Constitution: Book 1 of the Legacy Fleet Trilogy

by Nick Webb

  “We need to get it out of the path of the doors. Chief?” He turned to the chief technician of the fighter bay who had just come in from the briefing room with Commander Pierce. “I want this moved.”

  “Aye, sir. I’ll get the hydraulics crew working on it.” The chief retreated to the rear of the bay where a handful of technicians were prepping fighters.

  Commander Pierce folded his arms. “Captain, I don’t want that thing in the fighter bay. How do we really know it’s dead? Can’t we just shove it out and forget about it?”

  Granger shook his head. “No. We need all the information we can get. If we make it through the next engagement and repel the fleet heading towards Earth, IDF intel will want an intact specimen, and this is about as intact as they come.”

  “But what if the bugger pops out of there in the middle of the next fighter deployment and starts a ground war here in the fighter bay?”

  Colonel Hanrahan grunted and stroked his rifle. “We’ll be ready for it, Commander.”

  Granger nodded. “No, you’re right. We need to be sure.” He inclined his head upward, indicating to the monitoring computer to open a comm channel. “Doctor Wyatt, you here yet?”

  He was loathe to bring the doctor there since the man was probably hard at work on Haws, but there was nothing for it—they had to be sure whatever was in the Swarm fighter was in fact dead.

  “Be there in a minute, Captain.”

  Moments later, Wyatt entered the bay through the rear lift. “What’s this about, Tim? I’ve got patients waiting for me.”

  Granger indicated the Swarm fighter. “We’re going to open that up, and you’re going to tell me if it’s dead.”

  Wyatt’s face paled: he gulped, but then nodded. Granger motioned to the marines to open up the small hatch on the side of the fighter. It was circular, and barely big enough for a human to pass through, which made Granger wonder just how large an individual Swarm was.

  The hatch opened and a grayish-green substance immediately started draining out of the opening, causing the marine who’d opened the hatch to spring out of the way. It was viscous—far thicker than oil—and oozed down the side of the craft towards the floor.

  “Doctor?” Granger took a step forward and bent down to look at the goo.

  Wyatt approached the fighter and held a scanner up to the hatch opening, waving it back and forth. He shook his head, and then held the scanner down to the oozing fluid running down the side of the hatch. “I’m getting no life readings. No heat generation. No electrical impulses. No chemical reactions other than oxidation with our atmosphere. Whatever was in there is dead.”

  Wyatt crouched down and examined the goo. “I bet they have an automatic system that destroys the body in the event of a catastrophic event. Liquifies it. Maybe as a way to ensure none of them will ever be taken prisoner. Who knows?” He crouched further, bending forward to run a finger through the fluid.

  He wobbled and fell backward to a sitting position, shaking his head.

  Granger stepped forward. “Doctor? You alright?”

  Wyatt nodded. “Yes. I’ve been on my feet all day. Crouching down like that must have restricted blood flow to my head—I nearly blacked out for a moment, but I’m fine.” He shook his head a few more times, and then pushed himself to his feet, rubbing the viscous goo in between his fingers, studying it intently. “Whatever this is, sir, it poses no threat. There’s no life in this craft to speak of.” He wiped the goo on the surface of the fighter and glanced back up at Granger with a decidedly annoyed look on his face. “Now, can I get back to sickbay and save some more patients?”

  Granger nodded. “I’ll come with you.” He turned to Commander Pierce and the chief as he walked out the door with Wyatt. “Get that thing tucked away somewhere. Don’t touch anything—treat it like a biohazard until we know more. Colonel Hanrahan? Keep two men posted by it at all times—see that no one disturbs it. Understood?”

  The three men remaining behind replied with a unanimous, “Yes, sir,” and Granger strode, with Wyatt in close step, to sickbay.

  Time to check on his XO.

  Haws, you old bastard, don’t leave me now.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Low Earth Orbit

  Bridge, ISS Winchester

  Captain Day settled back into his chair, exhaling a sigh of relief. To tell the truth, he’d much rather be back in the thick of things. In the battle. Fighting with his comrades. It was why he’d joined IDF in the first place—to stand among those who defended humanity.

