DARK OF THE VOID

FORGED ALLIANCE BOOK 1

ANTHONY JAMES

CONTENTS

Normality Aberration

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Amber

Also by Anthony James

© 2021 Anthony James

All rights reserved

The right of Anthony James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

Illustration © Tom Edwards

TomEdwardsDesign.com

NORMALITY ABERRATION

The view from Fleet Admiral Carl Recker’s window was one of driving rain - a deluge which blurred outlines and turned every colour to the bleakest of greys. Indistinct shapes travelled along the road below, chasing the drab puddles of illumination from their own headlights.

For a time, Recker squinted into the approaching night, hoping the downpour might relent and allow him a view of the Amber military base’s landing strip. Somehow, the sight of the local fleet always improved his mood. The weather did not grant his wish, though the rain couldn’t hide the rumbling drone of overstressed ternium propulsions from the warships several kilometres away.

Recker stepped back from the window and returned to his chair. The dark woods of his desk contrasted uneasily with the burnished silver of the two-metre-wide communicator which occupied much of its surface – antique and modern thrown together in a way that made both look out of place.

“Two more hours and I’ll call it a day,” Recker muttered, his eyes on the glowing digits of the clock in one corner of the communicator screen.

These were the first moments of quiet since arriving at his office fourteen hours ago and he didn’t expect them to last. Every day was the same. Weeks, months and years of preparation for an attack which might never come.

His mind’s eye wandered to his Daklan wife – Lera-Vel – with her perfect, alien features and slender, graceful body, and he wondered if she’d escape the research lab before midnight.

Probably not.

Recker flexed his shoulders and the polymer covering on his chair squeaked in a way that was meant to sound like leather, but wouldn’t fool anyone who’d ever come within a hundred metres of the real stuff. Clenching his fists tight enough for his fingernails to dig into the skin of his palms, Recker knew he was agitated about something, but not able to put his finger on exactly what it was. One of his personal team – Lieutenant Christy Garber – kept nagging him to cut back on the caffeine, saying it made him irritable. Maybe she was on to something.

Ignoring the remembered advice, Recker took a drink from the pale mug on the side of his desk. Somehow, the coffee inside had turned stone cold without him realising it and he grimaced, before taking a second mouthful.

A buzz from Recker’s communicator ended his brief respite. He accepted the channel request.

“Sir, I’ve received the daily report from the analysis team,” said Lieutenant Garber. “You need to see it.”

“The report was due two hours ago,” Recker said, feeling an unexpected chill running down his spine.

“I spoke to Research Lead Mills. He tells me they’ve refined some of the algorithms. Not only that, one of the obliterator cores was offline for maintenance this afternoon. Add them together and it slowed things down by those two hours.”

“Bring me the report,” said Recker.

Five seconds later, the wood-clad door to his office slid open and Lieutenant Garber entered. She was no more than thirty, dressed in dark blue and with her long brown hair in its usual ponytail. In her hand she held a cardboard folder and on her face was an expression of poorly disguised uncertainty, bordering on fear.

“All day, I’ve had a feeling like I’ve forgotten an urgent appointment,” said Recker. “Now you tell me there’s something I need to see in the daily analysis report and you arrive in my office looking as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Garber tried a smile. “It might be nothing. Here’s the printout.”

Climbing to his feet, Recker took the folder. He opened it and extracted the single sheet of paper, which he scanned quickly. As usual, RL Mills had condensed the output into a few dozen lines of text and numbers.

“Probability of normality aberration: 0.7%,” said Recker, reading the conclusion of the report aloud. “Yesterday’s probability was 0.3%. What did RL Mills say about the new algorithms? Could they be responsible for the difference?”

“The analysts ran a normality aberration report on the new algorithms and concluded there was no significantly increased likelihood of an aberration resulting from those algorithms.” Garber kept her face straight.

“And did they run an aberration report on the aberration report?” snapped Recker, suddenly angry. He took a deep breath. “Don’t answer that.”

“I’ve requested an immediate re-run of the analysis, sir. The updated version should be available within four hours.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“It’s been twelve years since we beat the Lavorix, sir,” said Garber. “Twelve years to get ourselves ready.”

“I know.” Recker turned once again to the window. The rain hadn’t let up and the base lights had come on at a low intensity. He found himself mesmerised, like a fish staring out from its bowl into a strange and frightening world.

“You think this aberration could be caused by the Kilvar?” Garber continued.

“It’s a possibility.”

“What are you going to do, sir?”

Recker glanced at the report paper again. The 0.7% normality aberration figure was derived from countless data sources, many with a relevancy he didn’t understand. He’d always struggled to accept the significance of these reports and tried his best not to dismiss them as the result of over-engineered guesswork. It was only because his predecessor – Devon Telar – had such faith in predictive analysis that Recker had kept RL Mills and his team fully funded.

Personally, Recker preferred monitoring stations, satellites and a fleet of technologically advanced warships to keep the citizens of the human-Daklan alliance safe. And yet, here he was, feeling like he’d been punched in the guts all because of one tiny percentage on a sheet of paper. He read it again. 0.7%.

Garber waited quietly on the opposite side of Recker’s desk.

“Go,” said Recker. “I won’t be getting any sleep tonight. As soon as you receive the new report, bring it to me.”

“Do you want me to call up the rest of your team, sir?”

“Not yet. I’ll let you know.”

Nodding once, Garber left the office. When the door closed, Recker dropped back into his seat, the report on the desk in front of him. Perhaps the updated version would produce a figure within the usual range. Recker doubted it. Something big was on the horizon.

He entered a series of commands into his desktop communicator and checked the status of several high-priority research and construction projects the military was working on. One or two were lagging, while others were ahead of schedule.

For a brief moment, Recker closed his eyes and hoped everything he’d done over the last twelve years would be enough for humanity and the Daklan to weather what he feared would be the coming storm.

ONE

The Axiom class heavy cruiser Loadout’s grumbling propulsion fell to a background idling hum. A moment later, the warship’s ternium drive allowed the lightspeed tunnel it was holding open to collapse and the vessel re-entered local space at a near-standstill and with its sensors offline.

Captain William Flint did his best to ignore the aching muscles and numbness in his fingers which always came from a lightspeed transition, in or out, and got on with business.

“Lieutenant Becerra – scan and report as soon as the sensors come online,” he ordered loudly, switching the propulsion into overstress and pushing the control bars along their runners. Thunder filled the bridge and the warship accelerated blind into what Flint hoped would be empty space. The life support modules showed a vastly increased power draw, and they were unable to completely mask the forces which pushed him hard into the dense padding of his bucket seat.

“On it, sir,” said Lieutenant Rita Becerra, a recent addition to the Loadout’s comms and sensor team. By her voice, she hadn’t enjoyed the exit from lightspeed any better than Flint.

The sensors came online all at once and began streaming data into the warship’s twin, blisteringly fast main processing cores. A moment later, the curved bulkhead screen illuminated, showing darkness and nothing else.

Becerra wasn’t the only new face on the bridge.

“Lieutenant Bolan,” said Flint without turning. “What do the lightspeed logs tell you?”

“No reported errors in the logs, sir,” said Lieutenant Wes Bolan, the warship’s backup propulsion and hardware officer. “We’re on target.”

“Qastus-91N system,” said Flint. He backed off on the controls and allowed the Loadout to coast at two thousand kilometres per second. The propulsion dropped to a background hum, enabling normal conversation. “Lieutenant Becerra, we’re looking for a planet. Have you found it yet?”

“Still on with the local area scans, sir.”

“Outside of a simulator, the alliance has not encountered an alien spaceship – hostile or otherwise – in the last twelve years, Lieutenant. Stop wasting our time and find that planet!”

“I’m required to complete the local scans first, sir,” said Becerra, her voice hardening.

Flint turned his head slightly, so he could see Commander Amy Maddox in the adjacent seat. She caught him looking and gave a tight smile. Becerra was newly promoted and Flint was turning up the pressure to find out if she’d crack. So far, there was no sign of it happening, which would be a good result for everyone.

Twisting further, Flint could see Becerra with her face close to one of her console screens. She was young, confident and came top in her class. Although fourteen years out of training himself, Flint remembered how little he’d really known back then, when his younger self had thought he was ready to lecture a veteran of the Daklan wars on tactics and strategy. Now, he wanted to learn if both Becerra and Bolan came with the same bad attitude he’d possessed.

“Lieutenant, we don’t have all day!” he said, increasing the volume a notch.

Lieutenant Sophie Garrett sat next to Becerra at the comms station, watching and saying nothing. She lifted her head and raised a questioning eyebrow in Flint’s direction. Want me to step in?

Giving his head an almost imperceptible shake, Flint waited to find out how Becerra would deal with the situation.

To his relief, Becerra didn’t crumble beneath his onslaught. “Local scans complete and all clear. I’ve put Tibulon on the feed, sir. It’s fifty million klicks from our position. I’m scanning for open comms receptors.”

The bulkhead screen was huge and could be divided to show all of the warship’s individual feeds at once, or a selection of the most relevant. Becerra had chosen to fill the entire display with one of the portside data streams and, in the centre of the screen, the Loadout’s destination was little more than an overmagnified, shimmering disk.

“Not much to look at,” said Maddox. She had a gravel voice that made Flint wonder if she was part Daklan. Her medium height, lack of fangs, and the fact that human and Daklan unions produced no children suggested his idle guesswork was wide of the mark.

“A grey sphere,” said Flint. The universe had variety, but with a few septillion planets floating around out there, plenty of them were going to look like plain old balls of rock. “Any contact from the refinery comms station, Lieutenant Becerra?” he asked.

“Yes, sir – I have checked in with the ground flight controller.”

“What about the Lucerne and the Ferocious?”

The battleship Lucerne and the heavy cruiser Ferocious were both stationed at Tibulon – permanently as far as Flint was aware. For a mining and refining operation, the local facility was surprisingly well protected. A bit of digging had turned up hints and rumours as to why that might be, but not enough to entirely quell Flint’s curiosity.

“Both warships have responded, sir,” said Becerra. “And they aren’t alone.”

“We have other resources out here?” asked Flint.

“The Daklan warships Kantilvor, Scavaron and Langinstol are all within a million klicks of Tibulon, sir. Two annihilators and one desolator.”

“What the hell?” said Lieutenant Stan Fredericks. He was the Loadout’s primary engine officer and a veteran of the Daklan and Lavorix wars. Fredericks had served onboard the heavy cruiser Pulveriser, which was the only Human Planetary Alliance ship to survive a brutal engagement with the Lavorix at the Daklan planet Trinus-XN.

The exclamation echoed Flint’s own surprise. Although old, the Langinstol was a legend from the Lavorix conflict – the battleship had suffered tremendous punishment in that same engagement at Trinus-XN. The Daklan had subsequently patched it up and modified the warship’s hull and weaponry before sending it back into service.

“I saw the Langinstol once,” Flint said. “Way back when we were still fighting the Daklan. Damn, it made me glad to be alive when my crew and I got out of there.”

“A shame you didn’t get to fight alongside them, sir. That warship’s crew were among the best, no doubt about it,” said Fredericks wistfully. “I wonder if Captain Vazox is still in command.”

Flint didn’t know and made no effort to find out, even though he was tempted. He was also tempted to check out the files on the Kantilvor and Scavaron to find out what they were made of, but he had other issues to deal with first.

“They know we’re here, so where’s our invitation to the battle network?” he asked.

“It just arrived,” said Garrett. “I’ve accepted.”

At once, the Loadout’s tactical screen populated with the five warships stationed around Tibulon, while the surface facility was represented by a green square. Around the planet, concentric rings of monitoring satellites provided blanket coverage of anything within thirty or forty million kilometres. The local defence force wasn’t straying far and each one had line-of-sight on the base.

“See that satellite half a million klicks out?” said Garrett. “That one can read lightspeed tunnels. If anything comes here and then leaves without destroying that monitor, we’ll know exactly where it went.”

“Tibulon isn’t quite a fortress, but it’s getting there,” said Flint. “Why did high command send us here?” he wondered, not expecting an answer. “Seems like the place is well enough defended.”

He got an answer, of a sort.

“The ground controller has received updated orders for us – we’re to approach the planet at lightspeed,” said Lieutenant Garrett.

“Have you received corroboration from Basalt?” asked Flint.

“No, sir. Wait…yes. We have confirmation from base – we are to follow local orders. There are accompanying documents which I have sent to your console.”

“Great,” muttered Flint. “Here was I thinking we were being sent on a straightforward patrol mission.”

“What’s in that order documentation, sir?” asked Maddox.

“I’ll take a look,” said Flint. The newly arrived file glowed softly at the top of his received list. He opened it with a touch of a fingertip and scanned the contents. “We’re here to pick up some cargo.”

“Cargo?” asked Garrett in astonishment. “There’s barely enough room for a crew to fit inside the Loadout.”

Garrett wasn’t far wrong. Like every other fleet warship, interior space was at a premium. If there was a way to squeeze a larger magazine into the hull, install an engine module with a 0.002% greater output, or even fit some extra cooling around the obliterator cores, then that’s what the engineers would do. Comforts for the crew and whatever soldiers were onboard came way down the priority list.

Soon, Flint thought, he’d have to walk sideways to reach the mess room, and the officers’ quarters – already cramped – would be removed, forcing him to bunk with the Loadout’s twenty-four soldiers.

“If we’re picking up cargo, it’s going to be something compact,” said Maddox. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

“The underlying question is why us, Commander,” said Fredericks. “We’re no faster than any of the other warships out here and we’re way slower than those annihilators.”

“The cargo is exceptionally valuable,” Flint said. His eyes went back to the mission documentation to ensure he wasn’t about to divulge something classified. “It’s a product of the refining plant on Tibulon. Once it’s onboard, we’re heading to Basalt and dropping it off at one of the research facilities on the Amber base. The stationed warships are remaining – I guess that means protecting the surface facility is more important than what we’re picking up.”

“Exceptionally valuable, huh?” said Maddox, fishing for details.

Flint hesitated. “I don’t know what it is, but the work here on Tibulon is something to do with propulsion,” he said.

Evidently better informed, Fredericks gave his input. “I’ve heard they’re extracting ingar from those rocks – that’s the substance the research labs are hoping to use as a stabiliser for superstressed ternium.”

“So we’ve found the holy grail?” asked Maddox with a short laugh. “I thought it didn’t exist.”

“Every problem has a solution, Commander,” said Fredericks. “That’s what I believe, anyway.”

“We’re still way behind what the Lavorix were capable of,” said Lieutenant Bolan. “If this ingar allows us to hold ternium in a stable state for longer, we might even leapfrog those alien bastards. Those dead alien bastards.”

“Thank you for the input, Lieutenant,” said Flint dryly. “We’ve been at a brick wall for years when it comes to propulsion research. If the scientists think they’ve figured out a way around, over or straight through that wall, I still won’t believe it until I see one of our warships hit seven thousand kilometres per second.”

“Why stop at seven thousand?” asked Fredericks. “Ten thousand is a nice, round number.”

“This is all exciting to think about, folks,” said Flint, realising he’d been drawn into the conversation. “Let’s save it for later. If we stay at fifty million klicks for much longer, someone’s going to come on the comms and start asking questions.”

“How are we finishing the journey, sir?” asked Maddox. “It’s four minutes to warm up for another lightspeed journey, or a few seconds if we use our short range lightspeed transit.”

“You know the regulations, Commander. If there’s an alternative, the SRT stays in the bag until it’s actively required, and I don’t see anything shooting at us.”

“Four minutes it is,” said Maddox.

“Fire it up, Lieutenant Bolan,” said Flint. “Once I’ve brought us to a halt, target our arrival point at the regulation distance and try not to hit any of those satellites.” He hauled the control bars towards him and the ternium drive roared as it brought the fourteen-billion-ton warship to zero velocity.

“That’s half a million klicks directly over the facility, sir,” said Bolan once the Loadout was at a standstill. “Coordinates entered, lightspeed calculations underway.”

A standard lightspeed transit had a calculation overhead, which required heavy lifting from a warship’s processing cores before the ternium in the propulsion system could force open a lightspeed tunnel. The utilisation gauges for the two obliterator cores both shot up to 95% and held there.

The easier way was for Flint to push a couple of buttons on his left control bar and activate the heavy cruiser’s SRT, which compressed the calculations into a hundredth of a second and combined the output with the sensor data to allow an instant transit lasting a few seconds.

Unfortunately, the method put the control hardware under enormous strain and the Loadout could only perform a single SRT every five minutes. The original technology had been taken from alien species now extinct and the inherent limitations had not yet been overcome.

“Lieutenant Becerra, have you informed the ground controller of our intentions?” asked Flint.

“Yes, sir. I’ve told them we’re on our way.”

Flint didn’t respond and he watched the timer for the lightspeed warmup. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, the muscles between his shoulders were tense, like they usually were when something didn’t feel right.

“Anything on the nears?” he asked.

“No, sir, the scans are clear,” said Garrett. “Near and far.”

“Something wrong, sir?” asked Maddox.

“Not that I’m aware,” said Flint with a shake of his head. “I’m just making sure everyone’s on their toes.”

Maddox held his gaze for a moment longer and then turned her eyes to her station. The timer fell to zero and the Loadout entered lightspeed for a fraction of a second, before it was ejected once more into local space.

TWO

Fleet Admiral Recker opened the latest copy of the analysis report with a feeling of trepidation, and his eyes went straight to the last line on the page.

“It’s increased again,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Garber. She stood with her hands behind her back and her lips were tight together.

“Probability of normality aberration 3.2%,” said Recker. “A one-point-one percent increase in the last two days.” He closed the cardboard folder and dropped it onto his desk, where it landed with a slap. Recker pointed at the second person in the room and waited.

Research Lead Mills was a completely bald, thickset man, who looked more like a fighter than a thinker. Even so, he wilted beneath Recker’s stare. “There is no single dataset or variable accounting for the increase, sir,” Mills said. “I’ve had everyone in my team cross-checking. We reverted the recent algorithm changes and ran the report again. Twice.”

“And?”

“Same outcome each time, sir.”

“If there’s no specific variable responsible for this increase, how many variables are influencing the result?”

Mills shifted balance. “Most of them.” He cleared his throat. “This is what the analysis is designed to capture, sir. We gather all available data and see what it tells us about the future.”

“It tells us nothing!” snapped Recker. He reined in his temper, aware that since he was the man approving the funding for Mills and his team, maybe he should cut them some slack. “What else can this normality aberration tell us?”

