The carrier had drawn ahead of the Mauler ship, and a half-dozen massive cables ran between them, not currently under tension and ready to be cut by explosive separators. For her part, the Warhorse was loitering behind the Mauler, another heavy cable joining them, and this one with much more slack. The Warhorse had significant power, but alone she’d never be able to pull something as large as the gateship out of Bryson’s atmosphere. She was simply intended to provide a steadying counterforce where necessary.
“It’s turning.” The new voice was Silver’s stand-in, a shuttle pilot named Abagail Reed, her call sign ‘Candlelight’. Maize loved the sound of her voice, loved having a girl aboard the ship at all.
What he didn’t love was that she was right. The gateship was suddenly dipping its nose, pulling the cables to the Arcadia taunt as its vector deviated more and more. The carrier fired, and three missiles left an aft-facing launcher on the conning tower, shooting past the Warhorse too close for comfort before coming around.
“Those better not be nukes,” Jackson said.
“If they wanted to destroy it, they’d just cut it loose and let it crash,” Candlelight said. “Maize, you want control?”
He didn’t, he knew he didn’t, but this was a girl asking so he said, “Absolutely.”
As the feedback came through his flight stick, Jackson concentrated on keeping clear of the attack and staying as high as he could without bringing any tension to the cable. A moment later the Arcadia’s missiles struck, and though they weren’t tactical nukes, they were impressive enough. Large sections of the gateship’s aft fuselage came asunder in the triumvirate of flame. One of the ship’s two massive engines collapsed in the conflagration, its heat resistant plating flaking away as the superstructure was vaporised.
But the other engine remained intact, and the gateship pivoted sharply on unbalanced thrust, yanking hard on the three portside cables. The Arcadia’s attitude engines flared brilliant blue as she fought against the torque, her missile battery fired again.
Another two missiles shot past.
As the weapons curved to strike, the portside cables snapped under the pressure, and the Arcadia quarter rolled before her helmsmen rebalanced her engines. Though her primaries burned hard and she blasted the emergency evasion tanks, the carrier couldn’t right herself. The missiles struck the gateship’s last drive side on, ripping open the plating and gutting the ion chamber in a fan of blue-white luminescence that set the surrounding atmosphere on fire.
Now powerless, the gateship began to swing forward on its tethers to the Arcadia. The stick bucked in Jackson’s grip as the guide line went taunt.
“Maize, accelerate and climb, now!” Walter’s shouted, his voice thundering across the comm.
“We can’t take the weight,” he called back but not disobeying as he slammed the thrusts to max and demanded the VTOL go forward and up.
“It’s a team lift, if you carry on an angle, the lower person bears the weight.”
“It’s not a goddamn couch,” Jackson snapped before his mind caught up with his mouth.
“That’s exactly what it is,” Walter’s shot back. There was a click as he switched across channels.
“Arcadia, we’re coming up on your starboard side to correct the balance, but I need you to bleed some altitude.”
“Warhorse, this is Arcadia control,” was the reply. “We’re the primary, move relative to us.”
“Listen you lazy-eyed maggot, either tell the helm to give us some leverage or you’d better cut the damn thing loose now before it kills us all.”
There was only silence on the comm, even Jackson was speechless. He’d never heard Walter’s say anything so offensive to anyone and, if he was honest, he’d probably given the skipper more reason to than most. When the response came, it was action, not words. The Arcadia’s primary drives eased off a fraction and she allowed the gateship to pull her further towards the deadly pressure floor.
“Alright you fucking couch, let’s do this,” Jackson growled as the Warhorse burned hard to maintain her own altitude against the dead weight attached to them. Slowly but surely, the Gateship tilted along its axis until the majority of its weight rested with the Arcadia.
What followed was long and laborious, and soon Jackson’s jaw ached from clenching. Together the Arcadia and her lifter inexorably pulled the gateship out of the atmosphere and accelerated it into a stable orbit. All the way, the Warhorse was in prominent view from the aft-starboard observation ports of the Arcadia, cresting high like she was doing most of the work.
Cresting high, in view of what must be every girl on the carrier. Cresting high and piloted by Maize. Jackson smiled to himself, practically hummed as the cables finally relaxed and Walters announced mission accomplished.
“Let’s see Silver do that, eh,” Jackson boasted into the headset.
“No, he did something much more impressive,” Candlelight replied with an all too wistful tone in her voice. “He knew exactly where we’d need to be, and he put us there.”
Jackson killed his comm and sat back with his arms folded.
“Fucking couch.”
****
Constellation Carrier CNS Arcadia
Bryson IV Local Sector, Bryson System
27 April 2315
Tarek was powerless.
It had been surprising how effective the marines’ efforts to contain him had been. He’d been upgraded from ‘disobedient pilot’ to ‘serious threat’ and had been locked in a solitary cell with sound proof walls. Food was delivered through a slot under the door by a faceless individual who refused to acknowledge anything Tarek said.
