Halloran chuckled. “Soft ice cream machine.”
“Aha.” Antonov shrugged. “It’s edible solid food. This,” he offered up the mug toward Halloran, “is Parker’s concept of chicken soup.”
“I’ll take it. Thank you, Chief Parker.”
“I trust you got a good nap in?”
Halloran walked over to Antonov. “Not bad.”
The Russian nodded. “This is good.”
He took the mug from Antonov and put his nose to the yellowy goo, feeling the familiar tickle. It smelled okay, so he took a sip. “Love it. Now we need coffee.”
Antonov smiled. “He’s working on it.”
Halloran said quietly, “Pyotr, let me ask you something. You see combat?”
Antonov regarded him seriously for a moment before looking away. “During the Chinese conflict, we encountered two of their subs monitoring our fleet. My vessel was detailed to screen. One of their Captains had an itchy trigger finger and fired a torpedo at us. We went deep, and the countermeasures worked to shake the torpedo loose from us.”
Halloran nodded. “A close shave.”
“The torpedo acquired a nearby destroyer and sank it. Two hundred crew died.”
“That I do remember reading about. The cause of the sinking was never revealed by your government.”
Antonov turned back. “Also never spoken about is that I fired a spread at their sub the following day, unprovoked. One torpedo hit at great depth.”
The two Captains stood close together, watching each other warily in the background hum of machinery.
Finally, Halloran nodded. “I understand.”
“With due respect, Captain. You do not. It is the Russian way.”
“I’ll try to remember that, Pyotr.” As he began to head for the bridge, he glanced back and waved the steaming mug at Antonov. “By the way, I’m glad you’re on my side.”
The planet loomed large in the forward monitor as Gerry Wilson stopped at the command station. “Sir, the shuttle is prepared and ready to drop.”
Halloran looked up from his panel where he’d been reading the atmospheric sensor. “Thanks, Wilson. Those exposure suits going to be enough?” Wilson and Flagler had tweaked the clothing processor to spit out a bulky coverall-style outfit that was many centimeters too tall—a holdover from the computer’s insistence on Prax dimensions they couldn’t figure out how to program away—but thick and gray-colored. Everyone would wear two of them in layers over their normal uniforms.
“I think so, sir. Those readings,” he pointed at the numbers on the command chair readout, “aren’t promising, but we’ll manage. As long as we find a point of egress quick.”
“Captain.”
Halloran turned his attention to Djembe. As he did so he realized that the pilot hadn’t left his station in what seemed like days. “Yes?”
“I’ve got the ship in vector to enter a low orbit as ordered. We’ll need to begin decel in five minutes. Should I proceed as directed?”
“You may, pilot.” Halloran turned to Carruthers. “Any of the other ships nearby?”
She pulled up a holographic display of the planet that showed a large number of rings around it, each with a colored dot in the ring at different points. Some orbits took the dot over the poles, others were closer to the equator.
“Nice, Carruthers.”
She smiled back at him. “The three green dots are Fleet units. You can see how they are in the same general equatorial plane of orbit. This one,” she made one of the polar orbits blink, “is one of their sensor-enhanced frigates. And the other one seems to be the command ship.” One of the equatorial orbits blinked.
“They’re in some sort of a defensive pattern of orbits.”
“Yes, sir. Obviously they aren’t tracking us, but I didn’t want to take any chances so Djembe and I plotted a route that drops us in underneath their altitudes in a weak spot between their projected sensor cones.” She lit up the space around the planet in two different colors. “This is us.” Another bright line glowed to indicate their entry into the atmosphere.
Halloran was impressed. “Nice work, you two. I like the tech.”
Carruthers was clearly pleased with the compliment. “Figuring out new stuff every shift, sir.”
“So the other ships departed as we entered orbit. Not because of us, I assume?”
“All we could tell was that they formed up and headed out-system at what seemed like top speed.”
“Hmm. Three warships to one. Us.”
“At the moment, sir. We’ll keep them at arm’s length.”
