by Eric Thomson
A devilish gleam lit up Holt’s single eye.
“Youthful conceit. I never said I was any good at it.”
As the shuttle crept toward Bukavac, carefully matching velocities, a pair of pressure-suited figures came through one of the lower airlocks. They made their way around the hull’s curvature until they stood on the pirate ship’s flat keel, where Commander Halfen intended to mount the missile pack.
Petty Officer Knowles adjusted the shuttle’s attitude until it was lined up belly to keel and less than two meters over the designated spot. Four pressure-suited spacers carrying large tool bags emerged from the shuttle and joined the waiting duo.
At an unheard command, hand-held grapples snagged the missile pack and it separated from the shuttle. Careful, measured, and coordinated movements took the ten-meter long container away from the small spacecraft. It settled on Bukavac’s hull, where the six spacers, tools in hand, busied themselves for almost fifteen minutes, attaching the pack solidly in place. Then, four kicked away toward the waiting shuttle and the remaining pair returned to the airlock.
“Bridge to the captain.”
“Dunmoore.”
“From Bukavac, sir. The missile pack is installed to Commander Halfen’s satisfaction. He says another four hours to repair the forward shield generators.”
“Thank you.”
“Bridge, out.”
Dunmoore and Holt exchanged an amused glance.
“Renny is still padding his estimates, I see,” the former said. “From just under twelve hours to just over four. How much do you want to bet we’ll be accelerating in three?”
“No bets, Skipper. Like every other chief engineer in the Fleet, he can’t help making a job seem harder than it is to keep his reputation for working miracles.”
Siobhan laughed.
“Ain’t that the truth? It must be a union rule with them. Keep up the mystique that naval engineers practice wizardry.”
“Maybe I should check the engine room for evidence of ritual sacrifices, pentagrams, or a demonic summoning.” Holt drained his coffee and stood. “If we’ll be underway in three hours or less, I’d best make sure everything is ready.”
“Leaving me once again with nothing to do but fret.”
Holt gave her a wink.
“Or figure out what you’ll do if this plan and the five contingencies stewing in your brain fail one after the other.”
“That’s what I mean by fret, Zeke.” She pointed an imperious finger at the door. “Go annoy someone else. Better yet, find the Shrehari corsair’s beacon.”
— Twenty-Three —
“Bukavac and Kattegat Maru came out of FTL in formation,” Chief Yens reported once both humans and artificial intelligences shook off the emergence disorientation that always accompanied a return to normal space. “Kattegat Maru is silent as the grave, but Bukavac is emitting a normal signature.”
“We are silent as well. Kilia should only see Bukavac, especially at this range,” Commander Ezekiel Holt’s hologram at Dunmoore’s elbow said.
“Command link with the missiles is live,” Thorin Sirico added. “Bukavac appears to be on course for Kilia as per programming.”
“Thank you.” Dunmoore exhaled silently. So far, so good. “How’s the navigation link, Zeke?”
“Solid. We can override the prize’s AI on command and take remote control of her helm.”
“So long as we didn’t miss a backdoor allowing Kilia to override us.”
“Not a chance. Renny physically disconnected her subspace and radio receivers. The only way she’ll accept outside commands is via laser, and then solely from Iolanthe. It’s an unexpected advantage of Bukavac’s shield generator problems. With her bow shields up and aft shields down, only laser comlinks coming from something behind her can make contact.”
“Good.”
With nothing left to say, silence blanketed both the bridge and the CIC while Bukavac and Iolanthe hurtled toward Kilia. As ordered, Kattegat Maru remained at the hyperlimit, safely out of range and by running under dampened emissions, invisible to Kilia’s sensors. Dunmoore, who’d taken up meditation to deal with her fidgeting during a time such as this one, when she could neither relax nor influence events, fell into a light trance.
