“Very well.” Freya turned to the signals officer. “Signal the Barden and the Karv; advise them we’ll pitch down to the objective on my mark. Helm, stand by.”
“Standing by for pitch, aye.”
The command structure for the young couple was working out well enough so far. Freya had experience in running a ship and it was a role that Rick knew he wasn’t ready for. He understood his value, though, and stood by his wife, scanning the near future for complications.
When they landed, his contribution would take on a new dimension.
“Both report ready for maneuvering.” The signals officer dragged two icons up to the common screens. “Both channels open.”
Freya looked over at Rick. They were in geosynchronous orbit directly above the Canal. From where they currently sat, it was a very short pitch to their destination. The three Hussars could make position in six seconds – well within Rick’s forecast.
He nodded.
“Standard count,” She announced. “Frír, tveir, ein, mark.”
They took a half step back as the three Mark III’s put the full force of their tandem drives into action.
Even after fifteen decades of engineering, advances in gravity compensator design still lagged behind those of the pitch drives. The acceleration not only pushed them back but also reduced their weight as the ships dropped at brutal speed. Rick didn’t necessarily disagree with the idea of the captain standing but falling over and knocking yourself out could be a bad thing in combat.
Their appearance would be an effective piece of showmanship, assuming the nav shields didn’t glitch. If they did, the superheated plasma resulting from their high-speed atmospheric entry would tear them to pieces.
Rick’s ability to see a safe arrival made that risk trivial.
“Don’t lock your knees,” Freya whispered.
Rick flexed just in time for the deceleration and nearly landed on his back from the unexpected force. Nobody seemed to notice, though, and he brought up a view of the Canal. The thatched shelters over the dorsal hatches had been knocked flat by the arriving ships. Their incredibly fast approach had been conducted through conventional space and the three ships had hammered brutally at the atmosphere.
Luckily, the tropical storm would have kept most of the inhabitants off the top surface of the Canal. Still, the vegetable plots out front would almost certainly need to be replanted.
The sonic booms would have been incredibly loud, even deep inside the old ship’s hull. Every resident of the Canal would be wondering what was happening.
Rick stepped over to the signals station and examined the status. “We’re tied in,” he announced. “Our algorithm’s linked us into the Guadalcanal’s shipwide system.” He gave the signals officer a nod. “We’ve knocked on the door, time to say hello.”
The officer opened the link. “Alliance vessel Guadalcanal, this is Alliance squadron flagship Ormurin. Your transponder is offline. Authenticate – Delta, Delta, Foxtrot, fife, six, niner – over.”
The message was sent to the old carrier’s shipwide system, so every resident would know they’d been found by the Alliance. It was time to challenge accepted wisdom.
Their ancestors had fled, believing the Alliance was doomed by the plague. They’d portrayed their decision as an attempt to preserve Humanity and, yet, here was an Alliance squadron hovering above them demanding authentication.
Right now, Rick had advised his wife, a member of the Fletcher family would be scrambling to search the old code files, trying to find the proper response to the sequence sent by the Ormurin. Sam, if he wasn’t already on the bridge, would be rushing there now to show his people he was still in charge. Barry would also race to the bridge, anxious to ensure none of his staff opened fire on the Alliance vessels.
“Give ‘em another nudge,” Rick told the signals officer. “Try to sound a little more ominous this time.”
“Guadalcanal, Guadalcanal, I say again – this is Alliance squadron flagship Ormurin. Authenticate – Delta, Delta, Foxtrot, fife, six, niner – over.” He grinned up at Rick. “Good thinking, this. Make ‘em scramble like a kid caught at mischief.”
It had been exactly what Rick had advised. Startle them with a show of strength and then put them on the bottom of the decision cycle. Make them react, rather than act, so the small Midgaard force could establish their authority before any talk of resistance could materialize.
Given enough time to think it through, the Humans of 3428 would realize a squadron in orbit meant an entire Alliance that knew of their whereabouts. Fighting would be futile in the long run but, in the shock of discovery, hotter heads might just prevail.
