Archangel One

by Evan Currie

  Milla nodded. “He seems male, yes . . . for the most part?”

  Alex raised an eyebrow at the general uncertainty that the other woman seemed to project as she thought about the entity that had made the Odysseus his . . . her . . . its? . . . home.

  “Strange. A living ship is some weird-level stuff,” Alex said, shaking her head. “But I guess that’s the time we live in.”

  Milla stifled a laugh. “How so?”

  “Well, space travel and all,” Alex said. “I guess the weird stuff is to be expected.”

  “I have been in a starship, in one way or another, for most of my life at this point,” Milla said with an amused tone. “And my people have been spacefaring for longer than we teach in our histories, and never have I encountered anything like Odysseus. I will be quite honest, Commander Black, I do not believe it to be a ‘space’ thing. I believe it is a Terran thing.”

  Black laughed. “Touché, and call me Alex.”

  “Milla, then.”

  “Milla.” Alex smiled. “I suppose you might be right. I grew up on science fiction, and this is just the sort of thing that would make it into some of those old stories. Usually in those, though, Odysseus would go crazy and murder everyone in gory ways.”

  Milla raised an eyebrow. “I do not think that will happen.”

  “Hope not, but that’s how it would go in the vids.”

  “You people have strange entertainment,” Milla said, shaking her head. “I went to the . . . theater, is it? I went with Stephan a few times, but the violence was unreal.”

  “You let him pick the movies, didn’t you?”

  “Of course.” Milla looked puzzled. “I didn’t know anything about any of them.”

  “Never let the guy pick all the movies,” Alex said. “At least not if you want to avoid all action and horror flicks.”

  “I do not understand?”

  “Just trust me on this. Look up the movie description and pick out ones that you think you’ll like,” Alex told her. “Don’t trust anyone else to pick for you, especially a fighter jock.”

  “Are you not a ‘fighter jock’?” Milla asked.

  “Sure,” Alex agreed with a grin. “And I’d probably have picked the same movies Stephanos did.”

  Milla looked perplexed, her face screwed up as she seemed to think that through.

  “But you said—” she started to ask, only to be cut off by Alex.

  “I’m not exactly your stereotypical lady-in-waiting, Milla.” She laughed, waving off the lieutenant’s confusion. “So how did the systems hold up?”

  Milla put aside the confusing topic and glanced back over her shoulder to the open hatch that allowed access to the fighter’s inner workings.

  “Well enough, I believe,” she said, “considering the velocity the commander pushed them to inside the planet’s atmosphere.”

  “That could have been worse,” Alex said dryly. “The Archangels were known for pushing their counter-mass generators beyond all sane limits during the war. I wasn’t flying then, but I’ve seen records of those nuts limping a plane back into the barn, armor plating ablated by atmospheric friction—or, once, with literal fish clogging intakes.”

  Milla frowned. “I am not sure I want to know how they managed that.”

  “Apparently counter-mass gets more efficient in thicker ‘atmosphere,’” Alex said. “And even more efficient, again apparently, in liquid. They used counter-mass to push a bubble around their fighters and approached the target from below sea level.”

  Milla gaped slightly, doing the math in her head. She was well aware that the Terran counter-mass systems were a cruder version of Priminae space-time manipulation, but no one had ever tried what Alex just indicated the Terrans played around with.

  “But . . .” she said slowly. “Efficiency, yes I can see that, but that doesn’t mean that it would be able to push aside that much liquid. There are limits to effectiveness, even if efficiency increases. There would be a point of, what is the expression? Diminishing returns, I believe, yes?”

  “That’s the expression, yes. However, it obviously worked somehow, otherwise the fish wouldn’t have gotten sucked into their intakes,” Alex replied.

  “But”—Milla was aware she was repeating herself, but there didn’t seem to be any better word to use—“the Archangels were reaction-thrust craft! How . . . but . . .”

  “I never said it made sense, just that I saw the reports,” Alex said.

  “The Double A platform isn’t a mere reaction-thrust system.” A new voice startled them, causing the pair to turn to see Steph crouched on the cockpit’s top access point. “It’s a modified SCRAMJet reactor, capable of burning stored oxygen at lower speeds in order to build up to hypersonic velocity. Eric ordered us to run full power through the intakes, flash-electrolyzing water into hydrogen and oxygen and using vapor filtration to keep the water out.”

  He hopped down into the rather expansive space that was the cockpit of the new fighter. “Shouldn’t have worked, frankly, but with counter-mass running full power, it was really more like water vapor than water to start with. The fish were just unlucky to be sucked up as we flew through the space they’d been swimming in a second earlier.”

  He paused. “Okay, maybe ‘flying’ isn’t the right word, but it worked. That Block supercarrier never saw us coming.”

  “They didn’t see you coming because they weren’t insane, Stephanos.” Alex rolled her eyes. “Who expects a raid from air superiority fighters to come from underwater?”

  Steph just waved idly. “It worked.”

  “Broken clocks ‘work’ twice a day, Stephanos,” Alex responded archly. “That doesn’t make them functional in any sense of the word.”

