by M. D. Cooper
Samson envied the woman’s unflappable calm. He surveyed the three other members of the admiralty; none of them displayed any visible concern.
“What is your plan?” Samson asked them.
Admiral Urdon cocked an eyebrow. “Sir? Our plan is for you to find a non-military solution to this problem. Can we take out this one carrier? Probably. Can we do it and have Makemake remain unscathed? Probably not. The Terran Space Force is larger than every other force in the Sol System combined. Only in an all-out war—where we side with the Jovians and the Marsians—do we stand a chance.”
“They may not like the Terrans, but they’re not ready to go to war yet,” Booth added.
Samson sighed. “This isn’t exactly news.”
The debate had raged for nearly a year at this point, both in the parliament and amongst the public. Should the Scattered Worlds secede, and how much was the populace willing to sacrifice? Many talked a tough game when it came to resisting the Terran oppressors, but would they keep up their rhetoric with a Terran Space Force carrier orbiting their union’s capital world?
Undoubtedly some would, but they would likely be the fringe element—or the Nibirians.
“Guillermo, what is the public sentiment right now?” Samson asked his party’s parliamentary AI.
“Figures,” Samson said. “They should know better. If we shoot first, it will be just what they want. History will forget the details of this dispute and only remember who drew first blood.”
“What has the ambassador said?” Admiral Booth asked.
“She says that this isn’t a Terran Hegemony matter. It’s the Federation that sent this ship, as a fellow member state they sympathize and will do all they can in the Federal House to help us.”
“Also expected,” Admiral Jeavons replied. “The Terrans have their name on the Federal space force, but pretend they don’t control it when it’s convenient for them.”
“That the Federation has been a puppet of the Terrans for the last millennia is not news either,” Dasha added. “What are our options?”
“Not capitulation,” Admiral Kiera said. “The Terrans may have a million ships, but the disk is large enough that they would fight a never-ending war against our people’s resistance. We have a hundred worlds and a hundred-thousand habitats, many of them mobile.”
“Is that how you want to spend the rest of your life?” Admiral Booth asked. “Fighting a slowly losing battle against the Terran military machine?”
“No! Once we resist, the Jovians and Marsians will join us. We already know we can get supplies and support from Epsilon Eridani—nearly their entire population comes from the Scattered Worlds.
“And what of Makemake?” Dasha asked. “Would you see it burned to a cinder, to feed your lust for war? How does the death of our citizens help the Scattered Worlds? Are the Terrans unsympathetic to our plight? Yes. Do we lose people to piracy and accidents in the deep black that they could help to prevent? Certainly. But make no mistake, what we suffer now is nothing compared to what we will suffer in a war with the Terrans—even if we win, it would be worse than a millennia of the status quo.”
Kiera turned her cold gaze to Dasha.
“That is what you AI will never understand,” she said with her face twisted into a scowl. “Human spirit cannot be quelled or crushed. We have hope of something better, a brighter future for ourselves and our children. You only think of preservation.”
Samson looked intently at Dasha. If she was bothered by the admiral’s insult, it didn’t show. The AI’s expression was schooled and calm.
“You mistake caution for subservience. I would support an active uprising that would succeed, but this will not,” she said, and then turned her gaze to Samson. “If you want to pursue this course of action, we need to bide our time and prepare. We cannot smash ourselves headlong against this rock.”
“She’s right,” Admiral Jeavons nodded. “A secret military buildup would be required.”
Samson knew this was where Jeavons was going. The admiral never came out and said it—she used proxies for that—but she always maneuvered for an increase in military strength. Samson didn’t oppose it, but it was not the will of the people. Also, it would have to be done in secret; the Federation would not tolerate its member states gaining the military might to oppose it.
“Look,” he began, “that’s a course of action we can debate another time. It doesn’t help our current situation. That Terran cruiser isn’t going to wait for us to strengthen our military. You know as well as I that they will push for a forced regime change and the loyalist opposition will jump at the chance to take control back.”
“He’s right,” Urdon said. “We must deal with the threat at hand. Things will get much more complex when that Terran carrier hangs fifty kilometers over our heads.”