“No specifics, sir,” said Mills. “The remit of my team has always been the same – predict the likelihood of a critical negative event, in order that we can prepare for it.”

“We’ve had twelve years of preparation,” said Recker, aware he was parroting the words Garber had said a couple of days ago. “Is the rate of change predictable?”

“On the normality aberration?” asked Mills, looking as if he hadn’t anticipated the question. “Given a few more days, yes – assuming the increase continues. Right now, I can’t offer you anything meaningful, sir.”

“Is there any way we can manipulate the data to gain insight on a more focused area of what will be affected by the coming change?” asked Recker.

“Like where an attack will come from?” asked Mills. He offered a half smile. “As you know, the models aren’t precise, sir. We’re predicting events which haven’t yet happened – we’re trying to outguess the universe here. Every refinement of the modelling process improves the method and the output, but the percentage of each improvement has so many zeroes after the decimal point that I couldn’t write them all out by hand.”

“I get the idea,” said Recker. He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Is there anything you need from me, RL Mills?”

“Another sixteen obliterator cores would allow real time analysis of the data, sir. Perhaps the extra processing power would generate new insights as well as throwing up additional anomalies.”

Anomalies were the lifeblood of the predictive research, or so Fleet Admiral Telar had once explained it to Recker. These anomalies were produced by conflicts in the data analysis – where every set of data simultaneously predicted a different outcome. The more often the model was regenerated, the more anomalies showed up.

Despite his scepticism, Recker had more than a passing interest in how it all worked, though he’d never got his head around why diverging data – the anomalies – were more important than converging data. Maybe one day he’d get Mills to spell it out in clear terms.

“We don’t have sixteen lying around,” said Recker. Each core was astronomically expensive to manufacture and required numerous rare materials of a type which didn’t grow on trees. “Besides, I’m not sure I want to watch a continuously-updating graph telling me how likely it is that our alliance is about to suffer a potentially catastrophic event.” He narrowed his eyes at a sudden memory. “You requested those sixteen cores two years ago.”

“Yes, sir, and the request was turned down.”

“It was,” said Recker. He gave a short laugh. “We’re building spaceships faster than we’re building obliterator units, RL Mills.”

“That’s what you told me at the time, sir.”

“In that case, let us hope that if the Kilvar are on their way, we obtain more value from those additional warships than we would have done from real time analysis of our data and from the extra anomalies.” Recker stood. “Thank you for your time, RL Mills, you can return to your team. Lieutenant Garber, don’t go anywhere.”

“What are your orders, sir?” she asked, once the door had closed behind Mills.

“You’re coming with me to see my wife.”

Garber’s mouth twitched. “Are you sure you don’t want to go alone, sir?”

“Not scared are you, Lieutenant?”

“Definitely not, sir.”

“Good. Is the shuttle still on the roof?”

“It’s your shuttle, sir. Nobody’s going to jump in and go for a ride.” She stared directly ahead. “Except for that one time.”

“Three inebriated Daklan scientists,” said Recker. He wasn’t sure why, but the theft of his shuttle five years ago always made him smile, though he doubted the perpetrators remembered the incident with anything like the same fondness. Assuming they remembered it at all.

“The roof, sir?” prompted Garber. “And should I request the attendance of anyone else from your team?”

“You can fill them in later, Lieutenant. I’m visiting the research facility to keep an eye on progress, nothing more. I’m not expecting any…” Recker stopped himself. “Maybe I am expecting news.”

Garber aimed a finger at the left-hand wall. “In that case, Lieutenant Vogel is just along the corridor, sir, as is Lieutenant Farrow.” The finger rotated until it was pointing at the floor. “And Captain Osteen is in his office.”

“Leave them,” said Recker, heading for the door. “Are you going to lecture me on my hardening arteries if I stop for a coffee as we walk past the replicator?”

“Your arteries are fine, sir. You’ll remember I have access to your medical reports.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Recker, opening the door.

He entered a tiled corridor, which was on the highest floor of the central administration building and opposite Lieutenant Garber’s office. He’d chosen the location carefully to keep outside footfall to a minimum. After quitting full-time warship duties, he’d quickly learned that if personnel were just passing his door, they’d far more often have a reason to stop and bother him with a minor decision than if they had to make a special journey. Recker’s door was – metaphorically speaking – always open, but his time was precious and he didn’t enjoy shouting at personnel for disturbing him excessively.

Recker had never got out of the habit of wearing combat boots and his heels produced a muted thud on the pale blue floor. A group of his personnel walked by, heading in the opposite direction, and he greeted them with a nod and a brief spoken acknowledgement.

“They seem agitated,” Recker said, once he and Garber were out of earshot.

“Word is getting out, sir.”

That brought a wry smile to Recker’s face. “It always does. What are the rumours saying?”

“No one talks to me, sir,” said Garber. “I’m your personal assistant and they probably think I’ll come running to you and spill whatever beans I’m told.”

“And would you?” Recker glanced sideways.

Garber gave him a grin. “Depends on what it is, sir. There was a rumour about you having a ternium implant in your brain a couple of years ago…”

“I heard that one from Lieutenant Farrow.”

“I didn’t think you needed to know about it.” Garber’s expression turned serious. “Anything important, I’d let you know.”

“So these current rumours?”

“I’ve heard bits and pieces, all guesswork. It won’t take long before the whispers of Kilvar start spreading.”

“That’s what I think too,” said Recker.

They arrived at the airlift which would take them to the shuttle pad on the roof. Recker touched the illuminated wall panel nearby, summoning the car from the ground floor. Meanwhile, his brain turned over, pondering the short conversation with Garber.

All things considered, Recker knew he was walking a fine line. Since taking over the position of fleet admiral, he’d followed in his predecessor’s footsteps by twisting arms and beating down opposition to the military’s endless hunger for funding. For fourteen years now, the HPA had poured in the money – first in a too-late response to fight the Daklan and then continuing through the comparatively short but brutal war against the Lavorix.

Memories were long, but they faded, and over the last few years, people had begun to ask when the constant drain on resources would end – when those long-promised peace dividends would start paying.

At the beginning of this new road – laid down when the Lavorix were defeated – Recker had believed the Kilvar were on the doorstep and waiting for their moment to strike. His certainty they were coming had never wavered and a small part of him desperately hoped that the change to the normality aberration did indeed herald an encounter with this unknown species of alien. Perhaps, he thought, it was better to face them now than to have the threat forever hanging over the alliance.

The double doors to the lift opened. Entering the empty car, Recker selected his destination from the wall panel. A faint sense of acceleration followed and then the doors opened, to reveal the extensive, flat roof of the admin building.

Outside, the air was thick – a combination of coming rain and the heavy bass of propulsions from the landing strip and the dozens of shuttles visible all around. The shuttle pad was about sixty metres away, with sloped sides of alloy-reinforced concrete. Parked on top, a lone transport waited. Heading for it, Recker breathed in deeply, savouring the scent of metal and ternium which clung to the Amber base. Beneath his feet the roof was wet and the sky above was so deeply grey it reminded him of late autumn days in his hometown on Earth.

“I never get sick of the view,” said Garber.

Recker turned in the direction she was facing. The low wall around the roof’s edge wasn’t far to his right and it didn’t impede his view across the base. Stretching into the distance, he saw square edges, domes and towers. High above, the sleek shape of the battleship Pioneer drifted lazily above the base, the warship’s weaponry and countermeasures adding to the thousands of surface-mounted batteries that protected not only Amber, but the towns and cities of Basalt.

A squad of eight human soldiers in full combat gear jogged down the shuttle pad ramp to meet Recker.

“Corporal Rosa,” said Recker, greeting the squad leader.

“Fleet Admiral Recker,” she replied. Corporal Noble Rosa was a mean-looking veteran of past conflicts, though her squad were fresh-faced. “Are you taking the shuttle, sir?”

“I am,” said Recker, not slowing. The ramp was steep but short and his leg muscles enjoyed the strain.

“My squad should accompany you, sir,” said Rosa, keeping pace.

“Negative, Corporal. I’m staying on base – I don’t need an escort.”

Rosa took the hint. “Yes, sir.”

At twenty metres from nose to tail, the shuttle was a mid-sized model, boxy and with a tapered front section. It rested on eight landing legs and it betrayed a look of solidity which wasn’t surprising since its armour was two metres thick. A minigun turret capable of knocking out light vehicles was slung beneath the cabin.

Extendable steps led to the open side entrance and Recker climbed into the airlock. The light on the inner door was green and he passed through into the utilitarian passenger bay which was fitted with durable seats. Entering the cockpit, Recker felt the same old tingling sense of excitement that came whenever he was in a vessel capable of flight.

“The engine’s running, the lights are green,” he said, completing a cursory inspection of the pilot’s console. “The ground controller has given clearance to lift off and will divert low priority traffic from our intended course.”

Garber had taken the second of three cockpit seats and she didn’t say anything. Recker had never been one for delay or hesitation and he took hold of the twin control sticks. The sensors indicated that Rosa and her squad were out of the way, and having little else to keep them occupied, they watched from the edge of the pad.

With an ease born of countless hours’ practice, Recker lifted the shuttle straight off the ground, producing an agricultural grumble from the low-grade ternium propulsion.

“A better view from up here,” said Recker, increasing forward thrust. The shuttle accelerated across the roof and into open space. A hundred and fifty metres below, ground vehicles sped along the multi-lane roads that criss-crossed the base.

“Yes, sir,” said Garber dutifully.

The main research facility was twenty kilometres north and Recker guided the shuttle towards it. East, the landing strip was an immense plain of reinforced concrete and the row of parked warships filled him with a sense of pride. Four heavy cruisers and two battleships were landed for routine maintenance, while another thirty-nine patrolled the skies over the planet.

West, the teams in the construction yard worked flat-out on four additional heavy cruisers, including one advanced model carrying some modified weaponry. The nearly complete hulls loomed higher than any of the towers or warehouses on the base.

“I wonder what would happen if we were to face the Lavorix now,” said Garber.

“They had more warships back then than we have now,” said Recker. “We’ve closed the technological gap, but I wouldn’t like to predict the outcome.”

He left it at that. Mental wargames plagued him, no matter how hard he tried to avoid falling into the what if trap. The Lavorix had possessed an immense fleet and their crews had been well-trained and experienced. They’d been fighting – and losing – a war against a mysterious species known as Kilvar and Recker had a sinking feeling that without the Lavorix to contain them, these unknown aliens had taken advantage of the opportunity to expand their fleet and develop new technologies. They surely had a head start over the human and Daklan alliance, and Recker could only hope this potential enemy had somehow squandered their advantage.

A blinking light on the pilot’s console alerted him to an inbound comm.

“Research Lead Mills,” said Garber, reading the initiator’s name from the display.

“I don’t think I want to hear what he’s about to tell me,” said Recker.

Nevertheless, he accepted the request. Mills didn’t keep him waiting.

“Sir, we’ve re-run the analysis. The normality aberration stands at five percent.”

“Thank you, RL Mills. Let me know the outcome of the next report.”

Cutting the channel, Recker bit down on the stream of curses which threatened to spill from his mouth. The normality aberration was increasing and his lingering hopes that it might decline to its usual levels were fading fast. He’d already advised his opposite number in the Daklan navy about the changing output of the report and soon both sides would be required to act by mobilising the entire combined fleet.

The only trouble was, Recker still didn’t know what was coming or from which direction. Just as bad was the uncertainty of the predictive analysis – for all he knew, the normality aberration might climb to one hundred percent and remain there for weeks, months or years.

If there was one thing Recker found hard to handle, it was uncertainty. And right now, he had that in spades.

THREE

The main Amber research facility occupied almost as much area as the base landing strip. Its hundred-and-fifty-metre-high walls formed an almost perfect square, and the flat roof was the uniform matte grey of warship-grade alloy. Hundreds of turrets and launchers covered the surface, and a total of nine shuttle pads allowed access to the complex by air. A massive square in the centre was completely unadorned and it was through these roof doors that the really large equipment came in or out.

Surrounding the facility were roads capable of handling the heaviest of vehicles, and a constant stream of traffic went in and out through entrances big and small. Viewed from the air, everything was running smoothly, though Recker took no reassurance from the sight.

“We’re setting down on pad RF-5,” he said, piloting the shuttle low across the roof.

His destination was west of centre and two rows of other transports were on the huge landing pad already. Activity here never stopped and many of the personnel worked long hours, Recker’s wife being one of them.

Holding briefly to allow another shuttle to lift off from pad RF-5, Recker dropped his own vessel neatly into the newly created gap.

“Let’s get moving,” he said, climbing from his seat. “We’re not staying long.”

“Do you want me to wait here, sir?” asked Garber. “I guess you’re on the brink of ordering a mobilisation. I could speak to the rest of your team and set a few things in motion without making it official.”

“No, come with me,” said Recker. “You’re right though – I’ll have to give the order. Soon.”

They exited the shuttle onto the landing pad, just as the rain started. Heavy drops of ice-cold water pelted down, striking the roof and producing a roar like a waterfall.

“Should have brought my suit helmet,” said Recker, sprinting across the landing strip towards one of the cylindrical airlifts which protruded through the roof at the bottom of the ramp. He was in a vacuum-proof suit, but without the helmet to form a seal, the rain was sliding down his neck and in moments he’d be soaked.

“I should have brought an umbrella,” said Garber. “Six years here on Basalt and you’d think I’d have learned.”

A squad of bemused-looking human and Daklan soldiers watched the two of them sprint past, but they didn’t say anything. At the airlift, Recker tapped the access screen repeatedly, as if that would somehow bring the car to the roof level quicker than if he’d only tapped once. A group of five personnel coming from one of the other shuttles joined them at the doorway, equally unprepared and cursing the rain, their handheld tablets dripping wet.

Recker kept his head lowered and nobody recognized him, since he didn’t habitually wear anything that made him stand out. The door opened and everyone crowded inside, the scent of rain a joyful reminder of life - now they were sheltered from it.

“Going down,” said one of the new group. He laughed. “Damn this weather.” Then he began talking technical details with the others about the project they were working on.

This part of the facility had only two destinations for the lift – roof and ground. At the bottom of the shaft, the door opened, and Recker and Garber stepped into a busy alloy-clad corridor. The scientists in the lift went left and Recker went right, towards a pair of solid doors flanked by Daklan guards. Each alien carried a gauss rifle and they peered at Recker with their sharp, green eyes, while the barrels of a ceiling-mounted minigun rotated quietly over their heads.

The base security – designed to track Recker’s whereabouts and make the necessary arrangements for his arrival – worked smoothly and one of the soldiers touched the access panel to operate the doors.

“Fleet Admiral,” one of them greeted Recker as he approached. The Daklan was eight feet tall and his voice was so harsh it was borderline unintelligible. This soldier eschewed the use of his language module and spoke the human words without technical assistance. Recker smiled in acknowledgement.

“Thank you, soldier,” he said.

Through the doors was a cavernous space, hundreds of metres in length and width. The dull throbbing of the gravity fields supporting the roof usually gave Recker a headache, but today he was so agitated he barely felt it.

Much of the room was hidden by towering pieces of equipment and machinery. Gantries and cranes towered high, while consoles, mobile processing units and analysis robots were visible everywhere, along with many pieces of one-off equipment built for specific tasks. The sounds were a varied mixture of clanks, scrapes and rumblings, and many of the personnel wore suit helmets to keep themselves shielded from the noise. Recker didn’t intend staying long enough that his ears would be damaged.

“Is Lera-Vel in the subsurface bay?” yelled Lieutenant Garber.

“That’s where we’re heading,” Recker confirmed.

He cut left from the door and followed one of the clearly marked personnel walkways which ran parallel to the wall. Everywhere he looked, teams of human and Daklan scientists and technicians talked in groups, peered intently at readouts, or studied their handheld tablets.

Recker couldn’t fault the work rate or the intelligence of these people, though the results always came much slower than he wished. The expectation was his own failing – years spent at war, where each encounter with the enemy could be compressed into a series of brief events culminating in the death of one side or the other, had left him with an ingrained impatience for any endeavour requiring months or years to complete. At forty-nine years of age, he doubted the impatience would ever leave him.

They arrived at the next lift which was far larger than the one which had brought them down from the roof. A team of technicians, shepherding a temperature-shielded, gravity-engined obliterator core were already waiting. Beneath the shielding and stripped of its engine, Recker knew the core was precisely one metre cubed and weighed fifty tons. Even with the shielding, a sharp chill emanated from the device and the technicians wore specially insulated suits.

“This is going to be cold, sir,” said the group lead. “You can go first if you want.”

Recker only vaguely recognised the woman, but she evidently knew his face well enough. “It’s fine, RL Avery,” he said, remembering her name just in time.

The lift door slid open and Recker entered, keeping to one side of the car. In came the technicians and the obliterator core, and they stayed at the opposite side, six metres away. Still it was cold and Recker clenched his jaw.

This journey lasted many seconds, since the subterranean level was far below ground. The temperature fell steadily. RL Avery smiled apologetically and one of the other technicians cracked a lame joke.

The lift door opened and Recker exited hastily, rubbing his stubbled cheeks to get the blood flowing.

“Damn, that was cold,” said Garber, her nose red from the low temperature. “What a day to forget our suit helmets.”

“Don’t remind me,” Recker growled.

He turned his attention to the enormous space in which he found himself. The subterranean bay was vast beyond imagining, with a ceiling four thousand metres up and walls six thousand apart. Thick slabs of alloy were fastened to the walls and in combination with the too-bright light which came from thousands of sources, the space gave the impression of being inside the belly of an incomprehensibly huge technological beast. The throbbing of gravity fields was far stronger here than it was in the building above and this time it set Recker’s head pounding enough to make him grimace.

At one time, Recker would have thought the feats of engineering required to construct such a place were impossible, but he’d seen enough in his years of service that now he doubted there was anything which couldn’t be achieved, given sufficient time and resources. In the end, the subsurface bay had taken less than a year to create – with the assistance of endless spaceship-launched plasma warheads and the gravity scoop from the fifteen-thousand-metre Daklan superheavy lifter Nevanis - before work on the topside building was started.

The space needed to be big to accommodate the main project being undertaken here. In the centre of the bay, the hull of a new warship was parked left to right, offering Recker a perfect view of its profile.

