The Lost Stars

by Jack Campbell

  Kapitan Toirac eyed her worriedly. They were in Marphissa’s stateroom, which was nothing luxurious on a heavy cruiser but large enough for two people without feeling claustrophobic. “We’re going to drop into the lap of the Syndicate flotilla, and we’ll be moving at only point zero two light speed in normal space.”

  “That’s the idea. We want them to chase us. The moment we arrive at the gate, command of the Manticore will temporarily shift to Kapitan Bascare.”

  “What? Asima— Excuse me, Kommodor, I don’t even know who this Bascare is.”

  “You’ll find out.” Marphissa couldn’t yet tell Toirac that “Bascare” was actually Alliance Fleet Captain Bradamont, but she unbent enough to explain more. “Trust me. These are the orders of President Iceni, to carry out an operation planned by her. But we have to do our part.”

  “I don’t know.” Toirac looked around, uncertainty written all over his expression and posture. It had become an all-too-familiar look for him, whether in private or on the bridge.

  Marphissa licked her lips, trying to find the right words. “Ygor, we’ve known each other for a while. I recommended you for command of this ship.”

  “You did? Why didn’t you—”

  “Wait.” She fixed him with a hard look. “You’ve got the skills to run this ship, but you’re not demonstrating the strength to command it. You’re slow, you hesitate, you allow your specialists and junior officers to decide things that you should be deciding. It’s one thing to delegate some authority and responsibility. I believe in the wisdom of that, contrary to the teachings of the Syndicate. But you can go too far. Delegation is one thing. Effectively ceding command decisions to your subordinates is another.”

  Kapitan Toirac scowled, looking away. “I’m doing my best. This is very difficult. I’m trying to avoid the mistakes of the Syndicate.”

  “Fine; you don’t want to run the ship with an iron hand. I understand that. But you’re going too far in the other direction. You can’t command this ship unless you command it! I will back you, Ygor. I will give you what advice I can. I know Kapitan-Leytenant Kontos has been speaking to you, trying to help. But he says you’re not listening.”

  “Kontos! A few weeks ago, he was a subexecutive! I know more about being in charge than he does.”

  “He’s good, Ygor. Kontos knows how to do things so that subordinates look to him as a leader. You need to cultivate the same traits, the same approach to command—”

  “If you’re so unhappy with me,” Toirac grumbled, “why not just drop the hammer?”

  “Because I want to help you succeed,” Marphissa insisted, trying not to let Toirac’s behavior aggravate her too much.

  “Tearing me down is not helping me.”

  “Have you heard anything that I’ve said? Have you noticed how your officers and specialists are acting toward you and around you?”

  Toirac’s mouth set stubbornly. “If you’re so unhappy with me, maybe this ship would be better off with another commanding officer.”

  She glared at him. “I don’t want that, but since you raised the topic I have no choice but to warn you that unless you start acting like the commanding officer of Manticore, I will have no choice but to recommend that you be replaced.”

  He stared at her, the gaze turning dark. “It didn’t take long, did it, Asima? All that talk of things being different now, but once you got your hands on power, you’re just another Sub-CEO trying to suck up to her CEO—”

  Marphissa leaped to her feet, her mind filled with anger. “I will pretend those last words were not said! Listen to yourself! I am trying to offer you help, and you’re answering me with insults! If I were being a typical Sub-CEO I would’ve relieved you of command weeks ago! But I’ve been waiting. Waiting to see you assert yourself.”

  Toirac avoided her eyes. “Yes, Kommodor.”

  “Damn you, Ygor. Are you trying to back me into a corner?”

  “The Kommodor can act as she sees fit. I understand and will comply.”

  “Get out of here!” Marphissa nearly yelled, worried that she would say something far worse if Toirac continued to display attitude rather than intelligence.

  He saluted, the gesture stiff and formal, then left, only the hatch closing mechanism preventing it from slamming under the force of Toirac’s push.

