0 comments/ 9881 views/ 1 favorites Transterran Gambit By: martincain Procyon-2/ Octavia The domes covering the surface of the planet were black. Every inch of exposed surface was covered with solar-collection tiles to maximize the daily harvest from the harsh twins, Procyon A & B. Environmental systems kept the temperature in each dome and building mild. Outside, the suns-light had to be dampened with filters to avoid glare blindness, life under the domes was perpetual twilight. Broad-leaf plants engineered to absorb naked sunlight drank in Octavia’s CO2 blanket and expelled Oxygen. “Looking at the total output from the automated factories in Lalande system, we see that the new control suite installs and software upgrades have improved the efficiency of each facility by an average margin of twelve percent and in this we’ve reached the absolute efficiency possible for the technology. We, in the production directorate, feel that even at peak efficiency, the Lalande factories will continue to meet quota for another two decades before new facilities have to be constructed to meet projected supply demanded.” “Gross revenue?” Chairman Jean LeFleur always carried the microdisc with his Earthly lineage in his pocket. He could claim lineage to two kings of Europe, one pope, and an Old Earth director of the European Space Agency (ESA). Although he’d emigrated to the Procyon system, he kept the disc to remind himself of where he’d come from. “Domestic consumption accounts for twenty percent of annual production, bringing approximately two billion Terran credits per quarter into our accounts. Another twenty percent goes in bulk to New Saxony… that’s eight-point-eight billion there. Forty percent goes to New Haven and brings back roughly twenty billion in revenue. The remaining ten percent are kept in inventory. All told, production from the Lalande system, after distribution, brings in thirty billion credits annually.” The underling he was grilling could claim no such reputation. Lefleur didn’t know the young man’s name, but there were many people of Transterran Interstellar that he didn’t know… he figured that 99% of his employees were no more than faces passed in a corridor, but even nameless underlings deserved to be treated with respect. He’d learned that at his previous posting, where one day someone’s abused underling had brought a gun to work and painted the office walls interesting shades of red. “Let’s move on to the Tau Ceti system. How many factories do we have operating there?” “Two dozen, sir. Most are in orbit, but we built a half dozen on the surface of New Saxony as a concession to the government there, they’re less efficient than those fully automated. Here, we’re producing general purpose meds that don’t require as much fine touching as those we’re manufacturing in Lalande, open supply analgesics and general purpose remedies. The factories here have not yet received any production upgrades yet, there’s also the human factor involved, so the quotas have been less stringent than in other facilities.” “Put them next on the list for full automation. If the local government objects, remind them of our past… generosity,” Lefleur said and annotated the list he kept running on his personal data pad. “Express our condolences regarding the jobs lost and assure them that we’re taking steps to address the problem. I want a retraining program before we announce the factory upgrades. Where else can we funnel labor into?” “Tau Ceti has many shipyards operating at minimum capacity. Jobs could be created in those few with the large pressure docks necessary to refit capital ships. As it is, we’ve only managed to get a small portion of the garrison fleet there upgraded and spaceworthy. The crews of those ships have been instrumental in completing the refits.” “They ought to be, for what we’re paying them. Perhaps we can funnel some of our excess labor supplied into the EuroCon fleet,” LeFleur said and thought for a moment. “Inform the commander of Seven Kreigsmarine that we want him to begin weeding out the deadwood among the officer and enlisted corp. I want some fresh thinking in there... mercenary objections be damned,” He frowned as he programmed a query into his data pad that returned no hits. “What assets do we have ready for deployment?” “Aquitaine, Storstrom, Salzburg, and Valencia, sir, with eight more ready by the end of second quarter. The regional offices of Dassault have been very helpful in supplying the necessary parts and technical support. If you’d like to see the expenses they’ve delivered for their services I can bring them up on your pad-screen.” Lefleur created a new file and entered the names in. He nodded and looked up to meet the aide’s eyes. “I’ve seen them… quite a bargain. Twelve provinces. They ought to help us eradicate the pirate vermin we’ve been having such a hard time with lately.” “I overheard something over the last several days that may be cause for concern, sir. Finding reloads has been a problem. Dassault Procyon is happy to provide us with their most current fighter technology, but in terms of self-guiding munitions, the old EuroCon arsenal may be insufficient for our needs. Much of the stockpile has deteriorated over time.” “Do we have any contractors online?” Lefleur said and raised an eyebrow. The aide swallowed hard and tried not to tremble as he retrieved what information he had on the subject. The chairman/CEO’s patience had a finite limit. The aide tried to slow his beating heart and said, “The Russians have expressed a willingness to supply us but their expendables are of questionable quality- copies of older NorCom designs.” “Send negotiators to them immediately. See to it personally. Also begin checking the EuroCon stocks. A few positions can be opened in the directorate assigned to checking the stockpile for duds,” A laugh that ended when the chief of the security directorate came into the room from an adjoining office. The dour look usually pasted over his face combined with his square head tinged with graying hair earned him the nickname, ‘Frankenstein,’ though he was addressed in polite company as Raphael. Lefleur turned to the aide and said, “What’s your name, son?” Another worried swallow as the aide said, “Kilgore, sir… Newton Kilgore.” “Well done, Mister Kilgore. I expect to see again for the next briefing,” Lefleur said to the visible relief of the young man before him. “Your supervisor will be informed of your professionalism and excellence. Now if you would be so kind to excuse us please.” “Of course.” Kilgore said and collected his things. Lefleur watched him until he exited, then turned to Raphael and said, “What is it now? I admit that I almost dread seeing you anymore. You always bring me such bad news.” Raphael was not the sort to tremble, even in the face of death, something that Lefleur occasionally felt the need to met out. He looked Lefleur in the eye, gave him a short, humble bow, and said, “I regret to report that our systems have been penetrated, sir… two months ago. Some our most sensitive files have been compromised.” Lefleur sighed. Industrial espionage was one of the constants he’d come to realize came along with the business. “But you caught the last agent-Auric, her name was?” “She was working in tandem. Under questioning she revealed the name Argent but blocked our further attempts to follow that line. We thought it might be an attempt to mislead us until our monitoring