At three thousand metres and twelve billion tons, the Firestorm was nothing spectacular in terms of its outright dimensions and mass. It wasn’t meant to be – the spaceship was a test bed for new developments in weapons, propulsion, life support and processor tech. Thinking back, Recker remembered his discussions with Fleet Admiral Telar, in which they’d come up with the simplest of briefs for the project.

Take everything we’ve learned from the Meklon and the Lavorix aliens, build it better and put it into one of our spaceships.

Of course there was a hell of a lot more to it than that, but everything came back to those words. Money was no object and the project lead could call on whatever personnel or resources were required to help meet the objectives.

“Looks mean,” said Garber. “Even with half of its portside armour missing.”

She was exaggerating about the armour – a rectangular section a few hundred metres long had been removed and was currently supported by a pair of lifter shuttles and one of the bay’s four gravity cranes. Through the opening, Recker could see the darkness of ternium engine blocks.

He let his eyes wander over the hull. The Firestorm wasn’t exactly sleek – from its midsection to the stern, it was bulky, both in terms of height and width. This was deliberate – to make it easier to fit new technology inside without having to worry too much about the shape and size of the new units. Still, it had rounded edges and the layered armour had angles which gave the Firestorm an appearance of indomitability. That impression was reinforced by the way the wedge nose joined seamlessly with the rest of the hull, making the overall proportions into something Recker had always thought of as classical.

Like many warships in the fleet, the Firestorm had no landing legs, but its flight computer was able to hold the spaceship in a stationary hover as close to the ground as its underside railer and missile cluster protrusions allowed.

“Let’s take this car,” said Recker, climbing into an open-topped vehicle with room for six.

Garber took the passenger seat and Recker accelerated across the bay floor. It was only a couple of days since he’d last visited the place and significant changes had occurred. Several billion tons of armour plating had appeared and were stacked against the eastern wall, and work had finished on the double-barrelled Terrus-V housing. The gun, with its six-hundred-metre turret and barrels twice as much again, dangled between two other lifter shuttles at the farthest end of the bay.

“Ternium-accelerated pain,” said Garber.

“Let’s hope so.”

Many years ago, Recker had captured a Meklon battleship called Fulcrum, which was designed to fire 424-million-ton ternium-accelerated projectiles at the seemingly impregnable Lavorix capital ship which had been systematically stripping the Meklon worlds of life. Keeping the overstressed ternium stable at the same time as correctly channelling its energy during the discharge and subsequent flight to target, had proven challenging. Most of the obstacles had been overcome and Recker was confident he and his Daklan equivalent – Admiral Ivinstol – would soon be ordering the installation of Terrus-V hardware onto the newest warships in the fleet.

Recker drove fast across the bay floor, avoiding construction vehicles, personnel cabins and crowds of technicians. The Firestorm wasn’t the only project being worked on in the bay, and he passed equipment dedicated to several other fields of research. Many of these projects were – on the surface – lacking in glamour, but Recker was well-aware that to keep the alliance technology moving in the right direction, these peripheral objectives needed to be fully supported as well.

Guiding the vehicle around an ammunition depot containing hellburner missiles, craters of railer slugs and four enormous, cylindrical shock bombs, Recker entered the clear space which surrounded the Firestorm. With his view unimpeded, he saw exactly how much activity was taking place. It was more fevered than he expected and he had a sudden feeling there’d been a breakthrough. Normally, he was the first to know about developments, but the research teams occasionally didn’t tell him until they’d completed viability testing.

Stopping a short distance from the forward boarding ramp, Recker exited the car. Lera-Vel waited for him, dressed in a suit that was a similar red to her skin and with hands on her hips. Her helmet wasn’t in sight and her green, alien eyes bored into him. Recker’s heart thudded like it always did and he strode over.

“Carl,” said Lera-Vel, her voice rasping and melodious at the same time.

“Lera-Vel,” said Recker. He grinned, feeling like he was twenty-one again. “How is project bottomless pit going?”

She grinned back at him, in a way which accentuated the short fangs which curled up from her lower jaw. Lera-Vel was thirty-nine years old, which was about equivalent to the same age in a human. Her skin was unlined and her black hair had a sheen which caused envious stares.

“I had planned to tell you later, but since you are here, I will tell you now. We are on the verge of something, Carl,” she said.

Lera-Vel didn’t normally exaggerate and Recker felt a building excitement. He’d last spoken to her the day before yesterday, when she hadn’t mentioned the expectation of anything significant.

“Tell me,” he said.

“The stabilisation of superstressed ternium,” she said. “We received news from Tibulon - a breakthrough has been made. They have successfully combined ingar with ternium and they are sending the finished product to us here on Basalt for further testing.”

For several moments, Recker didn’t know what to say and he allowed the possibilities to run through his head. Ternium – the power source for every spaceship and everything else that required an inexhaustible supply of energy - could be forced to operate in an overstressed state that produced a far greater output. Superstressing the ternium was a dangerous step above that and the potential wasn’t yet understood.

Superstressed ternium was also incredibly unstable and when it – inevitably – descended into a critical state, it created stasis fields that the alliance lacked the technology to study. For years, attempts to conquer the instabilities had failed, yet here was a sign that the end might be in sight.

“Why wasn’t I told about this?” Recker asked. “And how stable is the new substance? It can’t come to Basalt if there’s any risk – you know this.”

“There is no risk Carl,” said Lera-Vel. “The Tibulon scientists detected no imperfections.” Her eyes glittered. “We believe that the ingar changed the ternium into something completely different – a new substance that is as stable as unrefined ternium.”

“You believe, or you’re absolutely certain? Which is it?”

Green eyes held Recker’s gaze, unblinking. “The exium is entirely stable, Carl. Atomic analysis indicates its structure has remained in perfect alignment since its creation.”

Sighing inwardly, Recker accepted he was fighting a rear-guard action. “Why wasn’t I told?” he repeated. He loved his wife dearly, but she had the Daklan trait of impetuousness – an eagerness to get things done that could sometimes be infuriating.

Lera-Vel lifted her chin slightly in a way Recker had seen many times before. “A fleet admiral should not be bothered with the minutiae,” she said. “Once the exium arrived at Basalt and the output testing was complete, you would have been presented with a comprehensive report.”

The work to stabilise superstressed ternium was definitely not minutiae. Recker knew it and Lera-Vel knew it. He considered the positives. If Lera-Vel’s assessment was correct, this might well be the most significant development for both humanity and the Daklan for many decades. At that moment, another thought – this one unwelcome - struck Recker like a hammer blow.

“When did you first believe the method was viable?” he asked.

“The new combination process was finalised and tested three days ago.” Lera-Vel didn’t miss a trick and she stared at Recker. “Why?”

“The increase in the normality aberration began at the same time,” he said. “What if the change is caused by this new discovery? What if there’s no threat of an alien attack and the predicted negative outcome is a result of our research?” He swore loudly, in angry frustration.

This time, Lera-Vel was not dismissive. “What will you do, Carl?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know,” said Recker. “Damnit, I really don’t know. Where is the exium now?”

“I requested one of our fleet warships collect it from the Tibulon refinery. If everything is going to plan, the Loadout should be making the collection as we speak.”

“Leave it with me,” said Recker. “I’ve got to go.”

Still unsure what he was planning to do about the situation, but with his internal alarm bells ringing in a way they hadn’t done for many years, he beckoned to Lieutenant Garber and the two of them ran for the gravity car.

FOUR

Half a million kilometres from Tibulon, the heavy cruiser Loadout’s sensors gathered a crystal-clear image of the planet’s surface. As Flint had expected, there wasn’t much of interest - only varying hues of grey rock.

The surface facility was an exception and it occupied a far greater area than he’d anticipated. A complex of thirty or forty buildings of differing shapes and sizes, were positioned at the edge of a comparatively flat plain, next to a majestic range of mountains. Flint detected a faint redness to the mountains, which he guessed indicated the presence of ingar and was the reason the mining operation and refinery had been set up here.

Several of the mountains had been levelled - turned to rubble by a combination of high explosives and the enormous 1200-metre rock grinders that tunnelled into the cliffs and escarpments. A pair of purpose-built unarmed Daklan lifters sucked up the pieces, crushed them into dust and deposited it into one of the four hoppers at the edge of the refinery.

“What happens to that dust?” asked Garrett.

“Don’t ask me,” said Maddox. “They didn’t cover refineries during any of my training. All I know is stuff goes in one end and different stuff comes out the other.”

“Let’s focus,” said Flint. “What we’re here for, it’s important. Lieutenant Becerra – I assume they’re going to send up a shuttle rather than ask us to land. Find out.”

“Yes, sir.” Becerra didn’t take long. “We’re expecting a shuttle, but they haven’t loaded the cargo yet.”

“How long?”

“Twenty minutes, sir. We’re instructed to approach to a hundred klicks.”

“Fine, let’s do it.”

The navigation computer indicated the Loadout only required three minutes – including acceleration and deceleration - to arrive at the ordered position. Flint didn’t waste time and the warship raced towards the planet.

“Right,” he said, slowing the Loadout to a halt at a hundred-kilometre altitude. “Let’s take a look at the Kantilvor.”

“Coming up on the sensors, sir,” said Becerra.

The Daklan annihilators had always been vastly intimidating warships, and far more than the sum of their considerable parts. Since the end of their war, humanity and the Daklan freely shared technology, but there was a divergence in warship design. In theory, the Kantilvor should have been no more capable than an HPA battleship, yet at six thousand metres and seventy billion tons, this one looked like it could chew up and spit out anything stupid enough to engage it in combat.

“It’s carrying lightspeed missiles, six of the latest Terrus-IV cannons, twin million-klick particle beams, and enough hellburners to destroy that ground facility in a couple of salvoes,” said Bolan.

“Plus three mesh deflector charges – one more than we have,” said Maddox. “And the joint-most out of anything in our combined fleets.”

The mesh deflector was another example of technology acquired from the Meklon aliens. When activated – manually or automatically by a warship’s battle computer – the deflector would create a short-lived shield that would block pretty much anything. Once used, a mesh deflector unit required five minutes to recharge before it would activate again.

The technology had been successfully replicated after the defeat of the Lavorix, which meant only a handful of officers – including Fleet Admiral Recker - had combat experience of the deflectors. However, the simulators contained many scenarios to help a warship’s crew get the most out of their defences by combining them with short-range lightspeed jumps and low-altitude circuits of whatever celestial objects were available to break a hostile weapons lock.

On a different occasion, Flint would have studied the local fleet longer than he did. This time, his feeling of agitation was growing and he anxiously scanned the sensor feed of the refinery, trying to predict which of the dozen or so visible shuttles would be used to bring up the cargo. Guessing was no fun and he gave up quickly.

“Anything on the scans?” he asked.

“Now I’m worried,” said Maddox. “That’s the second time you’ve asked.”

“I’m getting the same edginess I remember from back in the Daklan wars,” Flint confessed. “It’s been so long since I got the feeling and now it’s here again.”

“Want me to send a comm to the other warships, sir?” asked Garrett.

Flint’s eye went to the clock. Ten minutes of the twenty had passed.

“Don’t tell them anything – just keep a close eye on what’s out there,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “This cargo pickup is the closest thing to excitement any of us have had in years. That’s probably all it is.”

“Yeah,” said Maddox, stretching out the word to make her doubt clear.

“If it makes any difference, I don’t like it either, sir,” said Fredericks.

“Lieutenant Garrett, speak to the comms team on the Lucerne,” said Flint. “Don’t set off any alarms, but find out if they seem worried.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s nothing on the local battle network,” said Becerra. “And I’ve accessed the data feeds from the satellite ring - they’re all clear.”

“Another peaceful day on the wonderful paradise that is Tibulon,” said Maddox.

“Uh, the feed from one of the outer satellites went offline,” said Becerra. “And there goes a second.”

“Shit!” said Flint. He tightened his grip on the controls, but didn’t yet push the Loadout into motion. “Lieutenant Garrett - find out what’s going on. Lieutenant Becerra, focus the sensors in that area.”

“There’s no sign of a ternium wave, sir,” said Fredericks. “And I’ve been watching all this time.”

A ternium wave was created by a warship approaching through lightspeed. These waves only lasted a few seconds but they stood out like a hog roast at a vegetarian’s birthday party. If Fredericks hadn’t seen one, that meant there was either a technical problem with the satellites, or something had approached at a sub-light velocity and taken them out.

At that moment, an orange dot – representing an unidentified target – appeared on the tactical. The information overlay indicated it was four million kilometres away and travelling at seven thousand kilometres per second towards a third satellite.

“Another feed went down,” said Becerra.

“There goes the response alert,” said Garrett. “The Kantilvor has the lead, the other ships are to follow.”

“What about us?” asked Flint. “We’ve received no synch code from the Kantilvor – if they enter an SRT, we’ll have to follow by manual activation.”

“That’s intentional, sir,” said Garrett, her voice at a higher volume than usual. “We’re to collect the cargo and get the hell out of here – that’s just been confirmed by real time FTL comm from base.”

It surprised Flint how quickly his brain slipped a state of combat readiness and he waited to find out which of two options the Kantilvor’s commanding officer would pick. The local fleet would either lightspeed out to meet the apparent attacker, or they’d sit back and let it come.

The orange dot turned red as it was reclassified as hostile. Vanishing briefly from the tactical, it reappeared, stationary, and less than a million kilometres from Tibulon. It didn’t remain stationary for long and with an acceleration that defied belief, it surged from its arrival place.

Green dots representing the Kantilvor, the Scavaron and the Lucerne accelerated towards the unknown craft, while the Langinstol and the Ferocious circled tightly in place. The tactical indicated that every local warship – except the Loadout - was in hellburner lock range and Flint watched for the fireworks to begin.

“Hellburner missiles launched from the local fleet, sir,” said Maddox. “Lightspeed missiles deployed by the Kantilvor.”

Two hundred or more green dots raced across the tactical, while the lightspeed missiles travelled too fast for the hardware to detect. At an estimated eight thousand metres in length and with a hundred-billion-ton mass, the enemy warship was the largest in the field, but it was nothing that obviously outclassed the combined firepower of the alliance warships.

The confidence of the attack was what made Flint worried.

“Get me a sensor lock!” he snapped.

Holding the Loadout stationary wasn’t satisfactory, and he slid the controls along their runners, producing a rising thunder from the propulsion. For a split-second, he detected a stutter, as if the power running through the ternium modules had been interrupted. Then, the stutter was gone and the Loadout’s velocity gauge climbed rapidly.

“No detected weapons launched from the enemy warship,” said Garrett. “The Kantilvor’s commanding officer repeats that we are to collect the cargo.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t join the engagement,” said Flint. “If the local fleet is destroyed, the Loadout alone isn’t going to stand much chance.”

“Damn this is real,” said Maddox, managing to fit a dozen emotions into the statement, like the enormity of the events were finally sinking in. Her expression hardened. “The battle network has registered 215 direct hellburner strikes on the approaching warship, sir.”

“Sensor lock obtained,” said Becerra, her voice surprisingly calmer than Garrett’s.

Whatever kind of warship it was, Flint hadn’t seen the like before. It wasn’t anything similar to a Meklon craft and it didn’t resemble the numerous types constructed by the Lavorix. The coming vessel was so dark in colour it may as well have been black, and its overall shape reminded Flint of a jagged, but irregular spear head, except the serrations here pointed forward instead of back.

Most importantly, although Hellburner missiles detonated in sufficient numbers to wreathe much of the enemy warship’s hull in star-bright plasma, they didn’t appear to be doing any damage and had produced no visible cratering.

“Running a hull scan of the enemy warship,” said Lieutenant Fredericks. “No sign of an energy shield and no output spikes that would suggest they activated a mesh deflector.”

“The Kilvar,” Flint breathed, as if speaking the word too loudly was to confirm it as truth. “It’s got to be.” He raised his voice. “Make sure the news reaches Basalt – tell them we suspect a Kilvar assault on the Tibulon facility.”

No doubt every other warship was sending a variation of the same message, but it was best to be certain.

“I have a particle beam lock and a lightspeed missile lock on the enemy craft, sir,” said Maddox. “Also upper hellburner clusters one to three and portsides one and two. Awaiting your order to fire.”

“Fire the hellburners,” said Flint.

“Hellburners fired.”

The Loadout’s launch clusters were far from the bridge, but the igniting missile propulsions created a penetratingly deep sound which was apparent above the engines. Not only that, Flint was sure he sensed the trauma of it running through warship. Twenty hellburners tore through the vacuum, accelerating to their twelve-thousand-klicks-per-second off-boost maximum.

“Hit them with the particle beam.”

“Particle beam discharged.”

Electronic needles jumped around on Flint’s control panel and the propulsion stuttered again.

“Check that out, Lieutenant Fredericks.”

“No errors on the logs or instrumentation, sir. I’m running an audit.”

“Do it quickly.”

“Enemy warship at half a million klicks from our position,” said Becerra. “It’s closed to within a hundred thousand of the Kantilvor.”

“No visible damage on the enemy warship, sir,” said Maddox. “So far, we’ve hit them with lightspeed missiles, particle beams and hellburners, and the Kantilvor has landed three Terrus-IV strikes. No damage apparent.”

“The Kantilvor and the Lucerne report similar abnormalities in their engines, sir,” said Becerra.

“We’re being sucker-punched,” said Flint. “I don’t know how, but it’s happening.”

“What else can we do?” asked Maddox.

Flint didn’t know. In his mind, it was too much coincidence that the enemy spaceship had turned up at Tibulon shortly after the refinery had produced something he guessed was of major importance to the alliance. How the enemy knew about it was a question for later.

“Lieutenant Fredericks, that incoming warship has done something to our propulsion,” Flint warned. “Find out what it is.”

The engine output was interrupted again, only this time it wasn’t just a stutter. Instead, the propulsion shuddered violently and the controls went briefly dead in Flint’s hands before the power readouts jumped to ninety percent of maximum. The needle began falling, dropping rapidly to eighty-five percent.

“I’ve located the problem, sir,” said Fredericks. “We have areas of decay affecting every one of our ternium modules. It started small, but it’s spreading.”

“We’re going to lose propulsion?”

“Yes, sir. If I can’t think of a way to stop it.”

“How long before it happens?”

“Total failure will occur in less than two minutes.”

“Every other ship in the local fleet reports the same issues, sir,” said Garrett.

