by Marko Kloos
“Aye, sir. Going full EMCON.”
Fifteen minutes pass, then thirty. The Lanky ships behind us disappear from the plot as Indy leaves them behind. Without the active sensors, the contacts marked on the holotable fade from the solid colors of “confirmed” to the progressively paler icons denoting an old contact that can’t be updated. Up ahead, the wedge of space before Indy is clear as far as the ship’s optical sensors can tell. Behind us, Mars recedes into the darkness, along with all the minefields and human wreckage floating in space around it. For a moment, I wonder if Halley was on one of the ships the Lankies destroyed, and the thought is making me almost physically nauseated, but then I dismiss it again. She’s at Combat Flight School on Luna, and her tour as instructor isn’t supposed to end until early next year. They don’t pull flight-school instructors out of the classroom and assign them to active fleet ops at the drop of a hat. But that’s a lot of destroyed hulls around Mars, and a small, nagging part of my brain doesn’t want to let go of the dreadful suspicion that Halley is out there, lifelessly drifting in a slow orbit around Mars, or still strapped into the pilot seat of a shattered Wasp somewhere on the planet’s surface.
An hour after we complete our slingshot maneuver around Mars, there’s nothing but empty space in front of us as far as the optical sensors can tell. Behind us, there’s the red planet, rotating around its axis twenty-four and a half hours a day just like it always has and always will, not caring which species has temporarily settled on its surface. It occurs to me that I may never see this sight again in person. Maybe no human will ever get close enough again to find out just how many corpses are littering the surface down there now, human and Lanky alike.
“Stand down from combat stations,” Colonel Campbell orders.
Major Renner picks up the 1MC handset and passes the order down to the entire ship. She replaces the handset and looks at the plot, where we are inching along a trajectory that has Earth’s orbit at its end point.
“One hundred forty-four hours until turnaround burn,” she says. “Fastest I’ve ever done this track.”
“We’ll be burning what’s left of our deuterium for the turnaround,” the engineering officer says. “We’ll coast into orbit with the reactors sucking recycled air.”
“As long as we get within radio range before the propulsion quits,” Colonel Campbell says. “I’m sure we’ll be able to hail a fleet tug or two to haul this boat back to Gateway. If anyone’s left back on Earth, that is.”
As I watch the images of Mars receding in our wake, I wonder what we will find when we reach Earth. I’m almost ashamed to realize that I would have a harder time accepting Halley gone and dead than Earth having suffered the same fate as Mars.
CHAPTER 8
It looks like Earth still has humans on it.
A day and a half after we make our close pass of Mars, we get comms chatter on the regular fleet and civvie channels again. We’re still coasting along with passive listening gear to avoid broadcasting our presence, but we haven’t spotted any Lanky seed ships on our path since Mars. It seems like the Lankies are content with holding the essential strip of space between Mars and our Alcubierre nodes, but that’s more than sufficient to blockade all traffic in and out of the solar system. We snuck in through a crack in the door, but we almost lost a bunch of toes doing it.
“Getting long-distance pings off the main comms relay on Luna,” the communications officer says. Without much else to do, I am back in CIC to listen in to the far-off radio chatter we’ve started picking up from the direction of Earth. It’s enormously relieving to hear other voices out in the void and know that we’re not the only humans left alive in the universe.
“Sons of bitches took out the Mars comms relay and everything beyond,” Colonel Campbell says. “That is going to take years to rebuild.”
“They must have done something else, too,” the communications officer replies. “Even with the Mars relay gone, the Luna relay has plenty of juice to reach anything clear up to the Titan fleet yards. Plenty of lag, sure, but we should have heard them the moment we popped out of Alcubierre. But we got precisely squat on our passive gear until half an hour ago. Which would mean—”
“They’re jamming us somehow.” Colonel Campbell sighs. “Five years of this shit, and I could write everything we actually know about these things on my thumbnail and have room to spare.”