“Ormurin – Guadalcanal. Wait one. Over.”
So, they were still scrambling to find the right code sequence. One that had been used and discarded by the fleet more than a century ago but which still lived in the Guadalcanal’s antiquated data. At least someone had the sense to ask for time.
“Ormurin – Guadalcanal. Authentication is – Hotel, Quebec, niner, seven, seven. Over.”
“Tell ‘em we’re coming down,” Rick ordered before turning to follow Freya to an opening in the center of the bridge.
“Roger, Guadalcanal. Authentication confirmed. Stand by to receive inspection party at main forward hangar door. Over.” The signals officer switched the feed to shipwide so the young couple could follow the exchange while en-route to the drop-cycler.
“Uh, roger, Ormurin… will stand by. Out.”
Rick knew they wouldn’t have time to organize a proper reception and he grinned savagely. The idea of standing inside the main entry while the elite of 3428 scrambled to greet him was almost enough to make him forget how he was going to get down to the surface.
They descended a shaft to the lowest deck of the ship. The gravity compensators slowed them at each level but, unless they grabbed a railing, their momentum would resume, bleeding off gradually to give them a soft landing at the bottom. Rick followed Freya out of the shaft and down the corridor to where Thorstein held the door open to a chamber filled with two hundred Midgaard shock troops.
They were all heavily armed. Each carried the venerable G-23 assault weapon. Developed on Weirfall from an old Earth design, the weapon used caseless ammunition and a rotating breech mechanism that could put out a three-round burst before the weapon even began to recoil.
Each also carried a fully automatic sidearm based on the same caliber of caseless ammunition, but the scariest item was the personal edged weapon. A mix of sword hilts and axe handles protruded over their shoulders.
Their firearms were deadly but the blades were what put fear into the enemy. There was something about an edged weapon that gripped the imagination and wouldn’t let go. It gave one reason to ponder the mind-set of warriors who actually carried such weapons into battle.
Fighting a professional soldier was one thing but fighting against troops who enjoyed getting in close enough to use a blade on you was quite another. A professional was usually willing to accept a surrender, especially when it meant he could stop fighting.
A warrior with a sword in his hand and blood lust in his eyes might not be so willing to stop the fight. It was, somehow, more personal.
Rick and Freya already had their axes strapped to their backs and they took assault weapons from the rack inside the door, slinging them as they moved to the front of the group.
“Open,” Freya ordered.
They all elevated by an inch and the floor split in two beneath them, snapping out of sight in an instant. It still felt like they were standing on solid decking but they could see the ravaged vegetable plots below.
“Drop,” she called out.
Rick’s breakfast tried to climb back out his throat as he suddenly accelerated toward the path leading to the Canal. Thorstein had explained the process and Rick’s engineering background allowed him to trust the concept.
But it was a theoretical trust. He wasn’t happy about putting that trust to the test.
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The drop-cycler was similar in function to the shaft that he had just descended through from the bridge. It arrested your fall just before hitting the ground. It was a lot less frightening in an enclosed space on a ship where the only gravity was, usually, what you wanted it to be.
Now, watching the muddy path rush up to meet him, he had to fight to remember to flex his knees in preparation for the touchdown.
He could see, at the lip of the Canal’s hangar bay door, at least a score of faces staring up in surprise at the falling figures and he suddenly found the resolve to put on a proper display of confidence. His knees began to bend as a gravity field, projected down from the ship, began to ease the natural pull of 3428.
His feet hit and he went down into an almost kneeling position before rising with the rest of the landing party and stepping off toward the long-lost ship. He felt a tightening in his chest as the watching Humans murmured in surprise. He knew they’d never seen such a novel method of deploying troops.
He and Freya led the way up the rain-slicked, packed-clay ramp and into the massive hangar bay of the Guadalcanal. He’d have to get used to calling her by her true Alliance name.