Flint didn’t know the other warship captains, but he was sure each one had a career going back to the human-Daklan wars. They flew too well and acted too decisively to be anything other than veterans, and the alliance didn’t assign clean-shaven twenty-somethings to anything larger than a riot class. Yet in spite of the likely experience of the crews, the tools they were using weren’t up to the job.

“What’s the update on the shuttle?” asked Flint, holding the Loadout in a tight circle above the base.

“Word from the surface facility is that it won’t depart until the attack is over.”

“Damnit,” said Flint sourly. “I can’t decide if that’s a good or bad decision.”

“Hellburners reloaded, particle beam available, sir,” said Maddox.

“Fire. Everything we’ve got,” said Flint. “The lightspeed missiles too.”

“Lightspeed missiles launched from our forward tubes,” said Maddox at once. “Particle beam discharged. Hellburner upper clusters one to three and rears one and two fired.”

The alliance’s lightspeed missiles were shockingly expensive and they carried an eye-wateringly large payload. Once they were ejected from the Loadout’s two tubes, they accelerated slowly for a moment, before their lightspeed engines activated and they vanished from the tactical.

As Flint watched, twin, devastatingly large blasts from those lightspeed missiles engulfed the nose section of the coming warship. The vessel’s punishing velocity tore it through the blasts, but plasma clung to its surface while a salvo of hellburners from one of the other local warships crashed into its visible starboard flank.

“Lightspeed missile detonations confirmed,” said Maddox. “No discernible damage.”

The bad news kept on coming. A thick beam of crimson energy darted from the enemy ship’s nose. Straight afterwards, a second beam came from one of its portside spines and a third from the starboard side.

“Activation of the Kantilvor’s mesh deflector confirmed,” said Commander Maddox. “Also activations on the Scavaron and Lucerne.”

One of the Loadout’s arrays was still locked on the Kantilvor and Flint glanced across in time to see an ovoid of tightly clustered blue-light slashes appear around the Daklan annihilator.

“Negative activation on our own mesh deflector, sir,” said Maddox. “The enemy are equipped with a high-powered beam weapon. Let’s hope it’s got a long recharge interval.”

No sooner had she said the words than the Kantilvor’s mesh deflector winked out and was immediately activated for a second time by a fourth discharge from the enemy spaceship.

“Shock bursts deployed,” said Maddox.

The deployment of the beam weapon prompted every one of the alliance warships to release their own shock bombs. Bright flashes of blue expanded into massive spheres of energy designed to attenuate any beam weapons passing through them. Red lines stabbed into the spheres, emerging weakened on the far side, yet still possessing the strength to activate the Lucerne’s mesh deflector.

“Missile launch detected from the enemy warship,” said Maddox. “Activating railer countermeasures. Disruptor drones deployed. Holding onto the interceptors.”

Almost three hundred inbound missiles appeared on the tactical, gaining velocity at an incredible rate. Hellburners launched from multiple sources went the other way, some already boosted to their eighteen-thousand-kilometre-per-second maximum as they sought a weakness in the Kilvar defences.

The engagement had been building to this moment – the time when the opening exchanges would descend into a savage revelation of who could hit the hardest. Alliance railer turrets spewed an imaginable quantity of slugs into the void, each gun able to track hundreds of separate targets. Countless solid tracers of white raked the darkness, aiming to punch the incoming warheads into glittering pieces, and the disruptor drones sparkled and danced in erratic patterns, their transmission units saturating the vicinity with false signals to fool the guidance systems of the enemy missiles.

Deep inside the Loadout’s hull, Flint and his crew weren’t entirely isolated from the technological fury. The railers produced a distant grumble like the densest of rainfall striking the hull, and the booming ignition of hellburners was the sound of a distant storm.

“Interceptors launched,” said Maddox. “Shock burst deployed.”

Two hundred tiny missiles streaked from their topside launchers and sped towards the inbound missile wave, while the shock burst’s short-range propulsion carried the warhead only a few thousand kilometres before it detonated.

From the corner of his eye, Flint saw – on one of the peripheral feeds - the Lucerne’s Terrus-IV barrels jump into their turrets with the recoil of discharge. The battleship’s sleek hull glinted with red and orange from its next hellburner launch and its railers fired nonstop.

The enemy missiles travelled fast and peaked at forty thousand kilometres per second. Flint knew what the alliance countermeasures were capable of and he guessed the incoming velocity was too great for the railers and interceptors to accurately track. He banked hard, trying to gauge which of the missiles were targeted at the Loadout. A dozen red dots altered course to follow and Flint banked again, swearing when he realised how manoeuvrable those missiles were.

Suddenly, the Kantilvor and the Ferocious were engulfed in plasma flames, most of their hulls shrouded within the intolerable heat.

“Holy crap!” said Maddox. “What kind of payload are those enemy missiles carrying?”

“We need to get out of here,” said Flint, recognizing a coming disaster when he saw one. “I’d say we’re losing that refinery anyway and the loss of our warships on top of that won’t help anyone.”

He touched the tactical screen to select a short-range lightspeed transit destination, but couldn’t bring himself to push the activation button. Not yet.

Another series of rapid-fire energy beams stabbed outwards from the enemy ship, causing the Scavaron’s and the Lucerne’s mesh deflectors to activate. By Flint’s reckoning, that left both warships relying on their armour plating for the next four minutes. It was hard to keep score with everything that was happening.

He hauled on the Loadout’s controls and the heavy cruiser twisted and spun. The red dots were about to hit. Three or four vanished and Maddox announced the launch of more disruptor drones and interceptors. It wasn’t going to be enough.

An ovoid of sword cut lights on the darkness sprang into being around the Loadout as the enemy missiles detonated against the mesh deflector. One of the red energy beams struck the shield at the same time, starkly visible as it cut through the plasma.

For two or three seconds, the deflector held and then it disappeared, leaving the heavy cruiser with a single active module.

“Sir, we’re running out of options,” said Maddox.

“We’ve received orders from the Kantilvor to activate our SRTs and regroup,” yelled Garrett. “Once we’ve figured out the reason our weapons are failing, we’re to come back for another shot at that enemy warship.”

The Daklan were brave as hell but they weren’t stupid, and the officer in command of the annihilator must have known this was a lost battle. The local fleet was fighting an opponent which had soaked everything and remained as pristine as the day it flew out of the construction yard.

“The Kantilvor is in a bad way,” said Maddox. “I doubt it’ll be coming back whatever happens.”

“Sir, our ternium output is falling fast,” said Fredericks. “Once we hit that SRT, there won’t be another.”

The taste of defeat, meted out so easily by this unknown enemy warship, was bitter in Flint’s mouth. Unable to see an alternative that wouldn’t result in the destruction of the Loadout and the deaths of his crew, he crushed his thumb onto the SRT activation button and the heavy cruiser entered lightspeed.

FIVE

For Lieutenant James Vance and his platoon, life on the Tibulon refinery was so dull that some of the soldiers had resorted to the most idiotic of methods to pass the time. When – two weeks ago – Private Eric Drawl had reported his arm broken, Vance had to threaten to break the other before the soldier confessed to having bet one of the Daklan – a brute called Rendos who should have known better - a day’s wages that he could handle three full-strength punches on the aforementioned arm.

Drawl had lost the bet and Vance had docked the man five additional day’s wages before sending him off to the medical facility to have his humerus force healed. In hindsight, Vance thought he’d let Drawl off lightly and it was only because he was sympathetic to platoon’s plight in being stationed out here on Tibulon that he’d been so lenient.

And, admittedly, much of the blame was his – Vance was old enough to recognize it and he kicked himself for being lulled by the daily routine and letting the soldiers slide into the same state of ennui. Since the broken arm incident, Vance had kept his platoon busy with outdoor drills, along with various wargames both in and out of the facility buildings.

The refinery was home to thousands of personnel and Vance was outranked by many of the senior scientists, researchers and even some of the operators, albeit they were assigned to a different section of the military and had no direct authority over him or his soldiers. These personnel were, in general, content to get on with their own work and let Vance get on with his, even if that involved fully equipped soldiers running through several of the low-priority buildings, shooting at imaginary opponents.

Like many planets, Tibulon was – in the parlance – hot enough to fry an egg during the day, and at night, cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. The shortest of intervals existed between day and night, during which the surface temperature was pleasant, though the atmosphere was so thin it wouldn’t have been advisable to venture outside in flower-patterned shorts and a T-shirt, not even had a day’s pay been wagered. It was during this time which Vance had called an early-morning muster.

He kept his expression neutral and his eyes roved among the twenty-nine soldiers, keeping them in suspense. To his left, also facing the platoon, Sergeant Hunter Gantry carried his MG-12 repeater pack like it weighed no more than a standard loadout.

To the right, the Daklan Sergeant Tagra – eight-and-a-half feet tall and with a scowl that could make a new recruit shit their spacesuit at a hundred paces – carried an evil-looking Rodan room sweeper. A Rodan was designed to eject a cluster of tiny slugs in either a wide or narrow spread and was the equivalent of an ancient shotgun updated for the modern era. What it lacked in range over a standard gauss rifle, it made up for in punch.

The soldiers were dressed in full combat gear, the appearance of which borrowed from both Daklan and human designs stretching back almost twenty years. This made the troops outwardly identical, except for the variations in their sizes, the average Daklan male being almost two feet taller than the average human male.

A harsh glittering in his periphery told Vance that the Qastus-91N star was rising, and he glanced along the road – formed by machine smoothing of the planet’s natural surface - which ran between the warehouses east of the barracks and allowed a view across forty or fifty kilometres of uncaring rocky plains to the far horizon. Directly overhead, a pair of massive shuttles flew slowly side-by-side towards the far mountains, the drone of their engines muffled by the lack of atmosphere to carry the sound.

“Listen up!” Vance bellowed on the troop comms channel. “Today, we’re taking a run from this barracks building to the eastern perimeter and back. You’ll be carrying full loadouts.” He smiled thinly behind his visor. “That means everyone.”

Vance kept a close eye on those who carried the heavy rocket tubes and repeaters. They didn’t complain, though the coming exercise would be harder on them than the others.

“Maybe you could challenge Lieutenant Sizemore and his platoon to a race, sir,” said Private Drawl. “I’d hate to think they were sitting on their behinds and losing their fitness.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, Private,” said Vance. “I think you should deliver it personally to Lieutenant Sizemore.” He thumbed over his shoulder at the two-storey barracks building directly behind. Sizemore was a miserable bastard and was widely considered to have swapped his sense of humour for a handful of magic beans at some point early in his life. “You know where to find him.”

“Maybe we should show his platoon how it’s done first, sir,” said Drawl weakly. “It’ll give them some motivation when they see how fast we cover the ground.”

“Any other bright ideas?” asked Vance. He looked casually at the ammunition readout on the stock of his gauss rifle, as if he wasn’t really listening for an answer.

The other soldiers were wise enough to keep their mouths shut. They shuffled impatiently and waited for the next order. Vance turned his gaze along the planned route. Four thousand metres separated the barracks and the eastern perimeter, and the road ran past the main research building and into one of the storage areas where cargo and transport vehicles sped between the low-roofed buildings.

Vance was on the verge of giving the order when a green request light appeared on his suit comms unit. He recognized the name and accepted the channel.

“Lieutenant Vance?” The voice was that of Research Lead Victor Moseley, the most senior of the facility’s scientific personnel.

“What can I do for you, RL Moseley?” asked Vance.

“I’d like you and your platoon to escort a package to Basalt, Lieutenant. It’s ready for collection in the central research complex. You’re to board one of the shuttles and fly up to the heavy cruiser Loadout which will be waiting for you at a hundred kilometres above the facility.”

Thirty soldiers seemed excessive for the task, though Vance didn’t say anything. He knew which spaceships were currently stationed at Tibulon and the Loadout wasn’t one of them, so it must have been sent specifically for this mission. It was a significant commitment of resources. A shuttle flight to the heavy cruiser and a trip to Basalt would be a chance to learn what was happening and would also be a good way to break up the boredom.

“When do we lift off?” Vance asked, squinting towards the research building.

“The Loadout’s crew are expecting the shuttle’s departure in approximately twelve minutes.”

Vance shook his head in disbelief. “We’re mustered, but it’s a ten-minute run to the pickup point.”

Moseley cleared his throat. “I appreciate that, Lieutenant. I’ve had a lot on my plate and I didn’t consider the need for an escort until now. This is important. Extremely important.”

“We’re on our way, RL Moseley. I’ll contact you once we’re at the research building.”

Moseley ahemmed again. “It’s an additional ten minutes from the collection point to the shuttle pad, Lieutenant.”

“I already worked that out. We won’t be onboard that shuttle in twelve minutes, RL Moseley. I’ll leave you to pass on the message.”

“Just come as quickly as you can, Lieutenant.”

Vance closed out of the comms channel and switched once more into the dedicated platoon channel. “There’s been a change of plan – we’re making a fast run for that research building along there, collecting a package and taking it by shuttle to a heavy cruiser that recently dropped out of lightspeed.” He smiled. “And you’ll be pleased to learn we’re heading to Basalt.”

“Are we staying there, sir?” asked Private Ken Raimi, leaning against his rocket tube.

“I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you, Private,” said Vance, reflecting that he probably should have asked.

“So what’s this package we’re collecting, sir?” asked Private Titus Enfield. He was the platoon explosives expert and carried a battered cloth pack bulging with charges designed for every occasion.

Vance closed his eyes for a moment. “What did I just say? I don’t have any more information.”

“Uh, sorry, sir.”

Vance hefted his gauss rifle and absently patted the grenades dangling from a row of side clips. His HUD readout indicated the air temperature was rising, though he couldn’t feel it through the insulation in his suit. “Let’s move,” he said.

Setting a hard pace, Vance sprinted for the research building. His feet thudded almost soundlessly on the grey stone road and his breathing deepened. At forty-two years old, he should have been slowing down, but Vance felt as fit and strong as ever.

He kept his gaze locked on the destination. Out here in the depths of the universe there wasn’t a requirement for elaborate architecture and the building was little more than a windowless, four-storey cube of alloy, deposited on the surface of Tibulon by whichever primary lifter had brought it here.

A gravity car – one of the five-seater versions used by personnel for day-to-day transport – shot out of a narrow side road, sped directly in front of the platoon and then vanished between the two buildings opposite. The occupants of the car were hidden by the reflective windshield, but that didn’t stop a few of the soldiers offering an inventive variety of obscene gestures at the unseen driver.

“I should set up this MG-12 and give those bastards something to think about,” said Sergeant Gantry.

“Forget about it, Sergeant,” said Vance. “It’s not worth worrying about.”

A tiny red light began blinking on his HUD, indicating a status change in the facility security. Vance requested details and an automated response from the ground control mainframe advised him the base was under attack.

“What the hell?”

“Sir, have you received that warning?” asked Sergeant Gantry, running alongside.

“Yes, Sergeant, I have,” said Vance.

“I have no authority to obtain further details,” said Sergeant Tagra.

From the lack of reaction amongst the platoon, the rest of the soldiers hadn’t even received an alert. It was probably for the best, since it meant the platoon channel was quiet.

Vance requested a link to the facility control station, where he’d get a response from a real person instead of a computer. Expecting the comms to be jammed with traffic, he was surprised when Captain Burt Laney answered.

Laney was one of the relief officers for the stationed fleet and his voice was taut. “Lieutenant Vance I don’t have long - we’re under attack from an unidentified enemy warship. I’m told you’re escorting the exium - make best speed to the collection point.”

“We’re going up in a shuttle?” asked Vance. “With an incoming warship?”

“I’ll let you know if anything changes,” said Laney curtly.

The channel was cut from the other end, leaving Vance cursing at the sudden change of circumstances. He lengthened his stride and pulled out a lead over Gantry and the others.

“We’ve got an enemy warship incoming,” he said, talking quickly between breaths. “The pickup is still on, as is the shuttle ride to the Loadout.”

“You’re shitting us?” said Private Ossie Carrington. “I’d rather filter my coffee through a pair of Drawl’s week-old undershorts than spend ten minutes on a shuttle with an enemy spaceship on its way.”

Vance understood where she was coming from. Ground troops always had it rough and the risk level climbed markedly during transportation. The thought of being helplessly destroyed by a plasma warhead launched by a bunch of murderous aliens half a million kilometres away had always made Vance angry and it was an effort to stop his teeth grinding together.

“Who’re we facing?” asked Private Faye Raven, one of the newest additions to Vance’s platoon.

“Who do you think?” asked Sergeant Tagra, his already hard-edged voice developing an additional rasp from his fraying temper and ragged breathing.

“The Kilvar?” asked Private Kari Banks. “I thought they were a myth.”

“Be quiet,” said Vance with a surge of anger. He hated being in the dark, he hated stupid questions and he hated the thought of the coming shuttle flight. Stirring them together was enough to make the blood pound in his temples.

Anger and adrenaline combined and he outstripped the rest of the platoon to the research facility airlock. Only a couple of minutes had passed since the alert went out and the vehicles he’d seen earlier were either gone from sight or heading for cover. Vance cocked his head and he couldn’t even hear the shuttles which usually flew in numbers above the facility. He couldn’t blame their crews for setting down as quickly as possible.

The airlock – one of two dozen which accessed the building – comprised an outer door, an inner door, and a red-lit space in between. Vance hurried inside and his platoon followed. The airlock was large enough to accommodate all thirty but without much spare.

While the pressure equalised, Private Drawl complained that somebody had groped his ass. Usually the accusation would have generated a response of one kind or another. This time, nobody bothered, not even Private Rocky Bautista, who could usually be relied on to keep a joke going long after the laughter had stopped.

For long seconds, the inner door light remained red. The Tibulon facility had never seen action – in the same way most personnel and facilities in the alliance had never seen action – and Vance wondered if the security alert had locked down some of the doors. He requested a comms link to RL Moseley and received an automated response telling him the intended recipient was talking in a different channel.

At last, the light green appeared and Vance hauled down on the lever-like handle and crashed his shoulder impatiently into the thick inner door. It swung open easily and he heard the sound of the alarm, which blared through the interior loudly enough to be unmissable, yet without making conversation impossible.

“Which way?” asked Sergeant Gantry.

The airlock led into a room with three exits, all sealed by doors, but all with green lights. Again, Vance requested a link to Moseley’s comms unit and again received a busy response.

Recalling Captain Laney’s mention of exium, Vance rifled his memories for any mention of the word. Nothing came up. Everywhere in the research building was clearly signed, but he’d never come across that word before and the place was too large to set out in a random direction.