“You people and your expressions,” snorted the Pilot. He seemed on edge.
“Djembe, you need a break?” asked Halloran.
“I am not in need.”
“Seems like you’re pushing yourself a bit.”
Djembe turned and looked back at Halloran, his brown skin bunched up in a grimace of annoyance. “Are you requesting that I call for relief?”
Halloran felt the man’s hurt pride and shame, but kept his face carefully neutral. “No, Pilot, I’m suggesting that you plan to take a break once your orbital insertion is complete and things stabilize. You’ve been hard at it and I appreciate that; but everyone needs the down time. Make sense?” He wasn’t accustomed to explaining his reasons to crew, but Halloran knew that this man was long out of active service and used to operating outside of protocol.
Djembe studied Halloran’s face for a moment before nodding. “I will have Patredes take my position for a short time once I am satisfied our orbit is stable and your shuttle is away.”
“Excellent. You fit right in with our renegade crew, Djembe.”
He turned back to his instruments. “This is an excellent ship, but I miss my Imani.”
“I’m sure. We’ll get you back, Djembe.” The Imani was the man’s own spaceship, the one that had hauled Halloran and his crew from Earth to the edge of the solar system. “I miss her, too, in a way.”
A short nod from Djembe indicated his agreement. “Ten minutes to orbital insertion. Beginning decel now. Prepare for burn.”
Wilson was still standing there. “What would we have done without him, sir?” he whispered.
“Figured it out ourselves, Wilson. I’m glad we don’t have to.”
“Agreed, sir.”
“Carry on. Have the landing party assemble in the hangar bay in an hour. That’ll give us time to survey the planet, I think.” He looked up at the Petty Officer. “Pray we find a back door they left open.”
Lieutenant Hummel stalked back and forth between the main engine panels and the artificial gravity modulator controls, watching Travers making adjustments to the one and passing orders to Trigg Wyatt at the other. The transition from forward motion to deceleration for a ship this large was a complex balancing of opposing energies and controlled burn sequences involving the attitude thrusters and four main engine outputs at the stern of the ship. Hummel tried to take every detail in, learning and internalizing as best he could with the realization that if this guy from the future were incapacitated or not available, he and Wyatt would need to be able to replicate the procedure.
In the back half of the Engineering compartment, Travers’ buddy Kendra was watching over Jack Stacey as he monitored the reactor. Hummel still wasn’t sure about her, but she seemed supremely tough. She certainly knew her way around the engine spaces of a ship. He envied these two with their knowledge of spaceships and modern equipment.
XO Antonov had pulled Hummel aside earlier, when they’d been a few hours out from their destination, to ask Hummel on the QT to keep one eye on the woman officer. To notify him the moment anything sideways happened. Especially if the alien showed up in Engineering.
“Lieutenant, can you stand here and watch this level reading?” Travers was waving him back to the engine controls.
Hummel saw it was the nozzle pressure regulator—it had been explained to him already—and he positioned himself by the bank of lit readouts. “Here.”
Travers had moved over to another area several meters away, focused on yet more controls. “We’re reaching max burn.” He looked up at Hummel. “You see the pressure climbing?”
Hummel frowned at the gauge. “Yes.”
“Over the red line?”
“No. Wait. Getting close.”
“Good. Trigg!”
“Sir,” replied Wyatt from the gravity controls across the compartment.
“Engage the fluctuation dampeners now. Just like I showed you.”
“To full?”
“Yes. Lieutenant Hummel, adjust that large central control by rotating to your left, slowly.”
Hummel did as requested. “So, I’m easing the pressure on the main engine housings during max burn?”
“That’s correct, Lieutenant. Well done.” Travers smiled at him. “We’re running this ship at full ahead, to use your Captain’s parlance. But in order to slow our velocity down. The main engines don’t care which direction we’re headed but the artificial gravity hates these maneuvers and wants to throw everyone against a bulkhead with enough force to flatten us instantly. Nothing like a merchant ship; this vessel is powerful for its size.” Hummel watched Travers lovingly pat the panel in front of him.