Indy is hurtling toward Earth, or more precisely its turnaround point for reverse burn, at breakneck speed, far faster than I’ve ever made the Mars-to-Earth trip before. This is the most heavily used intrasystem pathway, the solar system equivalent of a traffic-clogged Main Street. Almost every ship that leaves the system or goes on to the military bases or science posts around the outer planets takes the Mars route because it’s the most energy-efficient way to travel. We should have passed dozens of ships going in either direction by now, but as we shoot toward our turnaround point, we’re the only thing out here.
“Contact,” the tactical officer says. On the holotable, a solid blue icon appears on the extreme range of our awareness bubble. We’re still running on passive sensors alone, but the new contact is scanning the space ahead of him with active radar.
“Contact is squawking Commonwealth IFF codes. CG-760, NACS Aegis. One of the Hammerhead cruisers.”
“Check our wake again,” Colonel Campbell orders.
“Clear. No contacts since we got away from the Mars blockade.”
“Let’s go active, then. Announce that we’re coming before they get a whiff on their active gear and start shooting at shadows. Turn on the radar, broadcast our own transponder codes. Let’s become visible again.”
“Aye, sir. Going active on the sensors and IFF.”
With our active gear radiating megawatts out into space and our IFF transponder marking our presence, it doesn’t take long for the distant Commonwealth ship to pick up our trace. A little while later, the comms officer announces an incoming transmission.
“They’re hailing us on ship-to-ship fleet channel, sir.”
“On speaker,” Colonel Campbell says. “And open the line for me.”
“Aye, sir. You are on.”
“This is NACS Aegis, to the approaching vessel broadcasting Commonwealth ID. Please identify yourself.”
“Aegis, this is NACS Indianapolis, Indy Actual,” Colonel Campbell replies. “Good to hear someone else out there. We were starting to think we’re the only ship left between Mars and Earth.”
Due to the distance between us, we have to wait for Aegis’s reply for a few moments.
“Indianapolis, Aegis. You pretty much are. We are in the outer picket line. What is your status and mission?”
“Aegis, we just had one hell of a run past Mars. We are part of a task force that sought refuge in the Fomalhaut system. We reentered the solar system about a hundred hours ago via the Alliance transition node. The space between the belt and Mars is crawling with Lankies. My ship has taken damage, and we are almost out of fuel. En route to Earth for refueling and emergency repairs. If it’s still there.”
The reply from Aegis takes quite a bit longer than what is warranted due to the distance between us.
“Indianapolis, affirmative. Earth is still there. You are to decelerate and rendezvous with the picket task force, to proceed to Earth under escort. Do not attempt to cross the picket line without clearance, or we will employ defensive measures. Acknowledge.”
Colonel Campbell and Major Renner exchange glances. I get that unwelcome feeling in the pit of my stomach again that sets in every time I see us heading for trouble. This is not the warm welcome I had expected, and judging from the expressions all around me, Indy’s CIC crew is just as taken aback as I am.
“Aegis, acknowledge receipt of order. Be advised that Indy has significant battle damage and is running low on reactor fuel. If I burn to decelerate now, we won’t have the juice to get back to Earth, and someone will have to tow us.”
The next reply takes even longer
to get back to Indy. Whoever is in charge in Aegis’s CIC apparently has to phone home for orders.
“Indianapolis, acknowledged. Go for turnaround and deceleration burn as instructed. We have a supply ship on standby that will rendezvous with us as soon as feasible and refuel your ship. Keep comms traffic to a minimum and do not deviate from your current trajectory. Acknowledge.”
“What the hell?” Major Renner says. “We squeeze past the blockade and make it to friendly space, and they’re talking to us like we have half a dozen Lankies in the cargo hold.”
“We have the acceleration advantage,” the tactical officer says. “We can go a few degrees either way, and they’ll never catch up to us. They can’t burn that hard, not even a Hammerhead.”
“We don’t know how deep that picket layer is,” Colonel Campbell says. “No point in giving them a reason to shoot at us.”
He looks at me and smirks.
“Maybe that useless one-star desk pilot and the Midway group made it back to Earth, and word of our deeds on New Svalbard has preceded us, Mr. Grayson.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Can’t say I give much of a crap right now.”
