by Tim Lebbon
“Are those arms docking towers of some sort?” Mains asked.
“That’s the best guess,” Snowdon said. “There are signs of ships docked along some of them, but there are also hollows in the hull that might be hangars. It’s difficult to tell.”
“You said there were a couple of ships orbiting?”
“There are. Too far away to see in any detail.”
“It’s huge,” Lieder said, awed. Over the last few decades W-Y had started building space habitats, vast structures possessing space drives but intended for orbit around moons or planets. Some of them were even larger than UMF 12, but they were bulky vessels, with little grace or finesse. This Yautja habitat had a smoothness, a startling beauty that Mains knew had a lot to do with its provenance. This was an alien vessel. For all they knew it was older than civilized humankind.
“Keep gathering information,” Mains said. He was getting twitchy—they should have never come so close. In all their time here, he didn’t believe that they had done anything to alert the Yautja to their presence. He had no wish to change that now. This was a silent mission, not an active one.
Brief diversions, such as the fight at Southgate Station 12, might once have invigorated him, but no more. Losing good people only depressed him, and he’d long ago decided that he would rather watch than fight.
“L-T, we’ve got incoming comms from Tyszka’s Star,” McVicar said. Two hundred light years in from the Outer Rim, Tyszka’s Star was the hub at which all Excursionist units were pulled together and trained, and from which every Arrow ship was launched. Communications from there were rare, and opening up receivers for a sub-space signal could cause a flare of Bannon radiation.
If someone was looking in the right direction at the right time, it could give away a ship’s location…
“More attacks?” Lieder asked.
“Maybe. Give us a bit of a nudge.”
“You sure, Johnny?” Lieder raised her eyebrows, and Mains looked around the deck at the others. Faulkner and Snowdon glanced at each other. Cotronis frowned.
“Of course he’s sure,” McVicar said. “Further away we are, the less chance of them seeing us.”
“You know what happens,” Mains said. “They see a splash and they’ll be on to us, but there’s no way we can ignore comms from Tyszka.”
“I’ll shove us along a bit.” Lieder ran some telemetry, calculated a burn, then gave them five seconds. She didn’t check anything with Frodo, and Mains liked her confidence. He also knew that if anything she did might be a risk, the computer would intercede.
* * *
A little less than an hour later, McVicar opened sub-space comms and narrowed to specified Excursionist channel levels. The message from Tyszka arrived, and he fed the signal into the bridge’s system. The voice that greeted them belonged to General Wendy Hetfield herself.
“All units, be aware that Yautja activity over the past ninety days has increased and expanded hugely from the previous several years. The 5th, 9th, 13th, 17th, and 23rd Excursionists have all been involved in contacts, and the 11th is missing in the Holgate system. Each contact so far has involved no more than three Yautja individuals.
“There are also reports of at least seven Yautja ships being sighted within the Sphere by other military and civilian observers. If seven are seen, there might actually be seventy. Be aware, remain alert, keep channels open. For those units currently surveilling Yautja craft, any launch toward or into the Human Sphere is to be taken as predatory and hostile, and all necessary action should be taken.
“You have twelve hours to absorb this information before you respond.”
The familiar low whine of sub-space white noise replaced Hetfield’s voice as the transmission ended. It was the sound of infinity, and it always gave Mains the chills. It sounded like indifference.
“And I thought we were the only ones at the party,” Lieder said.
“Seems not,” Mains said. Sometimes a year went by without any Excursionist unit engaging with Yautja, but now there had been at least five contacts within ninety days, with an entire unit missing. There could be many reasons for the 11th being quiet, but with everything else going on, their silence wasn’t comforting.
“You want me to slow us down again?” Lieder asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Leave us drifting for now,” Mains said, “but stay sharp. Nothing might happen here.”
“Or everything might,” McVicar said, his laconic voice giving his pronouncement weight.
“The first thing that needs to happen is dinner,” Cotronis said.
