by Richard Fox
“Pish posh, it’s not like those doughboys can ever figure out the technology. They can barely do more than tie their boots and shoot a gun. Tell everyone what’s inside the Old Forge, Director. They all deserve to know.”
Hale regretted the day he approved Tanner’s application, no matter how useful she might prove in the future.
“The Old Forge carries proto-material for a Crucible gate,” Hale said and then waited for murmurs to die down. “The tech used to create the gates is highly classified and we had to keep its existence aboard the fleet secret. Earth agreed to give up the prototype for a small Crucible gate with a limited range of a few dozen light-years. It was to be the next step in our settlement of the Canis Major.”
“And we can have it functioning in a few months,” Tanner said. “It isn’t difficult to find habitable planets with our sensors in other systems. Let’s build the gate and be done with this place. No loss of life. No risk.”
“No risk? Any data we collect from neighboring systems is years old. What looks like a garden spot could’ve been hit by a comet a month ago and we wouldn’t know until we showed up,” Hale said.
“But the possibility remains that—”
“No.” Hale clasped his hands behind his back, an old habit from his days as commander of the Pathfinders to signal when his mind was made up. “We’re not going to cut and run on a hope when we have Terra Nova right beneath our feet. We’re not leaving until we find out what happened to the first colonists.”
“What about our Pathfinders?” Dr. Bosch asked. “Isn’t recon their sort of thing?”
“Our only lead is on Negev,” Hale told him. “They’re prepping for the mission now.”
“And you’re sure that your information is correct?” Bosch asked, adding, “I am considering the source.”
A hint of emotion broke across Hale’s face.
“I believe the boy. He has no reason to lie.”
“But, Director, Negev is halfway across the system. It will take the Spirit months to make that trip, not to mention the time it would take to off-load all nonessentials and equipment. There were ten thousand people on the first mission. If we do find them all there, it won’t be easy to get them all back here,” Bosch said.
“We need to find them before we can plan their return,” Hale said. We’re not sending the Spirit or any of our other ships. The Pathfinders will take our sprinter ship.”
“The sprinter?” Handley looked up from a data slate he shared with Marie. “It’s not even assembled.”
“They’re Pathfinders, Handley. They’ll find a way or make one.”
Chapter 7
Carson and Greer stood on a catwalk, looking down at a narrow spacecraft. On the deck twenty meters below, construction cranes and robots worked the aft end, installing engines and applying hull plating. Sailors and Carson’s Pathfinders worked the forward—mostly complete—sections. The spacecraft was triple the size of a standard Mule, with more cargo room, hard points, and crew capacity, while still maintaining the ability to make atmospheric entry. The problem was the ship wasn’t fully assembled.
“Some assembly required, my ass,” Carson said. “We’re damn near building the thing from scratch.”
“Well, considering we got it from the Mercury Shipyards a day before we left Earth,” Greer said, “I’d say we’re in pretty good shape. The Raven-class sprinter is the latest in system transport. The prototype did the Mars-Europa-Titan circuit in just under five days.”
“That one was put together. I don’t see any of the Mercury engineers here to make sure this one works,” Carson said.
Sparks flew from the frigate’s extended port wing where crews were busy attaching hull plating to the exposed skeleton frame. A team of engineers surrounded the rear of the ship, inspecting and running tests on its twin drives. Two teams of technicians were focused on the two sensor clusters at the nose and along the dorsal beam. Carson couldn’t count the number of bots moving over and under the hull, adjusting sections of hull, welding, or carrying equipment to the work crews.
Greer leaned forward, pressing her forearms against the catwalk’s handrails. “Honestly, I didn’t think I’d ever get to see one in action. Some other project kept bumping her production schedule back. Wasn’t until Hale finally put his boot in their asses that the yard dogs pushed her off the line.”
“So, when can we launch?”
Greer blew out a long breath. “Propulsion system is good to go, but I’d like to give the navigation computers a little more time to chew on the data from Spirit’s core. Tooling around in vacuum won’t be an issue, but if you have to push her into atmo, things could get a little interesting. I’d like another week to get her airfoils and stabilizers up to spec.”
“Too long,” Carson said, shaking her head. “What about weapons?”
“The Ravens are shipped bare so their units can customize them for specific mission requirements.”
“What’s its payload?”
“She can carry a Rover. According to the original mission brief, we’re supposed to have one somewhere, but it’s in storage.”
“I’m sure it’ll need wrench time too.”
“Probably.”
“So, she’s weak for a full atmo drop, what about one equivalent to Mars? Could she handle that? I mean, without a miracle and a prayer.”
“As she’s configured now?” Greer pursed her lips and shrugged. “Take off and land, some light maneuvering. The bots are welding on the support struts and hull plates, but those require an eighteen-hour fit-test.”
“We’ll do the checks on the way to Negev. Have the Rover delivered. We’ll assemble that on the way too.”
Greer chuckled. “You Pathfinders are really something else.”
Carson gave her a sideways grin. “That’s what they say.”
Greer straightened. “Well, if you want a miracle, I’d better get to work.”
“One more thing,” Carson said as the pilot turned to leave. Greer turned, eyebrows raised. “Does she have a name?”