She remained conscious of everything and everyone around her but was at the same time detached from herself, almost floating above the command chair. If anyone noticed that an eerie serenity replaced their captain’s habit of drumming her fingers on the command chair’s arm, or against her thigh, they didn’t care to comment. Not even Ezekiel Holt knew of Dunmoore’s latest efforts to stamp out tics and unconscious behaviors that betrayed her state of mind — and annoyed the people around her.
“Bukavac is firing forward thrusters to decelerate.” Chief Yens’ voice called Dunmoore’s spirit back into her body, and she blinked twice to chase away her idle contemplation of Chorlak’s missing beacon. Either the corsair didn’t carry one, which seemed hard to believe, or the Shrehari made their beacons invisible to the most modern of Growlers. “Kilia is bound to notice her now.”
Dunmoore glanced at the countdown timer, then at the tactical display. Right on time as per programming. They were entering the most critical phase of Operation Trojan Starship as she privately called it.
The more Bukavac neared Kilia before launching her improvised nuclear mines, the less chance they would be intercepted and destroyed. Everything depended on the station’s traffic control personnel and their level of paranoia.
She recited her private mantra a few times while taking deep breaths as the urge to drum her fingers returned in full force. The old dictum about war being long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror, suitably updated for the twenty-fifth century to read combat in space was long periods of waiting for a few moments of intense action, never seemed apter.
More time passed in silence. Even Carrie Fennon, seated beside Major Salminen, seemed transfixed by the tactical projection. Apart from the odd whispered exchange between them, the loudest sounds in the CIC came from crewmembers breathing and Iolanthe’s almost subliminal hum.
Lieutenant Commander Sirico finally broke the spell.
“Entering maximum effective missile range.”
As if on cue, the signals petty officer raised a hand.
“Kilia is hailing Bukavac. They’re asking where everyone else is and what happened to Persephone.”
Dunmoore exhaled quietly.
“That took long enough.”
“But they were nice to wait until we came into range,” Sirico replied. “Though allowing us a little closer before launching would be even nicer.”
“Kilia Control is getting a little insistent on a reply, sir.”
“Zeke, do we still have a clear link with Bukavac?”
“Yep. You want her to send the decoy message now?”
“I would.”
The decoy message, a last bit of bluff, was a text-only transmission telling Kilia control of Bukavac’s battle damage and that Persephone was a few hours behind her, escorted by Chernobog and Chorlak. Because of the damage, Bukavac was coming home early while the others took control of the privateer.
The lie wouldn’t stop Kilia from firing for long. Perhaps no longer than it took to inform Tarrant. Kilia’s master struck Dunmoore as someone with a sixth sense for trouble, judging by how successfully his operation was threading its way through the long war without incurring either side’s wrath. But every kilometer the prize ship with its poisoned cargo gained gave the station less reaction time.
“Transmitted,” Holt said a few moments later.
The CIC signals petty officer nodded, “I can confirm.”
“Keep in mind we need to maneuver soon if we want Iolanthe to stay out of Kilia’s own effective weapons range, Skipper, and then they might well notice Bukavac isn’t alone.”
Timing was key. And the closer she came to the decision point, the more impossible a perfect solution seemed. Dunmoore
almost bit the inside of her lip, then remembered to recite her mantra. It sufficed. A wave of calm flooded her veins, and it was as if she saw the tactical projection with more clarity than ever.
At its center, Kilia and four visiting starships in orbit, the station’s defensive emplacements marked by red triangles, its projected shields a red shimmer which would harden once they came online. Then, sailing in as if everything was normal, Bukavac in blue.
Iolanthe and Kattegat Maru were too far away and didn’t appear in the projection at the current scale. If things went well, neither would. With any luck, Kilia’s management would never find out the latter visited their system twice since the piratical abduction of her crew and passengers.
“They’re not buying the decoy message,” the signals petty officer said. “Kilia Control is demanding Bukavac reply to a coded challenge. The word is ‘eternity’ for what that’s worth.”
Dunmoore, reactions faster than her thoughts, stabbed the control screen embedded in her command chair’s arm.
“Captain to the brig.”