  Yet here he was, escorting a bunch of sniveling bureaucrats, diplomats, politicians, and pencil pushers. And the worst of the lot was him. Isaacson. The reason they weren’t back with the Qantas and the Constitution, doing their part.

  “Mr. Vice President,” he began, struggling mightily to keep his voice neutral and respectful, “we’re en route to Valhalla Station where I presume Air Force Two can shuttle you down to the surface?”

  Isaacson, who was deep in quiet conversation with the Russian ambassador at the rear of the bridge, didn’t so much as look up.

  “Mr. Vice President?” said Captain Day, substantially louder this time. Isaacson finally broke off his conversation and shot Day an icy look.

  “Yes, yes, Captain, that will be fine,” he said, dismissively, then added, “no, wait. Valhalla will certainly be a target when they get here. We need to ensure the safety of the senators and cabinet secretaries on board.”

  And yours, thought Captain Day disdainfully.

  “Take us directly to the surface. To Washington, D.C., or New York City.” He paused. “No, wait ... those would likely be targets too....” The Vice President trailed off.

  “To Miami, then. IDF headquarters. It’s heavily defended, and our passengers can get connecting shuttles to wherever they need to go—” Captain Day broke off as he saw the Russian ambassador lean over and whisper furiously in Isaacson’s ear. How strange.

  “No. Not Miami,” said Isaacson, with a lingering gaze at the ambassador. “Somewhere else. Omaha, maybe. The spaceport there can handle the Winchester, and there’s plenty of transport out of the region should the need arise.” Isaacson kept looking at Volodin questioningly, and the other man nodded his approval. Very strange indeed.

  Captain Day sighed. “To Omaha, Ensign. Full thrust. Deploy reentry aerilons and activate braking thrusters.”

  Earth rose up to meet them on the viewscreen—the vast green and tan landscape of the North American interior sprawling out in all directions. Off in the distance, hundreds of kilometers below and ahead of them, Day could just make out the distant gray-ish spots of the dozens of ships that dotted the landscape outside the Omaha spaceport—some retired, some in various phases of construction. Day knew that in the weeks and months ahead, ship construction would double. Triple. Perhaps even quadruple, to counter the resurgent Swarm threat.

  If they survived the next few days, that is.

  The Russian ambassador whispered in the Vice President’s ear again. Isaacson nodded, and together they exited through the rear doors, followed closely by the two secret service officers. Day sighed another breath of relief.

  “Lieutenant Frum,” he said, glancing at the communications station, “send a message to CENTCOM Miami updating them on our status and heading. If they give you any guff, just tell them our orders came directly from our illustrious guest.”

  The Lieutenant snorted derisively. Day smiled—it was good to know he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

  “What is it, Yuri?” hissed Isaacson, trying to keep his voice at a level that would only be heard by the ambassador trailing behind him. He aimed for the captain’s quarters—the sooner they could get behind closed doors, the better. Volodin seemed far too free with words out in the open.

  “Just that, respectfully, Mr. Vice President, you may be safer in Saint Petersburg.”

  They crossed the threshold of the captain’s quarters and the doors slid shut behind them. Isaacson turned to f
ace the ambassador. “But you’ve lost control of the Swarm! Or don’t you remember their message to you? You die? Is that Swarm diplomatic-speak for, we’re coming to dinner? What the hell makes you think we’ll be safer in Saint Petersburg?”

  Volodin shrugged. “Perhaps my government’s relationship with them over the past decade will influence their targeting once they arrive at Earth. Plus, the major Russian cities are heavily defended—far more than even Miami or Washington or New York.”

  Isaacson peered at him suspiciously. How in the world could the other man know what defenses Miami and the other major North American cities had? How extensive was the Russian espionage operation? “Look, Yuri, we’ve never even seen a flesh and blood alien. Not once have we ever even seen one of the Swarm face to face. How can you be so confident that now, after all that’s happened, they won’t hesitate to obliterate every single city on the Earth’s surface, Russian or no?”

