Cloak of War

by Casey Calouette

  Yao, myself, and Colby all stare down at it.

  “This,” Henna says as she turns the valve on its side, “is a lithium salt control valve. The valve surface was damaged by that kinetic round. It’s out of service.”

  One side of the valve has a gouge, like someone spooned the metal away.

  “We’ve got spares?” Yao says. He runs a finger through the gouge.

  “Nope.” Henna shakes her head. “We burned through our reserves. Without this valve, we’re down by about 12 percent bounce efficiency.”

  I shrug. “That’s it?”

  Henna looks at me like I’m an idiot. “That means 12 percent less bounce range, 12 percent more energy requirements, and a helluva lot more stress on the other valves.”

  “If one more goes down…” Colby says, and lets the words trail off.

  I stare at it, as if somehow that would make it better. The valve itself is barely big enough for my fist to go into.

  “We’ll be down to the emergency level of rations now,” Yao mumbles. His gaze is far off, like he’s counting in his head. “Reactor levels will start approaching critical, reaction mass will drop quickly. Do we even have enough to get back?”

  Twelve percent. Doesn’t seem like much right? We basically lost one day of travel for every seven days, except it took us the same quantity of energy and supplies to get there.

  “But by the time we run out, we’ll be into ConFed space. Hell, by that point we might even run into another Orca or even one of the frontier fleets. We don’t need enough to get a refit. Just enough to get close,” I say.

  Yao looks up from the valve at me and then at Colby and Henna. He furrows his brow then looks away from us all. “Is the captain…?”

  I shake my head. “Doctor says he’s down for the count.”

  “Then…” Yao stops and rubs his forehead with his bony fingers. He closes his eyes tight, as if to think harder. “Can we, I mean, do we…Jager, what do you think?”

  And then all three have their eyes on me. Yao is in command with the captain down. Even though he is doing the prudent thing and asking for advice, it feels like he’s deferring the decision to me. I grab a tablet and start hammering numbers out.

  It’s one thing to think of command, to ponder the decisions others have made before you. It’s an entirely different thing to walk the path, alone, and decide for yourself.

  “Full rations. No. Half rations, no. Uh, naval regs minimum…” I double-check my column. “Yeah, if it holds.”

  And there it is. At the mercy of one valve.

  Henna nudges the valve with her hand. “If one more pops, we’ll lose even more efficiency.”

  “The mission,” Yao says. His eyes are distant.

  “We can do it.” I have a hunch. It will work. They are my numbers; I know they are good. We’d just have to ease up on the angular bounce a little bit.

  “Cutting it close, aren’t we?” Colby says. She doesn’t seem to disapprove or approve.

  Am I? Is that a part of me trying to impress Hallverson or even Colby? “First Officer Yao, you have the command. It’s your call.”

  Yao looks distant for a moment. “Yes, yes, we will continue.”

  I can’t say I feel inspired by his tone. Nor, judging from the look on Colby’s and Henna’s faces, do they. But we are right and, through it all, we do have a mission. Not to kill the Queen but to stop that flow of ammo. I think on the fact that we might be the only one to make it through. What if we are the ship that decides the war?

  The next transit through the nexus point is a damned bit easier than the others. The defensive stations are older, the ships defending the point even more decrepit. The only thing we can guess is they are tossing everything they have at our frontier. Is that the gambit? Open us a hole? Or are we opening a hole for the fleet?

  It’s hard to gauge things like these when thousands of warships fight over hundreds of light-years. It’s a statistical anomaly. A war of numbers. One ship, no matter how valiant, can’t decide the war. But a statistically significant quantity doing just a bit more than average can eventually turn the tide. There are no heroes here, just statistics.

  Yao and I rotate watches. As long as the watches are, they are even longer on short rations. A man can deal with a lot of shit with a full stomach. But now we are hungry all the time. Literally for every waking moment. Eating is a temporary patch, and then the cravings start again.

