by Nick Webb
Granger walked to the door of his ready room, but she didn’t move. “Actually, sir, I wanted to get started right away. We’ve only got two weeks and I want to hit the ground running. You still have a full contingent of V-wing X-25 fighters on board, no? I want to gut about half a dozen of them, strip out all their weaponry, and use them as hands-on display pieces down in the hangar. You know, so kids can get up inside of them and pretend they’re fighter jocks for a few minutes. That should take the longest, so I want to get started early.
“Next, I want to convert most of the command consoles on the bridge into interactive displays and configure them to run in simulation mode. That way we can run guests through in groups and give them the chance to command a warship in battle for a few maneuvers. We can wire them together with the environmental controls to simulate the inertia changes with the artificial gravity deckplates. Then, I want to—”
Granger had held up a hand, but she steamrolled right over his gesture. Finally he had to raise his voice. “Commander?”
“—the galley into a full service restau—” She looked up from her datapad in surprise. “Yes, Captain Granger?”
“No.”
She lowered her datapad and pursed her lips, looking as if she were about to stab him with her beady eyes. “Excuse me? Sir?”
“No.” He desperately wanted to stop the conversation there, to let the single word of defiance hang in the air as he sent her packing, but reluctantly he went on. “Not today. We’ll start tomorrow. We’re almost at the end of the day shift, and tonight we’ve got a standard maintenance of the main engines—”
“But you’re not going to need those engines in two weeks, Captain Granger,” she interrupted. “I suggest that—”
“Regardless, my orders stand. I’m still in command of this ship, and if you want to protest that inconvenient fact you can take it up with Admiral Yarbrough.” He glanced at the old leather-strap watch on his wrist. “And by my reckoning she’s dead asleep by now, so you may as well go kick back, have a few drinks at our bar—”
“You have a bar?”
“They call the place Afterburners. Well, technically it’s just a satellite service counter from the galley down in the observation deck by engineering, but some of the boys put together a little distillery. It’s actually quite good if you can believe it. Just don’t drink too much of it or you’ll spend an evening in the detox unit in sickbay. ” He turned back to the door and nodded to the marines as he passed, Commander Proctor hot on his heels. “Dismissed, Commander. See you in the morning.”
“I—” she began. But the conversation was over. He’d left.
She pounded the air beneath her hanging fists at her side and muttered, “Dammit. This is going to be a long two weeks.”
“Ma’am?” One of the marines looked at her questioningly.
“As you were, Corporal.”
He snapped back to attention and she strode down the hallway to the elevator shaft. Maybe if she found the astrometrics lab she could get a head start on converting it into a planetarium.
The captain’s blunt declaration repeated in her mind and grated her nerves. No, he’d said. How dare he? Admiral Yarbrough had recruited her herself for this job. She’d promised her that if she could successfully handle a smooth transition of the Constitution into one of the Smithsonian’s centerpiece museums then she’d be up for a command position.
Ha—command. Something she’d always dreamed of in her previous life as a scientist. It wasn’t until she gave that career up and joined IDF that the prospect suddenly become more real, especially with her well-placed friends higher up in IDF’s Science and Research Division. And with Yarbrough as her new patron, Proctor would rise quickly. She might not be the youngest captain on record, but definitely the captain with the fewest years of service.
But Yarbrough had warned her about Granger. A washed-up, cantankerous old soldier who’d had more than his share of discipline problems. The admiralty was doing its damnedest to ease him out of command, and it seemed decommissioning the Old Bird a few years ahead of schedule was the easiest way to do that.
The doors to the astrometrics lab slid open, revealing banks of computer access stations and walls of monitors, which, at the flip of a switch could project three dimensional holographic images of whichever starfield or planetary system the user wanted. Perfect for the future museum’s new planetarium.
“Excuse me, Commander?”
An older lieutenant peered up at her from his station. His eyes squinted, and the frown indicated she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“I’m sorry, but the captain called down a few moments ago. He informed me that the astrometrics lab is closed for the rest of the duty shift today, and will not reopen until the morning.”
Granger, you old bastard.
“Excellent—with the lab closed that will help me be able to get a head start on the modifications to—”
The Lieutenant held up a hand, breaching decorum by interrupting her. “I’m sorry, sir, but he was quite clear. No modifications are to happen before tomorrow morning.”
She bristled. How dare he? She had half a mind to get on the comm and ask Yarbrough to beat the old fart into submission for her.
But no. That was not the way to impress the admiralty. If she had Yarbrough fight her battles for her, how could they ever trust her with command?
No, she’d have to be patient. Persistent. Granger may try to oppose her at every turn—in fact, she was sure by that point that he’d throw up every roadblock he could. But she’d push forward anyway.
That captain’s chair would be hers, dammit. But not on this piece of junk, thank God, Proctor indulged, allowing herself to feel superior. Her ship would be new—top of the IDF line. All she had to do was get there.
She looked down at the waiting man. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
And with one last glance around the astrometrics lab, she swept out the door, leaving a slightly disappointed-looking lieutenant. Granger had probably instructed him to prod a reaction out of her. Well, she wasn’t going to play along.