Chief Trane replied with remarkable alacrity.
“Sir?”
“Prisoner Skelly Kursu. Ask her for the answer to the word ‘eternity.’ Quickly.”
“Wait one.” A minute passed, during which Dunmoore pushed away an aching desire to fidget. Then, “The answer is ‘sentience,’ sir.”
“Thank you, Chief. Did you hear that, Zeke?”
“Yes. I’m having Bukavac send ‘sentience’ now.”
Dunmoore sat back, conscious her shoulder and neck muscles had bunched without permission.
“Chief Trane.”
“Sir?”
“You obtained that answer pretty damned fast. How?”
A rumbling chuckle came over the intercom.
“I gave Kursu the idea we would die in the next few minutes under Kilia’s guns if we didn’t give the countersign, sir.”
“Nicely done. CIC, out.”
Dunmoore made a mental note to discuss Trane with Chief Petty Officer First Class Guthren. He was showing real potential, but the coxswain needed to ensure it was channeled in the right direction. Trane had a history of questionable decision making during his time on Toboso, although nothing as serious as his then commanding officer, whose misconduct opened the way for the infamous incident.
“Kilia turned on its defenses,” Yens said. “Shields are up, and guns are deploying.”
“They either didn’t like the answer or thought it took too long.”
“Perhaps, Thorin,” Dunmoore replied, “or they work on the principle you can never be too paranoid out here. If I were Tarrant, I’d think something about the situation feels just a tad off.”
“I’m not picking up the power surge characteristic of charging gun capacitors, sir.”
Dunmoore nibbled at her lower lip as a fresh idea swam into focus, driven by gut instinct. Tarrant wasn’t buying Bukavac as the battle-damaged advance party returning from a successful starship capture operation. He just didn’t know yet what was really happening. Fortunately, Renny Halfen removed most of the prize ship’s built-in limitations, at least the ones designed to keep humans alive and happy.
“Zeke, order Bukavac to accelerate as hard as she can without shaking her frames apart and aim for Kilia’s center of mass.”
“You’re giving up guile and stealth?”
“In favor of spooking Kilia into opening fire earlier than they might otherwise be planning. Thorin, as soon as sensors register Kilia’s guns powering up, cold launch the missiles, but eject them out the back end of the pack, so they’re masked by the prize. Once Kilia engages Bukavac, light the missile drives. With any luck, Tarrant’s minions won’t see them accelerate if their sensors are being blanked by their own guns. Especially if they think our Trojan starship is the main threat and not a diversion.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Holt and Sirico replied almost simultaneously. The former added, in a tone half-teasing, half-admiring, “Sneaky. I knew there was a reason Admiral Nagira picked you to command the Furious Faerie.”
“You mean other than my sterling combat record?”
Holt gave her a broad grin.
“No comments, Skipper.” A pause, “Bukavac accepted the commands. Her sub-light drives are up and pushing.”
“Confirmed,” Chief Yens said.
“Let’s see how long it’ll take Kilia to notice she’s accelerating at a rate that would make her inertial dampeners howl in terror before they die and turn the ship into a human jam-making factory.”
“You have a way with words, Mister Holt,” Yens said over her shoulder at the first officer’s hologram.
“I have a way with many things, Chief.”
Dunmoore heard a suppressed if youthful sounding giggle behind her. Kattegat Maru’s captain probably didn’t allow much banter on her bridge — not when they were about to fire weapons in earnest.
“What I’d love to see,” she said, “is the expression on the Kilia controllers’ faces as they realize one of their own ships has turned into a kinetic weapon aimed straight at them.”
“They seem slow on the uptake,” Sirico said after several minutes passed in silence.
“Would you want to open fire on a starship belonging to the local mob boss without obtaining his express consent?”
The combat systems officer gave her a rueful shrug.
“I guess not, Captain.”
“Kilia is pinging Bukavac with growing urgency,” Holt said. “They want to know what in blazes is happening. Shall I make her send a reply to the effect that battle damage is playing havoc with her drives?”
