The broadcast was sent in clear speech, no complicated video to decode, no attempt to encipher the meaning, all on a standard emergency channel. A calm, generous voice repeating it’s message. The accent was bland. The language was international English. A call for the surrender of anyone crew or passenger onboard Spirit, an offer of safe passage, just a requirement to surrender any and all cargo. It could have been a real person or computer generated. It gave her little new information on her opposition.
Her crawl around the hull ended as the broadcast ceased.
She popped the emergency port and slid out into harsh vacuum, fear and destruction on her mind.
Chapter 2
There was magnificence just outside his office. The vista from high orbit over Tor was breath taking. The ice giant, the twelve moons and the delicate rings all looked spectacular when bathed in the sunlight. It was still hard to be forty light years from the Avalon, the Laurentian capital. His long-time residence.
For three hundred and fifty years, Tor Station had once been used as a base for the ships of a quarter of the Patrol Flotilla. It sprawled over two hundred kilometres along the longest axis and habitation for tens of thousands of people. An Admiral had been required to run it. Ships had departed hourly to carry out the great missions of the Laurentians. Rumour had it, one of the Muses had resided here.
As of 3991, most of the station and all the starships were mothballed. The crews were now gone. the few caretakers left behind tended the slumbering leviathans and wondered who would be called on to turn out the lights.
The Commander had taken an old observatory as a combination of living space and office. It was one of the oldest parts of the Station, originally built to use the gravitational lens effect of Tor itself to stare deep into the universe. The telescope had long been scrapped, leaving a large open space with a well armoured panoramic view port. There had to be some perks for such an unpopular posting.
Along the same orbit as the Station, rows and rows of ships could be seen, small flashes of light in the dark, just visible to his enhanced eyes.
With a rude flash for his attention inside his own skull, his mind’s eye dragged him back from the effects nostalgia and whisky. A simple text message “Commander, please attend the Operations office” scrolled across what felt like the back of his eyes. The sender tag marked it as the current Duty Officer, Maggie Heisenberg. Not one prone to panic. She could have sent more detail, but even this far from civilisation, she’d kept to habits as old as humanity. Face to face conversations felt more natural. So instead of a quick status update electronically sent, he had to physically travel across the station. He suspected his subordinates were trying to keep him from becoming too detached from his duties. He even shared their concerns at his growing disconnectedness at times.
With a sudden burst of concentration, he directed his mind’s eye to clear the alcohol from his blood and boost his metabolism to get more oxygen to his brain. Throughout his body, cellular implants jumped into action. It wouldn’t do to stumble into Ops tired and drunk, despite being on a rest day. The most valuable lesson of command was how your presence and appearance can lead your crew for you.
He walked over to the small bathroom, ran some cold water in the bowl and splashed it on his face and smoothed down his wayward hair. He’d not been summonsed urgently, so slipped off his comfortable off duty clothes and stepped into the shower, the nozzle whined and redirected itself to cover his tall powerful frame. The temperature ran up, then down again, just to shock his body, exactly how he needed it.
He finished, towelled off and dressed in the normal day uniform of the High Guard. A black tunic detailed in silver and black trousers. On his right chest, the name MAGNUS was written. On the collar, a single silver five-point star sat on either side. Once on, the smart fibres adapted to the ambient temperature, opening the weave keeping him pleasantly cool. Command 101, look calm, confident and professional and that’s what your crew would give you back.
The Operations room was located about twenty minutes away on foot, thirty by the scenic route. In urgent conditions, an air car could run him through the large internal transport spaces in two minutes. With the station at peaceful condition 2, the observation walkways on the outer hull allowed for a panoramic view of some of the most impressive planetary scenery of his career.
His breathing was slow and steady, his head clear and focussed as he strolled into Operations.