  Volodin sat down at the desk and scratched his arms. “Who says we’ve never seen a flesh and blood Swarm individual?”

  The Vice President sat across from him. “Are you saying you’ve seen the Swarm? Actual, live bodies? No one in IDF ever saw one. Not once.”

  “Of course you did. You’ve seen billions of them.”

  “What, the ships? Are you saying the ships themselves are sentient? They’re bodies?”

  Volodin rolled his eyes. “What was inside all those ships from the Swarm War?”

  “Nothing! Just whatever goo they left behind when they died or self destructed or escaped, or whatever it is they did to disappear.”

  “Exactly. That was them. That was our second major discovery after we found we could control them through the meta-space signals.” He paused, smiling at Isaacson. “They’re a liquid-based life form, Mr. Vice President. Each of those fighters you destroyed seventy-five years ago held hundreds of Swarm. There’s hundreds, thousands of billions of Swarm. They are legion.”

  A shiver went up Isaacson’s spine. Legion. The word conjured images of ancient demonic folklore, no less frightful than the actual, deadly aliens out to destroy them. “You visually verified this? Did you encounter any?”

  “Of course we did. They are wondrous beings, Mr. Vice President. Intelligent, graceful, and deadly. Those first soldiers who actually physically contacted them were never quite the same.”

  “Explain.”

  Volodin folded his arms. He seemed remarkably calm given their dangerous situation. “After the asteroid incident, where we found we could control them, we arranged a meeting. One of their ships was directed to dock with one of our stations deep in the Yalta Sector.”

  “You have settlements in the Yalta Sector? Since when?”

  Volodin ignored the question. “They came. And we docked with them. We sent a few corpsmen into their vessel to investigate and initiate contact. It all went well. We talked with them, though always through meta-space transmissions—even though we were docked with each other. Having the men onboard didn’t seem to help or hinder the conversation. But when they came back, they were ... different.”

  “How?”

  The other man paused, thinking. “Wiser. Smarter. Those soldiers that came back rose quickly through the ranks—some are now commanders. One’s even a general.”

  “What do you mean, those that came back?”

  “The Swarm required several men to stay behind.”

  Isaacson felt a little ill. “And? What happened to them?”

  “They were ... consumed. The Swarm demanded it. They didn’t give a reason, but we assumed they wanted to familiarize themselves with us. Our anatomy, our brain structure. The Russian High Command judged it a fair trade given what we were accomplishing—given what knowledge they had to share.”

  “And?” Isaacson leaned forward. “Was it worth it?

  Volodin smiled again. “That remains to be seen.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Near Earth

  Sickbay, ISS Constitution

  “Doc, is he going to make it?” Granger leaned over his friend. Abraham Haws was a wreck. His forehead was dented—his skull clearly fractured. A part of the support structure of the girder had broken off and impaled him in the chest, barely missing his heart but ripping through his right lung.

  “No idea, Tim,” said the doctor, adjusting the settings on one of the machines keeping Haws alive. “I’ve got him in an induced coma right now and pumped his head full of meta-corticals. We’ve got to repair the damage and reduce the swelling before I can bring him out of it. And he lost a lot of blood, so I ... good god, Tim, are you all right?”

  Granger had doubled over in a fit of coughing, wiping a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth. His lungs were screaming at him and he staggered with a wave of dizziness.

  “Fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Of course I’m worried about you, you stubborn ass! If you’re not fit for duty....”

  “Don’t,” interrupted Granger. He stared the doctor in the eye, daring him to continue. “Doc, this is not the time. Earth is just a few hours away from getting blasted apart by an artificial black hole. Don’t harangue me about my health when all our lives are on the line!”

  “That’s my job, Tim, and it’s your job to know that if your health is affecting your judgement, then it’s my duty to remove you. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Screw you,” he said, descending into another fit of coughing, steadying himself on the edge of Haw’s bed. Breathe, he thought. Focusing on the slow, painful rising of his chest, he calmed himself, and added, “Give me a day. My mind is intact. I’m in pain, but that’s it.”