  Anytime my eyes close, I dream of Osakan freighter-raised beef. The sort you only get for a week or so when those tubby ships dock up. Those cows never get to walk, and the zero-g makes every muscle equally marbled. It’s perfection on a plate. I picture every angle of the steak and always awaken to soy protein isolate combined with Nutrient Paste #7. Moo.

  Each day we bounce farther, but each day is a day closer to getting back. We seem to be in the heartland of the Tyrolean Protectorate. The defenses are porous—hell, nonexistent. It’s like crossing from one neighbor’s yard to the other.

  But still we are pinched thin. Yao and I lay out ideas for hitting that orbital facility. With any luck, it’ll take a couple of torpedo strikes to zip through it. The big question is defenses. What is left there to stop us?

  In my brief off time, either I’m reading more of the log, which gives me strength knowing that we can survive. Or I’m with Colby. A reason for me to survive.

  What started as a quick romp has grown into…well, something more. I don’t know quite what. As often as I not, I just hold her. Or we talk. I tell her about my family, my fraternity, my plans for the future. She mostly listens, but sometimes she talks.

  She never speaks of the past, before the Orca, only of a hesitant and fleeting idea for the future.

  It gives me faith. But sometimes it’s like loving a ghost.

  Two days out from the target system and Hallverson is still under sedation. Dr. Mohammad simply shakes his head when I ask when Hallverson will be back. It feels odd, yet strangely liberating. But even though he isn’t on the bridge, we still feel his presence.

  Yao comes to my bunk. We are just shy of a day out from the target system.

  “Karl,” Yao says. His face is tight; his cheekbones stand out like a mask from the Day of the Dead. The lack of calories is hitting us all, but he was thin as a reed to begin with. “I need to ask you a kindness.”

  I swing my legs out and stand by his side. He is diminished, withered. I simply nod.

  “You.” His eyes grow wet. “You will take us in?”

  I stand mute for a moment. He is the first officer, the one in charge. “Yao, but—”

  He looks away out of shame maybe, or just fear. How many times can you stare death in the eye and then do it again with everyone’s fate on your shoulders?

  “Please.” His voice is a whisper above the sound of the ventilation.

  “I’ll do it.”

  He gives me a sad smile, like you give someone at a funeral. “I’ll get the watch ready.”

  It takes me a second to realize that now, and maybe for the rest of the tour, the weight is on my shoulders. The weight of living, and maybe of the dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  When I was a kid, we used to climb into the old evac suits and wait for the cattle freighters to come in. A normal bulk freighter would get unloaded in zero gravity, but those cows couldn’t handle that. So they’d have to equalize the gravity between the ship and the orbital.

  Those old evac suits were like a beach ball with arms. We’d practically swim inside of it. Then, just at the right moment, those gravity fields would mesh. We’d get bounced around off the ceiling, floor, walls, even each other.

  It was a blast. Like a human bouncy ball.

  I feel exactly like that now, except without the fun of bouncing around.

  Our last three transits have been through empty systems. Not entirely devoid of life—all have colonies on those rocky worlds that the Tyroleans like best. But the heavy defenses or massive ship traffic—nada. Quiet as
can be. It seems as if every boxer has gone out to another fight.

  What worries me is: Where? Yao and Colby are of the opinion that the Tyrolean fleet is out, striking at our frontier. At this point, we are almost halfway through Tyrolean space. It’s barely a half-dozen jumps to get to Tyrol Prime.

  Not that we’ll be going there.

  When I come onto the bridge for my watch, it feels like I’ve hardly stepped off. We’ve kept the bridge crew rotation with each of us swapping who covered for Hallverson. Which means every other watch is a double.

  My crew comes on and takes positions. Yao waits until I’ve taken in the displays.

  “Mr. Yao?”

  Yao gives me a weak smile. “We’re seeing bounce traffic headed both in and out of the system. It’s a popular place, eh?”

  “It ain’t a party till we arrive,” I say back. The humor buoys Yao up a bit. “Oh, could you ask the cook to give a full ration for the next meal? We’ll be in suits soon after, and it might be a while.”