In fact, she’d just have to prod harder.
Chapter Eight
Veracruz Sector, Leon System
IDF Intelligence Ship ISS Tirian
“Navigation, time to the Merida system?”
The officer at navigation tapped a few spots on his command console. “We’re on the outskirts of the Leon system, sir. Thirty-nine q-jumps left until we reach Merida.”
Commander LaPlace fiddled with his uniform—there was a loose strand at his sleeve and no matter how much he picked at it, more seemed to unravel. “What do you say, about an hour?” he said, calculating in his head how much time it would take to make that many q-jumps. Each only took about a minute to complete, but only advanced them about a tenth of a lightyear closer to their destination.
“That’s about right, sir. Fifty-five minutes, to be precise.”
The IDF Intel ships were small, but blazingly fast. Most larger capital ships like the Lancer class heavy cruisers the IDF built a decade ago were lumbering sloths in comparison, only able to q-jump every two minutes or so—it took that long to build up a sufficient charge in the solid state capacitor banks. And the old blocky ships like the Galaxy class carriers, well, those were more like slugs. Not too many of those left, and once the Washington was decommissioned, that would leave only the Thatcher, and the Norfolk. And that didn’t even include the Legacy Fleet—the ancient heavy cruisers from the last century. Thankfully, only the Constitution was left from that bunch, and IDF only kept her around as a piece of living history.
“Still no meta-space signals?” If there were any problems at Merida, or Starbase Heroic, they would have heard something by now. Meta-space signals were extremely low bandwidth, but they effectively travelled at a hundred times the fastest q-jump drives. Only twenty-four bits per second, but that was better than
nothing.
“Still nothing, sir. Not even from Heroic.”
That was damn peculiar. Not that the starbase was constantly sending out meta-space transmissions—it was relatively expensive to do so since each signal consumed upwards of a terawatt—but for there to be no response to CENTCOM’s repeated messages requesting their current status, well, that was unusual.
And it was also classified. CENTCOM hadn’t told Admiral Yarbrough the reason they were sending Intel ships out from Earth’s Valhalla Space Station rather than the much closer Starbase Heroic. The truth was that they’d lost contact with Heroic over three days ago. But that was classified top-secret. She’d find out in a few days, but CENTCOM played its hand close to its chest, even with its own admirals.
“Ready for q-jump,” said the navigator.
“Proceed.” Commander LaPlace’s fingers tightened slightly around his armrest. The q-jumps were benign enough, but they still always made him momentarily queasy. Not unreasonably so, given that he was effectively going into nonexistence for the barest fraction of a second as the quantum fields worked themselves out. Less than a Planck-second, and therefore imperceptible, but still.
The bridge was small, and a little cramped, and as such LaPlace knew something was up the moment his sensor officer’s brow furrowed.
“What’s up, Andy?”
“I’m getting a strange reading from one of the planets in the Leon System.”
LaPlace craned his neck to glimpse the sensor station. “Such as?”
The officer shook his head. “I don’t understand it. It’s a meta-space signal, but it’s gibberish. It’s like a pulsating oscillation. Pretty regular—maybe three hertz, with some overtones.”
“How many overtones can there be at only 24 bits per second?”
“Not many. And I’m not sure it’s even regular. But ... I’ve never seen anything like this.”
LaPlace bit his lip. Continue on to Merida and Starbase Heroic? Or investigate this new mystery? His gut told him all the events were related. “Hold q-jumps. Andy, can you triangulate a source?”
“Maybe. Can we increase lateral speed? That’ll help.”
LaPlace nodded. “Navigation, aft and starboard thrusters at fifty percent.”
A few moments later the sensor officer nodded. “Got a lock. The source is the fourth planet from the star in the Leon System.”
The tactical officer to LaPlace’s left tapped his screen, indicating to the Commander a local star map. “Sir, the fourth planet is where the new Mexican settlement is. Nueva Leon. They’re governed out of Merida.”
“How close?”
The nav officer checked his board. “Just two q-jumps away. We can be there in four minutes.”
LaPlace nodded slowly. “Anyone else think we might have found a lead?” LaPlace asked his bridge crew. Nods all around. “Thought so. Comm, send a meta-space signal to CENTCOM. Text as follows: Meta-space disturbance detected near Nueva Leon. Will investigate before proceeding to Veracruz.”
Chapter Nine
L-2 Lagrange point, Earth
Afterburners Bar, ISS Constitution
Captain Granger knew it was probably a mistake to antagonize the newest officer on the Constitution, but dammit all if it didn’t feel wonderful. But that preening paper-pusher of a commander, Shelby Proctor, would probably complain to Admiral Yarbrough that he was interfering with her mission, and he knew his official record could do without another corrective administrative action. He’d been on good behavior for the past decade or so, but Yarbrough made it clear to him years ago that she wouldn’t tolerate another incident, no matter how many good-old-boy buddies he had up the chain of command.
“So you’re just going to let her do it? Strip out our starboard fighter bay and turn it into a friggin petting zoo?”
Granger glowered at his XO, and tipped his glass back. “What the hell am I supposed to do, Abe? Lock her in her quarters until the decommissioning ceremony and hope for the best?”
