by Eric Nylund
Incoming comm on alpha channel from Callisto: Las Vegas, prepare to be boarded. Offer no resistance and we will evacuate your injured to Lawrence Space Station. Any tricks and we open fire.
Comm (alpha channel): This is Las Vegas. Understood. None of my crew will fire.
A moment passed and then more strobe lights flickered along the Callisto’s flank, indicating her cargo bay doors opening.
A second shudder traveled the length of the docking passage—from the Las Vegas into Callisto.
On the port side of Callisto explosions blossomed outward from inside, obliterating her midsection from decks fourteen to three. Armor plates and bodies tumbled into vacuum . . . along with plumes of gray-green reactor coolant.
Both ships spun out of control.
The docking passage between the destroyers strained and twisted—and the connection snapped.
Atmosphere continued to pump out of Las Vegas’s bay, propelling her farther from the now crippled Callisto.
The armor on the aft quarter of Callisto glowed dull red as her fusion reactor and secondary fission reactor ran rampant and melted.
Thrusters on the Las Vegas puffed so she matched the pitch and roll of the enemy vessel . . . but turned so her prow faced the enemy’s obliterated midsection.
Missile silo doors on Las Vegas opened.
Transmission (alpha channel): This is Las Vegas. You are ordered to immediately seal missile doors and open Security Port 347 and allow our computer to take control of your vessel. Comply—or I will blast your ship in two.
ANALYSIS
* * *
The UNSC was not prepared for brutal ship-to-ship combat in the early years of the insurgency. The light destroyer class, for example, had none of the armament one recognizes as standard today. The titanium-A armor and magnetic accelerator cannons, however, would soon be developed as industrial priorities shifted from building . . . to killing.
More problematic, however, was the application of those new technologies to three-dimensional battles in the vacuum of space.
The use of nuclear weapons in the battle with Callisto was not expected. It was believed that fissile detonations in space were nearly useless. Such detonations are extremely low-yield and produced reduced electromagnetic pulse effect in a vacuum environment (very little bang for the buck, as they say).
But the fact that the insurgency knew this and had planted a nuclear device ahead of time in an asteroid that provided the reactive mass to outright destroy one UNSC ship and cripple two more was an astonishingly forward piece of military thinking.
More amazing, however, was Cole’s tactical leap of insight. UNSC officers and merchant men of the era had a near-religious reverence for Common Space Law—most especially pertaining to rendering aid to vessels in distress. The fact that Cole faked a distress signal to lure his opponent closer was both a stroke of genius and a breach of protocol so severe that UNSC CENTCOM dithered over whether to award him the Legion of Honor or have him court-martialed (ultimately, they did neither, to avoid difficult precedent). Cole’s moral strategy was drawn from centuries of ambiguity in dealing with the idea of “enemy combatants” and inhabits a gray legal and ethical area, even in retrospect.
Emblematic of Cole’s later tactical thinking, we see flexibility with regard to his ship’s functional design. He had crewmen remove Las Vegas’s last Ares missile from its silo and transport it to Cargo Bay 5—where it could be fired directly into the enemy vessel at point-blank range, bypassing her external armor, and destroying her FTL drive and reactor coolant systems.
Cole noted later in his personal log that he would never again be able to send a distress signal in enemy territory. “No one would believe it,” he stated. “Surrender, quite literally, is no longer an option for me.”
The UNSC, the insurgency—all humanity had been awakened from complacency; we were evolving and learning how to fight again.
Cole was evolving as well, jettisoning antiquated ethical qualms—and learning to do whatever it took to win.
SECTION FIVE: THE OUTER COLONY INSURGENCY: THE
GORGON V. THE BELLICOSE (2495–2504)
* * *
Cole was quickly promoted (although not without some protest) to first lieutenant and then commander and given a small corvette to patrol the Outer Colonies. After a dozen successful engagements in five years against insurgent forces and privateer fleets he was promoted to captain and received the honor of commanding the first heavy-destroyer-class vessel armed with a magnetic accelerator cannon (MAC), the UNSC Gorgon.
