by Peter Nealen
He had learned a long time ago, even as a Vitorian Commando, long before he had joined the Brotherhood, that this kind of banter was a good thing. It was a sign that the men weren’t being overwhelmed by the stress of anticipation, particularly when venturing into the unknown like they were.
As the banter continued, Scalas sort of tuned it out, studying the display of the Ktatra system. He stared at the blotchy disk in some fascination. He’d been to hundreds of star systems in his time. He’d seen tidally locked worlds with a temperate zone only a few kilometers wide, ringing the world from pole to pole. He’d seen systems where the only habitation huddled inside hollowed-out asteroids circling an overly-active sun. But he’d never been inside a stellar nursery before, never seen the birth of worlds up close.
There were those who considered the Caractacans little more than men of war, concerned only with movements, weapons, and the search for enemies. And it was true that, even though his purview was on the “ground,” whatever shape that ground might take, Scalas was scanning that disc, calling up distances and informational overlays, trying to judge where they would have to look for Ktatra itself. But at the same time, he thought the sight was breathtaking.
It had taken some getting used to, under Kranjick’s tutelage, to realize that a Caractacan Brother was supposed to be more than a soldier. The Code demanded a moral standing that was too easily eroded if all that a man thought about was war and fighting. He had to be able to pause and take in the beauty of God’s creation, even if only for a few moments. It helped keep him balanced and focused on the higher things, those that made him a man and not an automaton.
So he looked at the swirling circle of dust, set against the equally awesome backdrop of curtains of green, blue, and yellow, glowing in places where the rays of the nascent sun penetrated the thinner zones of debris. And he offered a short prayer, reverent in the face of the immensity of the power set before him, before he got down to business.
Relative velocities matched with the system, the drives cut, and the stomach-dropping sensation of freefall returned. None of the Brothers commented or complained; they were well past that stage. Every one of them had had to find his space legs a long time ago. If he didn’t have them when he entered his novitiate, he had them by the time he donned the white tunic of a sworn Brother.
“Erekan?” Mor called over the intercom. “Can you come up to the command deck? The Brother Legate and Commander Rehenek want to have a general conference.”
“On my way,” Scalas replied, unfastening his harness and floating free of his acceleration couch. He kicked off for the lift, arrowing inside with practiced ease and catching himself by one of the handholds inside the hatch. A moment later, he was on his way up.
The hatch slid open on the command deck and he floated out, pushing himself toward Mor’s chair. The Dauntless’s captain was still strapped in, though he didn’t especially need to be. The holo tank was already displaying Maruks’s face, along with Titus’s, Costigan’s, Hwung-Tsi’s, and Rehenek’s.
There was no conversation going on; it seemed that no one wanted to get started until the rest of the captains and commanders had joined in. Scalas glanced at the comms indicators at the bottom of the tank. It was as he’d expected; they were using tight-beam laser comm links. The risk of spewing too much electromagnetic radiation using regular radio comms that close to a pirate nest was too high.
Of course, given the sheer volume of background radiation, it was entirely likely that any emissions they put out would get lost in the noise very quickly. There was probably enough hard radiation and radio noise in the nebula to obscure even the neutrino, thermal, and electromagnetic emissions of the ships’ drives.
Even so, they had to be careful. And their emissions would reach the outer edge of the accretion disc in fifteen minutes, however much background noise there was.
Over the next few minutes, the holo tank populated with more faces. Humans, draconic-looking sefkhit, a couple of triangular-headed ekuz, four long-nosed, horned tehud, and three velk joined the conference. Finally, Rehenek seemed to look around the tank, and nodded.
“I believe we are all here,” he said. “Welcome to the Ktatra system, gentlemen. Somewhere in that morass of dust and asteroids is the station where the Unity’s provocateurs are hiring their proxies. I will admit, I hadn’t quite realized just how thick it was going to be. Any thoughts on how to proceed?”
“We have Ktatra’s orbit, presuming the mercenaries were telling the truth,” one of the sefkhit, with the name “Drozan Atun Khenosh” displayed above his head, said. “The difficulty lies in finding just where along that orbit it is. Without being detected and attacked.”
