“Sir, I think they’ve deployed panels,” said Geish. “Signal looks unnaturally strong to me, suggests they’re giving away position and stealth on purpose. They might not even be warships, that looks like too large a signature.”
“Visible defence,” Shahaim said grimly. “LC, I reckon we’re right in their defensive funnel. They’ve got other ships here too, lying dark — these two are their position markers. They want us to run deeper into their crossfire. The deeper we get when they spring the trap, the deader we are.”
Erik’s display showed that the Tartarus had received Styx’s signal twenty seconds ago. A few seconds more for a reply, if they’d responded immediately. “We’re holding course,” he told the bridge, hands hovering on control sticks, thumbs and fingers a light pressure upon buttons and toggles. “There’s no response yet, they haven’t IDed us as hostile. Helm, get me a good escape vector.”
“Already plotting LC,” Shahaim replied.
“LC I have limited visual on a lot of activity up at the base,” Jiri called from Scan Two. “Mostly small scale, there’s… there’s a lot of interference, but it looks quite busy.”
“I can second that,” Shilu added, toggling furiously through various frequencies. “I’m scanning for com traffic but nothing yet…”
“Active scan!” Geish cut him off, urgently. “We have been target locked by a new mark, location oh-eight-seven by…” and Erik tuned him out, seeing that new position appear on his tactical. Then another, then another, Second Lieutenant Geish announcing each in turn. And suddenly the entire forward scan lit up like an Exodus tree, a wave of ships locking on their targeting systems, like hidden hunters in the dark all turning on their flashlights at once. Erik’s hands nearly jumped on the controls… only his heart refused to accelerate to panic speed because clearly this was a very odd way to spring an ambush. Phoenix was nowhere near deep enough into the crossfire yet, and the ambushers were giving away surprise and stealth at a time when Phoenix still possessed enough options to do something about it.
“LC, what are we doing?” Shahaim said with alarm, hands hovering over controls that would lock in an override escape route and get them the hell out of there.
For a brief moment, fear and doubt struggled to surface past his calm. “Does not look like an attack to me,” his mouth said on automatic, even as his brain tried to rebel against his own words. But it looked like the truth, and the Captain had always said that a combat pilot had to trust his first instinct, because by the time he got to his second instinct, he’d be dead. “We’re being bracketed, they’re giving away their positions.”
“Hello Phoenix,” came Styx’s voice on coms. “This is a welcoming response to my signal. Correct procedure will be to dump velocity by the indicated increment, and proceed upon a steady course.”
* * *
Locked into her command post on AT-7, Trace could see Phoenix’s tactical feed projected on her faceplate. The situation looked as bad as could be expected if you flew in the front door of a heavily guarded fortress. But it was what a deepynine ship would have done in friendly territory, and they’d had no choice. One false twitch here and they were dead.
“Crowded, isn’t it?” Lieutenant Hausler remarked from up front. If he felt the stress, his voice didn’t show it. Hotshot pilots had cool reputations to upkeep.
“Hello Stan,” said Trace on coms. Romki was strapped in down back with the queen, the only place where her carry-frame would fit. “How’s she looking?”
“Major, that transmission is something… well, you’d be better off asking Rooke if he’s watching…”
“I’m watching,” Rooke interrupted from Engineering. “It looks crazy, I’ve no idea what she’s telling them. Seems to be working though.”
“Sure,” said Lieutenant Jalawi of Charlie Platoon from nearby. “So long as she’s not telling them to put old differences aside and kill the humans first.”
“You people do understand that she can hear you?” Romki retorted. If Styx had an opinion on the humans’ mutterings, she did not volunteer it.
* * *
“LC, I think I’ve got it.” Kaspowitz shunted his feed to Erik’s screen, and suddenly he could see it — an indistinct sphere, blurred as Phoenix’s cameras tried to get a fix, not the simplest thing at this distance while still carrying combat-V from jump. Then a shift of focus and it came abruptly clear, drifting and recorrecting as the cameras adjusted.