In Cole’s personal logs he attributes his success more to luck than skill in battle, and he wonders if his rapid promotion was warranted. He also notes that insurgent atrocities may have greased the public relations aspect of his promotions.
Cole might have sensed part of the truth. The Navy had latched onto him as a figurehead to quell an unease percolating through the Inner Colonies. Many of the Inner Colonies were beginning to wonder if it was just to hold on so tightly to their Outer Colony cousins.
Earth needed a hero to distract its populace from an inconvenient moral confusion.
Meanwhile, the insurgency had learned how to hide, strategize, and terrorize as well. They had organized (by theft, customization of industrial vehicles, or by wholesale construction of their own ships) a sizable fleet.
Cole’s record was not without its blemishes. In particular, the UNSC Bellerophon (a frigate captured by the insurgency and renamed the Bellicose), engaged Cole thrice: escaping twice, and once, fighting him to a draw.
Preston Cole’s otherwise impressive military record did not come without a high personal cost.
Personal communiqué from Cole, Preston J. (UNSC Service
Number: 00814-13094-BQ) to Volkov, Inna (Civilian ID#: 9081-
613-7122-P) Routing Trace: UNITY 557 March 9, 2500
(Military Calendar)
Inna,
Your last letter caught me by surprise.
Is this how you truly feel? After all these years? A divorce?
I know your father would never pressure you into leaving me, so I have to assume this is how you feel, or that there is another person involved . . . or that it is somehow my fault.
Yes. That is it. It is my fault.
You never wanted a long-distance military marriage—and neither one of us expected to endure three extensions of my tour of duty. I cannot imagine how you must feel, so far away, with me in danger, not knowing if your husband will ever come back, and always having to wear a brave face for the military social elite that orbit your family.
I wish I could give this up and come home, be a husband for you, and a father for our children who are growing up not even knowing me, apart from the official broadcasts that are sent to Earth.
But the Navy needs me, too. Just by being here, I am saving lives . . . saving us all by stopping these border conflicts from flaring into full civil war.
Maybe you don’t want to understand that, or can’t. But I do. I have to stay.
I will always love you. I will always love the kids.
Please reconsider your decision.
I await your final word but I stand by my duty.
Ever yours,
Preston
0700 HOURS JUNE 2, 2501 (MILITARY CALENDAR) UNSC
DESTROYER GORGON THETA URSAE MAJORIS SYSTEM
BRIDGE LOG (PRIMARY, VIDEO, SPATIAL ENHANCEMENTS=TRUE)
Captain Cole did not sit in his padded chair on the raised center of the Gorgon’s bridge. Instead, he paced, stopped to glance over the shoulders of his officers at their stations, but otherwise kept moving like a shark.
Cole’s temples were tinged gray. Where there had once been laugh lines, crisscrosses of concentration now crinkled his eyes. Other than these telltale signs of strain, however, he was the model of calm and thoughtfulness; confidence emanated from him like a magnetic field.
The UNSC Gorgon had engaged in two battles in the last seventy-two hours—so when
it crossed paths with the insurgent-captured Bellerophon, the Gorgon had severely depleted munitions and a weary crew.
They battled the Bellerophon for the previous 34.7 minutes, peppering one another with Archer missiles, and then the Gorgon slung around a planetoid to come around at the proper angle for a killing shot.
It was a “kill” shot. There was no other possible outcome.
No ship had yet evaded the new magnetic accelerator cannon, which could accelerate a tungsten-alloy slug to a fraction of the speed of light.
A shudder ran through the Gorgon and a flash filled the main view screen, a blurred afterimage of glowing metal that faded into the infrared.
The Gorgon’s AI, Watchmaker, flickered upon his pedestal, a wizened old man holding a huge pocket timepiece with a dozen arms and dials.
“Time on target?” Cole demanded.
Watchmaker’s eyes riveted upon his clock. “Six seconds to impact.”
On the screen the fired MAC slug was visually enhanced so it glowed soft blue—its trajectory a flat line speeding toward the enemy.
“She’s coming about—new course 030 by 090,” Lieutenant Maliki, at Navigation, said. “Her reactors are past the red line.”
The Bellerophon’s desperate acceleration to avoid destruction was useless, because for all practical purposes, compared to the MAC round, the ship stood still.