And so he had no cards. It was a brutal reminder of just how much he’d come to rely on them, of how confident he’d become in his abilities. His rescue should have meant a return to his power, an opportunity to save further lives, but instead only the most mundane cards had returned once Rease had found him. What little he’d had disappeared once they locked him in this cell. He was neatly cut from all the tiny threads of influence that he had created across the ship. He felt like the helmsman of a container ship who has suddenly found himself locked in the cargo hold during a storm.
He could feel the threats beyond the walls and not just because of the way ship had rolled and swayed and groaned to the furious roar of its engines. They had dug deep and found much of what the enemy sought to hide, to protect, and it would not be given freely. Three times, he knew, three times the owners of the gateship would try to destroy their creation. Three times the crew of the Arcadia, Rease and Kelly, Walters and Jackson, would be cast into peril. He could save them, likely only he could save them.
But not from a four-foot square cell.
****
The mail had arrived.
It was late, and technically they should have all hit their bunks by now, but the ship’s ascent out of the murk had brought good news. They’d stepped down to yellow alert and the tension of being blind with their backs to the wall evaporated. A flight of the Undying was still on CAP, but the defensive reserve had been released, and the Cold Sabres finally recalled.
Better than all that was the return of the communication ship that had previously breached the cloud layer to send their letters. That ship brought back cached transmissions for the officers and crew of the Arcadia, messages from friends and family that dated back to the departure from Earth. Short as their tour had been so far, the relentless shift between tedium and peril meant even a mundane message was a delight.
All messages would be passed through the censor and distributed in time but, in honour of the old rituals of mail call, those who put in an appearance at the comm room would get their mail processed first. Kelly was of course at the front of the crew, but there were plenty of others present, Hanagan, Edge and Ucoo from the Undying, four or five Cold Sabres, a dozen enlisted crew, and even Desla from Embassy squadron. Everyone had a data slate in their hands, and as soon as the door to the comm room opened, everyone started mashing t
he refresh button.
“Alright,” the communications officer said, stepping into the corridor and becoming immediately the most popular man on the ship, “check your pads if you haven’t already,”
He then made finger guns and mimed shooting into the crowd as data slates chimed the new mail alerts. As soon as the wave of alerts finished, he was swamped by those who were expecting communications but had received nothing. Empathic and efficient, he took down their details and promised to double check the censors and the mail packet for any missing messages. The comm officer was good at spin, but as the first wave of recipients faded away and it became gradually more evident that messages had been lost or taken by the censors, he would suddenly become the least popular man on the ship.
His plight fell beneath Kelly’s normally empathic radar; she’d received her messages. Several of them were video or audio, so she put them aside to check later and checked the text copies. Her younger brother had changed jobs again and was now an apprentice chef. Her kid sister was graduating high school, but there was no money for college, so she was looking into a Navy-sponsored program; the end line of ‘maybe I’ll be a pilot like you someday’ left Kelly flattered and terrified, and she wished she’d addressed that somehow in the letter she’d sent before. There were two new captures of her dog Murray who apparently spent at least an hour every day sniffing around her old room trying to find her. She felt guilty about that; she and Murray had played hide and seek a lot when they were both younger, and he seemed to believe this was the most elaborate game to date. Still it served him right for chewing up the ID checks she’d needed for her Navy Application, the delay had almost cost her a placing at the academy.
There was nothing from her parents; they were probably still mad at her. Either that or they’d sent an elaborate vid-mail expressing just how mad at her they were.
“Oh shit,” Hanagan’s voice carried rare sincerity, “they hit Wavereach.”
The squadron gathered around him in an instant, even a couple of the Sabres. Everyone was voicing shared concern along with a pat or squeeze of the shoulders as the pilot read on in silence. It was a common fear, so empathy was in ready supply, and Hanagan didn’t bluster or banter it away. Kelly noticed that no one ever said ‘the Maulers’ when they talked about an attack on their home, like invoking the name in the same sentence would apply some taint that couldn’t be undone.
“Not so bad,” Hanagan said after a moment. “It’s never good but this… this wasn’t so bad. There was a carrier nearby, drove them off before they could do much harm. Jen’s okay, Ricky’s okay.” He shuddered. “Holy shit though, I came out here so this wouldn’t get to them.”
“I guess now they can strike anywhere,” Edge said nervously, and Kelly suddenly understood why no one ever said ‘the Maulers’. Some fears weren’t good to put in to words.
“Not for long,” Hanagan said fiercely. “Got ’em by the balls now that we have their gateship. We’ll follow it back to their home and nuke the shit out of them.”
Bravado got into full swing after that, and Kelly sank back to a wall, putting in an ear bead so she could listen to some of the vid messages. She was halfway through a gushing transmission from her best friend when she noticed Desla. His eyes were glued to a message, and his face was ashen, his free hand fussed at his short hair.
Abruptly he let the message drop to his side, and then almost absentmindedly, set it down on a table. He drifted over to Ucoo and said something urgent to her before leaving, the other Exodite following a moment later.