McVicar rolled his eyes.
“Hey,” Faulkner said. “You know you’re the best cook.”
* * *
They drifted further away from the habitat, but they were still closer than they had been for some time, and all the Ochse’s observation systems worked flat out keeping watch. They didn’t need to be on the bridge for that to work, and Frodo would alert the crew to any anomalies immediately. But Lieder had learned her skills flying atmosphere skimmers on Ganymede, and Mains knew that she liked the impression of being in control. Though she very rarely flew or steered the Ochse on manual, she still liked to call it her bird.
“You’re sure?” he asked. She remained in her pilot’s seat, one foot up on the bank of controls before her, seat reclined.
“Someone’s got to stay in charge while you bastards eat.”
“I’ll bring your food up to you.”
“Thanks.”
Her voice sounded strange. Not weak, but distracted.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. No. Just thinking about Willis and Reynolds, and those other units must have lost people. Wonder what we’re getting into.”
“That’s why we’re out here. Why we have to keep a close watch on that.” He nodded to the holo screen, even though it was now clear.
“Guess I always thought it would be an easy mission.”
“Drifting around beyond the boundaries of human exploration?”
“Yeah. Well.” She smiled at him, almost said something, turned away. Mains wanted to hold onto the moment. Their closeness was something they both struggled with—they rarely spoke of it, but knew it was there. Sometimes he thought of it as love, but set against the vast, withering reality of deep space, love seemed such a vacuous, pointless concept.
It was a depressing idea.
He watched Lieder for a moment as she tapped her foot to some internal beat, then left the bridge and made his way down to the rec room.
They ate together, discussed the transmission from Tyszka, and the air was heavy with tension. A sense of nervous anticipation filled the room. They quipped and swore. The food was good. They had spent a long time cooped up together in this ship, and although there were individual cabins with their own bathrooms, a hydroponic room where they grew fresh food, a gym, a hold where the drones and a small shuttle were parked, and various other spaces where it was easy to retreat to when solitude was desired, this room was the beating heart of the ship.
There were VR games, a huge library of books on the reading terminals, comfortable chairs and even a small bar. They’d personalized the space and made it their own, the VoidLark’s home away from home. Nevertheless, it was each other’s company that made it work.
The ship felt larger than ever with the deaths of Reynolds and Willis, and that loss had brought home the seriousness and danger inherent in their mission. Things had changed.
* * *
Frodo’s soft chime startled him awake. For a few seconds Mains gasped and looked around, trying to place himself, feeling lost.
“Lights,” he said, and a gentle glow grew from the panels around his room.
“Wassit?” Lieder said. She opened one eye and looked at him. “You look like shit.”
“Frodo,” Mains said. He sat up in bed. Checked the time. Tugged on his underwear, threw Lieder hers. Slapped his cheeks a couple of times to bring himself awake. It had been fifteen days since the sign
al from Tyszka’s Star, and he’d almost allowed himself to relax.
“Sorry to trouble you all,” the computer said. Mains knew that Frodo was addressing the whole crew. “Four ships have just departed their docks on UMF 12, and seem to be preparing to leave.”
“Flight deck, everyone,” Mains said, although he knew he didn’t need to. “Frodo, turn on the shipwide grav.”
Dressing quickly, he and Lieder dashed from his room and almost collided with Faulkner. Together they passed through the rec room and up to the flight deck, efficient and fast, and three minutes after Frodo’s warning the whole crew were at their stations.
“Mark them up,” Mains said. McVicar engaged the big screen display. Initially it showed an expanse of nothing, but he zeroed in on the habitat, and four data bubbles marked where the ships were shifting slowly away from the vast mass. They were almost thirty million miles from the habitat now, drifting on station between it and the Human Sphere, but the Ochse could get there in less than an hour.
“What’s our status?” he asked.
“Still cloaked,” Lieder said. “Engines at ninety-seven percent charge. All drive systems green.”