“Yes.” Haws pulled his flask from his boot and uncapped the lip, grinning at the thought.
“You and I both know that we’re on a tight leash here.”
“Even after all this time? Hell, Tim, it’s been nearly fifteen years since your little stunt.” The old officer swigged the remainder of the contents of the flask, which he’d probably been working on since waking up that morning.
“Regardless. I don’t want to risk your retirement. Or my next command—assuming I get one. Or the futures of the rest of the senior staff.”
“You know we’d have your back.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. No, Abe, it’s time. It’s time we let her go. She’s had her run.” He glanced up at the ceiling of Afterburners, then lowered his eyes to the officers scattered around the room at the tables and benches. The walls were adorned with various mementos and pictures the proprietor had picked up from around the colonies. A fossilized tree ring from the blue forest on Deneb 3, nearly three feet in diameter and glazed in lacquer. A pair of old, dusty leather boots hanging down from a nail driven into the bulkhead—the footwear of the very first captain of the Constitution, who commanded the Old Bird over a hundred and twenty-five years ago. He smirked as his eyes passed over a picture of President Avery of the United Earth League, her stern, lined, grandmotherly face taped atop the barely-clothed busty figure of a supermodel in a pose so suggestive that it would give a regular person hip-dysplacia.
Dammit, he was going to miss the Old Bird.
Granger swallowed another mouthful of the Afterburner’s distilled rotgut. “You know, it’s not all that bad. The original USS Constitution—the old sailing vessel George Washington commissioned, the one that saw service for nearly a hundred years—it’s still in Boston harbor, taking on tourists every day. Are we better than her?”
“Did you hear what Proctor wants to do with the engines?” Haws motioned over to the bartender and pointed at his empty flask.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, only strip out the lead ballast from the main drive. Says she wants to bolster the shielding of the main reactor.”
Granger did a double-take. “She what?”
“You heard me. Thinks that the level of radiation coming off the reactor poses a threat to visitors.”
Granger shook his head. “It’s well within norms.”
“Within military norms, sure. But it’s slightly above accepted civilian dosage rates. So she wants all the ballast stripped out and the quantum reactor core shielded with at least five centimeters of friggin lead.”
The captain rolled his eyes. “If we do that, we’re as good as dead in the water. As it is, we have to wait over two hours between q-jumps. Without that ballast it’ll be a day or more.”
Haws burped after slamming back the latest round the bartender had brought to the table. “That’s kinda the idea, Tim. That’s what decommissioning means. No sense in keeping the engines in shape if your ship is a goddamn museum.”
Granger studied his empty glass, then shoved his chair away from the table and let the glass fall with a crash to the floor. Every head in the bar turned and a hush fell over the place.
“Over my dead body.”
Chapter Ten
Marseille, France, Earth
L’hotel Sur Mer, Presidential Suite
“Yuri, I want the bitch dead.”
United Earth League Vice President Eamon Isaacson kicked his loafers up on the chrome countertop of the bar in his presidential suite and puffed smoke from his cigar. Cuban. His last one. He made a mental note to tell his assistant to pick up a new case on the next campaign swing through the Caribbean.
“I thought the plan was to publicly discredit and humiliate her. Force her resignation. Clear the way for your presidency.” Yuri Volodin, the Russian Confederation ambassador to the United Earth League, held the glass of sherry up to his eyes, his sallow cheeks glinting with the sparkled light from the crystal chandelier above refracting through his drink.
“It’d be so much simpler if she was dead. Avery is popular. Her approval ratings are only going up with the implementation of the Eagleton Commission. The economy is booming. Consumer confidence is at an all-time high. Shit, even the Cubs won the world series last year. And somehow the bitch seems to get all the credit for everything.”
Volodin set his drink down on the bar and rested his hands on his lap. “Should I call President Malakhov? We can suspend the operation and prepare a hit squad instead. It would be a simple matter to frame the Caliphate.”
Isaacson waved him off. “No. We’re already too far down our path. We’ve been preparing this operation for years. Once the attack happens, and we’re caught with our ass hanging out of our pants, I’ll present the no-confidence motion. I’ve got two dozen senators who’ve told me they’ll second. Coming from her own party, that’ll be plenty devastating—between that, and a ravaged Europa Station, people will be calling for her head for letting our guard down.”
“Of course,” said the ambassador, picking his drink back up.
“And in a few weeks, you can call me President Isaacson.”
“I admit, it has a nice ring to it,” Volodin nodded. “And President Malakhov will be most pleased. He feels you’re someone he can work with.”
Isaacson snuffed out the end of the cigar. Best to save the rest of it for later. Could be weeks before he got another. “You’re sure they’re under your control? They won’t go berserk and attack everything in sight? Just a targeted incursion through the fringe sectors, a quick stab at the Jupiter lunar system, and then they’re gone?”
“I assure you, Vice President Isaacson, the Swarm have been under our control for the past decade. They are as benign now as small puppies. Ever since we discovered the meta-space link to their homeworld and learned how to simulate it, we can basically tell them to do whatever we want. And with the intelligence you provided us last week, I’m sure the plan will go down flawlessly.”