Swallowing his anger, Vance attempted the comms for a third time. On this occasion, RL Moseley accepted the channel request.

“We’re in the research building,” Vance growled. “Where are we making this pickup? Exium, isn’t it?”

“Area North-12A,” said Moseley at once. The signs of strain were showing in his voice. “If I didn’t make it plain earlier, Lieutenant, this isn’t a pickup in the literal sense where you can drop the exium into a backpack alongside your spare magazines. The exium prototype weighs 120 tons, excluding the gravity drive it’s sitting on.”

“Prototype?” asked Vance. “I thought this was just a lump of some new stuff that we were taking to Basalt for testing.”

“Not exactly, Lieutenant. There’s no time to give you the details and I’m not even sure if you’re allowed to hear them.”

“Who’s attacking?” asked Vance, unwilling to end the conversation before he’d learned something he might later regret not knowing about.

“Captain Laney believes it’s the Kilvar,” said Moseley. “If it isn’t the Kilvar, then it’s a different species of aliens that we haven’t encountered before.”

“It’s the shit we’ve been waiting for,” said Vance. “All of us.”

“Head to North 12-A, Lieutenant. I’ve upgraded your security clearance so the doors should open for you. I’ll be waiting inside.”

Vance plotted the route in his mind. “We’ll be there in five minutes.” He got in one last question. “Is there any sign the enemy are planning a ground assault?”

“Not that I’ve heard, Lieutenant. You’ll know better than I what to expect from a situation like this.”

The channel went dead and Vance dashed for the far exit, urging his soldiers to follow. They didn’t need encouragement and they followed at once. Vance touched the access panel for the door and turned once to gauge how his platoon was handling the increased threat level.

The old guard – the soldiers he’d commanded against the Daklan and the Lavorix after that – gathered nearby with an eagerness he wasn’t surprised to note. They were all in their thirties now and, after a life spent fighting, he knew the years of peace had been unexpectedly difficult for them. Vance understood it well himself. He knew some people were afflicted by nightmares caused by their experiences in war. Not Vance. At night, he often lay awake, thinking about the past and trying to convince himself he didn’t crave the adrenaline highs that only came from the knife-edge engagements in crap-hole environments like here on Tibulon.

Don’t wish for it, James. Whatever you do, don’t wish for it.

The door opened onto a short corridor which ended at another door. That door, in turn, opened into a large, square room with processing cabinets around the walls and other consoles in the centre. He guessed about twenty personnel were inside, most sitting, and all looking as if they’d rather be elsewhere. Breathing in through his helmet filter, Vance detected scents of coffee and replicated fast food.

“You here to save us, Lieutenant?” asked one of the technicians, an older woman Vance had seen a few times before and who’d flirted aggressively with him on each occasion. She had a tray on her lap and a sandwich halfway to her mouth.

“Not this time,” Vance said. He didn’t try to remember her name and aimed for the door in the opposite wall.

“If you won’t, who will?” the woman persisted, her voice rising in quick anger.

“There’s a fleet stationed here, ma’am,” said Private Weiland Steigers, who considered himself something of a smooth-tongued diplomat. He offered the technician a flash of his perfect teeth. “The flyboys will look after you.”

“I once dated warship officer,” the woman spat.

“He must have been a lucky man,” said Steigers, bored already.

Vance didn’t want to hear the rest of the technician’s tale and he opened the exit door with a touch of his fingers on the access panel. The platoon followed him into the next room, this one larger again. Vance offered it a cursory glance and identified more tech he didn’t recognize and more technicians to operate it. A pair of obliterator cores were mounted on a dais in the centre of the room, with a multitude of cables attached.

A tall man – another face Vance half-recognized from his four months on Tibulon - approached. “Lieutenant Vance, I demand you…”

The comms unit in Vance’s helmet flashed with a channel request. Vance accepted and turned away from the approaching man. Sergeant Tagra recognized it was his time to act, and stepped directly in front of the incoming scientist, blocking his path and staring him down.

“RL Moseley, what news?” asked Vance.

“We’re not risking the shuttle,” Moseley sounded like he was ready to snap. “None of our weapons are affecting the enemy spaceship and we’re keeping the exium prototype on the ground for the moment.”

Vance wasn’t about cast judgement on whether it was the right decision in the wider context of getting the exium away from Tibulon. He was only glad he wouldn’t be riding a thin-walled metal coffin up to the Loadout heavy cruiser with an enemy spaceship on the attack.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked, doing a fast count of the soldiers stationed here. Like most facilities, the Tibulon refinery primarily relied on warships for its defence instead of ground troops. The reasoning behind it wasn’t something Vance could argue with – if the air support failed, no amount of soldiers would stand a chance against even a single warship. “There’re fewer than a seventy dedicated troops here.” Plenty of the other personnel could handle a gun, but it wasn’t the same as having a trained and dedicated foot soldier.

“Keep on your way to North-12A, Lieutenant,” said Moseley. “We’re playing this by ear.”

“Tell me something I hadn’t already guessed,” said Vance.

“I’ve read your combat record,” said Moseley. “I thought that’s just how you liked it.”

The observation was pinpoint accurate and Vance felt a grudging smile appear his face.

“That’s right, RL Moseley,” said Vance. “The deeper the shit, the faster I swim.”

He closed the channel, repeated the order for his platoon to move and then headed for the door. Wherever the tall man had gone, Vance didn’t know and he didn’t look. Few people had the balls to stand up to Sergeant Tagra.

Three minutes later, Vance and his soldiers entered yet another square room, with the same alloy walls and the same grey floor tiles. It was empty of technology apart from several viewscreens and a replicator, and several sets of double doors led away to other areas of the research building. Vance’s eyes skimmed over the signs dangling from the ceiling, one of which read East 8C – Carbonizer. Another directed personnel to South 91 - Ingar Fusion. He turned his attention to the sign above the northern door.

North-12A – Exium.

Vance was mid-stride towards the doors when he felt a shockwave running through the floor. A rumbling sound came after, loud above the ever-present alarm and seeming to come from every direction.

The heat was rising on Tibulon and Vance prepared himself to deal with whatever fate might have in store.

SIX

The in-out transition from the short-range lightspeed jump left Captain William Flint feeling like he’d been punched in the guts and kicked in the balls, and with a headache and nausea that reminded him of hangovers from a briefly misspent period of his youth.

“Damn and shit,” he retched. His body coughed violently before he could stop it happening. He forced his head up and his eyes open. Flint’s vision swum and his eyes watered. “Where are those sensors?”

From the cursing elsewhere on the bridge, Flint gathered his crew weren’t feeling any better about the transition aftereffects than he was.

“Sensors not yet online,” said Lieutenant Garrett.

A lightspeed transit – even a short one – knocked a warship’s sensors offline and reduced its velocity to near-zero, meaning that an arrival was always blind and vulnerable. Flint couldn’t do anything about the sensors, but he could put some distance between his warship and its arrival point. His fingers wrapped around the horizontal control bars and he pushed them hard along their runners.

Rather than producing a cacophonous sound and a sensation of immense acceleration, the Loadout’s engines groaned and a shuddering vibration ran through the bridge walls. Flint shifted the controls back into their central position and the vibration subsided without disappearing. A check of the instrumentation told a variety of unwanted tales.

“Our ternium output is below ten percent,” said Lieutenant Fredericks, before Flint could ask him about it. “We’ll be at zero percent in less than thirty seconds.”

“Insufficient power to the life support modules,” said Flint. Out of stupid habit, he tapped one of the electronic gauges with his fingertip. The gauge didn’t move. “No wonder that in-out transit was so bad - the life support didn’t have enough supply to protect us from it.” He felt an additional sense of alarm. “What about the sensors?”

“They’re taking longer than expected to come online, sir,” said Garrett. “The comms will remain dead until the sensors are operational.”

“I think I can reduce the feed resolution,” said Becerra. “That might give us a…there!”

The bulkhead screen lit up with the feeds, each of which was of darkness and stars. At once, Becerra started adjusting the focus and direction, to build a picture of nearby space. At the same time, Garrett scanned for comms receptors.

“Nothing,” she said. “Either all the local warships are out of power or running comms silent.”

“Would range affect your ability to detect those receptors?” asked Flint. “A maximum duration SRT would have taken those spaceships a long way.”

“Yes, sir, it would have done. I’d still find them.”

“I’m not sure those warships are offline,” said Flint, forcing himself to confront the realities of the situation. “I reckon we lost at least one.”

“I agree, sir,” said Fredericks. “I watched what happened to the Kantilvor and the Ferocious. They took a hell of beating.”

“Can we confirm if they entered lightspeed?” asked Flint.

“No, sir,” said Becerra. “I think we were the first to activate an SRT. However, our sensors don’t see too well through the shock bursts, so there’s a chance we missed something.”

“Such as an enemy kill,” said Flint. He was angry at his failings. The moment the combat reached peak intensity, his brain had been unable to keep up. He’d handled the Loadout well enough – and his crew had come through for him - but a good commanding officer should have known instinctively what was happening elsewhere in the arena.

Garrett swore. “Sir, the real time FTL comms are unavailable.”

“Send a low-speed comm,” ordered Flint. “It might take a few hours to reach its destination, but I’d rather they know we’re alive.”

“I’ve located Tibulon, sir,” said Becerra.

A grey sphere appeared in the centre of the bulkhead screen and a split second was enough for Flint to understand that something was wrong. The feed was far more detailed than it should have been, especially considering the sensors lacked the power to gather full-resolution images.

“We’re less than a quarter of a million klicks from our launch point, sir,” said Becerra. “The planet is 120,000 klicks from our position.”

“What? How?” said Maddox. “Sir, did you…?”

“I set the SRT for two billion klicks, Commander,” said Flint. “I made no mistake when I entered the destination - it was my intention to take us a long way from the engagement.”

“The propulsion is about to die,” said Fredericks. “We’re going to lose the dedicated power supplies for the obliterator cores as well.”

No sooner had he spoken than the propulsion sound faded, though it didn’t entirely disappear. Instead, the usual smoothness was replaced by a weak and distant coarseness that Flint had not encountered on a warship before.

Although he could hear something from the engines, the sensors went offline again and he saw that the readouts on several pieces of critical equipment were at zero.

The Loadout was fitted with conventional non-ternium power supplies which operated as backup for the doors and to keep the bridge consoles operational. In a limited manner they could also power the obliterator cores, the sensors and also allow some of the weapons to fire. Unlike ternium, the batteries would eventually run dry.

“That’s us out of options,” said Lieutenant Garrett.

“Do you think the enemy warship will hunt us down?” asked Lieutenant Bolan nervously.

Flint raised his voice. “I don’t like this talk of defeat – if you have nothing constructive to say, keep your mouths shut. We’re alive and the Loadout is intact. There’s got to be a way out of this and we’re going to find out what it is.”

“What do you want us to do, sir?” asked Lieutenant Becerra.

“First thing - I want to know if Tibulon is between us and the last known position of the enemy warship.”

“I’ll get on that, sir,” said Becerra. “We don’t have any live data, but I can work it out from the sensor recordings.”

“The planet blocks sensor sight,” said Fredericks. “But it won’t prevent detection of a ternium wave. Even an SRT makes a detectable signature on arrival.”

“I know that, Lieutenant,” said Flint. “The enemy were engaged with six targets, plus whatever they were tracking on the ground – there’s a possibility they didn’t detect our emergence from the SRT.”

“Yes, sir, there’s a chance they didn’t,” said Fredericks. He gave gruff laugh. “Depends on the planet’s composition too, I guess. There’re a few dense ores that can hide a ternium wave.”

“I’ve analysed the recorded positional data, sir,” said Becerra. “Tibulon is directly between us and the enemy warship. If they failed to detect our SRT exit, they’ll have no sensor lock on us unless they made a significant change of position.”

Flint did his best to see the positives. “It seems we’re out of immediate danger and that’s a positive. Lieutenant Fredericks, is there a way to restart the ternium drive?”

Fredericks was half-hidden by his console but Flint could see the man shaking his head, more in thought than despair. “When I first noticed the drain, I tried isolating the individual modules from our control system. The fact that the method failed indicates the enemy did something to directly affect the ternium. I also put one of the modules into overstress and pushed it all the way up to a thousand percent. As far as I could tell, it had no effect on the rate of output decay.”

“Does that mean there’s no way to reverse the effect?” asked Flint.

“I believe the structure of the ternium blocks has reverted to its original state, sir.”

“What does that mean, Lieutenant?”

“When we pull ternium out of the ground, it’s little more than a powder missed in with other stuff. It’s taken to one of the refineries and goes through a process to force it into a rigid structure and then to stabilise it. After that, the finished block goes through final testing and if it passes, it’s installed into whichever spaceship it was built for.”

“I know the outline,” said Flint impatiently. “I can still hear our propulsion running – why is that?”

“Give me a few minutes to study the data, sir,” said Fredericks. “I think I might have an idea.”

If there was anyone in the fleet who knew about ternium propulsions it was Lieutenant Fredericks, but Flint wasn’t in the mood for sitting quietly. He rose from his seat and the blood rushing to his head made it thump painfully.

Flint grimaced and turned so he could see the entirety of the bridge. It wasn’t a generous space, with a claustrophobically low ceiling which tapered further towards the spaceship’s nose. The floorspace was just about large enough to accommodate operator stations for eight personnel – with the peacetime crew being only five. A narrow gap separated the sensor/comms and propulsion stations and it was easier to walk through sideways than it was front ways.

Elsewhere, a two-metre-wide alloy door protected the bridge from hijackers, a replicator was installed in the portside rear bulkhead and a wall-mounted cabinet held weapons, medical supplies and eight spare combat suits. Having once checked the design plans of the spaceship he’d flown during the Daklan wars, Flint’s suspicion that the bridge on the Loadout was much smaller had been proven. In fact, it was almost thirty percent smaller. A warship was not a good place for those with claustrophobia.

“Show me what you’re working on,” said Flint, walking across and standing next to Fredericks. The man was broad-shouldered and with shovel hands - more like a traditional mechanic than a fleet engine officer.

“This, sir,” said Fredericks, pointing at a screen covered in tiny green characters.

“Lots of numbers,” said Flint dryly. “What do you hope to find amongst the data?”

“I’ve already found it,” said Fredericks. He gave a sideways smile. “Now I’m trying to figure out how to make it work for us.”

“Spell it out for me, Lieutenant,” said Flint.

“The structure of our ternium modules has been altered, sir, turning it back into a semi-refined state – a state in which it’s capable of generating power.”

Flint was interested. “Then why are we running on the backups?” he said.

“Because our hardware is designed to accept the flow from refined ternium engine modules, sir. Or from our backup batteries. What it’s receiving now is something different.”

“So our engines are running, but we can’t make use of the output.”

“In a nutshell,” Fredericks confirmed. “Our control system no longer recognizes what its connected to.”

“And you can change that?”

“It’s possible. What I’m trying to work out is if I can do it using the tools I have available to me here on the Loadout.” Fredericks raised a hand in warning. “And even if I manage to figure this out, don’t for one moment think we’ll have anything like our usual output. Expect somewhere between ten and thirty percent of maximum.”

“The higher figure will be enough for the Loadout’s onboard systems to operate as normal,” said Flint. “Though our maximum velocity will be way down.”

“Velocity, manoeuvrability, acceleration, deceleration…” said Fredericks. “We’ll be pretty much a sitting duck - not that we were doing too well against that Kilvar ship before it took out our engines.”

“Which brings up the next of the unknowns,” said Flint. “The local fleet hit the enemy with enough explosives to destroy it ten times over, yet it was completely unmarked.” He remembered how some of the Lavorix warships were protected by energy shields, but when activated, those shields were visible as blue ovoids. The attacking craft at Tibulon had seemed like it was simply immune to weaponry. Flint knew that wasn’t possible – if the alliance warheads were ineffective, it was because of some technology used by the Kilvar.

“The alliance has encountered similar before,” said Fredericks. “However, all this talking is wasting our time, sir. I guess you’d prefer it if I concentrated on getting us up and running.”

“That I would, Lieutenant,” said Flint, stepping away from the engine console.

The replicator caught his eye. Flint was thirsty and his mouth was dry - both likely side-effects of the rough lightspeed transitions - so he requested a cup of water. The liquid was ice cold, but he couldn’t stop himself from draining it in one go, which gave him stabbing brain freeze and also rekindled the dull ache from earlier. Cursing, he deposited the cup in the waste tray and returned to his seat.

A check of the readouts on the command console reminded Flint how limited were his current options. He could tap into the backup batteries and bring the sensors online, but sight wasn’t much use without motion – not in the current situation anyway. Other than that, he had plenty of red failure lights to look at, each of which was generated by the lack of available power.

Flint thought it best to give Fredericks a few minutes without interference and he used the time to consider what action he would take if the warship became operational again. The outlook was gloomy to the point of bleakness – the Loadout was a capable warship, but in comparison to the Kantilvor and, to a lesser extent, the Lucerne, it wasn’t anything special. The crews on the local ships had done everything that Flint would have done himself, and it hadn’t been nearly enough.

Worst of all, he had no idea if any members of the local fleet had survived. The lack of comms from the other warships was worrying, especially since the Loadout had retained enough power to transmit for a short time after the SRT.

“We were supposed to pick up that exium from the facility, and then the Kilvar showed up,” said Flint, determined he’d keep referring to the enemy as Kilvar until someone proved they were a different species. “Seems like coincidence.”

“I doubt it’s coincidence, sir,” said Maddox. “We just don’t know how the enemy figured out what we were doing there. That’s assuming they came for the same thing as we did.”

“Why steal and not just destroy the surface facilities?” Flint wondered.

“Who’s to say the refinery and everything that goes alongside it isn’t an incinerated ruin, sir?”

“Maybe it is,” said Flint. None of this quite added up. If the Kilvar knew what was being created on Tibulon, they could have exited lightspeed right on top of the place and wiped it out before the local fleet had a chance to stop it happening. Or perhaps they didn’t know or care about the exium, and this was simply the initial stages of a more widespread attack on the human-Daklan alliance.

The thought made Flint’s blood run cold. While he was stranded on the Loadout, a dozen populated worlds might already be in flames. Or worse. Everybody remembered what the Lavorix had done to planet Fortune. The alien bastards had turned it to dust using an ultra-long-range weapon called a tenixite converter. Twelve billion people had died on that day, and the Daklan had lost one of their planets in a separate attack.