systems picked up the system interruptions indicating a break-in.” Chairman Lefleur went livid. “Rescreen all hires going back for the last year from all offices!” He quickly calmed himself. “What files were… compromised?” “The intruder, assuming that it was Argent, seemed particularly interested in the data core from Lab number four,” Raphael said. “The source formula for our new Serenity was copied, at least in part, before we were able to shut down the connection. This is probably the most serious breach.” “How did he get in?” Lefleur demanded. Raphael took an even breath. “He was using the access code of the local under-director of research and development. We’ve questioned that director already. He had no knowledge that his passcode had been stolen or by whom. He was clueless, too clueless we thought initially, but his story was the same even under chemical interrogation. Scientists- we should keep them in a cage until we need them to invent something.” “Could this spy be a type-three?” “It’s possible, sir. Auric was identified by our experts as a wild talent. We can only speculate on the identity of Argent, but it’s reasonable to say that he has some mental development. The best agents do.” “Find this man. Find him! He must not be allowed out of this system. Stop all transports currently outbound for jump points. Search every single one of them until this person, this… thing… is found.” “We’re working on it, sir. I have my best people assigned.” His best people meant the company’s best people. Transterran boasted 4.8 million employees across a dozen systems. Lefluer calmed himself and said, “Find him.” *** The arms-dealers had set up their stalls inside an unused warehouse outside the prime spaceport. Ships prepared for departure were visible through the large windows that looked out over the tarmac. You had to hand it to them, Kilgore thought as he reviewed the arms-brokers products, as if walking through a museum. When the Russians came, they came with everything in the arsenal, including some pieces from before extra-solar transit. Each class of weapons was displayed in its own “gallery.” Firearms, beams, portable missiles, crew-crew served weapons, vehicles, armored vehicles, etc. Kilgore stopped when he came to the “Munitions” gallery. “Would you like more information on any of our fine products?” The Russian manning the gallery was on him in an instant with a tight smile and a greeting spoken in impeccable Com-Lan. “We’ve negotiated with the system authorities to allow you a substantial discount on our products.” “Show me your torpedoes.” Kilgore said and the salesman led off. Single examples of five different types were mounted on pedestals, each torpedo case polished to a high shine. Cyrillic markings were painted on critical panels. “From left to right is the Type 1 through 4, the warheads start at thirty kilotons. Our most advanced model is the Akula. It carries a two hundred kiloton warhead. The rocket motor is capable of sustaining eight G’s of thrust for thirty seconds. The range on all our devices is between thirty-thousand and eighty-thousand kilometers. An Akula is equipped with an artificial intelligence that controls guidance. Terminal phase maneuvering negates countermeasures by targets some eighty percent.” “How does this compare to what the NorCom has?” “I am only an expert on our products, sir. However, I can tell you that the design was based on the NorCom Barracuda device, only improved by our own technology,” The salesman lied. The design wasn’t an improved Barracuda, just a copy of it, probably an inferior copy. “Performance characteristics are very similar.” That, Kilgore reasoned, was probably true enough. He walked slowly down the line, examining each weapon, he stopped when he got to the Akula. 200 kilotons could seriously damage any warship deployed by any fleet. He tapped a finger on the torpedo case and said, “How many of these can you supply?” The salesman clasped his arms behind his back and squinted at the far bulkhead. After several moments of thought, he looked down at Kilgore and said, “These weapons can be purchased in bulk lots of fifty each. We have fifty lots available. More can be delivered within thirty months.” Kilgore did some basic math in his head. Each of the 12 Provinces mounted eight torpedo tubes, four in the nose, and four in the tail. Fifteen reloads for the front tubes, half as many for the rear would probably do. Thirty lots would deliver that, plus a few spares, one deployment’s worth of munitions. What would the Chairman do? “Deliver all units to our naval depot near the starport. I think you know where to send the bill. Give us the contact information for your stockpiles in the area… just in case we need more.” The Russian delivered a grateful bow. He worked on commission. “Of course, sir. It shall be as you say.” His contact worked in the “Small Craft” gallery. When he walked in there were few people examining products. Displayed prominently was the new Su-355, a large space-fighter on static display behind ropes of red faux-velvet. The various payload arrangements were laid out around it; missiles, torpedoes, rapid-fire recoilless rifles, bombs, nukes. “At least our fighters are original,” A voice came from behind him as Newton was admiring the Sukhoi. Another salesman. “After touring the rest of the galleries, clients come in here and are surprised by the original designs they see.” “Thanks, but we’re already taken care of.” Kilgore shook his head. “Don’t mind me asking but by whom?” “Dassault. Our local branch.” Kilgore said. “I’ll tell you what, bring your boys up here in their Dassaults and we’ll match them up against our demo team… sort of like a fly off, just for fun. I’m sure our demo team would love to do it.” “Sorry, not my department.” Kilgore said and shrugged. “I understand. It’s probably for the better anyway. Those Dassaults are generation old technology… what are they calling it? The Illusterie? Our Sukhoi can outrun the Illusterie in a flat out burn. It’s got more fuel tankage and bigger engines.” “What about the new NorCom fighter… the Wolfhound?” “It’s fast, yes… but no load carrying capacity at all. If you’ve seen our munitions gallery then you know that we have equipment to deal with it. No fighter ever made can outrun a missile.” “I wouldn’t know. I was never a pilot.” The salesman laughed. “Nor I. Some of us have different callings.” Kilgore smiled and accepted the handshake his salesman offered. The mini-disc he’d been palming was taken almost imperceptibly. The salesman reached into his uniform-jacket and withdrew a card. “If you see anyone from your aerospace procurement department, give them this, would you?” The salesman said as Kilgore wandered away, head down, examining the contact information on the plastic card. No new orders. Continue to watch the target. Next contact in 8 months. He dropped the card into the nearest incinerator and fired the burner until the card melted. “You there! You girl! Stop!” The brusque voice of a security troop broke the museum calm of the market. Quiet conversations stopped as people turned to the cause of the disturbance. Kilgore turned. By-standers scattered as a girl ran toward him, black hair flying, looking over her shoulder for security forces. She skidded to a stop when she looked up and saw Kilgore as he stepped out of the “Small Craft” gallery. “After her!” The girl sneered and rushed toward