Justifying her curiosity under the banner of concern for a friend, Kelly sidled over to the pad. It was unlocked but the message on the screen was mundane to say the least. Some cousin back on Solace asking the same kinds of questions Kelly’s friends and family had asked, giving similar types of news about their jobs and lives.
Perhaps it had been a previous message? Kelly wasn’t going to check, skimming the top screen on an unlocked pad was as far as her conscience could stretch. Scrolling through someone else’s personal files was grounds for court martial. Reaching out she thumbed the logout button to stop anyone less scrupulous than herself – Desla may have been a dick, but they were all on the same side.
****
Mauler Gateship Tagged ‘Bandit-Nine-Zero’
Bryson IV Local Sector, Bryson System
27 April 2315
Even unmanned as it was, the Mauler ship had observation posts, and Rease found herself in one as the hours reached late into the night. Half her unit were sleeping in a secured room while the other maintained a perimeter and ran vigilance patrols. There’d been no enemy contact since the last Mauler disappeared through the portal, and it would have been a perfect time to sleep, but as the Lieutenant watched the Arcadia through the armoured glass, she couldn’t shake the feeling the fight was far from over.
Too easy. The thought kept playing in her mind. Far too easy.
If she’d had an advantage like the gateship, she’d throw everything she had into keeping it out of enemy hands. They’d faced challenges, certainly, but so far it felt like the enemy was just using materials on hand, which was always the first response. That was reaction but next would be action, when the enemy used other ships, other troops, perhaps even played other secrets like the gateship.
Twice more her gut told her. They had tried to sink it, and they would make at least two more attempts to keep the gateship out of Constellation hands.
An unfamiliar chime pulled her attention away from the window to look at her data slate. A mail burst must have come in because she had a flood of communications. She skimmed the subjects, it was the usual gratitude and praise from people whose lives she’s saved, their families, or sometimes both. She filtered out the ones who felt obligated to included e-money and forwarded them to the same War Orphans charity she always donated it too, making sure to CC the original sender. It wasn’t exactly a hand-crafted reply, but it was better than silently taking peoples’ money like some mercenary. This way at least they knew it was going to a good place.
Once upon a time, she’d have read all her mail, money or no, and even replied to most. It had been a great ego boost, and she’d built much of her identity around becoming the person those letters seemed to think she was. Then the mail delay had turned against her, and she’d started receiving letters praising her for saving someone who had later died, someone she failed to save, someone who couldn’t have a name.
Among this batch was something new though, a parcel collection notice, which was odd because the indicator had suggested the mail burst was purely electronic. Further investigation determined the parcel was cabin-to-cabin, so it had come from within the Arcadia. She wasn’t sure what that meant, perhaps another secret admirer? Perhaps another unwanted gift from Tarek?
The ghosts stirred, and she put the data slate aside. She would deal with it when she got back to the carrier. For now, she reminded herself there would be two more attacks, and she was still on guard. She was tired but not yet exhausted; bruised but not yet hurt.
Cold, but not yet lonely.
****
Constellation Carrier CNS Arcadia
Bryson IV Local Sector, Bryson System
28 April 2315
Phillips woke when Fury and Kelly came into the Barracks, yammering about their messages despite the pilots trying to sleep. The privacy screen may have been impervious to light, but it was useless at stopping sound. He rolled onto his side, only children got excited about the mail when they were in the middle of a war zone. Children who needed reassurances from their parents.
But now that he was awake, the message light on his data slate seemed to flash insistently at him, lighting up the whole bunk in brilliant green every other second. He sighed and sat up. Thumbing through the login he went into his mail. There was only one, from his father, and it was flagged urgent.
Sure it is, he grumbled, returning the pad to its rack and lying back down.
Five restless minute
s later, he thumped his pillow, sat up and grabbed the pad again. As he read the message his blood ran cold.
Get off the Arcadia now, don’t argue, don’t plan. Take any ship you can, and get clear. I will find a way to pick you up.
Chapter X
Your last chance
Constellation Carrier CNS Arcadia
Bryson IV Local Sector, Bryson System
28 April 2315
Tarek’s hands were cuffed as the two marines led him into the Captain’s Office for another Deep Shit Committee. Everyone was in their usual spots: Captain Pierman at the one-way glass overlooking the CIC while Jenson and Walters flanked the man’s empty seat. The pilot allowed himself to be led, his head down, to stand before the desk. With a salute the two marines withdrew.
They had not planned to do the silent treatment this time. The pilot’s offences, regardless of their outcomes, were too severe to be met with any encouragement towards introspection. The officers had met prior to the meeting and passed their judgement, his punishment had been determined and what followed now was only necessary formality. Yet for all that, something about the aspect of the man who arrived in the room stayed Jenson’s opening words. For a moment he forgot all he’d planned to say. Despite the slumped shoulders and despondent downturned focus, there was an aura about Tarek that surpassed his diminutive stance. Like he was somehow touching all the walls and beyond. Sparking. Dangerous.
Realising any further silence would start to become embarrassing for both himself and the Captain, Jenson opened his mouth to speak.
But Tarek beat him to it.
Threshold of Victory Page 26