  Yao nods, and the gloom drops back down onto him like a raincloud rolled over. “It’s that time.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Yao leaves the bridge, and I take it in. My bridge crew is already wearing vacuum suits. We discussed it at the end of the last watch. I want my team, not the primary bridge crew.

  The display shows a whole lot of nothing nearby. Farther out, things get murky. Our sensors catch the rebound from ships bouncing in system.

  “Raj, make a plot to the nexus point. Maximum distance. Stick me below it if possible. Katzen, emergency spread, but I don’t plan on firing torpedoes, not unless we’re in trouble. Vidas, get with Henna, make sure she’s ready.”

  The crew acknowledges the orders, and then I wait. The crew earned that full ration meal. I’ll damn well give them time to eat it in peace. Half an hour later, Hartford brings up the bridge’s meal.

  Deep space rations. Yum. Condensed nutrient paste. Soy and salmon sticks. Cocoa slurpy. At this point in the patrol, it might as well be filet mignon. The slurpy is my favorite part.

  Katzen crunches into one of the salmon sticks, and a grin grows on his face. He turns to Raj. “There was a big fight at the seafood restaurant.”

  Raj cocks her head and looks at Katzen like he’s an idiot. “What?”

  Katzen chuckles over the fishy bits in his mouth. “Three fish got battered.”

  Raj groans.

  I leave the bridge with the excuse that I have to get my suit. But really I set out to find Colby. She is exactly where she should be, monitoring the cloaking gas pumping system. She looks surprised to see me, and I think she might even be blushing, just a bit.

  “Help me into my suit, eh?” I say.

  She grasps the suit and helps me wiggle into it. There are other maintenance personnel around, so we can’t get much more intimate. “Jager, you ready?”

  Am I? I didn’t have to come down here to get my suit on. Mentally, I am ready. Emotionally, I’m a wreck.

  “Hey? Hey?” Colby gives me a mock slap. She grasps my cheeks with her hands and looks me right in the eyes. Her fingers are cold. “Don’t lose focus. Do your job. One step at a time.”

  I nod quickly. She knows. Of course she knows.

  “Now go. There’ll be plenty of time after…” Colby lets the words hang, but I know what she means.

  Then, to my surprise, she gives me a peck on the cheek. “Now get off my maintenance deck.”

  Raj has the plot waiting. I climb into the captain’s chair and settle into it. “Sound the alarm. Seal the ship. Prepare to bounce. Action stations.”

  Hatches thud closed. Echoes of footsteps ripple through the steel hull. The lighting drops down just a bit, and we are alone.

  “Engage the plot once we land, deploy gas immediately. Katzen, prepare to fire the surprise.”

  Katzen grins back and nudges Raj.

  “Bounce.”

  The Orca flickers for that brief moment as the drive spools, and for an instant it’s a brilliant diamond in the black of space. We land beneath a wicked concentration of defensive stations and a picket line of smaller ships.

  They aren’t big enough to be full-blown destroyers. Each has a bulbous back end with a few small turrets gracing the front. A few hold tight to the nexus point, but a dozen more are in orbits all around. The closest is about thirty kilometers off our port bow.

  The hull groans a long, somber sound. A split second later comes the thudding of a torpedo being fired out of the rear tubes.

  “Surprise is a go!” Katzen says.

  “Sauce is on!” Vidas calls.

  I lean forward in my seat and watch.

  Our plan is pretty simple. That little surprise we shot out? All of our waste products. Boxes of empty rations. Foil packs. Even some rotten cabbage. It isn’t a weapon or an attempt to hide our landing. But just something to confuse them. A red herring, or at least cases of empty Tsarist Combine herring.

  But they don’t know that.

  Vector lines light up our screen, and cones of escape suddenly narrow on our screens. Those small ships blast with an amazing amount of thrust. My throat tightens as I watch our opportunity for maneuvering shrink.

  A few of the lines shift, and the arcs of their course send them toward our debris pile. Three of those little hunters, to be precise.

  I grin as I watch it. All we have to do is sow a kernel of doubt. Why would we jettison garbage upon landing? Maybe we are hurt? Maybe we had a malfunction? If that was the case, those three ships might get an easy kill on a crippled Orca.