  The doctor shook his head. “Tim....”

  “Armand, please.” Tim looked into his eyes, pleading. “If you remove me, then it’s Proctor that’s in charge. And as competent as she is, I don’t want her commanding my ship. Not now. Not yet. We’ve got to save Earth. And if it’s to be saved, it’s going to be in the next six hours. If I fail, we’re all dead anyway.”

  The doctor considered him for a moment. The man, one of Granger’s closer friends on board, seemed oddly distant and formal. Dammit, why was every doctor he ever knew so short-sighted? Always focusing on the symptoms rather than the future? Always on the short term rather than the long. But to his credit, the doctor nodded. “Fine, Captain. If we’re still alive tomorrow, I’m placing you on medical leave.”

  “Understood.” He looked down at his severely injured friend. “Now get me my XO back, and I’ll give you a promotion,” he added with a sober grin.

  “He’s not going anywhere for a month if he manages to live a day. I’ll keep you updated on his condition. But for now there’s nothing you can do.” A distant rumble shook the deck and Granger steadied himself on the bed again. Wyatt glanced up at the walls, obviously apprehensive at the prospect of new casualties. The doctor shook his head and rubbed his eyes—was he still light-headed? Granger nearly reached out to him before Wyatt continued, “Get back down there, Tim. The Constitution needs her captain.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Near Earth

  Bridge, ISS Constitution

  The two marines outside the bridge were distracted, pushing aside debris and assisting technicians with securing critical system components on the communications and power routing panel, so no one marked his arrival. Granger came up silently behind Commander Proctor, who, he noticed, was scrolling through the list of casualties. Twenty-six dead. Five missing. Thirty major injuries and at least eighty minor ones.

  Not to mention the thousand-odd souls on the Qantas, and the hundreds of thousands lost at Lunar Base, on Mars, and the millions, billions, in the Veracruz Sector.

  She shook, and brushed her cheek with the back of a hand.

  “It gets easier,” he said, making her startle.

  She turned to look at him. Her eyes were red. She’d served her entire short career pushing paper back at IDF headquarters, and nearly a decade as a scientist before that. She’d never
seen death. Not like this.

  Nor had anyone in the fleet. There’d been countless drills and fleet exercises, sure, and accidents happen.

  But no one had seen death on this scale in over seventy-five years.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? How could burying our friends get easy?” She let a hint of disdain drop into her voice, but he ignored it.

  “I didn’t say easy. But burying your friends ... well, you learn how to do it and then move on. And I’ve buried more than my share.”

  She said nothing, but turned back to her screen and swiped the casualty list away, replacing it with repair projections. “You’ve lost a lot of friends?”

  “I have. And not just from diseases and sky surfing accidents. No, I’m just about the only one in the fleet who’s buried his comrades in the line of duty.”

  She froze, and turned back to face him, aghast. “But, the Khorsky incident....”

  It was more of a question than a statement, and he nodded gravely.

  “You were there? I thought everyone responsible was either dead, in prison, or demoted.”

  He shrugged. “That’s the official story, anyway. The reality is that I was promoted to captain soon after, and given command of the Constitution. My squadron may have done some stupid things, but they paled in comparison to IDF’s response. If you knew half the things that went on behind closed doors ... well, suffice it to say they knew that I could be a big pain in their ass, and everyone knows you keep your enemies close.”

  From her face it was apparent that she almost didn’t believe him. She looked at him askance. “So to shut you up, they didn’t send you to prison, but promoted you? What did the Russians say?”

  “Essentially, yes. And I have Abraham Haws to thank for it. He burst into Fleet Admiral Dawson’s office during the secret court martial and laid out everything we knew about IDF, and basically threatened to go public unless they dropped the charges and gave us a ship. And so they did. As for what the Russians said, well, I guess IDF feared what I could say more than what the Russians would.”