A massive series of frameworks, making a rough sphere in two distinct halves. The entire sphere was quarter-lit as they approached from the outer system, Gsi-81T’s small yellow star far distant and ‘behind’. One reason the cameras had such trouble picking it up, Erik realised — though the size of a very small moon, the base was non-reflective, its hollow maze of gantries seeming to suck in more light than they let out.
“Luminosity is low,” Kaspowitz confirmed. “Can’t see much yet, have to wait until we’re closer.”
“Mark for V-dump in thirty seconds,” Shahaim added. They were following the course laid in according to Styx’s parameters. The approach profile matched a deepynine carrier, Styx insisted, and she had provided a laundry list of things to do and to avoid. Foremost amongst them had been to turn off local wireless coms, which she’d insisted deepynine com-tech could register when close enough. They were also without any form of active scan, relying entirely on passive reception. That was going to make it hard to get weapons lock, particularly for defensive systems if someone started firing at them. To intercept incoming fire, they relied entirely on active radar, which could not be disguised as anything but human. But presumably, if someone was shooting at them, the game would already be up.
“Coms, how’s it looking?” Erik was most concerned about the signal Styx was sending to the base. The com frequency had been precisely modulated, utilising a high bandwidth humans rarely used, but Styx insisted was default on a deepynine carrier. As with everything else, they’d had to take her word for it.
“All nominal,” Shilu confirmed. “Sir, I’m not getting any chatter from the base. Either everyone’s communicating on tightbeam or hardlines. There’s no random traffic at all.”
“Been here a long time,” Kaspowitz reminded them. “Coms traffic can survive sublight when the deepspace background buzz doesn’t wipe it out. If you’re trying to stay hidden for centuries, you don’t want your com traffic turning up a few hundred lightyears away for someone to trace.”
V-dump arrived, and Erik pulsed them hard into hyperspace, then out at a more sensible velocity. Still scan showed them locked by twenty-two different armscomps. “Scan, do you have any ID on those marks?”
“Sir, scancomp shows those targeting locks as unfamiliar.”
“All of them?”
“Yes sir.” Geish concentrated hard on the multiple analysis his systems were feeding him. “Five different types. We’ve got three painters, that’s heavy active scan illuminating us for followup missiles — they’re probably platform bases. No visual confirmation at this point, so I’d guess they’re less than twenty meters diameter. The rest are a mix… there’s three that look like they’ll need a very high powerbase to generate, I reckon big ships, maybe even carrier-class.”
“Sir,” Jiri interrupted from Scan Two, “on our present course we’ll be within visual range of one mark in one minute. Permission to align main camera for a visual?”
“Permission granted,” Geish answered for him — visuals were always the senior Scan Officer’s prerogative. “LC, that’s a heck of a lot of marks in good defensive position. It’s going to be real crowded for Makimakala coming through here at high-V.”
“We have to get at least half of those ships to displace or Makimakala’s got no chance at all,” Shahaim said with certainty. “Even then they’ll have to bury themselves in these defences to give the ordinance a chance of avoiding interception. The survival to success ratio is looking unacceptable to me.”
“We’re going to have to find some way to
get them to move,” Karle observed nervously.
“Our mission is intelligence,” Geish disagreed. “Helping Makimakala to destroy the base is secondary.” Which wasn’t what they’d told Makimakala. Erik saw a few faces turn to glance his way. Hang the tavalai out to dry? Fail to clear their path, and allow the base defences to kill them on the way in? How much was a human’s word worth, to the old tavalai enemy, when the fate of the human race hung upon them learning more about the deepynine queen they thought was running the Tartarus? If that queen did exist, then killing just her and this base became relatively insignificant. There were bound to be far, far more of them.
“Sir,” said Jiri. “I have a visual on that mark. Putting it through now.”
Erik’s screen flipped, then settled on a bright smudge against a black background. That was about all you could expect at these speeds and distances, but now the image zoomed and sharpened as scancomp cleaned it and focused… and the analysis scrolled in fast numerics across the screen.
“Carrier-class,” Shahaim muttered.
And from Geish, “What the hell is that?”