The Canal had been a ship of mutineers.
They kept their helmets up while the crowd slowly grew in front of them. The two hundred warriors deployed in two ranks, their backs to the open hangar door. Rick and Freya stood in front of them and the crowd left a healthy gap in between.
It was the quietest he’d ever seen the hangar deck. The huge open space was easily the busiest on the ship. It provided free space for a host of craftsmen and vendors – a sort of open-air market.
Twenty minutes earlier, he knew, the soft patter of rain outside would have been inaudible over the noise of the market.
It should have been a mad-house of shouting and laughter, especially with the rain making it too dangerous to venture outside, but the only sound, beyond a low murmur of nervous speculation, was the clatter of feet on a wooden stair connecting the hangar deck to the command center above.
Once the ship had been grounded fifteen decades ago, it quickly became apparent that the ascender shafts were useless for travel between decks. The planet’s gravity reached to every part of the ship and several crewmembers had followed long habit, stepping into the shaft and falling to their deaths before the openings could be sealed.
Now, wooden stairs were the only means of transit between decks and Rick could see Sam Fletcher rushing down the steps, red faced deputies in tow.
He’d expected to feel a fierce pleasure at this reversal of status but he was surprised to feel pity instead. The stumbling man approaching them had just seen his universe turned upside down. He no longer looked powerful to Rick.
Before Rick had snuck aboard the Foxlight II, Sam had seemed larger than life. He was the captain – the undisputed ruler of Rick’s universe. Now his perspective had changed. The universe was much larger than 3428 and Sam Fletcher’s little corner of it now seemed almost pitiful.
Even though Sam and others like him had made life nearly unbearable for people like Rick, he was still the product of his upbringing. Rick’s own father was quick to point out that hate wasn’t something you were born with; it was something you learned.
The people of 3428 had learned hate from childhood. Their own parents had taught them that people like the Heywoods weren’t to be trusted because their ancestors hadn’t kept the faith when the Canal had broken away from the fleet.
It wasn’t like Sam Fletcher had decided on his own, one day, to create a sub-class of social outcasts. He was simply the caretaker of an institutionalized lie.
And now he was the one left holding the bag.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and the crowd parted, giving the small group room to approach the visitors. To his credit, Sam stopped at the base of the stairs and collected his dignity before crossing to greet the imposing troops.
He drew up in front of Rick and Freya, glancing between the two.
Before he could speak, Freya retracted her helmet. “We claim this unaligned world in the name of the Alliance,” she announced in a strong, clear voice. “All who wish to leave may do so. All who wish to remain are also welcome.”
She turned to Sam. “You lead this community?”
A nod and a confident smile. He’d managed to regain his feet and remember what advantages he brought to the encounter. “Sam Fletcher, Captain of the Canal…”
“Captain,” Freya cut him off. “Wouldn’t mayor be more fitting?”
Sam might have a pre-cognitive advantage but, when his own words caused the young Midgaard to take a new tangent, he had very little warning. Rick had coached her, and many of the crew, on techniques that could minimize the pre-cog advantage.
Not every resident had his impressive fourteen second reach. Over the decades, those with shorter lead-times had managed to develop coping mechanisms to counter their relative disadvantage. One of the most effective was to formulate responses on the fly, often basing your reply on something the other person had just said.
In normal situations, it was wise to act first and force your opponent to react. On 3428, it was often better to react because it gave your opponent less warning. They had less time to consider your response if it came to your mind just before you spoke.
Debate on 3428 was usually a very tangential affair.
While Sam considered her response, Freya decided to shift back to her previous line of attack. This was another tactic she’d learned from Rick. Never abandon your speaking points entirely. Let them drift for a moment while you follow a new tack but come back to them at random if you’ve managed to put your opponent on his heels.
“Very well.” She waved a hand to concede the point. “If we’re going to talk like this is still a ship, report your divisions.”
