“I’m telling you all I know,” said Ensign Julia Powers from her station at the capable little vessel’s tactical console. “We lit up a cruiser-class vessel for an interval of nine seconds, and then it was gone. Position unchanged. No contacts since.”
“Time?” Kent asked.
Powers checked a display.
“Time plus eight minutes.”
It was at times like these Kent felt inadequate. Despite all the technology his nimble little warship could muster, and despite all the knowledge, training and experience on his bridge, galactic space was a really, really big place, and there just wasn’t enough time to cover it all when there were anxious flag officers to reassure. When the indeterminate readings at extreme ranges were factored in, things were bound to become a little edgy.
The Ares flagship was the fleet carrier DSS Bretagne. She carried with her six squadrons of the most battle-hardened pilots in the entire fleet. Admiral Bartholomew James had invested more than 12 of his 31 years in Skywatch sharpening the blade of this particular sword until it could cut tissue in a breeze. Kent knew his CO was putting on a show of being patient, but underneath it all the Admiral was angrily looking for something to point his formidable weapons at. By now there were no Skywatch ships in deep space that hadn’t been fully briefed on what had occurred to the Perseus Task Force at Station 19. Now everyone wanted to get off the first shot.
“What kind of cruiser?”
“Not Skywatch, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Powers replied. “She had fission engines, and the tonnage is way too fat for a current generation ship of the line.”
“If she’s under fission power, then there’s got to be a course track,” Kent said, looking back over his shoulder at the junior officer.
“That’s what you’d think, but we have no radiation readings aside from the position report,” Powers replied. “She was there, at station keeping and then she was gone. And now–” the ensign hesitated for a few moments. “–I have an intermittent contact designated Tomcat Three One Nine on parallel course along our defensive perimeter bearing two seven one true. Range thirty one million miles.”
“Configuration?”
“Unknown at this range. We’d have to go active.”
“Is three one nine a course track match for the fission-powered mystery cruiser?”
“Negative. This one’s got fusion engines. Small, but definitely a next-generation hull.”
“But way out there,” Kent muttered. “Alright pilot, plot us a least time intercept to the Raleo beacon. Engines all ahead one-half. Keep our drive field at maximum amplitude. Nice and easy. Signals, take us to alert condition three. Quiet alarm. Stand by battle stations.”
Junior lieutenant Erlich Vonaly quickly configured the command frigate’s intraship board for data alert. “Affirmative, skipper. All decks report A-CON three.”
Kent watched the course track carefully from his conn command chair. The Northumberland’s bridge display showed a gentle parabolic course from the frigate’s current position to the designated approach corridor for the Raleo star system. There were four planets in the system. The Raleo star itself was a very young yellow sun.
The commander knew any approach to the system required real-time coordination with the beacon at system’s edge. Skywatch’s caution was understandable. The accretion disk extended beyond the orbit of Raleo Four and had not yet dissipated completely. Although the orbits of the four rocky planets were relatively clear of navigational obstacles, getting from planet to planet came with its share of hazards, even for heavier vessels. The beacon at system’s edge was designed to help starship navigational computers plot safe approach courses to the system and even safer courses between orbits.
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t like this one bit.”
“What’s on your mind, ensign?” Kent replied as he got up and wandered over to the forward display. The rest of the bridge crew worked quietly, monitoring their instruments for any sign of the mystery ship and staying alert for anything the Raleo beacon might have missed.
“Of all the systems in Gitairn space, if I were plotting an ambush, this is where I would start,” Powers said. “If time becomes a factor, that beacon isn’t going to help us, even if we can trust what it says.”
Kent raised an eyebrow. “Trust what it says, ensign?”
“Captain, how hard would it be for someone to tamper with that thing? It doesn’t have a telemetry connection with Core space. There are no regular patrols this far out. We’re the first Skywatch ship that has navigated beyond Bayone space in three years.”
“Assuming you’re not being a little too preoccupied with the unusual, ensign, how would we know if it’s been tampered with?”
“We wouldn’t. That’s why if I were looking for a hideout or a place to wait for an unsuspecting ship, I’d start here.”
“Tactical.” Kent watched his display switch from a course overlay inside three dimensional space to a projection of the Northumberland’s position on a map of two-dimensional space. At the top edge of the display was the familiar blue identifier for the Raleo beacon. At the center of the display was Kent’s ship, gradually getting closer to the edge of the fourth planet’s orbital track.
“According to the report filed by Captain Hunter, there is something on the surface of Raleo Two, but they never got close enough to investigate,” Kent muttered.
“That puts us approximately 130 megaclicks away,” Powers said. “Why didn’t they investigate?”
“Too busy fighting automated ships and space stations,” Kent replied. “I’m told it got so bad Task Force Perseus had to withdraw for repairs. Argent was ordered into the Bayone system, but for some reason Skywatch Command lost contact. We were in sector three, so the Admiral decided to take the initiative and here we are.”
“Appearing and disappearing ships,” Powers added. “And now we’ve seen one of our own.”