“If we advance into the disc with the entire fleet, we will be detected and considered intruders, I suspect,” the velk named Chazertaule said. “The data is still coming in, but while there seem to be a few starship tracks in groups heading into the system, none are quite so large as this one. Pirate strike forces, perhaps. And we do not know the usual protocol for this place. Even pirate systems tend to have their own protocols, if only because there is rarely honor among thieves.”
“Agreed,” Maruks said. “We should reconnoiter first. One ship, maybe two.”
“I will offer the Nemesis,” one of the Dahuan commanders, a human by the name of Dalu Revinu, said. “She is older, and will not stand out overmuch among pirate starships.”
“She is of the same class as any of the rest of our ships, Dalu,” Varan Firin, the captain of the Accuser, another of the Dahuan star cruisers, retorted. “You just want to get in first.”
“Enough,” the overall Dahuan commander, a grizzled, bearded man by the name of Jair Tholkurt growled. Scalas glanced at Rehenek’s face in the tank. Rehenek was the overall commander of this little task force, minus the Caractacan ships, and his reaction was somewhat telling. His eyes were narrowed, but he didn’t speak up.
So, you really are building an alliance rather than a combined force. But you’d prefer it otherwise.
Scalas had seen some of Rehenek’s temperament on Valdek at the end and in the days afterward, as they had fled the system aboard the Pride of Valdek and conducted their daring reconnaissance of the Sparat system, where the so-called “Galactic Unity” had been born. He’d seen an angry, driven young man who had plans for the eventual reconquest of his homeworld. But Rehenek had been a combat leader more than a strategic thinker, always throwing himself into the thick of the fighting. It had made finding him to get him offworld difficult, and they’d lost a lot of Brothers and two starships in the process. And even then, it had taken the full force of Brother Legate Kranjick’s personality to get Rehenek to come with them in the end. Otherwise he might have stayed, fighting until eventually the Unity’s clones had hunted him down and overwhelmed him.
But here he was, playing the diplomat, putting together a still-loose alliance of worlds and ships to oppose the Unity. Maybe you are more patient and thoughtful than I thought. I hope so.
Rehenek’s drive hadn’t made Scalas nervous, not quite. But there was a hard edge to the younger man that concerned him. He couldn’t necessarily blame him; Scalas had seen the devastation on Valdek. It wasn’t his home, but he could imagine the rage he’d feel if Vitor had been subject to such an attack. But as a Caractacan Brother, he knew that rage could not, must not be the guiding force behind strategy or tactics. Wars were won with honor by those cold enough to do what needed to be done, no more, no less.
“I think that a reconnaissance is a good idea,” Rehenek said. “One ship, maybe two.” He shook his head. “No, one is probably better. It will take longer to locate the base, especially since they don’t seem to have a beacon out, but the locals might not get too suspicious about one ship, even a Dahuan star cruiser.”
He looked around the tank again. “The Caractacan Brothers are by far the most elite soldiers among us,” he said. “Centurion Scalas, will you join me aboard the Nemesis with, say, a squad of your men? We will ha
ve to find some more generic gear for you; I doubt that anyone on Ktatra itself would mistake Caractacan Brothers for pirates otherwise.”
Scalas glanced at Maruks. It was a request that he was technically in a position to accept or refuse on his own recognizance as a Centurion. But he wanted to see what Maruks thought. The Brother Legate made no move for a moment, his face blank and expressionless, but he finally met Scalas’s eyes in the holo tank and nodded.
“I think that we can do that, General-Regent,” he said. “We can discuss how we will work together when I arrive aboard the Nemesis.”
It was a subtle message, but a clear one, and from some of the expressions among the other commanders, it had been received. The Brothers were allies. Not subordinates.
“The rest of the ships will have to go dark,” Maruks put in. “There is too much risk of detection if they simply stay out here, regardless of the debris or the background radiation.”