  She sat down, trying to control her anger. I tried. And he answers me with “I understand and will comply,” as if I really am some Syndicate thug abusing her authority. It’s a lot easier to complain about the boss than to be the boss. But if Toirac can’t tell the difference between me and a Syndicate bootlicker, he’s not just weak, he’s also a fool.

  Don’t decide now. You’re too angry. But Toirac had better show me a lot better performance and do it fast.

  “Kommodor?” The question was accompanied by a knock on her hatch.

  Marphissa looked up, calming herself. “Enter.”

  Bradamont eyed her from the hatch. “Is everything all right?” Behind her, Kontos was looking up and down the passageway, keeping an eye out for trouble. Bradamont and Kontos were already in survival suits, prepared for combat.

  Both Kontos and Marphissa had noticed that the Alliance officer focused a lot on the ship, on the state of equipment, cleanliness, and other material issues, but didn’t seem to worry about the crew. Bradamont paid attention to the crew, displaying unmistakable interest in them and their jobs, but she didn’t appear to worry about them as a potential source of danger. The implications of that attitude, what it might say about the Alliance fleet versus Syndicate practices that still haunted this ship, bothered Marphissa a great deal.

  “Personnel issues,” Marphissa explained. “We’re half an hour from arrival, aren’t we? I need to focus on that. We’re going to have to do everything just right.”

  “It’s nothing you can’t handle,” Bradamont said.

  “You’re going to be in temporary command. You have to call the maneuvers. I’m sure that’s what President Iceni wants.” Marphissa managed a smile. “Besides, I want to watch you maneuver a ship in combat.”

  “I wish to watch that as well,” Kontos offered.

  “Are you sure your crew will be all right when they find out who I am?”

  “They know me. They believe in the President. They also know Kapitan-Leytenant Kontos by reputation. And . . . they’re conditioned by training to do as they’re told. Those things should keep the crew from blowing up until we get the job done.”

  Marphissa quickly pulled on her own survival suit, then led the way to the bridge, taking her seat next to a visibly sulking Kapitan Toirac, who had not yet donned a suit himself. The specialists on watch took in the survival suits on her, Bradamont, and Kontos, and unobtrusively began passing the word to their friends in other parts of the ship that something was up. Two of the specialists glanced Toirac’s way, said something to each other in very low voices, and grinned.

  Marphissa suppressed a sigh, mentally running through candidates to replace Toirac. Kapitan-Leytenant Diaz came quickly to mind. As second-in-command of Manticore, he had done his best to support Toirac and had not undermined him in any way that Marphissa was aware of. Diaz lacked apparent ambition, which could foretell problems if he was promoted above his comfort zone, but his actions commended him.

  Kontos, standing at the back of the bridge next to Bradamont, cleared his throat.

  Marphissa checked the time. “Kapitan, it is nineteen minutes until we arrive at Midway.”

  Toirac ignored her.

  Fine. You’re gone. But I won’t do it formally until after this operation is over. We don’t need the disruption a change of command could cause when we’re this close to action. “Bring Manticore to full-combat readiness,” Marphissa ordered the specialists on the bridge.

  “Yes, Kommodor!”

  The specialists popped open lockers near their watch
stations and pulled on their own survival suits, outfits that were far inferior to the battle armor worn by ground forces but provided some protection from shrapnel and small arms as well as providing oxygen if the ship was holed by the enemy. The helmets stayed open, unpressurized hoods draped loosely behind their shoulders, to conserve the suits’ life support until it was needed. Readiness reports flowed in, green markers popping up on Marphissa’s display as weapons, sensors, shields, and propulsion as well as a host of other less critical areas reported full-combat status.

  Kapitan Toirac, moving with obvious slowness, took out his own emergency suit and put it on as well.

  “The ship is at full-combat readiness, Kommodor,” the senior specialist reported.

  “Five minutes. You can do better,” Marphissa said. “Next time, make it four. Everyone on the bridge, listen. The moment Manticore leaves the hypernet and arrives at Midway, Kapitan Bascare will become temporary commanding officer of this ship. You will respond to her every order as if it were mine, regardless of what happens. Is that clearly understood? There must be no hesitation, no questions.”