“Lieutenant Fredericks, how is progress?” said Flint. “Whatever’s going on out there, I want us to be part of it.”

“Me too, sir,” said Fredericks, his tone leaving no doubt as to his conviction. “I’ve located some of the obsolete control software in our databanks – these files go back decades to when our spaceships were fitted with unrefined ternium. I think I can get the old software speaking to the new hardware.”

“Won’t that leave us with a zillion bugs to deal with?” asked Becerra.

“I doubt it’ll be plain sailing, Lieutenant,” said Fredericks. “On the bright side, the original coding was robust and today’s software is no more than a development of what we used back then. Most importantly, I only need a few thousand lines of the old coding – it’ll sit in the main control hardware alongside all the existing stuff and with hardly any crosstalk. None of our consoles will be directly affected.”

“Sounds great!” said Becerra.

“I like your optimism,” said Fredericks with a gruff laugh.

“How long will it take for you to install the old software on the control hardware?” asked Flint.

“I’m ready to give it a go now, sir.”

“Don’t let me keep you, Lieutenant.”

“Here we go…done.”

The change happened instantly. Needles jumped and settled, and the background coarseness increased in volume, becoming entirely agricultural and a universe away from the propulsion’s usual note of technological perfection.

“Any problems, Lieutenant Fredericks?”

“I’m monitoring the situation, sir. You’ll know as soon as I know.”

“The obliterators are warming up,” said Lieutenant Bolan. “They’re receiving enough juice to operate at one hundred percent.”

“Sensors coming online,” said Lieutenant Garrett.

The hardware took longer than usual to return to an operational state and Flint wondered if the Kilvar attack had caused some underlying damage he wasn’t yet aware of. He didn’t dwell on the possibility and allowed himself to mentally celebrate the Loadout’s gradual return to a state approaching normality.

“Tibulon is right where we left it, and it’s up on the screen,” said Becerra. “I’m commencing the near scans.”

“Fars underway,” said Garrett. “The sweep is running a little slower than usual, but nothing I can’t work with.”

“We’re at twenty-eight percent of our usual unstressed maximum power output,” said Fredericks. “In the circumstances, I’d call that a good result.”

“So would I. Thank you, Lieutenant.” said Flint, his eyes on the sensor feed. Tibulon was unchanged since last time he’d seen it. Most importantly, it hadn’t been turned into powder by a monstrously destructive alien weapon.

He wrapped his fingers around the controls and tested their responsiveness. The background grumbling became much louder and the Loadout accelerated sluggishly from its starting position, such that Flint could feel the engines struggling to overcome the fourteen-billion-ton inertia.

“We’re not going anywhere fast,” he said, bringing the heavy cruiser back to a standstill.

“I estimate we’ll top out at between seven and eight hundred kilometres per second, sir,” said Fredericks. “Eventually.”

“Can we overstress unrefined ternium?” asked Flint. “That would get us a few hundred extra klicks per second.”

“Not a chance of it, sir. The refining process at its most basic involves forcing the unrefined ternium into a stable, but stressed state. The overstress is essentially just increasing the numbers – the higher those numbers go, the greater the chance of something going drastically south. What you’re asking is whether we can perform a refinement in situ. And for the avoidance of doubt, we can’t.”

“Fine,” muttered Flint. He turned his attention to the comms team. “Give me the results of those scans.”

“Nears done and clear.”

“Fars almost done. No hostiles detected so far,” said Garrett. “There again, we’re expecting the enemy to be on the far side of Tibulon.”

“Do what you can to establish comms with either the local fleet or the ground facility.” Flint hesitated. “Can we send a real time FTL comm now?”

“Negative, sir,” said Garrett. “I’ve just checked and the transmitter isn’t available.”

“Why is that?” asked Flint. “The Loadout is down on power, but there should be plenty for the comms.”

“Apologies if I’m stepping on your toes, Lieutenant Garrett, but I can answer this one,” said Fredericks. “The real time FTL transmitters are recent advancements, sir – from a time when every warship had an overstressed ternium drive. It’s likely the hardware won’t function correctly with the power we’re feeding it.”

“That’s probably what’s causing the issue,” said Garrett, sounding relieved that Fredericks had got her off the hook.

“Check it out when you can,” said Flint. “Make sure that’s the reason. If it’s something else, I want that transmitter operational.”

“Yes, sir.”

With the Loadout returned to a mostly operational state, Flint was obliged to make concrete decisions. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that he had no palatable options. The local fleet was either destroyed or out of action, while the Loadout on its own was completely outmatched, even had the enemy been vulnerable to conventional weaponry.

“Sir, I’ve run another sweep for local receptors and there’s nothing visible,” said Garrett. “Apart from a few of the local satellites.”

That at least was something. “Tap into the satellite network, Lieutenant. Let’s see what we can see,” said Flint.

“On it, sir.”

While Garrett requested the link, Flint waited anxiously to find out what was happening on the blind side of Tibulon and whether or not the local fleet had escaped.

SEVEN

Upon hearing the first explosion, Lieutenant James Vance had ordered his platoon to hold until he’d evaluated the situation. In the ninety seconds since the first shockwave, two more had swept through the building. Yet still, the exact direction of the blasts was maddeningly difficult to pin down.

Even worse, the facility comms network was showing early signs of degradation. Receptor lights changed from green to grey and back again, and RL Moseley’s voice had sounded like it was crossing a billion kilometres when Vance had spoken to him only a few moments before.

Luckily, the suit-to-suit comms were working fine and Vance knew he’d be relying on them should the local network enter a state of total failure.

“Are we sure this is the Kilvar?” asked Private Bautista as the rumbling of a fourth explosion died away.

“Of course it is, you idiot,” Private Drawl responded. “Who else would it be?”

“It could be anyone,” said Bautista, rising to the bait as he usually did.

“Yeah, like who?” asked Private Carrington. She clapped the nearby Private Danstol on his lower back, which was about as far up the alien as she could comfortably reach. “The Daklan?”

“I don’t know,” said Bautista. “It’s a big universe, isn’t it? Makes sense there’ll be other aliens out there as well as the Kilvar. If the Kilvar even exist,” he added, hoping to poke some of the others into an argument.

“Shut the hell up!” said Vance angrily. He pushed himself away from the wall against which he’d been crouching and, with a conscious effort, loosened his grip on his gauss rifle. “We’ve waited long enough – we’re heading into North 12-A.”

“The door light turned orange,” growled Sergeant Tagra. “That means the base has switched to backup power.”

“Damnit,” said Vance. “Wait up!” He requested a channel to Captain Laney. “No response.” Reluctantly – since the man was an ass of the highest order – Vance scanned for Lieutenant Sizemore’s comms receptor. The receptor appeared, but it was grey. Vance swore again. “Private Steigers – find out if any of Lieutenant Sizemore’s squad are answering the comms.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vance had been through enough of these times to recognize his life and the lives of his platoon hung by a thread. The shooting hadn’t started yet, and the plasma missiles hadn’t come in through the roof either, but it was only a matter of when. He halted in front of the North-12A access panel.

“For those of you too young to have seen any real combat, you’re about to find out what you signed up for.”

None of the soldiers came out with a wiseass response, which was just as well since Vance didn’t want to listen to anything that wasn’t a yes, sir or an incredibly intelligent suggestion about how to improve the platoon’s situation. He touched the access panel and the double doors opened without obvious strain.

A corridor led to another room, and Vance spotted personnel ahead. He advanced into a huge open space, with a ceiling that looked as if it reached the inner roof of the building. The alliance had filled the room with more bespoke tech, including what looked like a miniaturised reactor, an eighty-metre replica of an annihilator, and a vertical stack of nine obliterators linked by thick cables to the largest console Vance had ever seen. These were the objects which first caught his eye – everywhere was the same and he fleetingly wondered how much money it took to keep a place like this running. Certainly more than he’d see in a thousand lifetimes.

The military’s expenditure had never troubled Vance before and it didn’t now. He breathed in, smelling ternium and metal, along with another, dense, tangy odour that only seemed to materialise whenever enough cutting-edge crap like this was jammed into one place.

Given the rapidness of the attack and the fact that the facility’s chain of command had apparently failed, the personnel hadn’t gone anywhere. The quantity of equipment made it impossible to perform an accurate headcount, but Vance hazarded that three or four hundred people worked in this part of North-12A, and, for all he knew, there might be linked areas holding several hundreds or thousands more. Faced with the choice between screaming in panic and getting on with their duties, most personnel had chosen the latter and the atmosphere was surprisingly calm.

Vance’s eyes landed on the closest occupant. “Ma’am,” he said, putting on his best manners like his wife insisted whenever she brought him out in public.

Almost all of the Daklan who worked in scientific fields were female and this one was no exception. She was already looking Vance’s way, as were about a hundred other personnel who were interested to find out what was going on.

“You are here to protect the exium,” said the alien. She wore no helmet and her features were particularly humanlike – more so than many of her kind – with thick black hair and eyes which seemed especially piercing. The dusky redness of her skin only added to the allure and Vance heard a few murmurings on the squad channel. She was beautiful, no doubt about it, and Vance tried not to let it distract him.

“That’s right, ma’am. Could you point the way?” he asked.

The Daklan’s eyes speared into Vance and wouldn’t let him go. She raised an arm, slowly, as if she had all the time in the world, and pointed towards the centre of the room.

“RL Moseley is at the ingar reactor, human. The prototype is with him.”

“Have you received orders to take cover, ma’am?”

“Where would we go?” Tilting her head to one side the Daklan gave a languishing shrug. “Besides, our warships will destroy any attackers.”

“I hope so too, ma’am, but until I receive the all-clear, I’m going to assume the surface facility is under threat.”

Vance was worried and he tried to keep it from his face. The facility relied so much on air support that the military hadn’t issued clear guidance for situations where the local fleet was unable to offer protection. Situations like this one. Vance hadn’t been on Tibulon long, but he’d been told that he should report to whoever was sitting in the ground control station – currently Captain Laney. He’d reported, but the return orders weren’t coming.

“We’re dividing into squads,” said Vance on the comms channel. He’d assigned names long before today and the soldiers knew which team they belonged with. Calling up the facility map on his HUD, Vance noted with irritation that North-12A had a total of seven entrances, though four of those led to areas inaccessible from other areas of the research building. Unfortunately, he couldn’t guarantee that any attackers wouldn’t simply blow open the walls or the roof and enter that way.

With so many unknowns, Vance didn’t try anything elaborate.

“Squad B, locate and secure the three main entrances. Squad C, find the other four doors and check them out. Shout if anything sticks its head in your line of sight.”

“Shout or shoot?” asked Sergeant Gantry.

“If it looks like a Kilvar, shoot first,” said Vance. “Squad A, come with me. We’re going to have a word with RL Moseley.”

“No response from Lieutenant Sizemore’s platoon members, sir,” said Steigers. “Should I keep trying?”

“No.” Vance gritted his teeth. “Lieutenant Sizemore and his troops are dead.” He headed towards the ingar reactor, stopped after a couple of paces and turned. “Ma’am, I’d recommend you locate a helmet and a gun. You might need both.”

The Daklan nodded. “I will do so.”

Heading on, Vance noticed that almost all of the personnel had now stopped what they were doing and a few called out questions. Lacking answers, Vance repeated what he’d said to the Daklan technician moments earlier. “Suit up, folks, and grab your guns!” he bellowed through the chin speaker in his helmet.

Requesting another comms link to Captain Laney, Vance watched the acceptance light turn green. He heard a split second of white noise and then the link dropped, leaving the receptor grey and unreachable. Before Vance could curse, his earpiece hummed and Sergeant Tagra spoke on the officer channel.

“Sir, our initial entrance to North-12A opened to permit my exit, but will not allow me to return.”

“RL Moseley must have only given me access to the secure areas,” said Vance. “I’ll find him and have him update your security level.”

“I am currently locked outside, along with Private Mack.”

“Hold tight, Sergeant.” Vance quickened his pace and his eyes focused on the ingar reactor, where he expected to find RL Moseley. “Corporal Charnos, since our primary conduit for intel – that being Captain Laney - is no longer available, I’d like you to run a comms scan for warship receptors,” Vance ordered. “If you find one, keep requesting a channel until someone answers.”

“Yes, sir,” said the Daklan. On his back, he carried a sturdy pack containing a dedicated comms booster. Not only was this kit vastly more capable than the tiny units in a spacesuit, it could – in the right hands – perform a few other tricks which might come in useful.

“If there’s nothing in a visible arc, link to one of the comms satellites and see if you can learn something that way,” Vance continued.

Research Lead Moseley appeared from the far side of the reactor, about 120 metres away, and he hurried across to meet Vance, fumbling a lightweight grey helmet into place at the same time.

“Lieutenant, what news do you have?” he asked.

RL Moseley was about fifty years old, pale and gaunt, with dark hair and sunken eyes. He hadn’t looked much better when Vance had last seen him during better times, and he assumed Moseley was so involved in his work that sustaining his body came a distant second on his priority list.

“I was hoping you might have some,” said Vance. He bared his teeth. “We’re under attack, RL Moseley. I don’t know for definite that it’s the Kilvar, but whoever it is, they’re here for a reason.”

“I believed our local fleet would keep us safe,” said Moseley. “Now I’m not so sure. There is only a single attacking warship, you know. When I first heard that, I wasn’t too concerned. We’ve got the Kantilvor up there.” He offered a weak smile. “I guess you don’t attack a more numerous opponent unless you’re confident of victory.”

“Confident or stupid,” said Vance. “But I don’t think we’re dealing with recklessness here.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “Two of my soldiers are stuck outside and I’ve ordered my squads to secure the other entrances. Without access to come in and out of this area, they’re not going to be effective.”

“I can fix that,” said Moseley. He sat in front of a squat console nearby and entered a series of commands at lightning speed. “There, you should have free access to every area of the research building.”

“Thank you.” Vance switched channels. “Sergeant Tagra – you’re a scientist now. Find out if the door opens.”

“It opens,” said the Daklan after a moment’s delay.

“Sergeant Gantry, test your own access and let me know immediately if there’s a problem.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Well?” asked Moseley, evidently unsure who was Vance talking to.

“The increased access is working. Now, where’s the exium device?”

“Over that way,” said Moseley, pointing towards the ingar reactor. “We’ve been installing some modifications in order to…”

Vance cut him off. “Is there anything else on this facility that might be of interest to the Kilvar? Any other top-secret experimental work that would have drawn them here?”

“Not that I can think of, Lieutenant. Everything on Tibulon is geared to producing exium.” Moseley finally got his helmet fastened and he stared at Vance. “You believe these attackers have come for the device?”

“I don’t much believe in coincidence, RL Moseley. If the Kilvar were here to destroy the facility, we’d be dead by now.” Vance craned his neck towards the ingar reactor, but couldn’t see anything he thought might be the exium device. Elsewhere, there was plenty of activity as personnel scrambled for helmets and guns, as if the urgency of the situation was finally sinking in. Vance pulled his gaze back to Moseley. “I heard explosions and I’ve lost contact with pretty much everyone outside of this research building. I’d guess the enemy have taken out a few surface targets as well as the local fleet.”

“They can’t have the exium,” said Moseley defiantly. “We’ve worked for years to produce it and it’s ours.”

“Fine sentiments,” said Vance. He entered the squad channel. “Corporal Charnos, have you had a response from the fleet warships?”

“No, Lieutenant,” said Charnos. “None of the stationed ships are offering a comms receptor. They could be running silent, but there is no logical reason to hide from the Tibulon monitors.”

Vance cursed. “So we’re alone, for the time being at least.” He used his rifle to point at the comms pack Charnos was carrying. “Does that allow you to query the satellites? Maybe to find out why the local fleet hightailed it out of here? If we knew that, we’d have a better idea of whether or not they’re coming back.”

“The satellites do not hold that information, sir, and several of them are offline. I have requested a link to one of the active monitors to obtain a visual on our attacker. My access level is too low.”

“Thank you, Corporal.” Vance turned his attention once more to RL Moseley. He smiled thinly. “The local fleet is gone. Maybe they’ll return, or maybe they won’t.”

What little colour Moseley had in his face drained away. “The Kilvar will steal the prototype.” He blinked. “And then they might kill us.”

“That’s probably how the enemy have it planned,” said Vance, not one to sugar-coat the truth. He switched to officer channel. “Squads B and C, are you in position?”

“Squad B in position,” said Sergeant Tagra.

“Sir, we’ve only secured two of the doors,” said Sergeant Gantry. “The room is big…”

“As quickly as you can, Sergeant.”

During the brief pause, RL Moseley had evidently come to a realisation, which he shared with Vance.

“With the fleet gone and Captain Laney off comms, you’re the most senior fighting officer, Lieutenant Vance. And in a combat situation, you outrank everyone here.”

“So I do,” said Vance. He stared hard at Moseley. “If there’s an attack – and I’m sure there will be - I don’t want any of these personnel running into the line of fire.”

“Some of us can fight, Lieutenant.”

“I’m sure you all know how to fire a gun, RL Moseley, but it isn’t the same thing. Is there someplace you can lay low?”

“Underground,” said Moseley, waving vaguely towards the far corner of the room.

“There’s no underground level shown on the map,” said Vance.

“Oh, it’s classified. Let me fix that for you.”

Once again, RL Moseley entered commands into the nearby console. “Done.”

Vance called up the map again, which now contained details of a huge complex, far underground. He had no idea how he hadn’t picked up even a sniff of its existence. “What the hell do you do in there?” he asked.

“That’s where we superstress ternium and try to combine it with ingar.”

Vance knew a thing or two about the risks. “Won’t that produce a stasis field if you screw something up?”

“We take precautions, Lieutenant,” said Moseley. “Theoretically, a stasis field is only generated in the absence of ingar, or without the presence of sufficiently overstressed ternium modules which have been tuned to prevent the…” He stopped, as if he’d suddenly asked himself why he was explaining the technical details to a soldier. “The short answer is that the risks are low. Low enough that Fleet Admiral Recker was content for our research to happen on Tibulon.”

“That must be why the underground facility is labelled vault, and lined with four hundred metres of alloy.” said Corporal Charnos. “Because it is safe.”

Opening his mouth to respond, Moseley quickly changed his mind and closed it again. He waited to see what Vance would say next.

For a time, Vance said nothing and studied the updated map. Twin shafts – one personnel and one for cargo - descended ten thousand metres into the solid ground, linking the subterranean area with the research building. A single level contained rooms and corridors and below them was a cavernous space, lined with all that alloy and fitted with what Vance believed were several mesh deflector generators.