“Just a serial number.”
“We’ll have to fix that.”
“On the way?”
****
Nunez ducked as another round of sparks shot out from the panel above. On the other side of the panel, Moretti cursed, stepping back. He slapped the bulkhead and glared at Nunez.
They were in one of the sprinter ship’s corridors, surrounded by a mess of cables, fiber-optic lines, and crates of circuits.
Shaking his head, Nunez leaned forward, inspecting the medic’s work. One of the cables Moretti had been attempting to install lay draped over the panel’s edge, the end jammed into what was clearly the wrong receptacle. A second, different-colored cable was jammed into a second receptacle adjacent to the first.
“No, no,” Nunez said, pulling both cables free. “This one goes there, that one goes…wait.” He held up the end of one cable, inspecting the metal cylinder at the end. “You’re not even using the right capacitor. I told you—use the C-junction clamps. The Gs can’t handle the load. I thought you said you were good at repairing things?”
Moretti crossed his arms. “If it’s bleeding, I can fix it. Arteries, bone, muscle—I can understand those. This mess here doesn’t make any sense to me at all.”
Nunez pulled off the metal collars and moved to an equipment crate at the other side of the corridor. “You know, we’re supposed to be having our ‘Welcome to Terra Nova Party’ right about now. Booze, maybe some little paper umbrellas. Some colony chicks waiting to hear about the wonders of the galaxy and how yours truly conquered them all. Instead, it’s mutant doughboys, missing colonists, and dangerous, half-assed missions into the unknown. Catch.”
Moretti caught the smaller clamp with both hands. “Not to mention the company.”
“You mean the chief? I’m actually starting to like her. I mean, she did save our asses down there. What’s your beef with her anyway?”
The medic sniffed, looking down a
t the cable as he twisted the clamp onto the end. “Let’s call it a little bit of doubt.” He reached into the panel to attach the cable. “Doubt and—”
The panel erupted in another shower of sparks, followed by a thin trail of smoke that curled out of the opening. Moretti jumped back, throwing the cable on the deck and letting out a string of angry curses.
Nunez waved the smoke aside, coughing. “That’s odd. Should’ve been a negative sump junction. Looks like we’re going to need some fresh cable.” He pulled his head back and looked at the medic. Moretti’s face was red with anger.
“I’ll get it.” Nunez said. “Why don’t you take five?”
****
Outside the frigate, Popov sat on one of the many empty storage crates littering the deck of Spirit’s main bay, watching Birch maneuver his powered lifter suit into position. The exo-skeleton of the PLS wrapped around Birch’s body, effectively adding another four feet to his height. The top section of the suit was removable, for work in pressurized and non-pressurized environments, and Birch had elected to leave it open. The entire suit, including the large mechanical grippers and thick powerful legs, were controlled by the sergeant’s body movements. He reached forward and the suit’s grippers clamped down onto the twin-barreled external weapons turret.
“You really think it’ll work?”
Birch looked down from the suit and shrugged. “Both the Mule turret system and the Raven’s external hard-points are designed to be modular. Now whether or not this old gauss system will communicate with the Raven’s advanced software? I guess we’ll find out soon enough. Did you find the code patch yet?”
“I found a driver that’s three generations out-of-date,” Popov said. “Need to recode it by hand.”
Birch lifted the turret from its container, then turned and moved across the deck, raising the weapon system over his head. One of his Gremlins zipped past the turret to orbit the recess on the Raven’s hull that the weapon would, in theory, slide into. Carefully, Birch lowered the turret into place, leaning out to look around the turret as he neared the hull. The drone began welding several connections from the underside of the turret to the Raven’s external feeds. A minute later, the turret slid smoothly into its recessed cradle and the drone set about activating a series of retention clamps around the base.
“Nicely done, Sarge,” Popov said as Birch stepped back from the hull.
“One of the great things about military hardware—most of the time, they’re plug and play.”
The Gremlin floated level with Birch’s face, lights flashing as it chirped.
Birch appeared to listen as the drone sounded off, then waved his hand toward the frigate. “Then apply the pneumatic-ring bypass. The protocols should be in the Spirit’s servers.”
The drone chirped and tiny lights near the lenses seemed to wink at the man before it floated off to hover about the turret once again.
Popov raised an eyebrow. “Problems?”
“He thinks there could be a risk of some harmonic dissonances caused by firing the turret that could disrupt the Raven’s system when it fires.”
“So we shoot that thing and we could lose life support?”
“We shoot the thing and the wing shears off. Or several other less catastrophic possibilities. Engineers don’t like the ‘slap a gun on it’ way of thinking—not since the First World War where pilots blew off their own propellers before someone invented an interrupter gear. Then again, if it comes down to needing to shoot something or take a hit, I’d rather run the risk of a few minor system hiccups over not being able to defend ourselves out there.”
Sergeant West came around the side of the frigate, catching Popov’s attention. He locked eyes with her, giving her the classic NCO “shouldn’t you be doing something” stare. Popov hopped off the crate, picked up a wench from the deck, and moved toward the Raven.
“Your drone is pretty responsive,” Popov said to Birch.