Kilgore. Suddenly there was a weapon in her hand… a small pistol… that she pressed to his head and spun him around by the collar to face the approaching security troops, a human shield. “Get back!” She snarled and wrapped an arm around his throat. The guards slowed and stopped but remained between them and the exit at the other end of the warehouse. She pulled the hammer back. “Do it or he gets his head blown off! Now!” The girl checked behind her and began dragging him toward the emergency exit she’d spotted. Despite her thin frame, she was surprisingly strong; Kilgore could feel hard muscle pressed against his head as well as the barrel of a gun. “Give it up,” The captain of the Transterran security team called to her. “You’ve got no place to go. There’s no way you can get off-planet. There’s no chance…” Transterran and Russian guards scattered as she pointed the pistol at them and squeezed off several shots. Kilgore heard someone give a panicked shout and the few bystanders watching the exchange melted away. When she put the gun against his temple again, the barrel was warm. She put her head close to his and whispered, “Don’t get any ideas, hero. You’re mine until I get out of here.” “I wouldn’t think of it,” Kilgore murmured back. “Just don’t develop any sudden twitches. I like my head where it is.” She squeezed his neck harder as she backed toward the emergency exit door. “If any of you pigs even looks in my direction, this company cretin is a corpse!” The exit creaked open as she slammed her hip into the latch. She punctuated the threat with another shot from the pistol. A Transterran security officer cried out and spun to the floor. The Octavia spaceport was busy. Trans-orbital shuttles roared as they leapt for the sky, others settled on gigantic pillars of thrust. Transfer vans and cargo haulers maneuvered around the landing pads in a well-choreographed, computer-controlled ballet that kept the flow of goods moving with minimal loss of human life. Kilgore felt his captor’s grip on his neck slacken as she slammed the exit door closed. Lying alongside the warehouse outer wall was a long piece of tubular metal scrap. She tucked the pistol into her waistband and used the scrap to bar the door. “There has to be something ready to go.” The girl muttered as she visually swept the landing field. She drew the pistol again and seized Kilgore by the arm, fairly dragging him toward a EuroCon long-range courier sitting on a nearby pad, fueling lines still attached to the gray, aerodynamic hull. They broke into a run as the heavy thump of blows raining down on the inner door announced the imminent arrival of Transterran Security. She reached the fast courier first and stowed the pistol to free her hands for more important tasks, Newton Kilgore nearly forgotten, having served his purpose of delaying the guards. The fuel couplings came off with the hiss of pressurized Liquid Hydrogen escaping, sublimating into the Octavian atmosphere. “Stop them!” Came another shout and the piercing sound of a whistle blowing. The girl turned and drew the pistol in a smooth motion, squeezing off several shots that scattered the security forces streaming out of the arms warehouse. She directed her worried gaze toward Kilgore, lifted the pistol and said, “Nothing personal, company-boy.” “Run, Nova, run.” Kilgore said and saw stars as she struck him with the butt of the pistol just behind his left ear. His last impression of her before he lost consciousness was of a slender form climbing up into the courier through the belly hatch and slamming it closed. *** Delta Pavonis After 14 months in transit, USS Ranger emerged from the transit tunnel directly ahead of her jump flare, the piercing flash of physics in denial. The flare shot off into infinity as the glow rings around the drive-nozzles powered up and began to warm. For an instant of silent tranquility, the same inertia that carried her forward from the NorCom base at Bernard's Star to Delta Pavonis continued to move her, then engines the size of arenas came to life and delivered gravity. The report about the ship being diverted to the Centauri system for VIP escort was misinformation. They joined up with the carrier Kitty Hawk waiting at Bernard's Star to take out the EuroCon fleet-in-storage before Transterran laid claim to it. No corporate-state could be allowed a fighting navy. Passive sensors reached out to places invisible to the eye, returns were logged and identified as friendly, foe, or hazard-to-navigation. A single ship had a better chance of sneaking through the EuroCon sensor network around the space-station Festung 21 so Ranger went in alone. Kitty Hawk waited in the periphery to launch a mop-up attack from a different approach. “Next target.” Hurricane said quietly as he adjusted his data-visor. It was an older model, heavier, and strained his neck muscles. “Christ and Allah, we should bomb the E-Cons just for putting us in this situation.” Transterran Gambit The 3-D view inside it changed as the index node of the main computer closed the technical readout of the ECC Seydlitz and opened up the file on the ECC Visigoth. The EuroCon ship-of-the-line was one of the mission’s twelve target objectives and was made distinctive by the revolving electronic warfare towers jutting out in opposition from the ship’s gravity deck. A listing of the ship’s offensive and defensive systems began scrolling past his eyes. As each weapon is highlighted, its position on the hull was highlighted as well. The Visigoth bristled with weapons. “Give me infra-red… target stationary, offering portside aspect… maximum identification range.” Hurricane said quietly, mindful of the others around him, as the view of the Visigoth changed. It shrank, lost color and detail until only a fuzzy, blotchy signature of reds and yellows remained. “Begin closing at three-hundred k.p.s.” Hurricane said. The virtual range-finder in the upper-left of his vision indicated 800,000 Km. from the target. As the seconds passed and distance fell away, the thermal image grew until he could recognize the most distinctive features. The ECW towers on the Visigoth showed up just fine at 400,000 Km. *** "All right, all right… everybody settle down." Captain Groover, honcho of VF-221, said as he took his place at the front of the ready-room. Hurricane settled into his couch and opened his data pad. It would be the first time they would fire live weapons against real targets. "We've just received word from the control deck that the ship has successfully penetrated the outer sensor line and that the mission is a go." Groover said. Hurricane and the other Gunslingers clapped and whistled. The CO waited until they’d quieted before continuing. "The target for this strike is the orbital shipyard around Festung 21. Intelligence believes that Transterran may attempt to refit the heavy combatants of Seven Kreigsmarine being kept in storage here," He activated the holoform projector, bringing up an overhead view of the depot. "As you can see, the largest combatants have been placed closest to the depot itself and are defended by the laser emplacements." "Sir, is this legal?" Lt. Cooper, the youngest pilot in the group at 19, raised his hand. Groover stepped through the holo-form and nodded. "It's legal. These ships are officially on the scrap-list. We're just speeding up the process," Groover said. "Torpedo-Three and Torpedo-Five launch in forty minutes. We launch in