“Missile fire detected!” Lieutenant Betters, at weapons, announced.
“Won’t do them any good,” Maliki murmured. “At this extreme range we can pick off their missiles with the Helix system.”
But the Archer missiles fired from the Bellerophon prematurely detonated—puffs of fire in the vacuum that made a dotted line in space . . . drawn straight from the Bellerophon to the Gorgon.
One distant explosion smeared across the black of space, however, and ever-so-slightly nudged the line representing the multiton ballistic projectile.
The blue line then closed on the silhouette of the Bellerophon . . . overlapped . . . and continued past the frigate.
“That’s not possible!” Lieutenant Betters said, standing.
“It is possible,” Cole said, “just not very likely.”
“Ballistic tracking confirms,” Watchmaker said. “We missed.”
Lieutenant Maliki turned to face the captain. “They anticipated our firing the MAC, sir? How?”
“A guess,” Cole replied staring at the view screen. “An educated guess, though, because we had the right angle on them. Still . . . incredibly lucky.” Cole frowned. “And a brilliant defensive use of the last of their missiles.”
“Not at all,” Watchmaker quipped. “Those detonations were on a vector traced from the Gorgon to the Bellerophon. A reasonable estimation of the MAC trajectory and a precise gauge of distance.” He snapped his watch shut.
“They can explain how they know so much about our MAC after we capture them,” Betters remarked.
“And how do you propose we do that?” Cole asked. “Status, Lieutenant Maliki?”
“Archer missiles spent, sir,” Maliki replied. “Except silo eight, per your standing order. No remaining MAC rounds. We have seven Pelicans on standby. The AAA Helix guns are spun up and hot.”
Cole stared at the Bellerophon as the frigate slowly turned away.
“Incoming message,” Watchmaker announced, “. . . from the ‘Bellicose.’ Text only.”
“To my station, Watchmaker.” Cole settled into the captain’s chair and turned the view screen so only he could see.
BELLICOSE: I HEARD YOU’VE ALREADY USED YOUR NEW PEASHOOTER
TWICE TODAY. SO THAT WAS YOUR THIRD AND LAST ROUND—
UNLESS YOU’RE GOING TO LOAD UP ONE OF YOUR PELICANS IN
THAT CANNON AND FIRE THAT AT ME?
Cole stabbed his finders into the keyboard, typing back:
GORGON: YOU’RE OUT OF SHOTS, TOO. YOUR MISSILE SILOS ARE
EMPTY.
BELLICOSE: I INVITE YOU TO TAKE A CLOSER LOOK.
Captain Cole considered a moment and then tapped in ambiguously:
GORGON: NOT LIKELY.
BELLICOSE: WELL PLAYED, PRESTON. WE’RE A GOOD MATCH. IF
YOU EVER RETIRE FROM THE UNSC, YOU MIGHT CONSIDER
WORKING FOR THE GOOD GUYS.
GORGON: PERHAPS YOU’D LIKE TO COME OVER HERE AND PERSUADE ME?
A full fifteen seconds passed without reply, then:
BELLICOSE: TEMPTING. BUT ANOTHER TIME, I THINK.
GORGON: I LOOK FORWARD TO IT.
Cole slammed his fist on the arm rest, and yet there was a slight smile on his face.
The Bellerophon continued to turn and her engines flared to life as she moved off.
“Sir, we’re letting them go?” Lieutenant Betters whispered. “That’s the third time that ship has escaped.”
“Three times,” Cole echoed. “Yes. But we’ll cross paths with the Bellerophon—the Bellicose—soon enough. Next time we’ll be ready for her.”
Personal letter from Captain Preston Cole to his brother,
Michael James Cole, September 4, 2501 (Military Calendar)
Michael,
We searched for the Bellicose in five systems, laid ambushes, but have yet to find the vessel. In the meantime, there have been more engagements, with two insurgent corvettes, and one merchant privateer that ONI no doubt will play up back home as “significant strategic victories.”
Not a word of that to anyone else, or these letters will end up so redacted they’ll look like a zebra has thrown up on them. I’m positive ONI is reading this and watching the family . . . and indulging me in this bit of personal communication.
