Across the Great Rift

by Washburn, Scott;

  “What are your orders, Squadronlord?” said a voice at his elbow. It took every bit of control given him by his level three enhancements to keep from flinching. Purifier Kolstar had come up silently behind him, as he loved to do, and Dardas, deep in thought, had failed to notice. He very slowly rotated his chair to face the squadron’s official conscience.

  “It would appear that the agent has failed. I do not know what all of these other contacts are, but the Anderans clearly are not still in cold-sleep. That being the case, my orders seem… clear.”

  “Thus, after so much time and so much effort to reach here, we shall merely turn our tails and run for home?” The purifier’s voice was pleasant, almost musical, but Dardas had heard him use that same voice when ordering some erring crewman to the re-education room—or the recycling vats.

  “My orders come from the Queen herself, Purifier,” said Dardas stiffly. “Only total success can justify a new war with Andera. If we could seize the gate, then we would do so. Such a coup would be worth the price of a war, especially since it would take the Anderans years to even realize what we had done. Failing that, if we could destroy the gate, then we should do that. It would be a hard blow against the Anderans and it would take at least ten more years before they found out about it. But unless either action has an absolute chance of success, I am ordered to make no attempt.”

  “Obedience is commendable, but boldness and initiative are sometimes needed, as well, Squadronlord. Are you so sure that victory is impossible? Superior beings should be capable of superior efforts.”

  Dardas fought hard to keep the irritation out of his reply. He pulled a scented linen handkerchief out of the sleeve of his uniform coat and dabbed it under his nose for a moment. Kolstar’s statement could be taken to mean the Venanci superiority over the Anderans, but he knew full-well that it really was a reminder that the purifier had level four enhancements. And while Dardas fully belonged to the Queen, Kolstar was a creature of Minister Florat—who had power enough to disagree with the Queen at times. “That is certainly true,” said Dardas carefully. “Man for man and ship for ship we are superior and were the odds even close to equal I would not hesitate to go ahead. But our information on the Anderan forces is quite precise: two battleships, four battlecruisers, four heavy cruisers, five light cruisers, and thirteen destroyers. The Queen, in her perfect wisdom, assigned only three battlecruisers, two heavy cruisers, and six destroyers, plus the two transports, to this mission. And considering that we have lost one of the destroyers…”

  “Rather careless, that, losing a whole destroyer.”

  “I have a junior officer reviewing the sensor logs to discover what happened to Wichr,” snapped Dardas. “But with ten years of records to review, it may take a while. I’ll be sure you are informed as soon as anything is found, Purifier.”

  “Thank you, that’s most kind.”

  “Yes. But as I was saying: the Anderans have us outgunned by a factor of four or better. Despite our superior personnel and equipment, we could not hope to win in a…”

  “Lord! Great One!”

  Dardas twisted his chair around, furious at this interruption. Who had dared…? A white-faced officer goggled at him. “I-I beg to report a signal, Lord! A signal for us!”

  “What? Explain yourself.”

  “The signal is very faint, Lord, it appears to be coming from a great distance, but it is addressed to this squadron.”

  “Have you decoded it?”

  “It is in the clear, Lord.”

  “Indeed? Play it.”

  “At once, Lord!” The man pressed a switch and voice came from the bridge speakers:

  “This is Carlina Citrone, welcoming my bothers and sisters of the Venanci squadron. Where the roots are deep, the seed is strong. I regret that I cannot welcome you in person, but my capture is imminent. However, you must know that I have completed the majority of my mission…” The voice went on, outlining the specifics of her actions and then the message repeated. Dardas signaled to cut it off and then turned to face Kolstar.

  “This changes the situation.”

  “So it would seem. Providing it is not a trick.”

  “The agent used the proper coded recognition phrase. I would judge the message to be genuine.”

  “They could have wrung that out of it after it was captured. Rather careless, that, allowing itself to be captured.”

  “Possible, but doubtful. Purifier, a moment ago you were urging me to attack against impossible odds, now you recommend caution when the odds shift in our favor. Which is it to be?”

  For the first time, the purifier looked nonplussed, and Dardas suppressed a smile. “You are in command of the squadron,” said Kolstar after a moment.

  “So I am.” He pressed a button on the arm of his chair. “Tech-chief Jubert.”

  “Yes, Lord,” came the immediate reply.

  “Come to my briefing room.”

  “At once, Lord.”

  Dardas stood up and his two servants sprang from their niches to attend him. The mechanical one snatched his sword from its holder beside the chair and deftly attached it to his belt. The biological one offered a cup of wine which he deigned to drink from. He turned and strode past Kolstar toward the hatch leading to the briefing room. The hatch slid open at his approach. Inside, he went and stood before his chair and the servant removed his sword and placed it in its holder. Both servants swept back the long tails of his uniform coat as he sat down and then retreated to their niches. A moment later the tech-chief entered through another hatch. He looked barely winded, although he had come from the engine room, over a hundred meters away. He bowed deeply and stood at the far end of the briefing table. Kolstar hovered off to the side, hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his robe.

  “Be seated, Jubert.”

  “Thank you, Lord,” said the man as he plunked into a chair.