“Neither do I. We always knew we’d eventually have to face the music on that one.” Colonel Campbell signals the comms officer.“Open the channel.”
“You’re on, sir.”
“Aegis, Indy Actual. Copy your orders. We will go for turnaround burn and rendezvous for escort and refuel as instructed. Just make sure you have the fuel truck waiting, ’cause our tanks are dry.”
“Acknowledged,” comes the terse reply from Aegis.
Colonel Campbell studies the plot, our little blue icon slowly moving toward the one marked “CG-760 AEGIS.” He exhales slowly and rubs his temples with his fingertips.
“Well, you heard the order. Prepare to flip the ship and go for turnaround burn. Get me a burn calculation and stand by on main engines.”
Aegis is true to her word. When we coast into rendezvous position a few hours later, there are three ships waiting for us. One is Aegis herself, one of the fleet’s advanced Hammerhead cruisers. The other two are the destroyer Michael P. Murphy and the fleet supply ship Portland.
“Looks like you had a rough day at the office,” Portland’s boom operator sends when we are alongside to take on reactor fuel. “Those are some holes you have there.”
“You have no idea,” our comms officer replies. “Nothing but category-five shitstorms all month.”
“Yeah, same here.”
“Indianapolis, keep nonmission chatter to a minimum,” Aegis’s CIC cuts in. “Finish refueling and prepare for course and burn instructions for Earth transit.”
“Aegis, Indy. Understood.” The comms officer looks over at Colonel Campbell. “What has gotten into their underpants this morning?”
“I don’t know, but I’m rapidly getting tired of it,” the colonel says. “Let’s stow the juice. Comms, keep your ears open on the passive gear. I want to know if there’s anything weird going on. I don’t have a warm and fuzzy feeling about this.”
It takes several hours to fill Indy’s dry reactor fuel tanks. During the entire procedure, we’re connected to Portland via her refueling boom stuck into the fuel receptacle on our port side, and Aegis is flying formation on our starboard, only a few kilometers in the distance. The Hammerheads are designated as heavy cruisers, the fleet’s main offensive space-control units, but everyone calls them “battlecruisers” because of their size. Only the carriers are bigger, and even then, Aegis isn’t much smaller than an assault carrier or one of the old Intrepid-class bird farms. Her flanks are lined with rows of hatches for her missile-launch system, and there are two batteries of twin rail guns parked on her dorsal armor. I study the immaculately clean, brand-new laminate armor with the fresh paint markings, illuminated by running and position lights from bow to stern. The missiles stowed behind those hatches can punch a hole of half a cubic kilometer into a Lanky minefield, and there are nuclear missiles tucked away in vertical launchers deep in the bow that can turn a small moon into radioactive slag. The Hammerheads are the apex war machines of humanity, all our best destructive tools put into a tough and sleek hull, and so far they’ve managed to accomplish nothing against the Lanky seed ships.
“Refueling operation complete, sir,” the XO reports. “We’re back to a hundred percent on main and both aux tanks. At least they’re not stingy with their juice.”
“Probably not too many ships left to pass the fuel on to, I imagine,” Colonel Campbell says. “Comms, open a channel to Aegis and let them know we’re standing by for instructions.”
“Aye, sir.”
Portland retracts the refueling boom back into her hull and fires starboard thrusters briefly to break away from the much smaller Indy. I watch through the external camera feed as the big fleet supply ship drifts back into the darkness, position lights marking her progress.
“Indianapolis, Aegis. Transmitting waypoint data. You are to follow Murphy back to Gateway. No course deviations are authorized for any reason. Keep your comms suite cold except for communications with Murphy. Acknowledge.”
“Aegis, Indy. Understood. Why the cloak-and-dagger stuff? We don’t need a chaperone to find our way back to Gateway.” Colonel Campbell sounds a little exasperated.
“Indy, there are new security measures in place. Trust me when I tell you that you do not want to get anywhere near the inner defensive perimeter without a chaperone right now. You will follow Murphy if you want to make it to Gateway in one piece.”