“That’s trouble,” Erik said as he stared at it. “Look at the size of those engines. It’s bigger than carrier-class, and it’s not our technology — we can’t configure power-to-mass in those ratios.”
“Well,” Kaspowitz said conversationally, “that’s a new ship. Congrats everyone, drinks on the LC.” In the war, Fleet Intel had given hearty bonuses to any crew that found a new class of alien ship.
“Yeah,” Geish agreed. “The bad news is it’s probably deepynine, and it can probably kick our ass.”
“That’s not the bad news,” Jiri disagreed. “The bad news is it looks like there could be a dozen of them.”
* * *
Sixteen minutes later and Phoenix dumped velocity again. Trace blinked hard to get her vision back, popped her visor and sipped some water so she didn’t deplete the suit bottle. Once the visor was down permanently, that would be the only water she had.
“Incoming signal,” she heard Coms Officer Shilu saying on the bridge. “That’s… holy shit that’s strong, encryption can’t decode it… LC, I have no idea what that is, but it’s definitely coming from the base…”
“It’s her,” said Styx. “The deepynine command unit. I will communicate my desire to meet. We must exchange and synchronise data, it will require a physical connection where sard allies cannot hear.”
“Can’t they see us?” Trace heard Rolonde mutter to Kumar nearby, off coms. “Can’t they see we’re a human carrier?”
“Matte-black paint out here?” Kumar replied. “There’s no light, and our config already looks like an older deepynine carrier-class. Styx says.”
“Styx says,” Rolonde growled. “We bet all our asses on what Styx says.” Trace knew she was thinking of her friends First Sergeant Willis and Private Ugail, whom Styx’s drones had killed.
“Jess,” Trace told her past the drink tube. “Mind on the job.”
“Yes Major.”
“Styx,” she heard Romki say. “You can understand her language?”
“Yes. The coding is unusual. Evolved, perhaps.”
“And she appears to understand yours?”
“I am pretending to be a deepynine from the final era of deepynine civilisation. I am perfectly fluent in that mode of communication, and I am entirely certain no deepynine will ever forget it. She believes I am a relic of history, returned from the dead. And she will be right, only not about my side.”
Crossing the river to the land of the dead indeed, Trace thought. Romki had named her well.
“Communications sent and received,” Styx confirmed. “We are clear to go. Lieutenant Hausler, recall that this shuttle is supposed to be carrying AIs only, not organics. G-forces within this shuttle’s performance range are of no consequence, and AI shuttles prefer the most direct path to their desired trajectory.”
“Now you’re talking my language,” Hausler replied from the cockpit. “Phoenix this is shuttle AT-7, requesting clearance for departure.”
32
Lieutenant Hausler followed Styx’s instruction by letting AT-7 coast for twenty-one minutes upon release, maintaining extra-V until the last possible moment before a tail-first 4-G burn slammed all passengers back in their seats for the final thirty-two minutes of approach. Styx told Hausler to end the burn ten klicks out, a non-threatening approach profile that she would communicate in advance to those watching. Tail-first with thrust blazing, the shuttle’s cameras could not get a good visual on their destination. When Hausler cut thrust and flipped them over to face the base, that changed.
Usually on coms when confronted with something amazing, marines would mutter remarks. Now as AT-7’s forward cameras filled their visors with live feed, Trace heard only awed silence. The base’s hundred and twenty kilometre girth filled all forward view. More wide than most human cities, all dull and silver steel, an eye-baffling maze of segments, nodes, pylons and interior bays. She could see several ships docked to the outer rim, freighters with small engines and large cargo bays, surrounded by a buzz of small runners. From those docking nodes, conveyor tubes retreated along gantry arms back into the maze, to where warehouse blocks were barely visible deeper in.
“Transport arrives on the outside,” Ensign Yun observed. Usually she and her hotshot pilot made a cocky, relaxed combination on missions, for the benefit of everyone’s nerves. Now they were subdued. “You’ve got cargo and freight for storage here, raw materials will be taken deeper inside, where the ships are made.”