  The specialists all nodded and saluted. The seniormost specialist smiled as he did so. “I understand and will comply, Kommodor.” But he gave the old words of subservience an aura of pride that made Marphissa smile in return.

  Bradamont came to stand beside Marphissa.

  Kontos caught Marphissa’s eye and tilted an inquiring eye toward Toirac. She shook her head and mouthed “later” in reply.

  Marphissa readied a command for Manticore’s identification broadcast, ensuring that the broadcast was disabled and wouldn’t send anything until she activated it. The sensors in CEO Boyens’s flotilla would know Manticore without any official ID being broadcast. They had seen her hull too many times and knew every unique feature and mark it had accumulated in space. But the identification contained in the broadcast this time would give them a very unpleasant surprise.

  Five minutes. “Everyone listen,” Marphissa said. “If Kapitan Bascare sends a message, she will use a different name and rank. She is here by personal order of President Iceni. Do not let that name and rank cause you to hesitate. Is that clear?”

  Once again, everyone nodded. Everyone but Kapitan Toirac.

  “Disable main propulsion unit two,” Marphissa ordered. “Ensure it does not light off when maneuvering orders are given, not until you are told to reactivate it.”

  “Yes, Kommodor,” the engineering specialist said. “Deactivating main propulsion unit two. Unit two is deactivated.”

  Marphissa looked at Bradamont. “Do you need this seat?”

  “No. The weapons are yours. I can give whatever maneuvering commands are needed while standing here.”

  One minute. “Shields at maximum, all weapons ready,” Marphissa said to Bradamont.

  Kontos hadn’t moved, but his eyes were locked on Bradamont.

  They exited the gate at Midway, the nothing outside of Manticore abruptly being replaced by countless stars and endless space. “I have command,” Bradamont announced. “Come starboard one seven zero degrees, down two zero degrees, maximum acceleration on main propulsion units one, three, and four.”

  Manticore swung around and accelerated, her vector altering to head for the other ships of the Midway Flotilla, five light-minutes away.

  “Boyens is still here,” Marphissa observed, as her display updated.

  Bradamont nodded and pointed to another area relatively close to the hypernet gate. When they had left, the entire Alliance fleet had been two light-hours from the gate, but now a substantial force of battle cruisers and other warships orbited only ten light-minutes away.

  “The Syndicate flotilla is maneuvering,” the senior specialist announced. “Heavy cruisers and Hunter-Killers. They’re coming around to an intercept.”

  Bradamont nodded again. “When will they come within weapons range of us?”

  The specialists exchanged glances. “We were not moving fast coming out of the gate, Kapitan Bascare, and with one propulsion unit disabled, we are accelerating at less than an optimum rate. The Syndicate heavy cruisers will be within missile range in seventeen minutes.”

  “Good. How long will it take to bring main propulsion unit two back online?”

  “Five seconds, Kapitan. Then another five seconds for it to achieve full thrust.” The specialist gave her a quizzical glance, wondering why an officer of such rank did not know such basic information about a ship built by the Syndicate Worlds. They had seen Kapitan Bascare practicing maneuvering Manticore during some of the transits through star systems while escorting the other cruiser and knew from that she was experienced in handling ships, making her lack of knowledge all the more puzzling.

  Bradamont smiled slightly. “Sixteen minutes,” she told Marphissa.

  Her confidence was so palpable that the crew, despite their nervousness as the Syndicate pursuit force lunged toward them, waited without question as the bubble on their displays marking missile-engagement range for the Syndicate warships drew steadily closer to Manticore.

  “The Alliance ships are moving! They are . . . heading toward the Syndicate flotilla!” The operations specialist blinked at her display in disbelief, then grinned. “They are coming to help us? Black Jack is coming!”

  Not the Alliance, Marphissa noted. Black Jack. She would remember that.

  An alert pulsed on the displays, warning that the Syndicate warships would be within missile range in one minute.

  “Steady,” Bradamont said. “Engineering, I will order main propulsion unit two back online in one minute and ten seconds. Is that understood? Wait for the command.”

