Edge of Redemption (A Star Too Far Book 3)

by Casey Calouette

  William turned back to face his crew and tried not to look disheartened. More engineers came running along with men in vacuum suits. He had a hunch it was going to be a long day. But on the plus side, he’d get a stab at some second breakfast. He looked at the growing crowd of engineers and wondered if this was the equivalent of a ship sinking right out of drydock.

  *

  A week later they departed with little fanfare and less reception. Throughout the week more of the stubby pocket frigates detached from the station and sped for points throughout UC space. News and plans were still months old, set into motion as foreseen and unknown. Orders passed down set out guidelines for reaction—Earth was simply too far away to oversee every contingency. Never before had so much relied on so few.

  They passed by freighters, clawed and mauled. Raking damage from mass driver barrages and blooms of carbon black showed the truth of the battles. A particularly mangled Arkhangel class battlecruiser forged past with a gaping hole large enough to drive the pocket frigate into. Somber greetings were made and they passed in opposite directions.

  William scrutinized each ship as it passed by under high power magnification. He wanted to see what the wounds of war from a different front looked like. He’d been on the receiving end of the Hun once before, and of the Sa’Ami recently. Was anything different? Or did they still rely on the massed barrages and simple technology?

  They passed more ships heading for refit and eventually met up with the convoy in orbit around Mars. The dusky red planet was like an iron-stained cueball. The poles glowed white with bands of dirty green streaking through some of the valleys. Ships and cargo arrays were strung out around the planet everywhere. The bladder of intergalactic trade was suddenly stopped and the piss of commerce was holding above.

  He found his convoy just beyond the edge of Phobos in the shadow of the moon. Three bulk freighters: one old enough to house a museum, along with a personnel carrier and a single corvette that looked very similar to the one he’d taken on his way out of Redmond. That beautiful little ship came back to him, Samoan mercenaries and all. It was a bloody business. It was his, if only for a few short weeks. His first real command.

  Now this was his duty, that little pack, strung along to the very edge of UC space. Where beyond only licensed prospectors and the very fringe of society dared to roam. There was a part of him that envied those that went beyond.

  “Send along course plot, please,” William said to Lieutenant Shay. He squirmed in his chair and tried to get comfortable. The bridge was tiny, claustrophobic, like a closet compared to the spaces he’d been on before. With each hand he could lean forward and tap whoever was at either command station. At least he could wake them up easy enough.

  The entire ship was tight, cramped, small. To make it even worse, the main hall between sections was zero gravity—it wasn’t even possible to walk and stretch. He never realized how much he’d miss a simple walk. Judging by his waistline, he’d need to start working it off soon, or find a nanite fat burner. The thought brought him to dinner. The other downside of a small ship was that the scent of every meal wafted and drifted everywhere.

  “Course sent, acknowledgments from all except the, uh, Greater Prosperity of the Rising Ocean.”

  “Who? What?” William leaned and looked over Shay’s shoulder. The ancient freighter appeared to be powered down. “Ping them again please.”

  After the third hail, the pitted and worn freighter finally acknowledged the call.

  “Datastream live please,” William said.

  Screens flashed to life and showed incoming data from the convoy members. Reactors were primed, Haydn’s powered up, and all systems showed nominal. Except for the Greater Prosperity of the Rising Ocean. William shook his head. He had a feeling he’d be babysitting that one.

  “Overlay that name, call it the Grouper,” William ordered.

  Lieutenant Shay nodded with a smile. “Done, they’re reporting startup now.”

  William sat back in his seat and stretched his feet out until they touched on either console. A shadow passed over him and he turned and saw the face of a Marine staring in and gawking at the screens. PFC Grgur Vlasic had his mouth open far enough that William could see his back teeth. “Can I help you, Marine?”

  Vlasic looked back, shook his head and snapped to attention on the other side of the bulkhead. William found the new Marines a bit odd: both Grgur and Igor were from the Serbian colonies. They were also the ship’s cooks, though William wished there was a bit more variety to what they cooked. He could only take so much garlic and paprika essence.