“Weapons?”
“All systems green,” Faulkner said.
Mains’s heart was beating fast, but his actions and reactions were smooth and assured. He glanced around the bridge and saw that confidence echoed in the faces of his crew. They were trained, efficient, experienced. That’s why they were Excursionists.
Leading my people into battle again, he thought, and there was a sudden pang in his chest at the danger they were facing.
“Be careful, guys,” he said. Lieder glanced at him but he stared only ahead. As he watched, one of the Yautja ships peeled away from the habitat and powered toward the edge of the screen.
“Designated Bastard One,” McVicar said. “Bearing zero one-four-one.”
“Toward the Sphere,” Mains said, but McVicar was too busy to reply.
“Bastard Two, zero one-five-eight. Bastard Three, zero one-four-nine. Bastard Four, zero two-one-six.” The display view pulled back to show the moving objects in relation to the habitat, each red speck now marked with its designation, as well as a data bubble showing relative velocity, shifting bearings, and other data.
“Bastard Four’s coming right at us,” Cotronis said. “Check our cloaking system again.”
“Still looks active,” Lieder said. “Frodo?”
“The Ochse’s cloaking device is fully functioning,” the computer said.
“Plot exact course,” Mains said.
“Zero two-one-four,” McVicar said. “Shifted slightly. Current comparative velocities put us within seven thousand miles of each other.”
“Too close,” Cotronis said. “L-T, they’ve seen us.”
“That’s not certain, but if we decloak they will for sure. Timescales?”
“Their accelerations are variable,” McVicar said.
“Classic Yautja distraction techniques,” Snowdon said. “They’re on a battle footing.”
“You’re sure?” Mains asked.
“They’re not just going for a picnic.”
“McVicar, prepare to open a sub-space channel to Tyszka’s Star, record a message to send. Tell them what’s happening, and that we’re engaging.”
There was no reaction. Everyone knew what had to be done, and they were already preparing.
“Faulkner, give me a best-case class one strategy here.” Mains was the L-T, but Faulkner was the weapons guy. With distances and trajectories involved, he’d be able to plan the best method of assault. A class one was an action in which their survival was of paramount importance. A class two was a suicide assault.
“Working on it.”
“At current acceleration, how long until Bastard Four is at its closest to us?”
“Just over seventeen minutes.”
“Suit up, people,” Mains said. There was a flurry of movement as the crew grabbed the combat suits always stored behind their seats and pulled them on. Magnetic clasps clicked, air hissed as life-support systems were tested, comms crackled and whispered. As Mains pulled on his own suit, wrapping himself in protective and aggressive tech, Cotronis stood by him. They helped each other secure and check their suits.
“Tough odds,” she said.
“We always knew it would be if something happened.”
“Maybe we should assault the habitat itself.”
He’d thought of that. As far as he knew, they were the only ones tracking a habitat such as this. Other Excursionist units spent months playing cat and mouse with Yautja ships, occasionally ending the chase with a brief, violent combat, more often than not losing touch. The Ochse had been on station for over a year. They were in a strong position, but attacking the habitat would vastly reduce the chances of their survival.
They might not even get close.
“I’d rather take out these four ships, then hang back. If they send more, we keeping fighting—but hopefully they’ll get the message.”
“Something’s going on, Johnny. Across the Rim.”
“We’ve seen no signs that they’re gearing up for war.”
“I didn’t say war.”
“It’s what you were thinking.” Mains shook his head. “We take out a few ships and it’s tit for tat, always has been with the Yautja. If we burn their habitat, that’s an act of war. We have no idea what the death toll would be, because we don’t really know how many live there. But you know these freaks. Ask Snowdon. No one knows how long they live, and it’s all pride and honor with them. If you ask me, that’s just another cause for hunting and killing, but if we destroy something like this, they’ll come after something bigger. Escalation. Our job out here is to prevent war, not cause one.”