“Sir, alongside the map data, I have been given higher-level access to the local satellites,” said Charnos.

“Yes, that would be right,” said Moseley. “We’re fine-tuning the lightspeed tunnel detection hardware, so my scientists need to download the raw data from the monitor network.”

“I have a visual on our attacker, sir,” said Charnos.

“Stream it to my suit computer, Corporal. Make it available on the platoon channel.”

“Done.”

The satellite that Charnos had tapped was at an extreme oblique, allowing it to gather a profile view of the surface facility. Many buildings, including warehouses and the hoppers had been reduced to burning hot debris, which was scattered widely. Smoke and heat produced a shimmering distortion, though not nearly enough to conceal the huge warship hovering directly overhead.

“The Kilvar,” said Vance. The profile of the attacking vessel was aggressive and he didn’t like it one bit. “After all these years, the bastards finally showed up.”

It wasn’t easy to judge the exact positioning, but Vance thought the warship was directly above the research building, at an altitude of three of four thousand metres.

“They’re right on top of us,” he said. “They took out our spaceships and now they’re coming for us.”

Then, Vance spotted pinpoints of light prickling along the underside of the Kilvar spaceship. He knew what was coming, but he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Missiles!” he shouted.

A moment after launch, the missiles detonated, producing immense spheres of light on the satellite feed. The sound came in a rumble of blunt-edged thunder that was far too close for comfort.

“We aren’t dead!” yelled Private Raven above the din. She raised a middle finger and aimed it at the ceiling.

“Yeah, you missed!” shouted Drawl.

Vance called angrily for silence. The first volley hadn’t wiped them out – if it was even intended to – but he was sure it heralded the beginning of a concerted effort to recover the exium prototype. If the Kilvar wanted it, Vance was determined to make it as difficult as possible.

“Everyone move!” he shouted. “We’re going underground!”

With the order given, Vance grabbed hold of RL Moseley and dragged him across the room towards the ingar reactor.

EIGHT

The North-12A personnel were – at last - fully gripped by the urgency, and, with Vance and his squad yelling orders, they ran for one of the exits which was out of sight somewhere behind the ingar reactor.

“Sergeant Tagra, keep them moving,” said Vance. “Sergeant Gantry, do what you can to keep this area secure.”

“Yes, sir.”

“RL Moseley, are any personnel working in the linked areas?”

“Those are storage areas, Lieutenant. One or two people might be there, but that’s it.”

“Find out and then speak to them on the comms.” Vance grimaced. “It looks nasty on the surface. Most of the buildings are automated, right?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, but not all.”

“Because I don’t think we can do anything for those personnel.”

“I hate to put a value on a life,” said Moseley. He looked genuinely upset. “We have to deal with the realities.”

“That we do,” said Vance. He hated it as much as Moseley. “Speak to whichever personnel are nearby and order them into the vault.”

Vance left Moseley to it, while he waved at the nearby members of Squad A, indicating they should spread out to give themselves a better view of the exits. Area North-12A was huge and with far too many line-of-sight obstacles for Vance’s liking. If the Kilvar sent in ground troops the combat would be messy, and with half of his platoon having never fired a weapon in anger, he hoped they’d hold up under the coming pressure.

Sprinting past a row of consoles, Vance approached the ingar reactor. It was larger than it appeared from the entrance, being seventy metres deep and high, almost two hundred in length and cuboid in shape. A cylinder with a fifty-metre diameter protruded a short distance from each end and the reactor emitted a deep, penetrating noise at the edge of hearing.

A cluster of technicians hadn’t got the message that it was time to leave and they frantically entered data into the panels on the reactor’s facing surface.

“Move!” shouted Vance. “Get to the vault!”

“RL Moseley!” said one of the technicians, ignoring Vance entirely. “We have to disable the reactor in case the enemy steal it.”

“It’s not designed to be shut down,” said Moseley. “If our attackers want it, they can have it. Now do what Lieutenant Vance told you. Go!”

The technicians didn’t wait around and they sprinted after the others, grabbing diagnostic tablets from a table as they went.

“Here’s the exium prototype,” said Moseley, hurrying across to a floating cube which looked very much like a larger version of an obliterator core. Unlike an obliterator core, the exium unit had grey, half-metre posts jutting from five of its surfaces.

“Doesn’t look like much,” said Drawl dismissively.

“Keep your mouth shut, Private,” growled Vance. Admittedly, it didn’t look like much to him either but he had a good sense that this prototype was vital to the advancement of alliance technology. “RL Moseley, how do we get it moving? Is that a standard obliterator gravity drive?”

“Your increased level of access should allow you to interface with the device, Lieutenant,” said Moseley. “The receptor is hidden, but if you run a manual search for Exium-P, you should be able to link and issue commands. And yes, it’s the same model gravity drive used for obliterator cores.”

“I’m connected,” said Vance, a moment later. He’d been involved in escort duties for obliterator cores before and was familiar with issuing commands. A quick test sent the prototype floating a couple of metres and then he ordered it to stop.

“We should get after the others, Lieutenant,” said Moseley, showing signs of increased nervousness.

“What’re all these posts sticking out of the sides?” asked Steigers, casually, like he was criticising a used car he was preparing to drop a low-ball offer on.

“Enough, Private,” warned Vance, readying himself to head for the exit.

“That’s fine, Lieutenant,” said Moseley. It seemed like any conversation about his work was enough to calm him down. “Those are the modifications we’ve added. They’re high-throughput overstressed ternium transmitters. They’re experimental,” he finished, as if that explained everything.

“I bet they are,” said Steigers.

“Move!” said Vance, gesturing in the right direction. He put the exium prototype on auto-follow and then ran along the facing edge of the ingar reactor. Accessing the comms, he ordered Sergeant Gantry to fall back.

Another salvo of missiles struck the research building, sounding just as close as the last one. It seemed to Vance as if everything shook – more so than he’d expect from just the shockwave – and he glanced instinctively at the ceiling. A long, jagged breach had formed, almost a hundred metres in length and the area around it was a sullen red from plasma heat. Through the opening, he saw the deep blue sky of the Tibulon day.

“We’re about to lose pressure,” he shouted. The reactor blocked his sight of the facility personnel and he could only hope every one of them had remembered to seal up against the low-pressure atmosphere of Tibulon.

No sooner had he spoken, than Vance felt the air vacating the immense internal space of North-12A. It tugged at his limbs and droned through the opening above. Fortunately, the depressurisation wasn’t violent enough to produce anything other than a noticeable turbulence and Vance’s main concern was hypoxia in the personnel who hadn’t suited up.

Pressing on, he reached the end of the ternium reactor, where he was granted a far better view of the evacuation. His destination was an exit about 150 metres away and many of the personnel had already made it through. Not breaking stride, Vance turned to check that the exium prototype hadn’t run into a console and got itself stuck.

This part of North-12A was less crowded with tech and Vance had a clear view to the replica annihilator. To his inexpert eye, the level of detail was incredible, even down to the missile clusters on its armour plating.

“What did you build that for?” asked Vance, directing his question at RL Moseley.

“One day, we’d hoped to install an exium power supply and fly it out through the ceiling doors, Lieutenant,” panted Moseley, out of breath already.

“A vanity project?”

“In a way. The Daklan often build models of their warships and they have hundreds of them in museums. We pulled a few strings and were gifted that model of the Ixoler.”

“Will it fly and will those weapons fire?” asked Vance, with more than a passing interest.

“If you’re thinking about using it against our enemy, then I’ve got bad news for you, Lieutenant. In theory, everything about the replica Ixoler should work, except we asked the Daklan to strip out most of the hardware before delivery.”

“Why’d you do a thing like that?” asked Drawl.

“So we could fit our own hardware in its place, Private.”

Moseley was a lot more patient than most scientists Vance had encountered. Those he’d met before usually huffed and puffed like they couldn’t tolerate speaking to anyone who wasn’t another scientist. Fleet Admiral Recker’s wife – Lera-Vel – had been an exception, and RL Moseley was proving to be another.

“Let’s hope we don’t come to regret it,” said Vance, already feeling that regret.

“Sir, look!” said Private Faye Raven. She patted Vance’s shoulder at the same time to get his attention and then pointed at the ceiling.

Tipping his head back, Vance could no longer see the planet’s sky through the roof breach. Instead, he was treated to the sight of a warship’s near-black underside at such a low altitude that he could clearly make out a series of straight-line markings etched into the plating. He had no idea what, if anything, they represented and he didn’t stop to think about it.

When he was nearly across the open area around the Ixoler, Vance got a sense of danger. He whirled and his eyes jumped between the visible exits. They were all closed apart from the one he was heading for.

“Shit, look out! Above us!” yelled Private Carrington.

A shape dropped through the roof breach and plummeted to the ground. Vance’s brain just about had time to register the presence of two muscular arms crossed over a broad chest, legs together and bent at the knee, and, atop the barrel torso, a head with a visage that made Vance wonder what the universe had thrown at him this time.

With a solid thud, audible in the last vestiges of the room’s air, the creature struck the ground near to the Ixoler about sixty metres from Vance and the soldiers of Squad A. The impact was such that its bones must surely have been crushed and its organs ruptured.

No spacesuit, thought Vance, identifying at once that something wasn’t right.

Whatever the creature was, it had landed on its feet and was curled up tightly like a champion sprinter ready to burst out of the blocks. It was huge and intimidating. Vance guessed its arms and legs were twice the circumference of the strongest Daklan’s, and its flesh was the drab grey of death.

Filthy cloth of a darker hue, with many ragged tears, and patches of what looked like brown dust covered much of the alien’s body. On its feet were boots, also grey, but made from leather, metal, or polymer - Vance had no idea which.

He saw something else - where the alien’s boots touched the alloy floor, twin pools of corrosion slowly expanded, like the metal was ageing a billion years for every second it was in contact with the creature.

Instinctively, Vance lifted his gauss rifle and put three rapid-fire slugs into the top of the alien’s bald head. He was an excellent shot and didn’t miss, but the impacts didn’t produce the extensive trauma he’d anticipated. Instead, it was like shooting into a water-logged tree trunk – holes appeared, but bones didn’t shatter and there was no sign the bullets were exiting the far side of its skull.

The alien’s head snapped up and Vance looked into round, empty eye sockets filled with endless darkness. The creature’s nose was gone, leaving elongated holes, and its mouth was disproportionately wide. Suddenly, that mouth opened wide in a soundless scream of longing and Vance stared in disgust at twin rows of humanlike teeth decayed into sickly brown, and at the pallid tongue which clung to the back of its throat.

Not knowing why he was so sure, Vance had a certainty this alien was ancient, like it had persisted for a thousand years or longer. He could sense its hatred of life and he hated it in return. Vance felt no fear. Calmly, he shot it again, putting slug after slug into its grinning face.

“Sergeant Tagra, Sergeant Gantry, we’re under attack,” he said on the comms, in case they hadn’t yet realised. “At my location.”

His shots knocked out the Kilvar’s teeth, but it didn’t go down. Instead, the creature rose so effortlessly, it was like its body was operated by hydraulics instead of flesh and bone.

“Must be nine feet tall,” said Drawl, firing his gauss rifle into the enemy’s chest. The shots created uneven holes, without seeming to penetrate any more than a few inches. “Damn, it’s like I’m using a peashooter.”

“Let’s try this,” said Corporal Charnos, levelling his Rodan sweeper and pulling the trigger. The weapon ejected a cluster of slugs which hit the enemy high in its chest.

Standing nearby, Vance had a good angle to see the twelve-inch entry hole appear and the subsequent explosion of flesh which erupted from the Kilvar’s back.

“And again,” said Charnos with a note of battle lust in his voice which Vance hadn’t heard from a Daklan in a long time.

The Rodan thudded with recoil and a second hole appeared in the enemy’s torso. The terrible wounds didn’t seem to trouble the Kilvar and it swept its empty gaze slowly left and right, before settling on the exium prototype near Vance. Meanwhile, the circles of corrosion at its feet continued growing.

All at once, the alien was subjected to a fusillade of shots coming from multiple directions. From his periphery, Vance spotted two soldiers from Squad C squad sprint out from behind an oversized console beyond the Ixoler. One was Sergeant Gantry and he kicked out the stand on his MG-12 repeater before dropping to the ground in preparation for unleashing hell.

With a burst of movement, the alien broke into a run. It came directly for the exium prototype, unstoppable like a train. Gantry opened up with the MG-12 and a torrent of high-velocity bullets punched into the Kilvar’s flank, producing a shower of dried flesh. Another two Rodan shots blew off the top of its head, smashing one eye socket and a cheekbone at the same time.

“Private Stanar!” bellowed Vance, taking steady paces away from the incoming enemy.

The Daklan wasn’t far and his rocket tube was already on his shoulder. The sound of the weapon’s charging coils was reduced to the same droning note as everything else.

“Rocket out.”

The projectile spat from the tube and an orange trail of propellant streaked across the room. Stanar’s aim was good and the rocket detonated at the feet of the incoming Kilvar. Fire blossomed and the nearest soldiers threw themselves flat, since the range was too close for comfort.

A temperature warning appeared on Vance’s HUD. It wasn’t high enough to worry him and he ignored it. Rolling to his feet, adjacent to the exium prototype, Vance’s eyes searched the fading blast for signs of the enemy. A blackened figure lay dead on the ground, smoke pouring in a stinking cloud from its ruined flesh.

Swearing profusely, Vance emptied a half-dozen slugs into the alien’s corpse, just to be sure, and his soldiers fired with equal enthusiasm. The Kilvar didn’t get up.

“Move!” shouted Vance, already on his way to the exit. Anxiously, he glanced at the ceiling, but no more of the huge aliens were in sight.

RL Moseley was alongside, having remained admirably calm when the Kilvar dropped from the ceiling. “So that’s what we’re facing,” he said.

“Looks like,” said Vance.

“It was tough.”

“And now it’s dead.”

The engagement had allowed the few trailing soldiers – those watching the furthest doors – to join with Vance, and together they made it to the corner where the last of the technicians were on their way through the exit.

A body lay slumped over a console a short distance away. It was one of the technicians and he wore no helmet. The platoon medic – Corporal Suzy Hendrix – stepped away, having assured herself he was beyond saving.

“Sucks for this one,” she said grimly.

“Come on,” said Vance, giving her a thin smile and gesturing towards the exit.

“He was a good man,” said Moseley sadly. “A brilliant mind.”

Privately, Vance expected there’d be many more casualties before this was over. Most likely one hundred percent casualties. Not that he was planning to give up.

With the exium prototype following like a faithful hound, Vance arrived at the threshold to the exit corridor. The personnel weren’t so tightly packed that he couldn’t see the end room and the airlifts which were carrying them to the subterranean levels of the facility.

“Sir, there’s another one of those things,” said Private Kari Banks. “It’s not far from the reactor.”

“I see it,” said Vance grimly. “It’s coming fast.”

“Two more approach us along the eastern wall,” said Sergeant Tagra, clenching and unclenching his fists around the barrel of his Rodan.

“Another three from the north,” said Drawl. “They must have cracked the base security already and got the doors open.”

“Should I lay some charges, sir?” asked Private Enfield, unslinging his pack in anticipation of the order.

Vance considered it, but only briefly. “Not now, Private. It isn’t wise to set charges under pressure.”

“I don’t feel the pressure, sir,” Enfield boasted, shrugging himself back into the shoulder straps.

“Sure you don’t,” said Drawl.

“No more talk,” said Vance. It wasn’t a good time to lay explosives, but it was an excellent time for rockets. He beckoned to Private Stanar and Private Raimi who were both loitering five metres into the passage. “One shot each and then we run for those airlocks. Try not to break anything valuable.”

“No guarantees, sir,” said Raimi, walking sideways into the room. The moment he had space, he swung the tube onto his shoulder, letting the coils warm up at the same time. A rocket sped away, landing five metres in front of the nearest Kilvar approaching along the eastern wall. Vance squinted instinctively, half-convinced the creature would come hurtling out of the flames.

It didn’t and a hulking corpse was left on the floor, knocked on its back by the force of the explosion.

“My turn,” said Stanar.

The enemy weren’t exactly clustered, so a double hit was out of the question. Stanar’s rocket tube produced a droning of coils.

“Don’t hit the reactor!” shouted RL Moseley, realising too late what the Daklan was aiming at.

The warning came too late and the rocket sped across the room, detonating against the end of the reactor cylinder. White-hot plasma engulfed the Kilvar and part of the reactor. When the blast receded, the enemy was gone from sight behind one of the consoles.

“We’re not dead,” said Drawl philosophically.

“Not yet,” Vance agreed. “RL Moseley, didn’t I hear you say the reactor was safe?”

“You distinctly did not hear me say that, Lieutenant. What I said was the enemy could take it if they wanted it. The reactor contains a large quantity of ingar and some variable-state ternium, neither of which are entirely stable.”

“Then why isn’t it in the vault?” asked Vance, urging the soldiers into the corridor. The other Kilvar hadn’t slowed down, but now that he’d had a chance to gauge things better, he saw they weren’t any faster than a soldier in a combat suit.

“Cutting edge research requires the occasional risk compromise, Lieutenant,” said Moseley, in what sounded like a well-rehearsed justification, prepared for use in case the facility was ever blown sky-high by an unforeseen accident as a result of those risk compromises.

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Vance. He didn’t much care what the scientists got up to, as long as they didn’t kill him or his soldiers at the same time.

Another explosion shook the walls and at the same moment, Vance spotted what he believed was a transport shuttle landing directly over the ceiling breach. Now the enemy had confirmed the location of the exium prototype, they were stepping up their efforts to recover it. Vance closed the passage doors behind him and then sprinted after the others.

The group entered the room at the end of the corridor. It was almost empty, except for Sergeant Tagra and the rest of Squad B. The lift doors were open and the soldiers were holding them to ensure the cars stayed in place.

“Two airlifts with a total capacity of one hundred personnel,” said Tagra.

“Let’s not stick around,” said Vance, entering the furthest car and standing at the control panel. It had one upper destination and one lower.

“This lower level isn’t inside the vault,” he said. “How do we get there?”

“There’s another shaft,” said RL Moseley. “We have to exit this lift and enter another. Or use the stairs.”

“Stairs, huh?” sniffed Drawl. “In case the lift breaks down?”