“We should provide them a designated orbital pattern and block a low orbit,” Dasha suggested. “Then, they would have to attack our ships to get closer to our world.”
“Would that work?” Samson asked the admirals.
Admiral Jeavons nodded. “It would certainly force them to take a less offensive posture than they’d like. However, we don’t have enough ships to create a strong enough presence to block all the low orbital patterns they can take.”
Dasha’s voice became steely and her silver brow lowered.
“That’s where you’re wrong. We have more than enough ships.”
* * * * *
“This is going to be a problem,” Joe muttered to himself.
“Looks like the captain is going to settle for the Lagrange point with Ouke,” Joe replied. “Is the colonel going to provide us with a deployment plan, or is that on us?”
Joe nodded to himself and organized his squadron into a defensive grid, which would cover approaches from the asteroid clusters and the moon. Crassus approved and the fighters shifted into their new pattern, slowing and taking up their new positions.
He made sure to account for the shift in Ouke’s orbit that the Normandy was bound to make. The carrier was nearly a quarter the mass of the moon. It wasn’t the best strategic location if a fight broke out, but it certainly would certainly piss off the Diskers.
Joe examined the makeup of the blockade the Normandy and her fighters faced. He was surprised to see that well over three quarters of the ships in overlapping equatorial and polar orbits were civilian. Ore haulers, tugs, merchant ships, and even pleasure vessels were all visible on scan, all forming an interlocking web of ships.
If the TSF wanted to hit Makemake, they would have to do it through a defensive wall no one wanted to breach.
Beyond the ships, the small blue and green world turned quickly, its artificial sun trailing around at a more sedate pace to simulate a normal day/night cycle.
Down there, somewhere, was his mother.
He hadn’t spoken to her in nearly a year. Their relationship wasn’t strained, but catching up with her wasn’t always a priority. She was busy raising a new family; her DNA and mothering skills were considered high value in the Scattered Worlds.
He wondered what this brood was like; last he checked she had seven children under ten in her house, brothers and sisters he had never met in person. Were they scared as they looked up at their skies, would they hate him if they knew he was one of their oppressors?
Colonel Jackson’s voice broke into his thoughts.
Joe replied,
Joe watched scan, as the supporting squadrons dropped from their ladders and hit the black. Their AI linked with the combat net and formed a tactical grid between the squadron leaders and the elephant commanders.
With careful precision, the Normandy eased into position. When the maneuver was complete, it hung a mere fifteen thousand kilometers above Makemake’s surface and only seven thousand from Ouke.
Even with their civilian shield, the Normandy’s beams could still rake the world below—not that Joe expected it to come to that. This was just a scare tactic. The Sol Federation’s government may be playing things with a heavy hand, but they certainly weren’t ham handed. The chances of actual combat were zero.
“Stars, let it be zero,” he whispered to himself.
ENGAGEMENT
STELLAR DATE: 3223495 / 07.13.4113 (Adjusted Gregorian)
LOCATION: Makemake
REGION: Makemake, Scattered Worlds, Sol Space Federation
The Normandy held steady at the Makemake, Ouke L1 point; its fighters organized in a slow, shifting pattern circling around the carrier’s mass. The 52nd was in close support around the carrier, while the 34th maintained a pattern further out; the 15th ranged far enough that their patrol wrapped around the small moon.
The 52nd squadron had been deployed for seventeen hours. Another two and they would be called back in and swapped out for another set of pilots. Joe stretched in the wasp’s tight confines, feeling twitchy after so long with so little action.
He had heard little news of the state of things on the ground, though he suspected that the Scattered Worlds government was working through every channel to come to a peaceful settlement with the Federation. Each side would make some concessions, and sign treaties that wouldn’t fully take effect for decades.
Things would return to the status quo. An end result that Joe was not entirely certain he was enthusiastic about.
Some days, Joe thought that humanity was just going through the motions. In the Sol system there were no more boundaries to push, no more discoveries to be made. Humanity had plateaued. What was worse, with no cohesive bond, no struggle, the Federation of Worlds was falling apart.
Though the presence of the TSF Normandy would stop the Scattered Worlds from leaving the Federation today, what would happen in a decade, a century?