“Or,” Rehenek said, rubbing his chin, “the others might have to leave the system altogether.”
“We would not be in a position to support you if we did that,” Drozan Atun Khenosh protested.
“You will hardly be in a position to support the reconnaissance ship if something goes wrong anyway,” Rehenek pointed out. He pointed at the display in the center of the tank where the Ktatra system slowly rotated. “Does anyone think that comms signals will reliably make it out of that?”
No one answered. No one needed to. Between the nebula’s background radiation and the sheer amount of debris in the accretion disc, there was no way that communications could be counted on. Whoever went in to find Ktatra was going to be on their own.
It wasn’t a prospect that especially bothered Scalas, except that he didn’t know the crew of the Nemesis. Ideally, he would prefer to have the Dauntless with them instead. But there would be no disguising a Caractacan Brotherhood Spear-class starship. But it would not be the first time he had had to go into a dangerous situation alone, or nearly so. He was sure that, should he survive, it would not be the last either.
“There is another proto-system only two light-years distant,” Rehenek continued. “Unless that is also a pirate haven, the fleet should be able to stay there and await our return.” He looked around at the assembled commanders. “If anyone has a better idea that does not include trying to blunder through an accretion disc to attempt a massed assault on a presumably alerted enemy of unknown strength, I am open to hearing it.”
His tone suggested that he was not. This might have been an alliance rather than a cohesive unit, but Rehenek was determined that the decision had already been made.
No one ventured another idea. Rehenek looked at Scalas in the holo. “Centurion, I will meet you aboard the Nemesis.” There might have been a shadow of a smile on his narrow face, despite the warning that Scalas had issued a moment before. “I look forward to seeing you again.” Without further ado, his image winked out.
It said something about the force of Rehenek’s personality that there was little said after that. Scalas simply got a nod from Maruks, clapped Mor on the shoulder, and headed below. There was a lot of preparation still to do.
Dahuan star cruisers all held to a generally similar plan, regardless of their differing size, tonnage, and drive class. With smooth, almost organic lines, they were generally wider near the nose, tapering back toward the tail, where their drives flared out again. They always reminded Scalas of some massive, aquatic monsters.
As was common in many larger starships, they had open landing bays rather than the purpose-built dropship bays of the Spear-class. Lathan was currently steering their dropship inside the cavernous hold. The truncated cone looked blunt and crude next to the Dahuan starship’s flowing lines.
Lathan had made almost the entire approach on maneuvering thrusters alone, a testament to his own not inconsiderable skill. The nose thrusters coughed as the dropship drifted through the massive portal, faint surges of deceleration pushing Scalas and the men of First Squad against their restraints. Two more taps, and they were at a relative standstill inside the bay. A moment later, there was a clang and another shudder through the fabric of the dropship as a docking claw took hold. “We’re here, Centurion,” Lathan reported.
“Well done, Lathan,” Scalas said. “I think that was the smoothest thrusters-only approach I’ve seen in a while. You wouldn’t have been extra careful just to show the Dahuans who the better pilot is, would you?”
“Pride is a sin, Centurion,” Lathan said, laughing. “But we have to instill confidence in our abilities amongst our allies, do we not?”
Scalas just shook his head as the dropship was drawn into a cradle and locked in. Releasing his harness, he levered himself out of his acceleration couch and started maneuvering toward the hatch. He was waiting, holding onto one of the handholds, when the hatch cracked open with a hiss of equalizing pressure and folded open.
In dock, the dropships didn’t fold all the way open the way they did on the ground. Only one “petal” opened, leading onto a gangway and flexible docking tube that had sealed itself against the dropship’s hull.
Two Dahuan crewmen were waiting, dressed in simple, dark blue uniforms. They carried no weapons, in contrast to the Caractacans, who were in armor except for their helmets, sidearms strapped to their belts. Neither one of the Dahuans advanced, holding their ground as the Brothers filed off the dropship.
“Centurion Scalas?” one of them ventured, a baby-faced young man who looked like little more than a child to Scalas’s eyes.