“Sure. There’s always room for added confusion.”
“Done.”
Yens raised a hand. “I’m reading a power spike on Kilia. They’re charging capacitors.”
“Cold-launching the missiles.”
“Bukavac’s threat detectors are screaming bloody murder, Skipper.”
A faint smile appeared on Dunmoore’s lips even as her shoulder muscles bunched again. The die was cast.
“Kilia is firing.”
— Twenty-Four —
The front half of Bukavac’s image on the main display was suddenly awash in a blue-green aurora as the forward shields fought off Kilia’s opening salvo. Tendrils of energy resembling miniature lightning bolts bled off halfway where the shields ended. They gently caressed her hull leaving black streaks in their wake.
“The missile drives are lit,” Sirico announced. “One-minute burn.”
Twelve tiny blue icons in the tactical projection began to move and quickly overhauled the slightly larger symbol representing Bukavac.
“And now we pray they don’t spot our birds behind the radiation set loose by their guns.”
“It’s a time-limited proposition,” Sirico said as he watched the next salvo from Kilia’s massive guns strike home. “Her aurora is turning a deep purple. Those shields will live through one more volley, no more. Then it’s farewell Bukavac.”
“Been nice knowing you,” Holt murmured. “Our sacrificing her will thrill HQ.”
Dunmoore glanced down at the first officer’s hologram.
“Let’s leave those considerations for afterward, Zeke.”
He nodded once, but his expression didn’t show the slightest hint of contrition.
“Shall I use the occasion to change course unseen before we witness the royal purple of large bore plasma battling shields up close?”
“Do it.”
Dunmoore’s command was timely. Another violent flare encapsulated the prize ship’s front half. This time the aurora collapsed with finality.
“Firing thrusters,” Holt said. A pause, then, “Kilia is calling Bukavac again. A final summons to decelerate and change course.”
“No reply.”
“They didn’t notice our missiles yet,” Sirico said. “The birds’ threat detectors are quiet.”
Another salvo bloomed like bright flowers of death on Kilia’s rock
y surface.
“And we’re done.”
“I can’t believe Tarrant would destroy one of his own ships,” Carrie Fennon said, macabre awe tinging her words.
Dunmoore glanced over her shoulder at the girl and smiled sadly.
“Tarrant understands she’s no longer his ship. Not when she’s coming at Kilia with a rate of acceleration no human could survive. He can’t afford the slightest mistake. Too much rides on the station maintaining a reputation for invincibility and its masters a reputation for ruthlessness. And that’s how we’ll squeeze answers from him.”
“If at least one of our missiles makes it through the defenses and burrows into Kilia’s surface,” Holt said.
Sirico jerked a thumb at the tactical projection which still showed twelve tiny blue icons speeding toward their target.
“So far so good.”
Kilia’s latest salvo connected with Bukavac’s unprotected hull and ate through the metal as if it were butter. Superheated air vented through the resulting holes and crystallized at once. Secondary explosions erupted on both sides and the keel as gun capacitors fully charged by Renny Halfen before releasing the ship exploded under the onslaught. Though Dunmoore and her crew expected the conflagration, Bukavac’s transformation into a tiny nova took them by surprise nonetheless.
Chief Yens let out a low whistle.
“That never gets old.”
Sirico nodded in agreement.
“It sure doesn’t.”
Dunmoore forced her shoulder muscles to relax while mentally reciting her mantra lest she start drumming her fingers again. The entire scheme depended on those missiles burrowing into the moonlet’s surface and presenting Tarrant with an existential threat that could only be removed by answering her questions. Minutes ticked by without further reaction from Kilia and the twelve blue icons in the tactical projection kept nearing their target unhindered.
“They’re scanning so hard we might appear on their sensors at this rate, though as nothing more than a ghost.”
Holt chuckled.
“Which would be appropriate since our intelligence intercepts of Shrehari communications seem to indicate they consider us a phantom, Chief.”