The Northumberland gradually approached her waypoint sixty thousand clicks off the system beacon’s position. Her navigational screens occasionally flickered as they disintegrated chunks of interstellar debris along her course.
Captain Kent had to admit his young tactical officer might be right.
Thirty-Seven
“When you said illegal you weren’t kidding, were you?” Jason Hunter exclaimed. Before him in all its threatening glory was the gleaming brand-new Condor Pirate corsair Shrike. It was decked out in black energy-absorbing paint with a magnificent stylized depiction of an angry looking wings-spread red-feathered raptor on its ventral hull. It was half-again the displacement of Colonel Moody’s paladin, which was parked across from it. Their hangar was situated on the outskirts of the Sinisish settlements.
“I’ve got a reputation to maintain, Captain,” Cerylia L’Orleans replied, stepping around one of her new flagship’s landing struts. Her outfit was equally impressive. She wore skin-tight black leather and tall crimson boots. Her feathered wide-brim hat, sword, sidearm and white cape completed the ensemble.
“What did you do with the new parts I had delivered?”
“Sold them and bought better ones.” The young woman handed Hunter his data pack.
“That was top-of-the-line stuff, Cerylia,” Hunter said, his eyebrows flat.
“That’s what made it so easy to sell.”
Hunter didn’t look amused.
“Come on, Jason. You may fancy yourself the guy who colors outside the lines, but your idea of a raiding weapon loadout looks like a diagram in an Academy homework assignment.”
“So what did you buy instead?”
“That’s classified.”
“Cerylia–”
“Alright, alright,” Captain L’Orleans said with a smile and a roll of her eyes. She led Hunter to the forward section of her new flagship and gestured grandly. “That is how we properly arm a pirate ship.” Hunter gazed at the sweep of the two-foot-wide cannon around which it seemed L’Orleans’ entire vessel was built.
“
M-Guns. I should have known.”
“That’s right, you should have.”
“Where did you get this thing?”
“I built it. The parts are a lot less expensive than the army I’d have to hire to keep the gun secret from one system to the next.”
“You make your own weapons too?”
“Oh honey, you’ve got so much to learn. Come on.” Captain L’Orleans enthusiastically led Hunter to the egress ramp and invited him aboard like she was inviting him into her secret treehouse. He climbed up the shining new steps to the Shrike’s main deck and marveled anew at the engineering. The bulkheads and hull structure were a flawlessly arranged hexagonal lattice. Even the corridors and the console controls themselves were six-sided. The cool thrum of the agile little ship’s engines made every surface feel like it was pulsing with barely restrained energy.
“Crew of twelve,” Hunter said absently as he made his way to the flight deck. “Jump-capable engines with sprint mode configurations built right in to your autosystems.”
“Very good, Captain,” L’Orleans replied.
The sixty-foot M-Gun’s outer shock jacket was reinforced along the main deck, necessitating a step down to reach any of the cabins or crew stations. But that wasn’t what was on Hunter’s mind. He had his suspicions about what his interlocutor had been up to in the interval between their first meeting and their intended launch window, and what he found on the flight deck confirmed them all.
“A cloaking device.”
“The best money can buy. Military-grade navigational envelope stealth complete with an all-spectrum ECM suite.” Cerylia reclined in the navigator’s crash couch. Normally she would put her feet up, but this time she just relaxed and swiveled the chair to face an increasingly impatient Captain Hunter. “Have a seat. After all, you paid for all this.”
Hunter sat in the pilot’s couch. He had to admit it was choice construction. Everything on the flight deck was reinforced and solidly built, and all of it took advantage of the added strength of the hexagonal lattice that seemed to permeate everything from stem to stern. It reminded him of his own T-Hawk wing, although the Shrike was considerably heavier and apparently engineered for long-range operations. “I thought we were agreed on enough to get the job done. Not a showpiece!”
“You keep underestimating me, Jason. The Magellan strike is one step in a long-term plan. I’m not just borrowing shipments from unsuspecting merchants any more. I’m in the manufacturing business now.”
“You built this whole ship?”
“Far as you know.”
Now Hunter put his feet up. “Alright, I dealt you in. Now you tell me what you’re up to here.” He put his hands behind his head and reclined, making it clear to the privateer he wasn’t going to take a pat answer this time.
“You already know all the details, Captain,” Cerylia replied. “We’ve been running here and there looking for raw materials for more than a year now. Anything I can’t immediately feed into one of my factories I sell for something I can use. Those merchant captains didn’t drop the case against us out of the goodness of their hearts, you know.”
“Witness tampering?”
L’Orleans giggled. “Oh come on. Why not just write me a parking ticket?”
“What did they want?”
“I armed their Q-ship.”
Hunter seized on the obvious without missing a beat. “The same Q-ship you’re about to steal back from them?”
“No. The Q-ship you’re going to steal from them. I’m going to pretend I was betrayed so I can sell them a replacement.”
“After I pay you with the proceeds of parting out the first one?”
“Naturally.”
Hunter stared, open-mouthed.
“I’m not running a volunteer charity here, captain. We’re in this for the money. Well, the fun and the glory too, but the money first.” “You’re ruthless.”