The Watch Officer’s post was perched so it overlooked all the subordinate posts. The Operations Office was running a skeleton crew. Engineering functions were running on computer control, managing a plethora of functions such as power systems, life support and maintenance. The Sensors post integrated the distributed assets placed across the whole local planetary system and displayed the filtered returns through a holograph projector. The Tactical post was unstaffed, with control of the many dispersed weapons satellites aggregated and routed to the Officer of the Watch. Traffic Control was the same. With the current lack of activity, managing the Station and it’s local space was an easy job for two, or a hectic job for one.
Heisenberg glanced up from her place at the Watch Officer’s Station, a quick nod of acknowledgement and she transmitted a contact and situation report directly to his mind’s eye. It was concise, designed to be dropped into the oncoming Officer’s mind and absorbed almost instantly.
She paused to allow his to absorb the report, then spoke “I think you are going have to suit up Skipper. You can see the results, looks like a hush-hush message drone. I’ve already tried my own access authority. I just get a repeat request for recovery and physical contact with the Senior Officer, Tor Station. We get message drones through twice a week, but they always remote access, drop our incoming mail, take the outgoing and jump out again before. I’ve never seen one ask for recovery or physical verification of access rights before. According to the Station log, this is the first time since the Eighty-Six reforms we’ve had anything like this”.
He nodded thoughtfully, then “Normally if a drone is set for physical access only, it would proceed to dock. Why is this one different?”.
Maggie shrugged for good measure, “I have no telemetry and its stealth systems are active, we’ve only detected it by IFF. It could be damaged and we wouldn’t know. Or it could be programmed for different behaviour. Someone is going to have to go out and see. Good luck Skipper.”.
He flashed her a wry look, then “Who’s got SAR duty this shift?”. Maggie replied “Greg Jones, I haven’t had any reason to speak to him since the watch briefing, he set himself up in the flight ready room” she continued uncertainly “You know what he can get like when he’s bored”.
Magnus started walking for the door, “Send him and whoever is covering security a quick mission briefing and have them meet me on the Search and Rescue shuttle ASAP. I am in no mood for mysteries today”. “Corporal Armstrong has security duty. He posted himself in to flight with Greg. Who knows what they are cooking up.”
The shuttle flight out to the message drone’s parking vector was uneventful. Armstrong was in the arms locker finishing kitting up. He was checking over a maser carbine, a coil pistol and a handful of smart missiles. Jones was on the flight deck guiding the SAR shuttle in along a carefully thought out path. The shuttle was set to ride up behind the message drone from behind minimising the sensors it could bring bare. Magnus was suited up, in the recovery bay, already depressurised, with a coil pistol, a full load of smart missiles and his psy-blade hanging of his belt. He had deliberately chosen a combat space suit, a hunch reinforcing the institutional paranoia of the military. A cold gas manoeuvring pack hung from his back. He hoped this would make his approach seem less threatening.
With 2 minutes to go before rendezvous, Armstrong strolled into the recovery bay, attached his zero-g line to a hard point and lay flat on the floor, sighting down the barrel. He sent a brief message via mind’s eye to Magnus “Got you covered Skipper”. Magnus glanced down at him and
replied “Seems a little dramatic, but better safe than sorry Jack, particularly when it’s my skin on the line”.
The seconds ticked down. Finally, Jones sent a brief text link “Open in 5”
“4”
“3”
“2”
“1, you’re up”.
The outer portal slid open before Magnus and Armstrong. Four hundred metres away from the shuttle, the message drone twinkled in the sunlight reflecting off Tor.
Magnus sent one last message “Keep me covered Jack. Greg, if you see something you don’t like, back off”. He grabbed a recovery line and stepped out into the night sky. The shuttle’s induced gravity field dropped away and he floated onward gently towards his goal.
He added a few gentle puffs from the gas pack, in no real rush to close the distance.
He linked his mind’s eye to Tor Station tactical net, confirmed they had him on sensors and that the nearby weapon satellites knew where not to shoot then dropped out again.
He came to a halt next to the message drone. Up close he could see discolouration and rippling of the skin, indicators that weapons fire had hit the drone. Armstrong linked via mind’s eye, to briefly remind him to leave a clear line of sight for a shot.