Joe imagined himself a soldier in a solar civil war. How would he muster up the drive to fight against men and women just like him, just following orders and doing what their government told them to?
It wasn’t what he signed up for. Sure, he knew it would be in the mix, but his real reason for being in the Terran Space Force was to fly ships in the black and help keep people safe and rescue them in times of danger.
Being the danger, the force that people needed rescuing from? It wasn’t a great feeling.
Stop it! He thought to himself. Thinking like that would get him killed in battle; worse, it would get his squad mates killed. When push came to shove, he would kill in a heartbeat to protect his squad. They were his family, his people. You fight for the soldier beside you, as the old saying went. That was a kinship he could support.
Still, he found himself unable to shake the melancholy that held him in its grasp.
He looked out through the ship’s sensors at the stars twinkling across the void. Out there, colonies were being settled. Beyond them, the Future Generation Terraformer worldships were plying the deep black between stars, building worlds for colonists who would not arrive for hundreds of years.
That was where the real adventure was, not threatening civilians who just wanted a bit more bang for their tax dollar.
Joe knew the odds of getting on a colony mission. They were slim to say the least. The Sol System was home to trillions of humans—plus a lot of things that weren’t exactly human anymore. Even the largest colony ships only carried a million or so colonists.
The number of people who got to ply the deep black was far smaller than the birth rate of even one world.
Joe asked.
Honora said.
Jackson said.
All the doubt and uncertainty of the previous hours washed away in an instant. The duty he felt to his fellow pilots, to his ship, and to his commanding officers kicked in. He was a Terran Space Force pilot; he and his were being threatened. Indecisiveness was abolished and crystal clear focus kicked in.
Joe acknowledged the order and he selected one of the flight paths he and Crassus had prepared in case of just such an eventuality.
He gritted his teeth as the cells in his body turned crystalline and nano threads tensed throughout his soft tissue, prepared to take the thrust from the full burn his wasp was capable of producing. The squadron cleared the Normandy and surrounding ships as forty-two fusion drives came to life.
The small moon of Ouke grew rapidly in the forward view as the fighters used its meager gravitational force to give them a pivot point. For less than a second, he could see the buildings and structures on the moon’s surface as he shifted his fighter, its engine’s pointing away from the moon like a comet’s tail as it rounded the sun.
Then it was behind them and they raced toward the Normandy, past the picket line of enemy rapiers, and over the Normandy and pulled up their orders on tight-beam.
The directive: shots across the bow.
Joe and Crassus assigned targets. Flights one through three were to fire warning shots, missing by mere meters, at the leading civilian ships, while flights four through seven would make direct strikes on the military vessels, but leave the beams wide and unfocussed.
The squadron had reached speeds of over seventy kilometers per second and it only
took them nine seconds to pass over the approaching Scattered Worlds’ ships.
He made two shots on the cruiser and took no return fire, but as the squadron passed over the trailing destroyers, beam fire lanced out at them—focused strikes that were intended to disable shielding.
Three of the fighters suffered shield failure and the squadron reconfigured to protect them during recharge.
During the time it took to send those thoughts over the combat net, the destroyers continued to fire at the wasps as the distance between the ships expanded. Then the orders came in.
Following those orders to the letter would be easier said than done.
Joe expanded his view of the battlefield to encompass the whole planet-moon system. Behind them the Normandywas on the move, forcing the approaching ships to shift vector and chase it—a maneuver likely intended to give the carrier time to disgorge all of its fighters.
Joe could see that seven-hundred and twenty-three fighters and thirty elephants now sat between the Normandy and the approaching ships. If the Diskers were smart, they’d realize that their numbers were no match for even the fighters alone. Most of the merchant ships only had shielding capable of deflecting rocks and space junk, and were without ablative plating. Tactical on the Normandy estimated that each fighter could destroy nearly twenty of the civilian ships, before running low on armament.
He returned his focus to his squadron’s task, the rails.
The one threat the Normandy could not easily handle would be the dozen rails surrounding Makemake, firing high-velocity kinetic grapeshot at it. Even with its shielding and defensive beams, the grapeshot could tear the ship to ribbons.