“I’ve made a few modifications to them over the years,” Birch said, powering down the lifter. “I’ve almost got all the kinks worked out, but he can still be a little—” the drone stopped working, spun almost as if it was looking at Birch, and gave him a long, high-pitched beep “—temperamental.”
Popov grinned. “I see that.”
“He’s one of a kind…for now.” Birch pushed the suit’s safety bar over his head and the panels over his waist and legs folded open. He jumped out, and the dog tags inside his shirt popped out of his collar. Pathfinders always wore two: one to remain on those that fall in battle, the other to be carried by the slain’s commander and the loss recorded. On Birch’s chain was a thick cluster of tags wrapped in black tape, two silver ones, and a gunmetal Templar cross. Birch pressed the cross to his lips before he stuffed it all back down his shirt.
Popov stopped her coding, her mind trying to register why Birch would have so many dog tags…his old team. Birch had lost all five members of his team to an ambush, then gone on to recover the wounded armor soldier and complete the team’s original mission. He still carried their tags.
I am the greenest Pathfinder in the entire Corps and look who I’m talking to, she thought.
“They aren’t easy to acquire in the first place, not to mention the amount of work that goes into upgrading them. Took me almost two years to get them to where they could work a mission with almost complete autonomy. But I’ve got spare parts to make more and I can clone their operating systems and decision protocols easy enough.”
“Thought the Corps wasn’t big on equipment alteration.”
“They’re not,” Birch grunted. “But all the team leaders I’ve served with usually tend to give me a lot of leeway in how I do things.”
“Because of your medal?”
“Because I get results.”
“Seems like everyone on this mission has done something notable but me. Carson hasn’t spoken to me since we came back aboard. Kinda makes me wonder…” She trailed off.
Birch raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“You know, if she’s having second thoughts about her team’s roster. I’ve heard of team leaders completely scrapping their rosters and bringing in people they want.”
“Despite the considerable lack of Pathfinders to choose from out here, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“It’s just…I’m not used to this. I saw that body down there and I just froze. I’m not like you or West. Both of you—hell, the rest of the team—have seen plenty of action. I thought I was ready for it,” Popov scoffed, shaking her head. “And I blew chunks on my very first engagement.”
“And you think no one else on the team lost their lunch the first time they came under enemy fire? That we all just ran into battle, steeled veterans? We’ve all been there. In fact, I’d have been worried if you weren’t nervous. It would’ve meant you didn’t understand the situation.”
Popov laughed.
“The fact of the matter is you stayed with the team and you never gave up. You didn’t crack or fold under the pressure. I’ve seen men and women, some of the best fighters the Corps ever produced, crumble as soon as the fight started to deteriorate. From what I’ve seen, I’m not worried about you. Staying in the fight, just like you did, makes all the difference.”
“Maybe,” Popov said, looking down at the wrench as she turned it over in her hands. “But I’m not like you. I know what you did on Fredericksburg. Dragging that armor solider three miles out of hostile territory while under constant fire, then holding them off until they could evac both of you. I don’t think I could do that alone.”
“I wasn’t alone.” Birch touched his heart. “Saint Kallen was with me the entire time.”
He then produced a tablet from a cargo pocket and started tapping commands. A soft hum filled the air around them as the turret came online. The twin-barrel cannons lifted up and the turret spun clockwise, then back counterclockwise. As it completed its second revolution, the entire thing jittered, followed by several mecha
nical clunks from inside the turret. Sparks shot out from a panel along its base and smoke curled into the air.
Popov stepped back, craning her head up to see. “Uh, is it supposed to do that?”
****
Four hours—four long, expletive-filled hours—later, Carson and West stood in the sprinter’s small bridge behind the two pilots. Dirt and sweat covered all four, and Carson knew the entire crew was in desperate need of some rack time. She was proud of her team; only Pathfinders could handle going from a botched mission to hours on end of complex engineering work.
The Enduring Spirit’s large cargo-bay doors loomed ahead, orange safety strobes flashing at the corners. The deck had been cleared of all nonessential personnel and equipment and the crew of Raven 6-C-974 had completed all their preflight checklists.
“OK.” Lieutenant Oscar Lincoln, Greer’s new copilot, adjusted his helmet. “I think we’re ready.”
“Signal, Spirit,” Greer said.
The pilot tapped a screen. “Spirit Control, Raven 6-Charlie-974, preflight complete, standing by to depart.”
A second later, Director Hale’s face appeared on the screen. “Raven 6-Charlie-974, all systems green?”
Lincoln coughed. “Status board looks like a Christmas tree, sir, but all critical systems are green.”
“I understand. If we had time for more shakedown, I’d gladly give it to you, but we don’t. I want you gone before we clear the planet’s horizon and before we’re in line of sight with Negev. If there are any prying eyes over there, I don’t want them to see your launch. Chief Carson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your mission is recon, in and out. We’re not looking to announce ourselves before we have to. Find some sign that the colonists are out there and alive and report back. I need information, not heroes. Understood?”
“Received and understood, sir.”
“Good. Godspeed. Hale out.”
The connection terminated before Carson could respond and Hale’s image vanished from the screen.