  Except we are steadily pulling away, and as an added bonus, the other hunters stop accelerating. I’m giddy with excitement as I watch my ruse work.

  Thirty minutes pass. Raj looks at me, waiting for the order to bounce.

  I study the screen and watch as those hunters deploy drones, sweep with energy beams, and even fire kinetics into our trash.

  “If we bounce now, they’ll know we’re alive. So we won’t.”

  Raj wrinkles her brow and glances over at Katzen. “Uh—”

  “Hold course.”

  And so we do. Those hunters search and dart about like tiny fish trying to find a bite to eat. Our velocity isn’t much, nor can we accelerate enough to really escape. So instead we watch.

  Some of the hunters bounce deeper into the system. A rook even comes in near the nexus point and fires off a dozen drones. None of the drones come near us.

  How much ordnance and time will they waste looking for us?

  At this point, I’d give my two front teeth to be on the bridge of those ships as they suck in empty ration boxes and cubes of human waste. Some Tyrolean commodore must be tearing his hair out, wondering where the hell we are.

  Good for them.

  The bastards.

  A part of me hopes Hallverson will wake, pat me on the back, and take the mantle. But another part…good God, I can’t wait to keep going.

  That is the part I’m afraid of. The last time I had a ship of my own, things hadn’t gone well. Not that it wasn’t already a shitshow, but I have no intention of repeating myself.

  Patience.

  ***

  So for three days, we watch those Tyrolean hunters zip and zoom and spread out in ever-widening circles. Finally, they return to their stations. Unfortunately, about half bounce out and don’t return. I have a hunch they are headed the same place we are.

  We soak up all the data we can. Ships are moving in and out of the system through another nexus point—one headed directly back toward ConFed space.

  It’s time. Our rations are already thin, something my stomach reminds me after every crappy meal.

  The eyes of the crew are on me as I walk to the bridge. Everyone sleeps in spacesuits, and we keep the hatches closed. One by one, they slide out of bunks and onto the deck. I don’t have to tell them it’s time. They seem to know.

  I push through the hatch and give Yao a salute. “Mr. Yao.”

  “Mr. Jager.” Yao slides
off the captain’s platform. Not once have I ever seen him in that chair. Never.

  “I’ve got aft fire control. The bridge is yours.” Yao leaves, and it’s just me on that platform now.

  “Raj, did the doctor get the captain into a suit?”

  Raj nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “Right, are we ready?”

  The bridge crew calls back as ready stations. Then, one by one, every station in the ship sounds back. Reactor. Bounce drive. Engineering. Maintenance. Fire control stations. Torpedomen.

  At last, those muscled arms will have a chance to pound out some torpedoes.

  “Let’s keep it simple, folks. We launch on land, wiggle into some sauce, and survive until we can bounce. Got it?”

  Raj lays in the course to the facility and a course out. Katzen plots a firing pattern for all of our loaded torpedoes, six in total. Vidas preps out contingency plans for rerouting power and utilities. Kuang watches the backup on the comms panel.

  I don’t plan on making any personal calls to these bastards.

  Truth is, I’m scared. When I had that missile boat, I was too damned dumb to know what I was getting into. This time it’s all me, and I know it.

  “Sound the alarm,” I say. My throat is parched. This is way beyond any boxing match I’ve ever stepped into. You walk away if you lose a boxing match. If I fuck up here, there’s no walking away.

  “Bounce.”

  The spool-up takes a couple of seconds. Behind us, those sentries will be picking up an energy signal, and the moment we break free from the cloak, they’ll know exactly what happened.

  Bounce.

  Lights explode on the view screen. It’s like dropping down in the midst of a carnival tucked in tight to a shipping hub. Freighters are lined up in row after row, all tied into a spoke leading to an enormous hub. As luck would have it, we drop between two hubs about a hundred meters off a line of freighters.

  The defenses are epic. Minefields above and below, laser turrets farther out, and to top it off, about two dozen of those nasty little hunters. Already they are gaining speed.