Far off in front of him a cluster of small well-lit dots slid across the star scape. Tor Patrol Flotilla. The remnants of a proud scout force of the High Guard Fleet. In days before the 3986 Treaty of Good Faith Station, the High Guard had maintained numerous frigates, cruisers and battlecruisers. They were optimized for lone, stealthy patrol far from home. They had hunted a fearsome prey. The Blight, an ancient nanotech plague that infected humans and their technology, transforming the infected into twisted mindless abominations intend on infecting more victims. Twelve times humankind had faced an outbreak and survived. But times changed. Instead of the Kingdom standing vigil between crusades alone, the rest of humanity had finally taken up the cause. The Good Faith Treaty placed a duty to inform and pass custody of all nanoscale archeo-tech to Laurentian agents placed in every human nation. The Patrol Flotilla was considered obsolete. The major human nations had signed up first, the smaller and or newly contacted nations had been chivvied into signing on ever since with considerable success.
Magnus drew his thoughts back to the task at hand. With his colleagues on over watch it was time to secure the message stored within the battered drone before him. He placed his right hand on the data access port cover near a subtle ridge in the teardrop fuselage. His mind’s eye used a near field transmission to exchange handshake protocols with the drone's on-board governor intelligence. The report from a Laurentian Intelligence Officer, codenamed Athena, detailed her recovery of and subsequent piracy of an ancient, virulent, alien artefact. Her own survival seemed doubtful from the report's contents.
A location, vector and sensor signatures of her attackers were provided. She would need immediate assistance for even a meagre chance of survival. The retrieved artefact had attempted to suborn the carefully designed containment system. The drone had included its own status and registered its contaminated state. It had diverted from its intended target of the intelligence division at Fleet base Mallory.
The surface reasoning was to get help with minimal risk of a Blight outbreak, but the badly eroded mission logs implied that the contaminated sectors of the drone were trying to infect a starship. Magnus used his mind's eye to warn Tor Station, “Tor Station, message drone is a Blight risk, immediate action authorised, Tor Actual out". He drew back his arm, but even with such brief contact, it was too late. The contamination alarm on his armour suite sounded. In his mind's eye, he saw red warning indicators, His outer suit was compromised.
His mind’s eye projected emergency options across his vision, he selected ejection. He shot backwards away from the drone and the compromised armour suit. He was left with nothing but a thin inner pressure layer for protection. It would let him survive, for a few minutes. His weapons flew backwards with him, his psy-blade dangling of his equipment belt, gauss pistol strapped to his leg. The Blighted combat suit had the gas pack. He now had no way to accelerate or turn.
A pulse of light and heat exploded out from the chest of the abandoned armour. One of the weapon satellites that had been tracking him and had opened up. A powerful and tightly directed X-ray beam consumed the suit in an instant.
Magnus could detect only miniscule harmless quantities of back scatter, clearly the shot had been judged to a nicety. The next one was equally skilful, the message drone, followed the suit.
Magnus open up a general broadcast “Fancy shooting. Now, how about a lift”.
Forty-five minutes and one very personal medical exam with the best (and only) Doctor on the Station, Magnus was in conference room two with the senior Station staff. Doctor Henry Stamp had given him the all clear and told him not to be so damn foolish in future. Magnus had slipped out before Stamp had a chance to complain about a short notice summons to a Head’s of Department briefing.
Only two methods of faster than light travel had been found, the jump drive and rumour. Magnus` brief recount of the day’s events surprised no-one.
Tor Station junk yard had a small caretaker crew. The number of senior ranks was disproportionate. Tor Station had become a dumping ground. In the years since the Good Faith Treaty had seen numerous High Guard who were considered difficult or out-of-favour were posted in whether they were needed or not.
It led to a lively and surprisingly cohesive crew. Everyone was aware of their unofficial exile status, it had banded them together and moulded them in a way that the usual short term postings could not.