“Watch out, Travers. You’re falling for her.”
The other officer raised an eyebrow. “Your time’s affectation of ships with female attributes is…mostly correct, interestingly.”
“Would your Captain Kendra agree?”
Travers grinned. “Oh, yes. They remind her of her mother.”
Wyatt called, “Hey, should I be doing anything else right now?”
Travers shook his head. “The decel burn is proceeding perfectly. Now we wait for the bridge command to slow our rate.” He looked around at the other men wistfully. “I only wish we had another six or seven crew down here. Operating this short-handed is challenging.”
Hummel looked down at his assigned gauge, watching the level hovering near the red. “Yeah, well, they didn’t make it,” he said softly.
Chapter 11
Prax Homeworld
The new day on Prax brought an even hotter wind to the Great City. Only those who truly reveled in the furnace outside ventured to the surface, while the rest moved through the maze of lower passageways filled with the crush and noise of marketplaces. As always, the soldiers drilled in the heat above, their lungs growing more acclimated to the extreme climate as they labored to improve their readiness for battle.
Far above the red deserts and valleys of Prax, in high orbit, hung the great shipbuilding and command station for the vast military power hub of the empire. From tip to tip it measured over ten kilometers, and was half as much around at its thickest point. The station rotated slowly in an antiquated system of artificial gravity, approximating the same forces as below on the planet. The station was purpose-built to produce spacefaring ships of war, and the brightest minds of the Empire were brought here to work on new projects and perfect older designs. The Prax scientists were behind those of other worlds, in particular those of the human race. However, time had proven them more adaptable and able to clone enemy designs and improve upon them.
It was toward these science facilities that Ryax now traveled.
The shuttle ride up from the planet had been rougher than typical, the warm season bringing the usual atmospheric upheavals. After the pounding of the initial ascent, the calm of space soothed Ryax’s anxieties. Although he’d not served in the space forces, he’d been part of the bloody assault on Tritor as a young foot soldier. Forced to watch many of his fellow troops die under the vicious counterattacks of the Tor beasts, Ryax had quickly developed the thick skin of combat. But his place was boots on the ground, not floating through the blackness. Now, moving through the crowd of workers on the station, Ryax felt both tension at being far from the planet and security at being among the crowds.
No matter his feelings, Ryax needed to get to one scientist in particular. Ysarx was of his old unit, since gone into the sciences after testing well in aptitude. Ryax’s initial message had been met with hesitancy, but his old compatriot would speak to him out of deference to the fallen they shared.
Checking the signage, Ryax took a lift down many levels before exiting. Here the crowds were thin and individuals walked with more purpose. He felt suddenly alone, standing out with his soldier’s attire.
Eventually he located the module Ysarx had left in the message. It was part of the construction yards, and Ryax paused along the gangway to admire the sleek hulls in various stages of completion in the ways below. The space was truly immense, with the overhead virtually lost to the eye, even with the direct lighting that flooded the station here. He saw what seemed like thousands of workers moving around and over the warships. Each of the vessels bore the same Prax design hallmarks—forward-swept winglets, hornlike protrusions at the bridge deck. Even the transports he’d traveled to battle in many cycles ago were built in the same fashion.
At the end of the gangway a large compartment entrance awaited. As Ryax approached, the hatch swung open before him. Two armed guards stood watch at the other side, their plasma rifles cradled carefully. He nodded to them, aware of his military ID scanchip and his obvious Prax military identity. If they wondered what a planet-side security officer was doing on the station, they didn’t ask.
It took another few stops along a series of smaller workspaces before he caught sight of Ysarx bending over another scientist-type, gesturing at a monitor set in the station before them. When he drew close, Ysarx glanced up and registered the visitor’s presence with a short nod.
Ryax waited patiently in the corridor while Ysarx completed his discourse, which Ryax now recognized as a harangue of a lesser worker. Eventually, his friend stood straight and patted the seated scientist on the shoulder, looking to where Ryax stood.