“Affirmative,” Colonel Campbell says after a brief pause. “Have Murphy lead the way. Indy out.”
The colonel motions for the comms officer to cut the channel. Then he folds his arms in front of his chest and looks around in the CIC.
“You heard the man. Lay in the course and bring up the reactor.”
He turns to me and lowers his voice.
“Mr. Grayson, go check in with our SI detachment. Make sure they’re not too far from their armor or weapons when we dock wherever it is they’re going to have us dock. In fact, tell Lieutenant Gregory I want the whole SI squad in battle rattle before we arrive.”
“Aye, sir.” I turn on my heel and head for the CIC’s exit hatch.
Meeting up with other surviving fleet units and finding out that Earth is still human real estate should have been a joyous occasion, but the distant dread I’ve been feeling since that first terse radio contact with Aegis has only gotten stronger.
CHAPTER 9
When Indy and her chaperone destroyer are close enough to Earth for the optical gear to pick up our home planet, there are quite a few more people in the CIC than usual. It seems like anyone with even a weak excuse to be in Indy’s nerve center right now has chosen this time to do so. Even Dmitry is up here with me, standing by the side of the CIC pit and leaning against the waist-high safety railing.
“There she spins,” Major Renner says when the camera feed from Indy’s front sensor array shows the familiar blue-and-white sphere, or at least the half of it currently illuminated by the sun. As always, Earth is mostly cloud covered, but there are patches of clear skies. I can spot a chunk of what looks like the eastern coast of Australia and the sunlight reflecting off the South Pacific beyond. We’re still too far to spot spaceship traffic, but I can see the space stations in their orbits, each the size of a small city: Independence, Gateway, the SRA’s Unity, and the half dozen stations from the Europeans, Africans, and Australians I can’t ever tell apart without consulting a recognition manual. I see Luna in the distance as well, and the knowledge that I may be within radio range of Halley again is almost making me forget the anxiety of the strange reception.
“Indianapolis, contact Independence control for approach handoff,” Murphy’s CIC sends. Our comms officer sends back his acknowledgment to Murphy, which hasn’t exchanged ten words with us other than navigational instructions since we teamed up for the run back to Earth.
“And good riddance,” M
ajor Renner says. “Comms, hail Independence and put them on speaker.”
“Aye. You’re on for Independence.”
“Independence Control, this is NACS Indianapolis on Earthbound approach. Request vectors and permission to dock.”
“Indianapolis, Independence Control. Decelerate to seven kilometers per second and enter approach pattern three-one-three Alpha. Stand by for terminal docking guidance.”
“Independence, decelerate to seven K per sec and enter three-one-three Alpha,” Major Renner confirms. Then she picks up the handset for the 1MC.
“Attention all hands, this is the XO. All departments, prepare the ship for docking. We are in the pattern. Arrival in nine-zero minutes.”
To our starboard, NACS Murphy keeps pace with us, as if they want to make sure we’re not going to skip the prescribed course at the last moment and go romping around unsupervised in our home space. Whatever the reason for the front-door escort, it’s pretty clear that our unexpected appearance in the solar system hasn’t exactly overjoyed whoever is left in charge here.
I step to the back of the CIC, away from the holotable everyone in here is watching intently, and take out my borrowed PDP. We have line of sight to the big comms relay above Luna that serves as the hub for most military data traffic from and to Earth, and I am anxious to let the system synchronize my device and maybe catch up on three months’ worth of backlogged messages from Halley and my mother. But as I get onto MilNet, the connection just hangs. My PDP can see the network, but the update operation goes at the speed of a pedestrian stroll in the middle of a New Svalbard winter. I’ve never seen the data synchronization take more than a minute, not even from the far side of the asteroid belt, but after several minutes of furtive checking, the progress bar on my PDP screen has barely moved. Finally, after what seems like the tenth time I’ve pulled the PDP out of the pocket to look at the display, it reads “TIMEOUT ERROR—CONSULT NN ADMIN.” I suppress the urge to throw the useless little device against the armored bulkhead with great force.