  The Marines were barely enough to form up into a group. Corporal Vale made for an imposing squad leader: beyond the scars, she was heavily muscled and toned. Her service record was impressive—her latest deployment ended when a wire grenade detonated in her face. Now she had an alloy skull and nanite eyes. The only thing more impressive than her service record was her discipline record. Vale Thorisdottir liked to fight. William had chuckled more than once reading through the incident reports.

  “They say they’re ready, Captain.”

  “Very well, send the signal, we’re moving out. Form us up above the group. Give me a nice cluster, Lieutenant.” William wanted everyone close enough that he could cover them with the mass driver batteries. He had every expectation of running into Sa’Ami striders.

  For a moment he felt a sense of resentment. Here he was herding a group of civilians to a system that they didn’t want anymore while other ships were heading to the front. He had the experience they needed, just not the birthplace they wanted.

  “Grouper is lagging,” Lieutenant Shay said, unsurprised.

  The visual display had icons overlaid onto the distant ships. Beyond lay the red disc of Mars with Phobos only visible because a few rays of light scattered from the edge. William knew why Grgur was gawking: it was an impressive sight.

  “Mr. Huron, Haydn primed and ready?” William keyed the comms and asked.

  “Should be, Captain,” Huron replied in the twangy accent of Mars.

  The convoy pulled farther away from Phobos and pointed in a direction far and away from anything. Before them lay almost totally empty space. Civilian traffic seemed to be avoiding leaving the system while any military vessels had transponders shut off. Only the signature of a Haydn blink would betray where anything moved through.

  The Haydn drive worked by clipping the space between gravity waves. All except for the very peaks. When the gravity waves were steep, like near a planet, the blinks would be short. While in deep space a single blink might cover a light year between gravity wells. But the very peak of the wave was still traversed the old fashioned way: with a gravity drive.

  The first blink was another hour out and William took the opportunity to review the drill schedule. Every shift was to be engaged in every manner of battle, emergency, and failure. What a Captain could normally do in half a year he would have to accomplish in a few weeks. Beyond that and he’d enter a zone where the usual patrols had been pulled to the front.

  The deviousness of a few exercises made him smile. Simulated electrical fire followed by a water leak. A vacuum leak inside of the sewage treatment system. Plus the old standby of only failure missions. Situations where there is no possible way to win. He needed to know what Shay was made of, along with Midshipman Bryce.

  “Mr. Bryce, verify Haydn status please,” William said to the young Midshipman.

  Bryce had the good looks of someone who had lived on a planet where the beach lifestyle was the only lifestyle. His accent was slow and ponderous, as if speaking too fast was an insult. His skin was sun stained a few shades darker than everyone else, but in the way that said he’d lived on the beach. Beyond that, though, William sensed an uneasiness in the Midshipman, a reluctance to take command.

  “Five minutes, Captain. The Grouper is claiming they’re ready,” Lieutenant Shay said.

  William keyed the comms and decided now would be a good a time as any
to see how Mr. Bryce behaved. “First drill, folks. Railgun strike, both myself and Lieutenant Shay have been killed. Mr. Bryce has command. Proceed.” He smiled down at Bryce’s blanched face. The Midshipman’s eyes looked to be sucked out of their sockets.

  “But, Captain?”

  “Tut-tut! I’m dead, as is Ms. Shay.” William leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

  The Midshipman between the two with his jaw open. Grgur had popped his head back around and was peeking in once more. Bryce turned quickly to Grgur, but before he could speak, the Marine disappeared.

  “But. I—shit?” Bryce slapped his hands onto the console and looked back up to William and Shay.

  William was glad this was happening now, and not when a real railgun round just punched through the bridge. He looked down at Bryce with a placid face. He had every expectation that the young man would come to grips and settle on a course. Any course really, everything was locked in, all he had to do was say ‘go’.