sixty…" He paused and dropped his face to his watch. Hurricane did the same to his Krono-Tek and squeezed the timer button. "Now." Groover looked up again. “Our job is to sweep in ahead of the strike and open up attack lanes for our A-26’s. Once they've delivered their payloads, we'll cover them as they withdraw." "I hope the drinks are on the dump-truck drivers when we get back." Lt. Pancho said from his seat beside Hurricane. The squadron guffawed. "Damn right they are," Groover said. "But the number one mission priority is to get them all home. The birds are being prepped as we speak. Everyone flies with a sixty-deuce package… except you, Hurricane." “What’s that, sir?” Hurricane said, looking up from his data pad in dumb surprise. “We need someone to go in and eyeball the target area before the strike,” Groover said and took a dry swallow. He removed a water ration from a cargo pocket and sipped from the straw he used to puncture the foil package. “You’re the most experienced one in here so I’ve ordered your ship outfitted with a standard sensor package.” “That’s a milk run,” Hurricane said. “I’ll be on my way out before you guys even get there. What’s the use in that? We know where they are.” “Since the Ranger can’t proceed deeper into the system without being spotted, although we think we know where they are, it behooves us to proceed cautiously,” Groover said and crumpled the empty ration in his large fist. “So quit flapping your crap-hole, Hurricane. You get speed and surprise… that should be all you need,” He turned to pitch the balled ration pack into a waste disposal chute. “You got your ECM if you get into any smleck.” “First in, first out,” Pancho whispered quietly and gave Hurricane a wry look. “Doesn’t sound like a bad deal to me, bro.” "The mission comes first but I want to see every one of you back here for the post-op debrief,” Groover said and met every pilot’s eyes. “If I have to use up my valuable time writing up some flowery condolence notice for one of you undeserving bastards, I'll be super-heated. Any questions?" The compartment was quiet. Hurricane could hear his own heart beating. The game was on but he’d been excluded… again. *** He’d named his ship, “Thunderbird,” because he’d heard of the Navajo legend during an Earth Studies class and thought it fit. Like the F/A-300's and F-19's it was meant to replace, the F-28B Wolfhound was trans-atmospheric capable and of an efficient, lifting-body design. Based on the old X-32 testbed, it mounted a computer-controlled rocket/scram-jet hybrid, the advanced RSH-77 by Confederated Electric. The big engine produced a top speed of Mach 12.1 in atmosphere and, in vacuum delivered 7 G's of thrust. It was the pinnacle of propulsion technology for its class; Confederated Electric called it the RUSH. When he triggered a boost, the RUSH kicked him hard in the seat and pressed the air from his chest. Too much and it induced tunnel vision. Inside or outside of atmosphere, in an instant he could go from being a target to being… gone. It was properly used sparingly because it drained fuel from the tanks and surprised the unwary; it never took long for velocity to exceed control. The engine demanded respect, as more than one rook had discovered, a few times to their demise, but the RUSH gave the rocket-jocks an edge. The teeth of the F-28 were four EAGLE HEPACs, muzzle ports for each dimpling the underside of the forward fuselage. Hurricane inspected each as he circled the fighter, looking into all the dark nooks and crannies for foreign objects. He frowned as he saw a sensor package in each open payload bay replacing his best medium-range weapons. "Everything looks good, Chief. How long did it take you to get all the systems checked?" Hurricane said as he finished his pre-flight inspection. He tossed his padded helmet-liner into the cockpit and put a foot into the first rung of the retractable crew-ladder. "Six hours, sir. Gimme the F-tre-hun any day," Chief Reynolds said and spat in disdain. His ball of spittle bounced off the deck in the weak gravity provided by the Ranger’s engines. There were F-300s across the service bay being lifted into the launch bay. Reynolds eyed them for a moment and snorted his disapproval. “Skyfall nut-jobs.” He leaned against the ablative armor covering the upper surface of the fighter and nodded across the service bay. "Complete turnaround in thirty minutes…” He slapped a hand against the side of the Wolfhound. “Not like this hangar bat." "Hangar bat? Cut her a break, Chief. The first production run of every model has bugs. Give her time." Hurricane said as he climbed up the ladder and vaulted into the cockpit. His acceleration seat still smelled new, like synthetic leather and sealant-glue. "Try to bring it back in one piece, would ya, sir?" Chief Reynolds said as he climbed the crew-ladder to assist Hurricane in getting strapped in. "Just a little favor, for me an' the boys, eh? Maybe so we can get some sleep?" "I'll try, Chief," Hurricane said with a smile as his harness snapped into place. "No bets with tags on the ordinance. I’m just trying to bring her back in one piece." "It’s a start, sir," Reynolds said as he slaps Hurricane on the top of the helmet and dismounted the crew-ladder. Once at the bottom, he shoved the short, sturdy device up into the fuselage where it locked into place. "Happy high roads." Hurricane shook his head and said, “Only the one that leads home, chief.” Reynolds saluted as the canopy dropped. It thumped against the frame and sealed with a hiss. Hurricane delivered one in return, then put his head down and concentrated on getting Thunderbird ready to go. He lifted his eyes from the control panel as something jolted the fighter. A mule-tractor had rolled up and attached a tow bar to his front landing strut. Thunderbird lurched again and started moving on the rubber-coated rollers installed in the long pad of each landing skid. Warning lights on the bulkheads begin flashing red. Hurricane watched his ground crew scramble for shelter. The service bay was being depressurized for launch. Hurricane punched his access code into the terminal below the rotation control array and the fighter came alive. The tactical display came to life as the sensors did. Each instrument zeroed as they began taking readings. The banks of power-lockouts at his elbows flashed as the computer activated the flight systems. He was number three for launch behind Captain Groover in the “00” ship and Cooper in “Bird-Dawg.” One of Groover's standing orders was that rookie pilots flew on his wing until they had time to season. "You ready for this, amigo?" Pancho's voice came over the squadron interlink. A former dump-truck driver, he had 5500 hours logged in the A-26 before he transferred to the F-28. Now he flew the #4 position of the lead flight in “Lil Caballo” and had proven to be a steady hand. "They got it coming," Hurricane said as he flexed his fingers inside of his gloves, sealed to his pressurized flight suit by locking cuff-rings. He settled his hands on the controls. "Transterran won’t know what hit 'em. I just hope we’re doing this for the right reason." "If they come out to play, they gonna get knocked down and chewed up." Pancho came back then cut out. The huge pressure door sealing off the service bay from the launch bay slid into the overhead. The automated loading system lifted the 00 ship, carried it over the threshold into vacuum and lowered