“Why thank you, captain. Any more flattery and I might blush.”
“I could have you arrested, but we’d have to hire people to help us write the warrant!”
“They haven’t built the jail that can hold me yet, Jason. I’m half the reason the economy on this little mudball hasn’t collapsed yet. I control most of the cash. I close out nine of every ten seizures. You know, a merchant’s sell-off can make a girl rich. They call me the ‘Undertaker.’”
Hunter roared with laughter.
“I learned to fence stolen inventory back to its original owner when I was twelve. We call it ‘snake insurance.’ Graduating to starships just speeds up the process.”
“I never heard of you,” Hunter said non-chalantly, looking around as if he were lost.
“Said the captain of a Skywatch ship of the line sitting at the pilot’s station of illegally armed contraband.”
Colonel Moody leaned in to the flight deck, supporting himself with a relaxed grip on the overhead gravity handles. “I hope none of you mind a small room with barbed wire in the window.”
“What do you mean? We’re just delivering the mail,” Hunter replied with a cocked eyebrow.
“This thing is a flying warzone!” Moody exclaimed. “She’s got lockers full of anti-armor weapons back there. Mortars. Gas-activated mines. Shrews.”
Hunter looked at Cerylia as if she were ditching class.
“We’ve had a few disagreements regarding our triluminum claims,” L’Orleans replied. “So I bought myself some attitude adjusters.”
“How many people want to kill you, captain?” Hunter asked.
“All of them,” Cerylia replied with a ravishing smile.
Thirty-Eight
The Copernicus One engineering corvette swept in low over the rocky vegetation-covered rise that separated the nearby lowlands from Lethe Deeps. Ground-sweep radar had identified three potential landing zones when the boat broke the target’s 100-mile perimeter. Curtiss selected a location only three quarters of a mile from the installation’s main entrance. As a precaution, she had also ordered a slow circle of the zone to give her sensor and scanner banks an opportunity to inspect the installation for life signs, radiation or other energy readings.
So far everything had come up nominal. That left the OCE team with one of two likely possibilities. Either there really wasn’t anything there, or whomever was there was not only aware of visitors, but they were also doing a magnificent job of concealing their presence.
“Standard approach protocols, Mr. Boswold. Stand by acquisition scanners. Let’s find a spot to drop the hotbox.”
“Acknowledged, ma’am.” The ensign switched his communications console over to the squad frequency. “Flight to fusion control. Stand by for set-down coordinates and advise on a ten-second clock. Acknowledge.”
“Fusion control to flight. Bay doors activated. Standing by,” came the reply from specialist Tessa Maclane.
Ensign Boswold banked the fleet little ship into a lateral approach, using the vessel’s precision maneuvering thrusters to skillfully reduce velocity until the corvette settled into a zero by zero hover over the primary target coordinates.
“Deploy perimeter defenses,” Yili announced. Moments later, all four of her customized anti-personnel bots dove out of the corvette’s transport bay. They followed their pre-programmed landing zone instructions and took up posts at the “corners” of Copernicus One’s chosen build-up location.
“Defenses report green. No ground or atmospheric contacts to a range of sixty miles.”
The communications console lit up again.
“Flight, fusion. Ten seconds.”
“Ma’am, fusion is go.”
“Very well. You are authorized to establish a landing zone.”
“Acknowledged. Fusion, flight. Stand by for set-down.”
Specialist Maclane keyed the final instruction sequence into the load mechanism’s deployment ramp. The compact outer shell of the portable reactor settled gently into the support frame. Composite ceramic clamps locked against the smooth sides of the assemb
ly and lifted it off the storage platform. A slow rotation of the entire mechanism brought the reactor and its thruster pack into position at the high end of the ramp.
“Release payload now, now, now.”
Maclane punched the deployment activator. The deck clamps blasted open and the reactor assembly slid down the ramp and fell away from the corvette. Its atmospheric retro-thrusters fired automatically.
Petty Officer Maclane watched carefully as the chunky little craft zeroed in on the LZ power coordinates. Tessa had always thought the portable reactors looked like enormous eggs being carried to the ground by little moon rockets. She couldn’t argue with the reliability of the OCE surface systems, however. Even if the little thrusters malfunctioned, the reactor itself was designed to not only survive a dead-weight drop of more than 1000 feet, but it was also designed to repair itself and remain operational in all but the most catastrophic circumstances: Catastrophic defined as someone putting a high-velocity slug through it.
Tessa remembered well from her extensive training the story of the 81st Recon Engineers and their accidental deployment of a portable reactor into a 700-foot trench in 200-degree alien ocean. After running the necessary cabling and installing a transformer, they were able to rely on the unit’s power for nearly a week before recovering it. With the exception of some marine plant residue and a couple of dents, the unit remained operational for two more emergency deployments.
Every member of the OCE section knew combat engineers were totally reliant on power. The top priority in any deployment, regardless of their task, was a reliable base of operations. Everything in a field base, from purified water to heat to assembling an expandable bridge, required power and a lot of it. Having a field-deployable reactor system was the key technology that made orbital combat engineering possible.
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