  “Attend.” Dardas touched a control on his panel and the message from the agent played itself again. “What would you estimate to be the readiness of the Anderans, assuming this message is accurate?”

  Jubert’s face went blank. “Should I assume the Anderans will devote resources to gate construction?”

  Dardas glanced at Kolstar. “If they captured the agent, they will know we are coming,” said the purifier with a shrug. “Even if it did not survive capture, they will suspect that someone is coming.”

  “But they cannot risk missing their gate window. Assume fifty percent of their resources will be devoted to the gate, tech-chief.”

  “Yes, Lord.” Jubert’s eyes closed. The tech-chief also had third level enhancements, but of an entirely different type than Dardas. Half a minute passed and then his eyes opened. “Given these conditions, the Anderans will have a readiness level of between five and ten percent, Lord.”

  Kolstar smiled. “You gave the Anderans a four-to-one advantage, Squadronlord. Reduce their strength by ninety percent and suddenly the advantage is over two-to-one in our favor.”

  “Indeed.” Dardas touched another button. “Communications, signal to squadron: prepare to attack.”

  * * * * *

  Squadron Commander Charles Crawford watched the heavy cruiser Shannin dwindling in the rear-view monitor of his shuttle and then looked ahead to where his flagship, the battlecruiser Indomitable, was growing larger. “One more to go,” he sighed, “but the biggest of the lot.”

  “I’m sure your personal inspection of the squadron is having a very positive effect, Sir Charles,” said his flag lieutenant, Harvey Lindquist.

  “Yeah, sure. At the least they can have a laugh at the sight of me in this get-up.” He gestured to the uniform he was wearing.

  “You look splendid, sir.”

  Crawford snorted. Governor Shiffeld and Petre Frichette had ordered that all officers in the Rift Fleet were to be properly uniformed. They claimed it was beneficial to the maintenance of discipline and proper respect. Much to his embarrassment and chagrin, they had produced a uniform t
ailored to fit his bulky, high-gravity dimensions. He’d been hoping he’d have an excuse to avoid this charade, but it was not to be. Hell, they’d not only produced a duty uniform, which wasn’t that bad, but this ridiculous full-dress monstrosity he was wearing now. He wondered where they had gotten it. Nearly all the other new officers were wearing uniforms salvaged from the belongings of those killed by Citrone, but as far as he knew there were no high-gravity natives among the fleet’s senior officers. And this was far too good a fit. They must have made it special…

  “Harvey, just what exactly does a ‘flag lieutenant’ do—aside from butter up his commanding officer?”

  “Uh, well, sir, I looked it up,” said the young man. “In ancient times—really ancient times. I mean—the flag lieutenant was literally in charge of the signal flags a commander used to transmit orders. After they stopped using signal flags, they were in charge of whatever means of communications then in use. These days, with communications so easy and immediate, the flag lieutenants are used as aides, secretaries, assistants, or whatever the commander needs.”

  “Don’t forget ‘butter-upperers’.”

  “That, too, sir,” nodded Lindquist with a grin.

  He eyed Lindquist. Until recently, he’d been an officers’ steward on one of the transports. Crawford wasn’t sure how he’d been assigned to him, but he was proving useful, and he was certainly eager to please. Another thought struck him. “Harvey, what’s the mood of the crews? You have a lot closer contact with them than I do. This inspection may be good for their morale, but with everyone all lined up in ranks with their swashes buckled and their spit polished, it doesn’t give me any feel for what’s really going on.”

  Lindquist took a moment before answering. “They’re worried, sir. With the Venanci here and the battle in a day or two, it’s all seeming very real now.”

  “Yeah, it sure is. Very real.” It certainly was, and getting more real by the minute. The Venanci squadron had arrived, and after only a little over an hour, it had begun accelerating toward the fleet. They had spent one day burning at about one and a half gravities and then coasted—confirming Petre’s assertions about their lack of reaction mass. Assuming they intended to slow to engage, they ought to begin their deceleration burn in the next few hours. Then another day and it would begin.

  “But they have confidence, too, sir,” continued Lindquist. “There aren’t all that many of the Venanci and no capital ships at all, and we have the clans helping us and Lord Frichette really seems like he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Unlike the rest of us?”

  “I didn’t mean that, sir. And it’s not true anyway.”

  “A lot more true than anyone would like, Harvey. But there’s nothing to do but make the best of what we’ve got.” As he spoke, his shuttle approached Indomitable and turned to slide along its length for the exterior inspection. The battlecruiser was an elongated egg-shape about two-hundred meters long and seventy across at its widest point. Eight large half-globes studded the circumference near the widest point in two rings of four. These were the primary, thirty-four centimeter laser turrets; powerful weapons, but probably useless on manual control unless the clans were able to do their stuff against the Venanci. A dozen smaller turrets held the secondary weapons, each as powerful as Felicity’s main battery, and twenty smaller point-defense turrets were distributed all over the hull. At least the point-defense turrets worked. A hell of a lot of effort had gone into getting them ready, but they were ready and they, along with the ones on Felicity, would be providing the anti-torpedo defense for the whole squadron.