Groover into position. It took the loader 30 seconds to move a new fighter into position. Hurricane felt his pulse quicken as the gray of the Ranger bulkhead was replaced in front of the fighter by the star field. "Trailblazer to control, fuel lines pressurized and showing zero-fault. Navigation uplink is locked in and streaming. All systems go." Hurricane called in. "Control to Trailblazer. Radio check." "Five-by-five, over." Hurricane said and bumped the reception power up a notch. "Weapons check." "Go." Hurricane said. The Thunderbird's cannons were powered-down and the recon package secure. The image of a man walking unarmed into a room filled with thugs came into his mind. How would they react when he told them he was just looking? "Fuel check." "Go." Hurricane said after he dropped his eyes to his fuel display. The tanks were full and the pressure equalized in both of the fuel lines feeding the RUSH. "RCS check." Hurricane depressed the "PRG/TST" lockout and Thunderbird shuddered briefly before settling. Small jets of white gas erupted in sequence from each RCS nozzle buried in the skin of the fighter. The computer had purged the RCS system to test for blockages. "Go." Hurricane said when diagnosis of each line came up green. "Lock in XHF to four-seven-seven." "Roger," Hurricane said and twisted the knob beside the XHF display to the proper setting. He pushed the knob down. “Frequency locked in." Out in front of him, the lights in the status bar over the mouth of the launch bay changed, flashing twice before going from red to yellow. "Clear left and right." Hurricane twisted his head to each side, scanning for obstacles; service crewmen or the gantry-arm out of position. "All clear." "Trailblazer, you're go for launch." "Roger control." Hurricane said as calmly as he could. He took a deep, reinforcing breath and triggers the RUSH, grunting as his helmet hit the back of the headrest. His gear was up before he cleared the launch bay. The Festung 21 raid was on. *** Sol-5/ Jupiter All told, the Free Callisto shipyards were supplying the NorCom with 20 military vessels of assorted size in varying levels of completion, nearest was the Intrepid-class cruiser Tigerwolf… looking out of place tied-up to a row of unpowered freighters. The most basic was the heavy HMS Bellapheron that Jena could see taking shape through the open doors of the Primary Assembly building, steel frame supports being attached to the spinal mount weapon that the ship would grow around. The Primary Assembly, two kilometers long and a third as wide, disappeared as her four-seat courtesy shuttle coasted past it. Beyond the shipyard lights was Callisto, beyond that moon loomed glowing Jupiter… a sight impossible to ignore, impossible not to be hypnotized by. “We get military types in here sometimes, but never sent directly by the Sol system commander, cut an old man a break and tell me what gives,” The pilot assigned to her by SOLCorp talked incessantly despite Jena’s repeated suggestions that such was becoming unwelcome. “Don’t tell me… let me guess… something with the EuroCon. Are they making trouble? I thought I heard that they were with Transterran now? That doesn’t sound good. Things were safer when the EuroCon couldn’t afford a thermal to wrap in. Whatever it is must be good for business though. The lads in the shop have been getting double normal rates to get these hulls done on time. Those E-Cons wouldn’t have the balls… would they?” Jena broke the lock her eyes were keeping on Jupiter and looked over her shoulder toward the pilot cabin. The name HURLEY was stitched across the breast of the pilot’s survival gear… a grungy, well-patched pressure suit going brown with age and a more modern, expensive looking helmet. “Good instincts,” Jena said and rolled her eyes, regretting having said anything as pilot Hurley tried to turn in his seat. “I’m only kidding… forget it, space it and seal the hatch. I don’t know what it is.” “I knew something was going on,” Hurley said and shook a finger at her. “I was telling my hab-mates there was serious smleck happening but they all thought I was crazy. They just don’t want to see anything outside finishing their tours and getting back planet side. These are people that have a serious lack of vision,” He shook his head. “But not me though. I had the whole deal untangled by the end of day one. You don’t have to graduate ELP to figure it out, just look at how the circumstances fit. It’s cause and effect… one plus one equals two, that sort of thing.” “I’m happy you have it figured out,” Jena said as she let her eyes go back to the view port. Another row of finished ships went past. “You’ve got a step up on the rest of us at fleet,” She tapped the view port as she saw one lit up with docking lights. “There… that’s it. Take me to that one.” “At your service, ma’am,” The pilot said as he turned to look where she was pointing, and then settled his hands onto the shuttle controls. He triggered a burst of maneuvering thrust that briefly delivered micro-gravity. “We’re on approach at a hundred twenty kilometers. Glide path nominal. It looks like there’s a free docking ring on the ventral side. No problem.” ADF Nereid lacked the husky aggressiveness imparted by Constellation’s designers but it did look fast, Jena granted the ship that much as it drew closer. The battle cruiser, although compact, bulged where large fuel tanks were installed ahead of the boxy engineering section and large, bullet-shaped engine shroud. Overall, her impression of the ship was that it seemed unnecessarily sleek, more than what she expected for the type, but very capable looking. She could see space-suited crewmen walking on the outer surface, tracking down weak seals and slow leaks along a hull that was ¾ the size of an Intrepid-class heavy, but the models shared many similar features… a layer of the same RAM armor. Nereid mounted three, capital-sized HEPAC’s and six torpedo tubes to Constellation’s eight. It would make up for in speed what it lacked in bulk. The ship was going to 47 Ursae Majoris, as soon as the ADF could recruit and train a crew, but defense of Sol system came first. Kinkaid needed every asset he could get and someone at the front he could trust to get the real dope. “I have contact with the ship, ma’am. We’re clear to dock.” The view disappeared, replaced by the gray of the battle cruiser’s hull. She lurched against the straps of her harness as the pilot fired 25-pound thrusters to slow the shuttle. The 10-pounders “bamph’d” beneath her and the skin of the Nereid started getting closer. The shuttle lurched as docking rings made contact. *** SOL-8/ Neptune The alien looked plain on the outside, Leda decided as she, station commander Weston, and a crowd of curious onlookers pressed around the same view port. The ship was in orbit around Triton and passed between the moon and planet. It was large, bigger than the SOLCorp fuel tankers she’d seen moving past the station and roughly octahedral in shape but they could only make out basic details. The Sun had been eclipsed by Neptune. “We’re getting something,” Weston said as Leda heard a voice come though his headset. He listened intently for several seconds until the speaker went silent. “A smaller contact has broken away from whatever that thing is. It must be a shuttle of some kind… heading this way.” Leda felt her breath catch in her chest. “How long until they arrive?” Weston activated his