  A mock medical team burst onto the bridge along with Huron and another maintenance tech. The remainder of the crew performed a quick triage, mechanical and medical, before returning to stations. William waved Huron off from his role on the bridge, he wanted to see what Bryce would do.

  Bryce sat still, shoulders locked forward, like a statue.

  The clock ticked down on the display and finally reached zero. Status indicators for the rest of the convoy pulsed. Comms request came in one after the next. No one would blink until the convoy lead gave the order. William was close, so close, to ending the exercise and verbally thrashing the tanned Midshipman when he finally snapped out of it.

  “Convoy, blink as soon as able,” Bryce said quickly. His head snapped back to William and Shay and back to his console. His fingers wobbled about, seeking for the right bind. “Uh, Engineering, Haydn drive ready?”

  “Haydn clear,” Huron responded.

  Bryce looked back once more. “Blink,” he said, and pushed the key down.

  The starscape shifted an almost imperceptible amount, the blink was short, almost short enough that they could have burned it. On the opposite side, the convoy was building velocity and powering across the next trough. The corvette came in a few moments later. All ships were present except for the Grouper.

  William had a feeling it wouldn’t make it. But what would his Middie do?

  “Convoy, continue to point delta-eight. Formation as ordered,” Bryce said in a more confident tone. He looked from screen to screen and settled back into his chair, looking slightly more in control. A moment later he turned slightly at William with a shade of relief on his face.

  “All clear, Mr. Bryce?” William asked.

  Bryce’s eyes darted from side to side and he nodded slowly. “Uh, yeah, Captain.”

  William sucked in a breath and hit the comms. “Convoy acceleration zero.” He released the key and looked down to Bryce. “I think we’re missing someone.”

  Bryce’s face, which was almost back to full color, dropped to nearly white as he slunk down into his chair. The Midshipman looked between Shay, William, and back to Grgur before hunching himself over his console.

  “Bryce,” William said and waited for the Midshipman to turn. “You did well. Just slow down a bit, you had plenty of time.”

  William looked back to the display and wondered how many more blinks the Grouper would be trolling behind. He also wondered how well Bryce was going to handle everything else thrown at him. Especially when it wasn’t a drill, but that steely time when doing something was better than nothing.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ––––––––

  The smell of garlic with a touch of paprika struck Emilie as something odd to have in the midst of space. The scent was right on the edge of overpowering, the merging point of coughing politely and declining dinner altogether. The hallway was quiet, still, empty. The transport ship had the feeling of a freshly built hotel without any of the fanfare.

  “Why am I here?” Mustafa asked.

  “Because you were invited,” Emilie replied. “And because I pay you.”

  “I should have sent Sala.”

  Emilie glanced over at Mustafa and ignored the remark. The invitation came after the second blink, once they finally reached a burn with sufficient time to allow the Captain to depart his vessel. So far the only communications from the ugly naval vessel was simple, terse, and spartan.

  “So who’s this Captain?” Mustafa asked.

  “William Grace. Rumor is, he’s from Farshore.”

  Mustafa gave a crossways look at Emilie. “Bullshit.”

  Emilie shrugged and stopped at a junction. She turned and followed the wafting waves of garlic down the passage.

  Her mind drifted from the dinner back to her finances. The short week they’d been in transit gave her an opportunity to sit down with static numbers. No more data-dumps from the colonies to mess up her calculations.

  She was locked in—for now, at least. The line between brilliance and idiocy seemed to be coming together. In a moment of reflection, she almost had Mustafa turn around. Almost. She had left everything behind on a gamble, a gamble to get back home, a gamble to be something more.

  “Hold on,” Mustafa said. He reached into his shirt pocket and slid out a black nanite patch the size of a thumbnail. The sides shimmered as he did a quick stick and peel just below his collar. “Can you see it?” He raised his chin.

  Emilie glared at him and shook her head. “Nothing too strong, I hope?”

  “No. Just a little something to take the edge off.”