  Crawford studied what he was seeing, comparing it with the drawings and diagrams of the ship, which he’d committed to memory. At least the engineer in him was good for something now—plans and specifications he could deal with. After a few days of study, he knew the layouts and theoretical capabilities of every ship in his squadron: the heavy cruiser Shannin, the light cruiser Kensington, three destroyers, Avon, Lightning and the good old Felicity, and his flagship. “Huh,” he said, spotting something, “those sensor clusters, there, are shown as forward of ‘C’ turret on the drawings.”

  “Must have been modified at some point, sir,” said Lindquist.

  “You’d think they would have updated their drawings. How the hell do they do maintenance and repairs if they aren’t where they’re shown on the plans?”

  “Uh, from what I observed on my old ship, the engineering types just know where everything is, sir. After spending years on a ship, they just know.”

  “Hmmph, I suppose they would. I’m used to building things, not maintaining them after they’re built. But this doesn’t make it any easier for new people trying to take over for them.”

  “They probably weren’t expecting a situation like this, sir.”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Crawford with a shrug. “All right, I’ve seen enough out here. Take us inside and let’s finish this up.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lindquist relayed the order to the shuttle pilot, and a few minutes later they were docked inside the boat bay. He grimaced as he stepped out and saw the party waiting for him. I only left here three hours ago! You’d think I’d been gone for a year! Captain Harold Speirs and at least thirty other officers and crew were waiting to ‘pipe him aboard’. He’d gone through the same ordeal on the other ships of his squadron, but he’d assumed that he’d be able to avoid it when he came back. No such luck. The new marine detachment snapped to attention and managed to present arms without skewering anyone on their bayonets, the officers saluted, and one crewman made strange noises with a strange device. Captain Speirs welcomed him aboard and asked if he would like to inspect the ship. Crawford lied and said that it would be his pleasure and they started off, trailed by a gaggle of people.

  For the next hour they walked up and down corridors, went up and down ladders and lifts, and generally saw a lot of people lined up at attention. As on the other ships, he recognized a large number of the people. A few weeks ago they had been part of his construction teams. Now they helped fill out the crews of the ships of his squadron. He nodded to them, spoke their names when he could remember them; made encouraging comments and patted shoulders when appropriate. They seemed to appreciate it, but Crawford could not shake a growing sense of dread. These are my people, and if I do something dumb I could get them all killed! Of course, that wasn’t an entirely novel situation: any sort of construction project was dangerous, and if he did something dumb there it could get people killed, too. But not in job lots! There were nearly three thousand of his people on the various ships and if the battle went badly wrong, every one of them could be killed. How do the professionals deal with this? Well, at least I don’t have to worry about…

  “Good God, will you look at that fop, Sheila? Where in hell did you find enough gold braid to go all the way round him?”

  “Wasn’t easy, Greg, had to scavenge it from about six other uniforms. But it turned out pretty damn well, so watch out who you call a fop, big guy!”

  Two people were standing to one side and their comments left the entire inspection party speechless for a moment, but unfortunately Captain Speirs found his voice an instant before Crawford did.

  “Silence there!” roared a livid Speirs. “What are your names?”

  “Now him, on the other hand, you can call a fop if you want,” said Sheila MacIntyrre.

  “Damned impertinence! I’ll have you both arrested!”

  “Oh cripes, you got ‘im mad, Sheil, and he’s got near as much gold braid on him as old Chuck, there,” said Greg VanVean.

  “Captain! Captain, please!” said Crawford, interposing himself. “These are some old friends of mine and they’re just having a little fun with me. No offense was meant.”

  “Like hell,” muttered VanVean.

  Speirs got himself under control but was still frowning ferociously. “If you say so, Sir Charles, but I’ve noticed this appalling lack of discipline throughout the ship and it must stop!”


  “Captain, these aren’t regular navy people. They’re not even regular merchant service. You can’t expect them to have the same sort of discipline.”

  “I can expect them to show proper courtesy to their betters, damn it!”

  “Did you hear that, Sheil?” growled VanVean. “He thinks he’s better than us. Maybe he’d like to step outside and prove it.”

  “No air outside, Greg, I think you’d both lose.”

  “Shut up, you two!” hissed Crawford over his shoulder.

  “Title’s gone to his head,” said VanVean sadly. “Look at him: drunk with power already.”

  “Captain,” said Crawford, “if you wouldn’t mind taking the inspection party on ahead, I’ll have a word with these two and then catch up.”

  “Very well, sir, if you insist,” said Speirs stiffly. He collected the others and moved off down the corridor. Crawford then swung around to confront his friends.

  “Just what in the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “DC party,” said Sheila brightly. “That’s one of those navy acronyms for ‘damage control’ y’know.”

  “Yup,” said Greg. “Any damage sneaks aboard this ship, it’s our job to control it. I got traps placed by all the airlocks.”

  “I thought I left you in charge of the gate construction.” He glared at Sheila.

  “We started the main induction ring pour a week ago, as you well know, and there’s damn little else we can do now with three-quarters of the crew dragooned off for this nonsense. We left things in good hands, Chuck.” Sheila looked at him innocently and batted her eyelashes.