throat mike and said, “Vasily, what’s their ETA?” Buzz from his earpiece. “Twelve minutes,” Weston said and turned away from the view port. He scowled and waved his hands at the gawkers. “Everyone get back to your stations, you’re still on company time, got it?” The crowd dispersed in a cloud of whispered grumbles. They’d be back at the view port the moment he left the room. “Commander, can you turn off the station lights except for the ones around the place we’ve prepared?” She said and clasped her hands behind her back to keep others from noticing they trembled. “Vasily, kill all external lights except for shuttle bay eighteen,” Weston said. “Open up the pressure doors and wait for our signal to close them, but do it slowly, we don’t want to spook them.” Buzz from his earpiece again just before the lights in the compartment went from bright to dim. Weston nodded at Leda, falling into step with her as she moved toward the hatch for the transfer conduit to the other side of the station. “Is it just going to be you and me in there?” Weston said quietly and stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep her from seeing they were shaking. “Maybe we should post some guards inside, just in case these things… misunderstand us.” “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Leda said as her mind cycled through what seemed like a thousand small details for something crucial they might have missed. “Misunderstandings are going to be inevitable, but I think it should be more than just you and I. Their ships are eight-sided, right?” “Ten minutes!” The sensor operator called out. “I’m on the com. Continue the countdown and let me know if they start doing anything unusual,” Weston said as he unsealed the hatch to the transfer conduit. He paused and considered the words he’d just spoken. “You know what I mean.” He ducked through. “Get a medic, maybe they’ll be able to tell us something about their biology afterward,” Leda said as she followed Weston into the conduit. She could see another hatch at the far end. “And an engineer, maybe they can identify some features of their technology. Who else?” “You’re the expert,” Weston said and activated his headset mike. “Vasily, get Janus and Boomer and tell them to meet me at bay eighteen… and tell Boomer to bring his vid-cam. I want to be able to prove this story happened next time I tell someone about it.” Transterran Gambit Leda was the first one to the hatch and triggered the “open” switch. Four more conduits were required to reach bay 18. “Janus… Booster, where are you guys?” Weston said as the hatch ground open. His earpiece buzzed. He looked at Leda. “They’re at bay ten. They’ll get there before us.” “Come on!” Leda said and broke into a run toward the next hatch with Weston chasing her. “I don’t want to miss this!” Weston caught up as she stopped to trigger the next hatch. “Did the company train you for this? You seem to know an awful lot about what needs to happen here.” “They sent me to find out what was going on,” Leda said and slapped a palm against the hatch trigger. “I might know a few things you don’t about this. It doesn’t sound like we’re getting a choice on if we want to make contact. I think they do.” Weston’s earpiece buzzed again… nine minutes. *** The thing, a shuttle or transport, entered tentatively between the open bay doors. First a silver parabola came into view, and then it became an egg shape that barely cleared the sides and top of the entrance as it slowly glided in. Leda, Weston, and six others watched through the window of the shift director’s office overlooking the empty bay. “Do you feel that?” Leda said as her feel started to tingle. It’s making the floor vibrate. What could be doing that?” Her foot started to tap with nervous energy and soon her stomach rolled. She lurched away from the window and found the wastebasket before vomit erupted. When she went, she set off two more of the party, everyone ill at-ease. The compartment stank of bile and acid. “It’s starting to settle!” The engineer called from the window, his digi-cam pressed against the plexi-glass, capturing history. Leda felt a change in the vibration through her hands and knees. “Here, take some of this,” Weston said and offered her a water ration, already punctured, she took a sip and swished it around her mouth, spat, then drained the rest of the pack. “Now some of this.” He uncapped his flask and took a draw, wiped his mouth and held the flask forward. “I think I need something stronger,” Leda said as she took the flask and drank deeply. The grain distillation burned as it went down. She accepted the hand Weston offered to help her up. “This can’t be happening. Can it?” Weston took the flask back and drank again before applying the cap. He replaced it in the cargo pocket he’d removed it from, gave it a pat, and said, “Thank you, Jim Beam,” He turned to the engineer. “You stay here and watch them. The rest of you come with us.” Leda fell into step with him as he triggered the exit and moved out into the corridor. He reached the ladder to ground level and put a foot onto the rungs. As he lowered himself down he said, “I wonder what they use for fuel?” “I don’t think they’re here for a fill-up, Merrill.” She said and started down once Weston reached the bottom. More buzz from his earpiece. “It’s landed,” He said and turned to the cargo door for the airlock between it and them. “Vasily, go ahead and start easing those doors closed. Turn down the lights to something more comfortable. Boomer, how we doing up there?” He listened for a moment. “It is? Holy Jesus.” He looked up at Leda. “He says a panel just opened up in the side of the thing. Hurry.” She reached ground level. Weston slotted his command card in the panel next to the door and it slowly started to rise. Leda ducked underneath and hustled to the small window in the door on the other side of the lock. Once the rest of the party was inside, the inner door closed and the outer door opened. “Everyone stays calm,” Weston said as the seven humans formed a semi-circle in front of the alien vehicle. “Don’t make any sudden movements. Don’t try and talk to whatever comes out of there. Don’t do anything unless we tell you to.” “The vibrating stopped,” Leda noticed, every sensation amplified by anxious nerves. A shape appeared in the open hatchway… a naked human, male, half a man with skinny arms dangling like a puppets, no genitals, nothing below the waist. A fresh scar drew a line down his belly-flesh, which sagged into his hollowed abdomen, an empty sack. “Christ and Allah.” The man’s head and neck were encased in apparently a brown resin that formed a shell with cooked skin curling under the edges. It protected, Leda judged, the upper 1/3 of his body, everywhere except over his mouth, which slacked open. He was supported by something lifting the carapace from behind, a large shadow with several arms. By some function, the body of the things flashed rapidly in subdued colors, and then man and thing moved out of the vehicle into the bay. “Vasily, are you getting this?” Weston whispered into his headset transmitter. A single buzz from his earpiece. From what they could see, the top part of the creature was rounded and filled with a viscous clear liquid like gel, seven arms protruded from the larger trunk that anchored it to the deck. One arm appeared to be jammed into the back of the carapace/hood over the man’s head; another held what might’ve