  “Ouch.” Steph put a hand over his heart. “Don’t go telling a guy he’s not functional, Black. That’s hitting . . . well, below the belt.”

  Alex rolled her eyes, an action she was becoming all too accustomed to since she had begun working with the commander.

  Milla, for her part, was mostly puzzled by the exchange but remained focused on the information presented.

  “I have not examined the exact specifications of your space-time manipulation technology,” she admitted. “However, it should not have functioned in the way you describe. I believe I will need to familiarize myself more with the technology.”

  “Find a Block engineer,” Alex advised her. “Eric stole the tech from them, but even today they’re the most knowledgeable in its operation.”

  Milla nodded slowly. “I will do so at the earliest opportunity, thank you.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be riveting information,” Steph said, dropping into the interior of the pilot’s pit and landing easily on the substrate that made up the floor when the fighter’s interface wasn’t in operation. “I’ve been looking over the mission specifications the admiral left with me. If we’re to meet the schedule she wants, we need to have a squadron sucking vacuum within the month. How close are we on that?”

  “Another six platforms are currently in construction,” Milla responded, “four of which will be ready within the timeframe the admiral has laid out. I’m informed that recruiting for their crews has officially begun as of two days ago.”

  “Six boats,” Steph said. “That’ll mean at least a dozen NICS-qualified pilots.”

  “I would prefer eighteen,” Alex said.

  Steph nodded. “So would I, but when Congress defunded the squadron after the war, they put a recruitment freeze on pilots for the system. After our losses with the Drasin conflict, I’m not even sure we’ll be able to scrounge up a dozen who are fully space and system qualified, let alone eighteen.”

  Alex scowled, seemingly particularly irritated by that point. “Since I was one of the people hit by that same recruitment freeze, I have an idea of how tough that job is going to be. Sure, I pushed on and scored a slot with the Vorpals eventually, but that was no easy row to hoe. Most of the people I knew, well, they dropped out to look for other oppor
tunities.”

  Steph nodded soberly. “Yeah, I knew a handful as well; people on the waiting list who’d been training with us for months before they got axed. I might be able to pull up some of their contact information, though.”

  “I might have a few names in my contact list too,” Alex said after a moment. “The admiral would know of them, of course, but they’d be low on her list, since they dropped out of the program when it became clear there were no openings.”

  “Can they fly?” Steph asked the only question that mattered.

  Alex smirked. “Better than you.”

  “I’ll take that bet. Fire up your contact list, Black. Let’s find us some more pilots. I have a couple to add to the list myself, people who aren’t on the official list, come to think of it.”

  “The Admiralty might object to bringing nonmilitary personnel into the mix,” Alex reminded him.

  “Let them blow it out their collective ass,” Steph said. “I’ve read the mission specifications, and military is the last thing we need. Yo-ho, yo-ho, Black . . . beard?”

  “Oh God, you’re really going to make me regret signing on with this, aren’t you?”

  Chapter 4

  Vindict Morow, Imperial Eighth Fleet Command Vessel

  “Attend the commander’s presence!”

  “Be as you were,” Helena ordered crisply, stepping into the ship’s command and control center, eyes darting to the various displays that showed repeater feeds from her squadrons.

  “Yes milady. All return to your duties!”

  Helena ignored the commotion on the deck, taking her place with a practiced ease. Her Eighth Fleet was the smallest and, by far, least powerful of the Empire’s fleets, but that had never overly bothered her. Fleets like the Third were a sword, a useful tool to be sure, but sometimes they were too unwieldy to truly achieve the best results.

  That normally didn’t matter, given that Imperial Fleets generally employed more than enough force to annihilate anything that gave them pause. But this time it had been made clear that power alone would not suffice.

  “New heading has been sent to the navigation computers,” Helena said firmly. “Signal all vessels to prepare for departure at the earliest opportunity.”

  “Yes milady,” Sub-Commander Steppen responded instantly even as he dispatched the orders.

  Helena ignored him, continuing to put mission parameters into the squadron-wide servers. By the time the fleet was ready to move, she intended that every commander would be fully cognizant of the mission profile facing them, along with every known issue she could cover.

  Of course, the known issues were never the problem.

  These anomalous ships and the race they belong to are more of an issue than the Empire realizes, she thought as she worked.

  Worse, they seemed to grow more anomalous even as they were clearly incorporating Imperial technology, no doubt acquired from the Oathers. That made no sense. They should be conforming to Imperial thinking and tactics as they were constricted by the capabilities of Imperial technology.

  Instead, they seemed to have leveraged Imperial technology to make themselves even more unpredictable.

  Helena smiled.

  I’m going to enjoy this.

  “All squadrons report ready to depart, on your order, milady.”

  Helena looked up and nodded curtly. “Secure all stations for maneuvering, and order the Eighth into motion.”

  She looked around calmly.

  “It’s time to go hunting.”

  Imperial Third Fleet Command Vessel

  “Welcome back, Commander.”

  Jesan nodded briefly, hearing the slight undercurrent of censure from his second in command, but he ignored it. It was more respectful than what he heard from most of the people he had to deal with.