“Er, yes, ma’am.” Sam turned to the small group behind him, motioning his cousin, Chris, forward. “This is our morale officer…”
Freya held up a hand, palm facing Sam. It was another perfect chance to react. “You should know the proper order, Captain. Can the ship fight? Can it keep the crew alive?” She waved Chris back. “Who’s in charge of the weapons division?”
Barry stepped forward. “That’s me, ma’am. Barry Fletcher. All weapons on the dorsal surface are test fired with a single round every nine months and all small-caliber weapons on surfaces facing the canyon floor and walls are similarly tested using sand traps to avoid hull damage. I warrant the weapons at a minimum effectiveness of seventy nine-percent tested and proved – ammunition load out currently at thirty percent.”
“So you can fire but not for very long.”
“That’s right, ma’am.”
She looked back at Sam. “Engineering?”
Sam probably saw that one coming. “As the ship is stationary, we don’t typically include our chief engineer in any…”
“You bring a weapons officer but not your engineer?” Freya retorted. “Whether this is a ship or a city, you need lights, air circulation, heat... Where is your chief engineer?”
Sam darted a nervous glance over his shoulder, flapped a hand helplessly, then seemed to come to a decision. “Pushkin,” he called out. “Pushkin, where are you?”
Rick, still hidden behind his helmet, felt a stirring of fear. Anatoly Pushkin was a good engineer but he wasn’t a Heywood, which meant he didn’t have the full knowledge needed to be the chief engineer. Why wouldn’t Sam be asking for a Heywood and why was Sam about to…?
“I’m right here.” Anatoly moved to the front of the crowd.
Sam took a deep breath. “You’re the chief engineer now.” He gestured toward Freya. “Report.”
“No, I’m not!” Anatoly nearly choked on his own response. “With all due respect, Captain, you’re off your nut. I told you I’m not stepping back into an engineering compartment until you let them go.”
“Let them go?” Freya’s tone was a dark warning to both men.
Sam looked back in
her general direction, his eyes wandering as he cast about for the right phrasing. “For too long, our lead engineering staff has held an unfair monopoly on their knowledge.” He gestured at Pushkin. “It poses a threat to our future because promising young engineers like Pushkin, here, cannot advance to the lead position simply because he wasn’t born to the right family.”
It was galling for Rick to hear this. Was Sam really trying to portray the Heywoods as elitist? He almost retracted his helmet, but Pushkin saved him the trouble.
“Family?” the young engineer retorted. “You only call yourself captain because of who your father was, so how is this any different?” He shook his head. “No, you’re just using that business with Ted and Rick to strip the Heywoods of their birthright.”
“Damn right,” Barry chimed in. “If you ask me, Ted had it coming, or does anyone here think he was just hanging around down there with his buddies because they like the dark?” He waved off the possibility, turning to stalk away in disgust.
Anatoly looked at Freya. “Ma’am, he locked up the Heywoods after Rick disappeared but I’m not qualified to act as chief. I’m sorry but you’re going to need one of them to report for our division.”
Good old Anatoly, or good young Anatoly, to be more accurate. If nothing else, the rage on Sam’s face would have been enough to prove to Rick that the young Russian was good people but he’d worked with the young man for years. In truth, he was probably good enough to take on the lead job but his loyalty was too strong.
There was a surprised murmur just before Rick retracted his helmet. They saw it coming, of course. “Then perhaps I should give the report, Anatoly.” He nodded his thanks to the young engineer, returning the Russian’s happy grin.
“But first…” He turned to Sam. “You have my family in the brig?”
Sam jabbed an angry finger at him. “You’re a wanted man!”
“For what?” Rick retorted. “For defending myself against five idiots who had no good reason to be skulking around a dark maintenance corridor? For scheming to stab Ted with his own knife? Even if that had been my plan, it would have required a fair amount of criminal intent on Ted’s part, don’t you think?” He took a sudden step forward, noting with satisfaction that Sam had moved his own left foot back a few inches.
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