Of the six Officers present, only one really vexed Magnus. The Station Adjutant was a recent addition to the crew. He was also the only one with a fixed posting period. Philip Mellor had been on station six months, had a further eighteen to go. Mellor had been assigned to third fleet as a junior intelligence Officer previous to Tor Station. So far, Mellor had made three trips back to home space on request of the High Guard Admiralty. A more transparent spy was hard to imagine. Even with the Patrol Flotilla consisting of uncrewed ships orbiting junk yard stations, the Battle Fleet faction were guarding their dominance of Guard politics fiercely. Or perhaps they feared going the same way. Magnus could only speculate.
Magnus let the argument continue round the room for a few more minutes before dragging the assorted Senior Officers back to the topic. The Station Chief Engineer, Hannah Cartwright, usually an independent voice, had reluctantly fallen in with the hawks pushing respectfully for action. The charge being led by Jack Armstrong, who demonstrated his typical chippy refusal to be overawed by the more senior ranks of his opposition. Greg Jones was another hawk, but Magnus was convinced it was boredom driven. The head of cybersecurity, Visa Thomson has sat quietly, his eyes unfocused for most of the meeting. A sure sign of being more engrossed in what his mind’s eye showed him than listening to his colleagues. Thomson made just one contribution, asking ''How do we know this wasn't the only station attacked?''. He then dropped back into the contemplative trance he had emerged from.
The brief silence that followed was quickly broken as all around the room, the senior staff checked their assumptions. Magnus grabbed for the gap and surprised everyone ''I have opened my sealed orders for infiltration scenarios. My instructions are clear, the station and fleet must not fall to hostile control, the Senior Officer of Tor Station is authorised to use all means and resources to protect and preserve the fleet authorised by Grand Admiral Brian Cook, Lord Sky Keep. Honour until countermanded, from this the 10th day of May, 3980 Common Era''.
Mellor flushed angrily. In a short, clipped tone, he then interjected ''Commander, Sky Keep retired to the Centurionate ten years ago, those orders are countermanded by long standing foreign policy. This place is a junk yard to be sacrificed, not a fortress to be protected. If Grand Admiral Raedar knew he would rescind them immediately. We can't use an oversight to justify unauthorised foreign adventuring. We could cost the Kingdo
m the Good Faith Treaty. It goes against the last ten years of Kingdom foreign policy. We’ll be back to wasting our military strength across half the galaxy, not protecting the home system''.
Magnus smiled “We”, with strong emphasis on the first word, “won't do anything of the sort. You’re staying here. For the Station log, as Senior Officer, I'm reactivating hulk 416, and commissioning her in defence of Tor Station. Questions?''. Mellor sneered ''It will take you days to get her ready for deep space and weeks for combat''.
Cartwright had always loathed the smug supercilious Mellor. He walked around like he constantly smelt dog shit and treated the rest of the Tor Station crew with poorly veiled contempt. A very unprofessional sense of glee ran through her as she said ''Skipper, as per my Departmental training report, Dreadnought, formerly hulk BC416 is live fire exercise ready. Departure scheduling is limited by crew readiness only''.
Mellor threw caution to the wind ''They’ll exile you, Magnus. It’s a one-way trip down Albion’s gravity well for you, if you come back. You’ll die young in squalor, never allowed to join the Centurionate. Your family will carry the shame for a thousand years and this collection of misfits in uniform will burn up with you''.
Magnus let him pause for breath then cut across him “Mellor, shut the fuck up. Armstrong, confine this man to his quarters for undermining my exercise of command contrary to article ten, paragraph Two-A of the Laurentian Military code. Place a security lock on his door and his communications. He can resume duties after Dreadnought's departure. If he resists, hurt him”.
Armstrong had started moving before Magnus had finished speaking. His left arm shot out and attached very firmly to Mellor’s throat. His right arm cupped the back of his head gently and his left leg kicked Mellor’s legs out from under him, throwing him off balance. Armstrong then dragged him straight out the room. As the door slid closed another paratrooper could been seen running in to lend a hand.
The Syracuse Deception Page 2