“To the Fallen,” he said as he grasped Ryax’s hand tightly.
“To the Fallen.”
“You surprise me with your desire, Ryax. We are a long way from your comfortable billet in the Premier’s Hall.”
Ryax grinned. “Anything to see an old friend who fled the mother planet to bury himself in books.”
Ysarx motioned for Ryax to follow. Without a word, the scientist led him to a nearby workstation that had an even grander view of the building quays. “Do these look like books to you, foot soldier?”
Ryax batted him on his shoulder, noting the tough muscles that still lay beneath the civilian uniform. “Are you a fleet Captain now? Bah.”
Ysarx turned to him, arms folding. The time for remembering was past. “What are you looking for, Ryax? Something brought you up here.”
Ryax had considered this moment for the entire trip to the station. How much should he divulge? The Premier had held him to strict confidence…but Ryax had to trust in bonds forged in fire. He sighed.
“The Premier has approached me privately.”
“I see.” Ysarx’s stance remained, but his eye sharpened somewhat.
“He sees betrayal as imminent.”
“And you thought of me.”
Ryax waved at the ship hulls below. “You have served the military for many cycles. The ships built for all Lords come from this yard. I need people I can trust, who are loyal to our Premier.” His gaze didn’t waver.
Ysarx nodded, ever so slightly. “You know we both owe our allegiance to the one who saved us on Tritor.”
Ryax leaned in closer. “Have you seen unusual behavior among the shipyard representatives for Lords? A buildup?”
Ysarx considered the question for several long moments, pausing to look out at the vista before returning his eyes to Ryax. Finally he motioned with a hand.
Ryax obediently followed the scientist down the remaining length of the labs area and into a stairwell at the far end. Down they descended, level upon level, and even Ryax’s legs began to burn before they reached the bottom.
“I imagine you didn’t realize how many levels there were, eve
n in this mid-bay portion of the station.” Ysarx held a hatch open for Ryax.
“To be true, I did not expect the sheer size of it.”
Outside on the open way, the noise assaulted their ears. The buzz of untold numbers of pieces of construction equipment filled the metallic hangar. Ysarx leaned close, needed to speak loudly to be heard. “In here, many things can happen which are out of the sight of those overseers from Prax. Cameras go offline so often that the security force gives up the maintenance of them after a time.” He pointed across the bay toward a far wall. “What one wishes to hide may indeed remain hidden.”
Ryax nodded, following his friend’s lead as the other moved off in the indicated direction.
Eventually they reached the far bulkhead and Ryax immediately noticed the alert-looking guard who began to approach them.
“State your business here,” announced the Prax, whom Ryax noted was garbed in a nondescript uniform of the Primes, not the Prax military.
Ysarx intervened. “This soldier is here to evaluate the crew quarters for suitability.”
The guard scanned Ryax’s chip. “He is of the Corpus Guard.”
Ysarx nodded. “Yes. He is here on my authority.”
The guard looked dubious, but clearly Ysarx held more than enough authority to cow him. With a dip of his helmeted head he turned on a heel and moved away.
Ysarx shrugged. “I get what I want.”
“After you, Lord.”
Ysarx coughed with feigned indignation as he scanned his chip at a nearby entrance to something. A large hatch slid back, and the two entered the chamber beyond.
Ryax stood for a moment, taking in the ship before him. Finally he turned to Ysarx. “What is it?”
“This, my friend, is the future of our fleet.”
The vessel was several hundred meters long—Ryax guessed about Frigate-sized. It was unlike any Prax hull shape he’d seen outside in the ways, its slender and tapered main fuselage featuring two winglike extensions that flared out.
But it was the ship’s hull itself that drew his attention. It was black—deep black like the space around the station. Light seemed to disappear into it. “The metal hull. It absorbs the light somehow.”
Resolve of Steel (Halloran's War Book 2) Page 8