been a bottle that was placed over his mouth. His lungs expanded. “Do not fear,” The voice box screamed out as the bottle was removed. Leda gasped as she got a flash of what he’d endured… the light disappearing, the flashes of training and memory being burned out, personality stripped away until only a few basic capabilities remained… the tip of a tentacle arm shocking his white-gray linguistic nerves. The loudness of his voice modulated as gas was squeezed from his lungs. “We know your words. This con-ver-sion unit will speak.” Leda and Weston exchanged looks of shock. Weston shrugged and nodded for her to respond to it. Leda took a half-step forward and said, “What are you?” “We are real.” “You are new,” Leda said and spread her arms slowly. “What are you here for? Are we at peace?” The bottle was reapplied and the voice box’s lungs were refilled. “Give us sanct-u-ar-y.” “Sanctuary from what?” Weston said as he found his voice. “Merciful Jesus.” He shirked and muttered a curse as the alien directed the voice box toward him. “More.” “More what?” Weston said as a trembling hand dug for his flask. “Christ and Allah. Don’t point that thing at me.” “Us.” “Why?” Leda said and the voice box was directed at her. The thing moved forward on a mollusk-like foot. In moments it stood before her and before she could react, an arm wrapped itself around her waist and delivered a shock, recoiling as soon as she fell to her knees. Weston caught her in his arms as she slumped, lowered her to the deck, and said, “Are you all right? What happened?” She shook her head to clear away the effects of the stun and found her balance again. “I’m not sure.” Leda looked at the alien and for the first time noticed a small point of intense white above the things bulbous head that seemed to bathe it in light. “This unit will fail,” Voice box said after another hit from the gas-bottle. The Xeno/Human interface lagged over syllables in longer words. “This con-ver-sion unit,” the Xeno pointed the voice box at her. “She can hear.” “What do you mean by that?” Leda said and immediately the white diamond above the thing’s head brightened. She felt her head aching, the worst migraine she’d ever had, and suddenly the words, YOU CAN HEAR boomed in her ears, writing itself across her mind’s eye. Leda clapped her hands over her ears, eyes watering. She cried out as she looked to the others. She appeared to be the only one affected. “I can hear you!” The pain dissipated as contact was broken. “We will pay.” The voice box groaned out. “With what?” Leda said and wiped her eyes. She took the hand Weston offered and he pulled her up. The arm with the gas canister swung out, then back. “The bridge.” *** SOL-5/ Jupiter The official date of completion for ADF Nereid was stamped on a brass plate hanging over the next hatch toward the bridge. 25 January 2191, but much work remained to be done, she noticed. Panels throughout the ship were being opened and the circuit boards inside them checked. “You came in as a full lieutenant?” Jena said as the ship’s executive officer, a stocky man in his late 20’s named Boris, guided her toward the bridge through the conduits in Nereid’s busy interior. “How’s that? It took me two years just to get out of Ensign.” “I graduated in the middle of my class,” He said over his shoulder as pushed off from a handhold and drifted forward. “My scores weren’t good enough for fleet so when the ADF recruiter came calling I jumped at the chance. I hear Avalon is nice, except for the winters, but I can deal with that. The captain they hired is being a shit about his contract and hasn’t signed on yet. I’ve kind of been pulling double duty.” “How soon can you work me into the watch schedule?” Jena said. Boris had red, tired eyes and stank of too much time in the same pressure suit. He looked strained. “Immediately,” Boris said and barked at a work-party goldbricking in a side conduit. “You there… where’s your section leader?” “Here, sir,” A pudgy woman with her dark hair in a bun raised her hand. “We were just coordinating on the line-fault that keeps popping up in the atmospheric control system. Sorry, sir.” “Talking about it won’t solve the problem,” Boris said and the section leader dropped her eyes to the deck. “Get back to work.” “Yes, sir,” The woman said as Boris turned away. “You heard the man. Let’s move it out.” The work-party floated past in single file. The pressure suits of the ADF were blue, contrasting the gray she wore, the ADF crew turned as the passed to check out her patches, stitched onto the back of her pressure suit in two rows between her shoulders; SDB-211 Ganymede, HCN-22 Constellation, OAS Mordicai, HQ- CINC-SOL/Elysium Holdfast. Jena heard a sharp intake of breath from behind her before someone muttered “Constellation Connie.” “Sorry about that,” Boris said and pushed off again. “The ADF consulate sent me a specific timeline. These people just don’t seem to understand how much we need to get done.” “I understand,” Jena said and pushed off to trail him. “Just give me a checklist and I’ll get started wherever you need me.” “The data-links between our bridge stations and the mainframe need calibrating for starters, the navigation system needs to be debugged and uploaded with current positions, the RCS control needs error-checked… that’s just the things I can think of. I’m sure the list is much longer. We have to make a good impression on the Captain, whoever he is, when he finally gets here.” “I’m it, at least until all this is over,” Jena said and slowed herself to maneuver around an open panel with a pair of legs sticking out of it. “Did Home Fleet talk to you?” “They told me that they were enacting the Sol Defense Support Protocols or some smleck,” Boris said. “The gist of it was that an emergency condition exits in Sol system whereas any allied ship can be taken under local command. I looked it up and checked with our rep. It’s fine,” He grinned a toothy smile at her. “You just have to sign for it.” “No problem,” Jena said and laughed. “If I break it, Fleet will cover the fix.” “Right, right. No problem,” Boris said with a snort. “Now would you mind explaining what the hell is going on out there?” “Boris, you’re not gonna believe it.” *** Sol-8/Neptune News of the event expanded outward at the speed of light. Jupiter got the news first, and then Mars, the first ship to respond was OAS Vassuda. Weston was forced to restart more of the facility to accommodate expected visitors. The UN arrived next with a team from twenty nations. SOLCorp sent arbiters. Every news network sent cameras. Cutter was in contact. “You’ve done an excellent job. The public reaction is mixed. There’s a lot of fear but also a lot of curiosity about the event. Whatever you do, don’t let them make any declarations or make any deals until we can get some people there. We can’t be last in the action when it comes to this. We have people on the way.” Leda lay on her air mattress bed and put a cold-pack on her forehead as she listened as Cutter continued transmitting on their secure line. “In the meantime, find out who’s there and send me a list of names, we’ll do some checks. Don’t let any of them talk to the Xeno without an arbiter around. Once the reception team arrives, they’ll instruct you from there. If you have any questions, include them in your report. We expect it in twenty-four hours.” “What’s there to tell you?” Leda said and shifted the cold-pack to the spot just