“Yeah, okay, but we have to consider that the habitat’s a target, if the situation calls for it.” She turned away, but Mains grabbed her arm. The others were looking. Even Frodo seemed silent and expectant.
“We’re in combat now,” Mains said to them all. “Let’s stay frosty.”
Suited up with all personal systems in ready mode, weapons ready in slings beside their seats, they took their places. Mains walked among them, saying nothing but watching them work in a loaded silence. They held together like one oiled machine, only this one was missing two parts.
“L-T,” Faulkner said after a few minutes. “I’ve got a combat solution.”
“Let’s hear it.”
* * *
“On my mark,” Mains said. “Three… two… one… hit it.”
Frodo was ready. All systems had been programmed, and they’d gone over the action profile three times. Now all they had to do was sit in their seats and monitor events.
The Ochse’s cloak was disengaged. At the same time the sub-space channel was opened and their message fired through to Tyszka’s Star. A second later their thrusters fired, throwing the ship into an acceleration that would have turned its occupants into wet smears had the hull not been shielded.
The Yautja ship designated Bastard Four showed the first signs of reacting, but Faulkner’s combat solution was already in play. Brought to bear on very precise trajectories, the Ochse’s front laser cannons let loose a staggered series of shots that perforated the space around the enemy ship. Seconds later it bloomed into a cloud of gas and debris, and disappeared from the scanner.
“Bastard Four down,” Faulkner announced. “Drone One launched.” With a disconcerting thud, one of the ship’s drones dropped from the hold’s open bay doors and then streaked away from them, ion engine blasting at full thrust as its onboard weapon systems hunkered ready.
“Status of the other three ships?” Mains asked. He could see the screen, but knew that McVicar would be analyzing even the slightest changes in bearing or velocity.
“Bastards One and Two maintaining their original courses,” McVicar said. “Three is swinging around and coming for us. Largest of the four.”
“Have they seen the drone?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“L-T, three more ships are leaving the habitat,” Snowdon said.
“Faulkner?”
“Frodo, Drone Two.”
Another thud and the second drone left the ship.
“Bastard Three’s down,” Faulkner said. “Drone Two is heading for One and Two.”
Mains had already seen the green arrow wink out on the screen.
“They got it?”
“Yes. Hold on.” Faulkner’s fingers danced across his control panels. “Frodo?”
“Ready.”
“Micro-nukes away. Particle modulator firing up.”
“Let’s not aim that thing anywhere near the habitat,” Mains said.
“L-T!” Cotronis said, but he sent a stern glance her way.
“We’ve had this discussion. We’re not here to start a war, Corporal.”
“But maybe they are!”
“Second wave of Yautja ships are splitting up, courses staggered,” Snowdon said. “They’re coming for us.”
“Sure they are,” Mains said. “Okay, evasive action.”
“The modulator?” Faulkner asked.
“Only if we get a shot that doesn’t put the habitat at risk.” He’d seen a particle modulator at work before. An immense weapon, but with a spread of effects that were difficult to control, it required a sustained, focused shot to work properly. Not ideal when they were already taking evasive action.
“Bastards One and Two have spiraled up to light speed and vanished,” McVicar said.
“Bearing?” Mains asked.
“As before.”
“Removed themselves from the fight,” Lieder said.
“Or taken it elsewhere,” Cotronis said.
“The micro-nukes have been taken out by Yautja countermeasure,” Snowdon said. “Sir, we need to make a decision here.”
“Fight or flight,” Lieder said.
“We don’t run from a fight we started,” Mains said. “Lieder, swing us around so that we’ve got a clear field of fire on Bastards Five, Six, and Seven.”
Lieder’s fingers danced across her controls and Frodo twisted their ship. Mains felt the movements, an unsettling sense of leaving the ghost of himself behind. It was always disconcerting, but something they were all trained for. It didn’t prevent him from wanting to puke.