“Those look like sard ships,” said Hausler. “Freight transports. So they’re keeping it resupplied.”
“Correct,” said Styx. “Raw materials are delivered within the hemisphere division. That is sublight traffic, mined from the moons of this system. I am curious to see if sard are performing that task themselves, or if more drysine drones have been enslaved for the purpose. Or deepynine drones.”
“I have new target lock,” Yun announced. “Multiple small vessels, they appear to be on intercept.”
“Maintain current course,” Styx said calmly. “I am in communication with them. It is a greeting party.”
“What kind of greeting party?” Hausler asked.
“Unfamiliar.” Trace did not need to see the glances her marines exchanged to feel the tension. Styx could be telling them anything.
AT-7’s cameras got a fix on one of the approaching marks, several others close behind. Trace nearly swore as a hunched, silver shape filled her visor view, an armoured carapace centred by a single red eye.
“Hacksaws,” said Yun.
“They are drysine drones,” said Styx. “They have been reprogrammed. My old friends can barely recognise themselves.” The synthesised voice almost sounded sad.
Trace did not believe it, and switched channel to Lance Corporal Penn. “Hello Lance Corporal. Stay on it.”
“Yes Major.” Someone had to sit down back with Romki and Styx, rifle loaded and prepared to blow the drysine queen to bits if things went south. They could not discuss such things openly, given how hard it was to keep frequencies hidden from her. Probably Styx guessed the humans had some such arrangement. Trace did not mind if she did.
The nearest drone vanished in a burst of white thrust, slowing on approach. They had propulsion rigs, Trace saw — jet units added in modular fashion to the rear thorax. Probably they could shed them if needed. In zero-G, drones could outfit for any number of different missions without being punished by the mass penalty as severely as in full gravity. The thrust-mist cleared, drones reversing course at a comfortable two-Gs before paralleling the shuttle, three to each side.
“They feed us a course change,” said Styx. “I am translating and conveying to the cockpit.”
“I’ve got it,” said Yun. “Hang on.”
“Got it,” said Hausler, as Yun passed it on. “Proceeding now.” He spun the shuttle abruptly on its axis, then hit mains with no regard for organi
c sensibilities. Flying like a machine was no problem for Hausler, Trace thought. He flew like that all the time.
“Timer is at T-minus-73,” Yun reminded them, though the number was counting down in the corner of everyone’s visor display. A little over an hour until Makimakala came blasting through. It suddenly seemed like a very long time to keep all of these new friends from becoming suspicious.
“Styx,” said Trace as the Gs faded. “Tell us about the drones.”
“A sadness. They have been corrupted.”
“How old are they? Are they originals?”
“Yes. Many bases were abandoned. Without command units, drones will not retain function for long. I suggest that these went into shutdown. They will have only recently been reawakened. To this living death of reason.”
“Styx,” said Romki. “Can you rescue them?”
“Not immediately. If they knew my true identity, we would all be destroyed quite quickly. These drones are entirely autistic to foreign commands. I will have to seek another method.”
“Can you access any local base system?” Romki pressed.
“I will try.”
“It’s a fucking guard of honour,” said Jalawi, staring at his visor display.
Hausler’s new course took them across the base surface, a mesmerising expanse of steel and dark, beckoning caverns within. There wasn’t a lot of light, Trace noted. Hacksaws didn’t need much, with multi-spectrum scanners, and any sard now working here would have to bring their own.
Then AT-7’s course took them across the hemisphere divide, where Tartarus’s north and south halves were joined, creating a cavernous split between them. Here the surface was a honeycomb of hexagons, each hundreds of meters wide. Larger supports spanned kilometres, joining north with south. Within the profusion of hexagonal spaces clustered solid units — industrial, Trace thought, connected with docking gantries and pressurised habitats. Many small vessels were docked, and several more moving. Sublight ships, no more than a few times the size of AT-7, fusion powered and more hull and holds than engines. They nestled amongst the forest of honeycomb gantries like small fish burrowed deep into an enormous reef.
Drysine Legacy (The Spiral Wars Book 2) Page 43