“I am Centurion Scalas,” he replied, in Trade Cant. He hoped that the Dahuan captain would have sent messengers who knew the language; most of those he had met did, but there were always those who only spoke one of their nearly incomprehensible dialects, formed of a strange mingling of tonal sounds and guttural consonants.
“Commander Rehenek is waiting for you in the captain’s lounge, sir,” the youngster said, in passable Trade Cant. “He asked us to bring you as soon as you arrived on board.”
Scalas glanced at Kahane, who nodded. He’d hold the rest of the squad in the landing bay until his superior had more information. Turning back to the young Dahuan with a nod and a wave of his hand, Scalas said, “Lead on, then.”
The two Dahuans briefly stiffened to attention in midair before turning and starting to clamber hand over hand down the docking tube. Scalas followed.
The tube led to an antechamber equipped with an airlock. The lock was currently open, as the tube was extending the pressure environment clear to the dropship’s hull. Under other circumstances, it looked like the lock was set against the bulkhead that formed the back of the bay, running across the starship’s beam.
On the other side of the lock was a large prep room, with dozens of equipment cases bolted to the deck and even more racks against the walls, each one cradling a space suit. Some were armored for combat, others were simple utility suits, thin-skinned and more flexible.
Two large equipment lifts were flanked by smaller personnel lifts, and the young Dahuans led the way toward the starboard personnel lift. There weren’t a lot of handholds in the prep room, but the Dahuan expertly swam through the air, using the equipment cases to pull and push his way toward his destination. He was good; as young as he looked, he clearly had extensive training and practice in zero-G movement.
Scalas was nearly as practiced, and followed easily.
The two of them glided into the lift and found handholds as the doors slid shut. The Dahuan said something in his own language, and a moment later, Scalas’ boots touched the deck as the car surged up through the ship’s centerline, toward the personnel sections nearer the nose.
It was a short trip. Within seconds, the slight acceleration vanished, and the doors hissed open. The Dahuan crewman looked at him, then led the way out into the corridor.
It wasn’t a large passage, more of a ring traveling around the middle of the ship. The Dahuan crewman led him to a simple, oval hatch and rapped on the met
al.
“Come ahead,” Rehenek called from inside, in Trade Cant. It was doubtful that Rehenek spoke any of the Dahuan dialects, and the odds of the Dahuans, who hailed from a world fifty parsecs distant from Valdek, speaking Eastern Satevic, were almost as long.
The Dahuan crewman swung himself aside, coming to rigid attention in the passageway, his back to the bulkhead, and Scalas reached for the hatch’s dogging handle.
The hatch itself was lightweight, and swung open easily. Scalas pulled himself inside.
The compartment was small but comfortable. A bed that could double as an acceleration couch was in a cubbyhole in the bulkhead, and the rest of the small chamber was taken up by a small desk with a personal holo projector, an equally small low-G kitchenette, and three chairs with straps to keep their occupants in place during zero-G.
He’d expected to find the Dahuan captain there as well, but Rehenek was alone. Looking up as Scalas entered, his hatchet face brightened, and he started to rise. Checked by the seatbelt, he growled, unstrapped, and brought himself “upright,” holding on to the edge of the table with one hand.
“Erekan Scalas,” he said, grinning and holding out a hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
Scalas returned the smile and gripped Rehenek’s hand, though he watched the other man somewhat warily. This warmth, this friendliness, seemed inconsistent with the Rehenek he had last seen as they’d parted ways at Kaletonan IV. That young man had been angry, bitter, and ready to lash out at anyone and everyone in the aftermath of the fall of Valdek.
“And you,” he said coolly. “Though after our last meeting…”
Rehenek nodded ruefully, waving Scalas to a seat. “Yes, I know,” he said. He looked up at Scalas as he levered himself into his own chair. “I was something of a boor the last time you saw me.” He shrugged. “I apologize; I was angry, and we were both grieving.”
Scalas raised an eyebrow at that, even as he strapped himself into the chair, removing the need to control his movements carefully so as not to bounce out of his seat.