  “Yes, Kapitan.”

  Marphissa glanced at Bradamont. “Now?”

  “Forty seconds,” Bradamont replied. “The information has to reach the Syndic warships too late for them to change their actions.”

  Exactly forty seconds later, Marphissa tapped a control. Manticore’s identification broadcast lit off, telling the universe that the warship was—

  “Kommodor?” the communications specialist asked, bewildered. “Our unit identification says we are . . . Alliance.”

  “Alliance-flagged,” Marphissa said. “Not the same thing. Listen to Kapitan Bascare.”

  “Activate main propulsion unit two, full thrust,” Bradamont ordered, then tapped Marphissa’s comm controls. “Units of the Syndicate Worlds, this is Captain Bradamont of the Alliance fleet, commanding a chartered warship on official Alliance business. You are to cease threatening activity immediately.”

  “Missiles have launched!” The warning came just as Bradamont finished speaking. Seconds later, Manticore lurched in response to a significant increase in her acceleration, the inertial dampers not quite masking the effects of propulsion unit two coming on line at full power.

  Then Bradamont’s last words struck home and everyone on the bridge but Kontos and Marphissa stared at her in disbelief. “Stand by!” Kontos said sharply, bringing everyone’s attention back to their duties.

  There were twenty-four missiles inbound. Their targeting solutions had been badly thrown off by the sudden increase in Manticore’s acceleration, but the missiles’ targeting systems could compensate for that to some extent. “Come port one four degrees,” Bradamont ordered. “Down six degrees.”

  “The Midway Flotilla is altering vectors,” the operations specialist said. “They are on an intercept with the Syndicate heavy cruisers pursuing us, Kapi— Kapitan . . . Bascare.”

  Marphissa, her gaze darting from one point on her display to the next, noticed that Bradamont’s small vector change had placed the pursuing missiles into a stern chase, coming in from directly behind Manticore. That meant the relative speed of the missiles had been reduced as much as possible, making them easier targets. A small thing, but an important thing.

  “Wait!” Kapitan Toirac, glaring
at Bradamont, had started up from his seat. “We can’t accept orders from this—”

  “Shut up!” Marphissa snapped, her patience with her former friend exhausted.

  “I will not—”

  But Toirac did stop speaking, his face rigid. Marphissa leaned back enough to see that Kontos had drawn his sidearm and had the barrel planted on Kapitan Toirac’s spine. At that range, Toirac’s survival suit wouldn’t stop a shot, and Toirac knew it. Sometimes the old ways may be the best.

  “Incoming,” Bradamont prodded, her eyes turned away from the small tableau. She gave no sign of what she thought of Syndicate command procedures.

  But Bradamont probably was not impressed. Angrily refocusing on the engagement, Marphissa authorized the hell-lance weapons that faced aft to open fire, watching as the particle beams lashed out at the oncoming missiles. Two, then three, then four missiles were knocked out.

  That left twenty.

  Bradamont had been watching the missiles, counting the time since their launch, watching the display to see remaining endurance data based on the precise capabilities of the Syndicate missiles. “It’s a lot easier to estimate this when you know exactly what the missiles can do,” she commented to Marphissa. “All main propulsion units to zero thrust,” she ordered.

  Marphissa and Kontos both swiveled to look at the engineering specialist, but he had already moved to implement the command. “All main propulsion units at zero, Kapitan.”

  “Maneuvering thrusters pitch up one seven eight degrees.”

  The thrusters fired, pushing Manticore’s bow up and over until the bow pointed back down the opposite way the ship was still traveling. With her heaviest armament now facing the oncoming missiles, Manticore’s hell lances knocked out several more.

  “All main propulsion units at maximum,” Bradamont ordered.

  The engineering specialist hesitated only a fraction of a second. “All units at maximum.”

  Manticore moaned as pressure on her hull built rapidly. Her main propulsion, facing in the direction the ship was still going stern first, was braking her velocity at a rate that caused danger warnings to pop up on displays. Those not seated had to brace themselves as the forces of deceleration leaked past the overloaded inertial dampers.