  She nodded, turned a corner, and found the source of the garlic.

  A table sat in the center of the auxiliary mess with only half of the places set. The tableware had old, slender lines and the edges were adorned in a crisp blue piping—a beautiful reproduction of something found four centuries before. Even the silverware was heavy, almost blocky, with the Krupp logo stamped large.

  A pair of Marines stood behind a buffet heaped with various garlic-scented foods. At the table stood two male Naval officers. One had a hint of command, as if it was coated on with a brush. The other officer stood taller, but seemed more nervous and fidgety. Opposite sat two women, both plump with carbon pads on their temples. Pilots, Emilie thought, and definitely not military.

  Emilie walked slowly and studied the room. A quick nod to the officers and a crisp smile to the civilians. She saw the rank of a Captain, that must be Grace. The two women had the easy grace of Core pilots, and that made sense as this was a Core transport. Both wore a bored look—disconnected, she thought.

  “Crew of the Gallipoli, I assume. I’m Captain Grace.” He smiled and beckoned to a set of open chairs. “I hope you like garlic.”

  Emilie passed the chair he offered and instead sat directly next to him. She glanced at the chair next to the pilots and Mustafa moved in beside them. “Thank you for the invitation,” she said to Captain Grace.

  “It is a custom for the escort to host. We’d have you aboard our ship, but it is a bit cozy,” Captain Grace said.

  “Looks like a rock to me,” Mustafa said.

  Captain Grace smiled and chuckled. “Yes, it is. Accountants these days will toss a crew into anything.”

  “What’s her name?” Emilie asked.

  Captain Grace glanced to the officer next to him, then looked back to the group. “No name, not yet, not until we settle on one.”

  Mustafa snorted and sat next to a cocoa skinned woman with a thin layer of reddish orange stubble on her head. “Mustafa,” he said to her, and held out a hand.

  She regarded the hand as if it was a piece of raw meat and smiled back weakly. “Cordova Wile Bonaparte,” she said.

  Captain Grace nodded to the Marines. “Shall we dine?”

  Emilie admired the plates before her. “Are they originals?” she asked, knowing they weren’t.

  “No, be a bloody million for that,” the other woman said in an accent of cultured English.
>
  “They are still quite exquisite,” Emilie said, gently setting the plates down. Both of the women smiled and the tension slid away in the room. They might only be corporate pilots, she thought, but they still took pride in the ship.

  “What sends you to Winterthur, Ms. Rose?” Cordova asked.

  She was expecting the question, and decided to respond with the simplest answer: the truth. “I purchased all of the Core assets in that sector.”

  The silence in the room leveled the immensity of the purchase.

  She expected that, too. A slight smile, some charm, then she’d have them. “Core is pulling back at the moment, so I saw an opportunity.”

  Cordova tapped the table. “Why would one ever want to retreat to that icy world? Not even a proper pub in the whole city.”

  Emilie smiled politely and glanced at Captain Grace. “It’s where I grew up. How about you Cordova? Where are you from?”

  “New Kingston, Royale Proper.”

  “Ahh, a fine town I’ve heard. Amazing bakeries, yes?” Emilie looked over to Captain Grace. “And you, Captain?”

  Captain Grace stared at the empty plate and glanced at the Marines. His delay was just long enough that she thought about asking again, in case he missed the question.

  “Farshore, though I was raised in Montreal.”

  Mustafa and the pilots exchanged glances and watched Captain Grace as if he was a unique animal.

  “Interesting,” Emilie whispered.

  Captain Grace smiled weakly. No one seemed to have anything to add. The guests took a moment, shifted in their chairs, and relaxed.

  Captain Grace focused on the Marines. “The cuisine tonight is Serbian. Please do enjoy.”

  The Marines descended upon the table with a culture and grace that seemed at odds with the gruff faces and rough demeanor. They looked more like chefs from a prison kitchen than serving haute cuisine. Emilie admired the plating, not top notch, but good enough to get them a line job in Chicago.