below her hairline where the Xeno psi-link went through. “All that’s changed since last report is that I think they’re what we consider to be scientists… the closest thing I can describe is a series of images of them working on machines of some sort. There’s still no other indication of why they’re here… but at least we’re communicating. Learning the first symbol of their written code took me almost a day. There are three hundred of them. Each can have one meaning or a dozen meanings. It hurts less to learn now, though. It feels like a muscle you haven’t used in a while the day after a hard workout… you get sore. The station commander is pretty quick, and he’s good for keeping all the reception staffs occupied. The Xenos are patient. When I can’t take anymore and leave, it just goes back into the egg and waits until I come back. The voice-box gave out a while ago. Thank God. That thing was making me sick.” She rolled off the bed and staggered toward the water closet in her underwear. There was a bottle of headache caplets behind the mirror. She took two and washed them down with a water ration. “Their ship hasn’t changed orbit and every so often the Xeno takes the egg back there. I think they sent different beings in a few times, just to see if I’d notice, call it a hunch. The psi-link feels different with some but they all sound the same. They use holo-forms to demonstrate what the symbols look like. They explain to me what they mean. I guess that’s all.” Leda crumpled the ration pack and pitched it into a waste disposal chute. She tripped over her own shoes as she returned to bed, but soon had eyes closed with a pillow under her head. They blearily opened when the reply from Earth arrived fifteen minutes later, a snooze alarm, she reasoned… but she needed all she could get. Even her toenails felt exhausted. Eyes closed, she pawed for the “record” button on the transmitter console Weston had set up for her use. She found the correct toggle by touch and flipped it on. “That thing,” Cutter responded by satellite relay. “Was one of our best pilots.” *** Sol-5/Jupiter The bridge compartment, built to hold ten people comfortably, held five, each person with a separate list. That she was adjutant to the NorCom CINC-SOL proved a difficult hurdle to overcome in the relationship she tried to develop with the ADF crew. Tensions lessened when she started to pitch in, she made it obvious she was there to get Nereid operational instead of tearing rank. Kinkaid, in his latest instructions, directed her to meet with the shipyard management and tear them something else. Too many projects were behind schedule. “Number twenty-three-ten, fuel turbo-pump on.” Jena said, sitting in the captain’s chair… her chair… and touched a line on her data pad screen, item #2310 of 5000. Nereid was catching up in a hurry. “Fuel turbo-pump on.” Bosun Lan, the ADF crewman Boris assigned to assist her, shouted from the tactical station just below. Jena entered a frequency into her command-link. “Yard control, this is November Delta. Radio check… sound off if you can hear me.” Jena said. Holographic projectors mounted in a dome around the captain’s chair created a third-eye view; she could see a graphic representation of the Nereid and its place in a square of space 800 kilometers in any directions. The shipyard opened a channel to reply but all she got back was static. “Say again, all we got from you was feedback. How copy?” She raised the hologram dome and looked down at Lan. “What happened?” “Diagnostics says that we lost their signal. We only got about fifteen degrees of track before the dish froze up,” Lan said and made a note on the diagnostics board. “We had a lock and then,” He snapped his fingers. “We got nothing. Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s on their end.” Jena considered the problem. “Boost power to the signal capture field and reset the dish. Put it on the list for Gibbons when he comes back in for another recharge.” “Done.” Lan said. In what had become an endurance marathon, Bosun Gibbons, the ship’s damage control officer and EVA specialist, was scaling Nereid’s gray hull in a hardened spacesuit; repairing connections, sealing leaks, and bonding tiles of RAM armor onto places they were missing. “This is yard control. We read you.” “We need departure clearance and a shipyard pilot to take us out, the interference is gone,” She said and locked the channel out of the comm-array. “Keep doing whatever you’re doing.” “Did not copy, November Delta… please say again.” The yard called back. Jena turned in the chair and yelled down to Lan. “Reset the dish!” She put her head into the holo-dome and turned the chair until she could see the Free Europa administration spindle. “This is November Delta, requesting a yard pilot and departure authorization.” “Your departure window opens in two watch cycles. The yard pilot will arrive via shuttle before it begins, over.” “I need transport to Administration. How soon can it be here?” Jena said curtly. Adm. Kinkaid had impressed upon her that, in dealing with the corporate management, she was to be treated as he would be. She took her finger off the transmitter switch. Number twenty-three-eleven, booster fan on.” “Booster fan on, check.” Lan called back. The yard controller was less prompt. “Number twenty-three twelve, run fuel line test.” Jena said. “Fuel line test running, check.” “Shuttle is en-route to you,” The yard controller, a different, older-sounding man responded. “Our apologies for the delay. The meeting you requested has been approved and will convene on your arrival.” Jena smiled at that and said, “The fleet thanks you. Out.” She found her data pad floating where she’d left it. “Number twenty-three thirteen, enter approval code into command node to allow presets.” “Lieutenant Boris is the only one who knows it.” Lan said. “We’ll come back to it,” Jena said and dropped #2313 into a separate file for line items requiring a more intensive review. “That wipes out the next series. Let’s start again at twenty-three-fifty.” “Hey commandant, lemme ask you something,” Len said, interrupting her. “I never been to Mars. What was it like?” “Like dust and a thousand different, cheap, perfumes.” Lan’s reply was interrupted by someone, a communications officer with a headset on, who had turned ashen. He took off the headset and looked around the room for Lt. Boris. He met Jena’s eyes and said, “There’s something going on around Neptune. It’s… it’s impossible.” *** Delta Pavonis Hurricane drew a sip of water out of the drinking tube in his mask and visually swept the space from the nose of his fighter to its right wingtip. Delta Pavonis, over the last two hours of flight, had grown progressively larger. It was now the size of a grape and the front of his canopy was gradually turning opaque to protect his vision from the intensity of the star. The Festung 21 depot orbiting at 2 AU, was still hidden visually by the sun’s glare but was an identifiable wobble on the gravitational inferometer. Engine off, Thunderbird drifted the navigation marker in his monocle, inside the cockpit Hurricane tried to calm his nerves with music from his great-great-grandfather’s time. That old Hogan had seen action in an USAF bomber over Tripoli and lived, but not as long as his musical tastes. Who was Van Halen? What was Diver Down? Hurricane laughed at what he thought it meant as music squealed though his helmet, a solo guitar.