  He passed a secure holographic crystal chip across. “Our orders. Prepare the fleet to depart.”

  “As you will it.”

  The response was textbook but the tone brittle, leaving Jesan to wonder whether the empress’ stay of execution was more a cruelty than a mercy. If his command of the fleet were compromised by his fall from grace, then his death might well be assured anyway—and his crew’s along with him.

  Is she intending to wipe the Third out entirely? he wondered. Eliminate the stain of their failure by washing it away in blood and fire?

  It was well within Her Majesty’s mind, he knew. She was much like her father in that regard. Cool and measured, even when sliding the dagger home.

  He wasn’t certain, however, because she could also be pragmatic and merciful, leading men to redeem their failures and then bringing them back into the fold. The uncertainty that resulted among the nobility was one of the more impressive methods the Imperial Court had of keeping them all in check.

  Worse, he was well aware of it, and yet he still could not avoid the trap he could see right in front of him.

  “All vessels report ready to depart, Commander.”

  Jesan nodded, mind focused on the task that had been set for him and his crew.

  “Understood,” he said. “Order all ships out.”

  “We cannot. The Eighth Fleet has secured local space and are departing orbit,” his second in command said.

  Jesan scowled. “Very well. Depart as soon as orbit has cleared.”

  “As you will it, Commander.”

  Jesan waved casually, dismissing the man as he opened the files on the systems the empress had assigned him.

  Pocket empires, he thought as he examined the data.

  Mostly early Imperial colonies from long before the Oather Sundering. Small colonial governments had moved for independence and, by the time the Empire had established enough general control, became strong enough to make reclaiming them a costly measure. The Empire also tended to benefit from having the occasional visible “threat” to parade in front of its people, keeping them nicely distracted from issues at home.

  Still, pocket empires had ambitions like any other group, and occasionally they had to be reminded who the big power was in the region.

  That was his mission this time around. Dirty work, but necessary.

  It would even be considered routine if his squadrons hadn’t just been through a vicious set of battles that cost them over thirty percent of their number and left much of the remaining vessels at less than a hundred-percent efficiency.

  Thankfully, the empress had deigned to permit them time to do repairs, though he suspected that was as much to keep him in the area while the court deliberated on his fate. But proper slip repairs for much of his cohort would give them a little better than a fighting chance in combat, if nothing else.

  Jesan looked up as the Eighth Fleet began to move out of their position in orbit, their numbers still smaller than his own squadron despite the damages he’d suffered. He wondered how many people watching understood that they were seeing a shift in political power here on Garisk as they watched the Empire’s smallest fleet leave orbit in an orderly fashion.

  He doubted most had a clue.

  More the fool are they, then, Jesan thought as he closed the files and settled down into the command position.

  “Orbital Plot will be clear in a few moments, Commander.”

  “Power all drives and follow the Eighth out of orbit.”

  “Milady,” Steppen said softly, catching Helena’s attention.

  “What is it?” she asked, looking up from where she was studying the scanner records of the Third’s fight with the anomalous vessels.

  “The Third is powering their drives and following our path out of orbit.”

  Helena nodded absently. “Ignore them. They’re being dispatched to Riegal before heading outward.”

  “Ah,” Steppen said.

  She didn’t need to say anything else. There was really only one thing the Empire ever did immediately outward from Riegal, and that was slap down the oft-warring pocket empires that populated that region of space.

  Barring extraordinary circumst
ances, being assigned to that region was known to be a reprimand for something. Steppen waved a hand, banishing the Third Fleet from his console and mind as he went on to other business.

  “Squadron Commanders are examining the mission brief. I’ve had requests for consultation with you from three already,” he went on.

  “I’ll speak with them all once we’re out of the system,” Helena replied. “I’m still familiarizing myself with the objective and want to have it all fresh from my own perspective before anyone else offers opinions.”

  “Understood, milady.”

  They had time, Helena knew. The enemy wasn’t interested in pursuing a shooting war at the moment, and that meant that the Empire could handle things on its own schedule. She’d normally be suspicious, as it seemed to be bad tactics, but given the anomalous nature of the enemy, Helena wasn’t willing to invest much effort in trying to puzzle them out. Yet.

  Time enough for that once I’ve gathered intelligence of my own.

  Besides, in her opinion, the most likely explanation was that they simply didn’t have enough forces to project them into Imperial space. Extrastellar force projection was no simple matter, and every bit of data currently available on the anomalous group indicated that they occupied very few star systems and had few ships, or they wanted to appear as such.

  In either case, that would make logistics a nightmare in the persecution of long-range warfare.

  All I need to figure out is which is which, she thought with a wry tilt to her lips as she read over the data. That and what their superweapon is, where it is based, and whether the Empire can capture the device or if we will have to destroy it. Just a simple assignment from Her Imperial Majesty.

  She glanced to one side, eyes drifting to the system telemetry plot. The Eighth Fleet were moving quickly toward the edge of the system, preparing to accelerate past the speed of light. Behind them, the Third was now angling off and heading on a different course as they too continued to increase their speed to the maximum in system velocity.

  Good luck, Commander. I will be very interested in seeing how you handle yourself if we meet again.