curtiss really didn’t mind being known as the best-armed engineer in the fleet. She had long ago made it clear to her promotion committees and her commanding officers she wasn’t likely to change her ways to fit what Skywatch considered a “normal” department chief. Captain Hunter promoted her anyway. One thing Jason Hunter knew better than practically any other officer was that talent beats idiosyncrasy without exception, and he had the accomplishments to prove it.
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