I’m sure the only reason my letters get to you at all is that we’re both playing this their way.
This undeclared war has worn on me and my crew. Before I let the Bellicose become my Moby Dick, I’m putting in to the Lambda Aurigae system on a backwater world called Roost for some long-overdue shore leave.
It’s nice, like home . . . if there were red sand beaches in Ohio. It might make a decent base of operations for the Gorgon in this sector of the Outer Colonies.
I miss the kids and Inna. Still. Sixteen months since the divorce and I think it’s all a nightmare. The hardest thing is not getting any replies from the kids. I’ve sent letters, but I think Inna burns them all.
Please try to get them a message: Tell them I love them.
—P
{Excerpt} Personal letter from Captain Preston Cole
to his brother, Michael James Cole, March 12, 2502
(Military Calendar)
I was talking to Lyra about the Gorgon’s fusion reactor. (You remember her? She owns the bar on the beach? Got her PhD in nuclear engineering and moved here to fish and pour drinks? My kind of lady.)
Discussed nothing classified, just the generalities of plasma physics, and she came up with a way to boost our output by at least 5%.
I think we’ve all underestimated what kind of people come out to the Outer Colonies.
If things ever settle down, you and Molly should see for yourselves. I’m not saying leave the farm—just look.
{Excerpt} Personal letter from Captain Preston Cole
to his brother, Michael James Cole, May 28, 2502
(Military Calendar)
That skirmish at Capella was too damned expensive. Thirty-two men and women lost. After so little insurgent activity for so long . . . I thought they’d given up.
I’ve gotten the okay from CENTCOM on Reach for a month of leave for me and the crew. What could they say? The Gorgon is going to be laid up that long in space dock getting patched up.
I’ll be on Roost. No pressures. Some fishing. Some time with Lyra.
A little slice of paradise in all this purgatory.
Personal letter from Captain Preston Cole to his brother,
Michael James Cole, November 9, 2502 (Military Calendar)
We got married, Michael. Pictures and video attached.
I’m sorry for the surprise. (
Or maybe you’ve known this was coming for a long time, huh?) It was nothing fancy, just a ceremony on the beach performed by the local pastor.
Lyra is happy. She’s pregnant, too.
God, I’m happy for the first time since I can remember. I feel like I’ve finally gotten a real second chance out here.
Even the insurgency seems to have finally calmed down. There’ve been just a few policing actions near Theta Ursae Majoris. Maybe this thing is finally coming to an end.
Classified communiqué from Admiral Harold Stanforth to
Captain Preston Cole June 13, 2503 (Military Calendar)
UNITED NATIONS SPACE COMMAND TRANSMISSION 08871D-00
ENCRYPTION CODE: RED
PUBLIC KEY: FILE / ALBATROSS-SEVEN-LUCIFER-ZENO /
FROM: ADMIRAL HAROLD STANFORTH, COMMANDING OFFICER,
UNSC LEVIATHAN / USNC SECTOR THREE COMMANDER/
(UNSC SERVICE NUMBER: 00834-19223-HS)
TO: CAPTAIN PRESTON COLE, COMMANDING OFFICER, UNSC
GORGON (UNSC SERVICE NUMBER: 00814-13094-BQ)
SUBJECT: TROUBLE
CLASSIFICATION: EYES-ONLY (BGA DIRECTIVE)
This is bad, Preston. Sit down if you’re standing.
There are new orders coming down from CENTCOM, and you’re not going to like them: You’re going to Reach.
Let me start with the hardest thing.
The woman you’ve been having a relationship with for the last seventeen months, one Lyrenne Castilla, is part of the insurgency. Hell, she’s not a part of it; she’s a high-ranking member—we think commanding one of their ships.
ONI has all the details. I’ve seen their intelligence reports, and I believe those usually-lying-through-their-teeth SOBs. They’ve been tracking her insurgent alter ego for a long time and just discovered her civilian identity.
It’s simple: She’s been playing you, Preston.
ONI is going to come after you, too, claiming that she’s been pumping you for classified ship patrol routes and technical information.