“Or in case an alternative method of escape is required should an incident occur,” said Moseley.

The lift doors closed and the car began its descent. During the time it took to arrive at its subterranean destination, Vance reflected upon what lay beneath the metaphorical surface of the Tibulon facility. The more he spoke to RL Moseley, the more he became convinced that the research happening here was, in fact, operating completely outside the normal rules of safety. Whether that was something being covered up by the local personnel, or a fact known and accepted by high command, Vance couldn’t guess.

A brief period of deceleration indicated the lift was close to its destination. The internal speaker produced a ding, audible over the ongoing alarm, and then the doors opened. Vance and the soldiers exited into the hidden world beneath the Tibulon facility.

NINE

Hiding on the blind side of Tibulon, Captain William Flint felt as low as he could remember. The Kilvar had either destroyed or disabled approximately half of the planet’s satellites, but the operational monitors granted an excellent view of the debris which tumbled through space approximately three-quarters of a million kilometres above the surface. Much of the wreckage was white and orange with the heat and it wouldn’t cool down any time soon.

For several minutes, Becerra and Garrett had attempted to confirm which of the local fleet had been destroyed. The Kantilvor was confirmed lost, as was the Lucerne. However, the calculated mass of debris was greater than the two warships combined, which meant at least one other vessel had suffered the same fate. Putting the pieces together was a jigsaw nobody enjoyed and Flint eventually called off the attempted reconstruction.

“We have to assume we’re alone,” he said.

“Are we heading back to base, sir?” asked Maddox.

“We couldn’t even if we wanted, Commander,” said Fredericks. “The Loadout doesn’t have the power to open a lightspeed tunnel. I could fix something up, but it won’t be quick.”

“We’re not leaving,” said Flint. “We might not be able to hurt the enemy, but we can watch and gather intel.”

The satellite feed of the surface facility showed just how busy the Kilvar had been.

“So far, they’ve blown up the barracks, the comms hub, and some of these peripheral buildings,” said Flint, his eyes on the glowing wreckage of the buildings. He took a deep breath and an anger he hadn’t experienced during the years of peace clenched at his innards. It felt better than despair.

The enemy ship was stationary over the eastern side of the base, but the multiple viewpoints from the satellites ensured little was hidden. A series of explosions ripped apart one of the storage buildings and shortly after that, one of the smaller research facilities went the same way.

“Do we know where the exium was located, sir?” asked Commander Maddox.

“Only the shuttle pad it was being flown from,” said Flint. “Lieutenant Garrett, put up a topographical map of the facility and highlight that landing area.”

“Here you go, sir.”

The base map appeared and Garrett traced a thick red outline around the shuttle launch area. Several transports were visible on the ground.

“Now highlight the individual research buildings,” said Flint.

“I’ll call those locations up from the databanks, sir. Might the exium have been stored elsewhere?”

“They call them research buildings, Lieutenant, but they usually do the initial manufacturing of the test samples in those places. Once the testing is done, they recreate all the bespoke tech, scale it up and then build specialised plants,” said Fredericks.

“Here they are on the map,” said Garrett. “Two of them already got blown to pieces.”

“Leaving two others,” said Flint. “And the largest research facility is right next to the confirmed shuttle launch area.”

“Then that’s the place,” said Maddox.

“Lieutenant Fredericks, do you have any theories as to how the enemy may have detected the presence of exium?”

“I don’t have anything to work on, sir, since I’ve never seen a piece of exium in my life, nor even heard of it before this mission.”

“Yes, I know,” said Flint testily. “That’s why I asked for theories.”

“It’s possible the substance emits particles, but the behaviour of that Kilvar warship indicates they don’t know precisely where on the facility the exium is located.”

“If the exium is shielded, would that limit the enemy’s ability to detect its location?”

“It’s possible, sir.”

“I appreciate you lack solid data, Lieutenant, but I’m pushing you for a reason. If the Kilvar don’t have a means to detect the presence of exium, then they’ve found out about this facility some other way.”

“Like hacking into one of our comms systems or data stores,” said Fredericks. “I understand that, sir, but I can’t give you the clarity you’re looking for.”

“Damnit,” said Flint. He hated the feeling of helplessness. An enemy species was plundering one of the alliance’s primary research facilities and he couldn’t do a thing to stop it happening.

“A few hours and the reinforcements should arrive,” said Maddox.

“What are they going to do?” asked Flint. “The Kilvar ship is impervious to our weapons, so even a hundred vessels won’t be enough.”

“I’m nearly done analysing the hull readings from our first encounter, sir,” said Fredericks. “At first, I hunted for energy emissions that might indicate an invisible energy shield that clings to their armour. There was nothing – at least nothing our sensors have identified.”

“What does that leave?” asked Flint. “I don’t believe there’s a substance durable enough to withstand multiple armour-piercing impacts and the subsequent plasma explosions.”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir. It’s as if the Kilvar armour is in a changed state – like it’s a step ahead or a step behind in time, or…”

“Go on…”

“Or like it’s partway through a transition to lightspeed.” Fredericks exhaled. “I’m throwing out guesses here. Don’t take them as truth.”

“I won’t, Lieutenant. Remember that anything we discover now is something we can use later. These assholes won’t stop at Tibulon.” Flint turned and gave his full attention to the bulkhead screen, where the Kilvar warship was repositioning again. “It’s moving over the main research facility,” he said.

Several plasma explosions flashed around the structure’s western wall and a two more appeared south. The blasts weren’t nearly large enough to collapse the building, leaving Flint to assume the Kilvar had chosen a blunt method to force an opening.

On one of the cusp satellite feeds, a tiny shape detached itself from the midsection of the attacking spaceship and fell rapidly towards the surface.

“There’s the troop deployment,” said Maddox. “I checked the files and we only have a couple of platoons stationed here. If any survived the destruction of the barracks, they’ve got a shitstorm heading their way.”

Flint dearly wanted to speak with someone on the ground. Unfortunately, the comms satellites would only route through the surface hub - which the Kilvar had destroyed – or a primary resource like a fleet warship. Smaller ground traffic – such as suit comms – couldn’t link for security reasons. Not every facility was configured in this way, but whoever had installed the comms system on Tibulon had evidently decided it was necessary.

“We need line of sight to speak to whoever’s left,” said Flint, cursing at the limitation. He opened the list of personnel based on Tibulon. Many of the names he didn’t recognize. Then, he saw one that he did. “Well would you look at this?”

“Sir?”

“Lieutenant James Vance – a real hero from the Lavorix and Daklan wars – he’s stationed at the refinery.”

“The Lieutenant James Vance?” asked Fredericks. He laughed in disbelief. “I can’t believe he’s here at Tibulon.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” said Lieutenant Bolan.

“He was with Fleet Admiral Recker throughout the Lavorix campaign,” said Flint. “Every time you hear a tale about Captain Recker, Sergeant Vance – as he was ranked back then - was probably with him.” A few other names on the list were suddenly familiar. “Drawl, Raimi, Carrington, Gantry, Hendrix. I remember these – they were each given the highest military awards.”

“If they’re so decorated, what are they doing out here instead of on a tropical base somewhere, soaking up the sun?” asked Bolan.

“It doesn’t work that way, Lieutenant.” Flint experienced a wave of optimism at the news. “If even a tenth of the stories are true, the Kilvar are going to have fight on their hands to get hold of that exium.”

“Not much ground troops can do against an orbit-launched missile,” said Bolan, with the attitude of a man who’d been taught by one of those officers who believed the only important people in the military were found onboard a warship.

“Let’s wait and see,” said Flint.

“Sir, I’ve located the Langinstol!” said Becerra, jumping up. “It’s way out from here, but it’s in one piece. I can’t confirm if they’ve suffered damage or not.”

“What about a comms receptor? Can you find one?” asked Flint in excitement.

“No, sir. They’re probably offline.”

“Lieutenant Fredericks, what do you know about annihilators?” asked Flint.

“Plenty, sir, but not as much as Daklan officer.”

“Is it viable for the Langinstol’s crew to bring their propulsion into an operational state in the same way as we did?”

“I guessed you were about to ask that,” said Fredericks with a rueful smile. “That’s the kind of question only an experienced Daklan engine officer, or maybe one of their old-hand shipyard technicians, could answer. Those aliens are resourceful as hell. I bet they’ll figure something out, I just couldn’t tell you what sort of problems they’re facing and how long it’ll take them to get things running again.”

“I’ve discovered something else, sir!” said Becerra. “The same satellite that tracked our warships is also registering a live connection from a ground source that isn’t the main comms hub.”

“What do you mean?” asked Flint.

“We – the alliance - have recently started training some of our ground troops in the use of additional comms gear, sir. Specifically, booster packs that are more capable than suit comms. I’ve checked the audit trail and a ground pack is linked to one of the cusp nodes. It’s receiving a visual data stream of the facility.”

“Can you send voice comms over the same link?” asked Flint.

“I certainly can, sir. The booster pack is assigned to a Daklan soldier named Corporal Charnos. Should I open the link?”

“Do it,” said Flint. “Put him on the bridge open channel. We all need to hear what he has to say.”

If Corporal Charnos was surprised by the comms link, he didn’t show sign of it. “Who is this?” he asked, his voice particularly rough-edged.

Becerra muted the comms. “Uh - I didn’t make introductions,” she said.

“No matter,” said Flint. He unmuted the channel. “This is Captain William Flint of the alliance warship Loadout. What is your situation, Corporal?”

“We are underground. I will divert this channel to Lieutenant Vance.”

“Thank you.”

Vance entered the channel and he had a gravel voice as well, though compared to the Daklan he sounded dulcet. Speaking quickly, Flint outlined what had occurred above the base and Vance outlined what had occurred within it.

“We’re in the subterranean level above the vault, sir,” he said. “The vault is an area beneath the facility where they run the tests which are judged to have an uncertain outcome.”

Flint smiled. “Diplomatically put, Lieutenant. How much protection will it offer against an enemy trying to break in?”

“We haven’t reached it yet, sir – we’re on our way to a secondary airlift. I’m told it’s on a separate security circuit to the topside areas. Whether that’s going to make it harder for the Kilvar to gain access or not, I couldn’t tell you.”

“I’m sure help is coming, Lieutenant, but I don’t know if it’s going to be any use when it gets here.”

“We’re not giving up this prototype, sir,” said Vance with steel in his voice. “If I have to, I’ll fit pack charges to it and blow it to pieces.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I wish I had some good news for you. If our weapons had any effect on the enemy ship, we’d attack even with our propulsion output way down.”

“Maybe something will come up, sir. Can you enable two-way comms, so we can request a channel to the Loadout ourselves?”

Flint turned to find Becerra nodding vigorously. “If you keep that booster pack linked to the comms satellite, I can make that happen,” she said.

“We’ll do that,” Vance agreed.

“I’ll contact you again shortly,” said Flint.

The channel went dead, leaving him pondering this development. Communication was good, but it wasn’t always obvious how to make best use of it.

“We’ve received a channel request from Lieutenant Vance,” said Becerra.

“Already? Accept it,” said Flint.

Vance didn’t waste time. “I’ve got RL Moseley with me, sir,” he said. “There’s not much of a command structure on Tibulon, but he’s the lead scientist. He wants to speak with you.”

“That’s fine,” said Flint. “Please transfer the channel to his comms unit.”

The bridge speakers hummed for a second and then a new voice spoke. “Captain Flint? I’m Research Lead Moseley – head of research at the Tibulon facility.”

“What can I do for you?” asked Flint, more than a little curious.

“I’m not sure, Captain Flint. I’ve spoken to Lieutenant Vance and he advises me that the attacking warship was unharmed by your weapons.”

“That’s right, RL Moseley. Missile and Terrus impacts had no effect, nor did explosives or particle beams.”

“Do you have any theories as to the cause of this apparent invulnerability? Have your sensors gathered any data that might be of use?”

“Maybe I should answer that one. I’m Lieutenant Fredericks – the Loadout’s senior engine officer.”

“From the Pulveriser,” said Moseley at once.

“Way back when,” said Fredericks. “I’ve analysed the sensor data and there’s no indication they’re using an energy shield or anything like a mesh deflector. In fact, the only other occasion I’ve heard about this kind of defence is from…”

“The Lavorix mothership,” said Moseley.

“And we never cracked the code on how that worked,” said Fredericks. “Maybe we never will.”

Moseley sounded excited and worried at the same time. “I’ve had an idea which may help.”

“What’s your plan?” asked Flint.

“It’s an idea, not a plan, Captain. I’ll assume you know about the difficulties we’ve been having in evolving superstressed ternium into a more usable state, and that you also know the purpose of the Tibulon facility. We tested numerous stabilisation methods before we hit upon one which created exium.”

“I appreciate you telling me this, RL Moseley – where is it heading?”

“All of the earlier methods failed, though their outcomes weren’t necessarily of no interest to us. In fact, many of the failures have opened up new avenues of research that the alliance is currently pursuing. And might I add…”

Flint recognised Moseley’s type at once. He was the sort of person who could talk about his work for days until someone pointed out that maybe it was time he had a shower, ate that plate of food which had been sitting untouched on his desk for ten hours and perhaps went to the toilet. Every research facility had personnel like Moseley.

“Putting these other research avenues to one side, how might the failures benefit our specific circumstances, RL Moseley?” said Flint quickly. He was determined to keep the discussion as focused as possible.

“Outside the vault, we built an ingar reactor,” said Moseley, his choice of words making it abundantly clear that the reactor should have been constructed inside the vault rather than outside. “This reactor is capable of running fusion experiments on ingar and ternium at varying levels of overstress. The output is then channelled into…”

“What can it do for us?” asked Flint, cutting firmly across Moseley’s attempt to expand the explanation.

“It can create an explosion.”

“Explosives don’t work against the enemy warship,” said Flint.

“Plasma explosions don’t work, Captain. What I’m talking about will be different.”

“What kind of different?”

Moseley cleared his throat, a clear sign he was preparing to launch into a long-winded explanation when a short one would do. In the interests of keeping things civil, Flint gave the man some slack.

“Well, Captain, the reactor can introduce an incredible level of overstress on its ternium stores. If ingar is introduced in the wrong quantities, that’s when it gets interesting. Explosively interesting.”

“Keep talking,” said Flint.

“And like I said, this will be a different kind of explosion. More of a depletion burst than what you’d normally categorise as a blast,” said Moseley conspiratorially.

Flint knew what a depletion burst was – it was the destructive energy created by the same tenixite converters which had destroyed planet Fortune.

“Weren’t some of the Lavorix ships immune to depletion bursts?” he asked, racking his brain for facts. “What makes you think the Kilvar won’t have the same defensive technology?”

“This won’t be the same kind of depletion burst, Captain Flint.” Moseley took in a breath. “On the very smallest of scales, the reactions between ingar and ternium are incredibly interesting. The materials interact together in such a way as to release vastly more energy – on a mass comparative scale – than anything else we’ve encountered before. The Lavorix depletion bursts were fairly crude and required a large quantity of ternium ore. What I am proposing will have far more finesse.”

“And this reaction will destroy the enemy spaceship, while you and the other facility personnel hide safely in the vault?”

“If not destroy the enemy craft, then disrupt its defences,” said Moseley, sounding a little too cheerful for Flint’s liking.

“We know what happens when we play around with superstressed ternium,” said Lieutenant Fredericks. “When it goes critical, it generates a stasis field which, as far as we’re aware, doesn’t decay.”

“That isn’t entirely correct, Lieutenant. As I’ve been trying to explain, if the ternium is superstressed and a certain quantity of ingar is introduced, an expulsion is produced which is somewhere between an explosion and a stasis field. An expulsion created by an energy we do not yet understand.”

And there it was, dropped in at the end – a not-quite-spelled-out admission from RL Moseley that he could make the reactor explode, but that he had absolutely no idea whether it would be enough to damage the Kilvar warship. To Flint, it sounded suspiciously like an experiment for the sake of experimentation – a proposal from a man who, as a child, had probably set his undergarments alight just to see if they would burn with a brown smoke.

“This is pure speculation, isn’t it?” asked Flint, seeing if the question would cut through Moseley’s unshakeable optimism. “A scientific hunch.”

“All discoveries begin with speculation, Captain Flint. And extremes of circumstance give rise to the bravery required to turn that speculation into proven fact.”

“Can you guarantee the explosion won’t rupture the vault and kill everyone taking shelter inside?” asked Flint, not wishing to be drawn into a philosophical debate.

“I can nearly guarantee it,” said Moseley. “Clearly our earlier tests were on a much smaller scale, but repeated sufficiently for us to be almost certain as to the scaling exponent.”

“Almost certain. RL Moseley, there are a lot of people in that vault, relying on you getting this right,” said Flint.

“I think I can speak for nearly everyone when I say we are very keen to see the outcome of the test.”

“Is Lieutenant Vance agreeable?”

“This is your decision to make, Captain. Besides, the vault is equipped with mesh deflectors which are likely to keep us protected.”

Flint took a calming breath. Moseley’s measurable intelligence was doubtless way off the charts, but he clearly had a mentality not far different to that of a child, and it sounded as if the facility was crammed with like-minded individuals. Crazy folk some might call them.

“RL Moseley, you’re aware that even if the vault remains intact, you could be trapped underground for weeks or months until we can excavate the rubble and get you out of there?”

“We’ll soon be in the vault – once there I will have the tools to run a blast simulation, although some of the variables may require later fine-tuning depending on the actual outcome of the coming test. We’ll be deep underground and the blast – should it be more physical than disruptive - will naturally create a hemisphere owing to the solidity of the ground, so I’m confident we will be absolutely secure. Should the worst happen and we become temporarily trapped, we have almost everything we require to continue our research. In fact – we might use the time to create even more exium.”

Drawing in yet more Kilvar. The thought made Flint think hard about the downsides of delay. The Kilvar had sent a lone ship and only a fool would bet against it being equipped with a real time FTL transmitter. If the enemy encountered problems stealing the exium, a high probability existed that they’d call in reinforcements. Or simply incinerate the facility. From the sounds of it, the Kilvar would now be aware of the subterranean levels and they might just have weaponry capable of penetrating the vault, with or without those mesh deflectors. A few energy beams would likely heat the alloy casing enough to cook anyone inside.

The unavoidable conclusion was that success depended on decisive action.

“Can we afford to lose the exium?” Flint wondered out loud. “Or would it be better to send the prototype back to the surface and give the Kilvar what they came here for?”

“They’ve chosen this time to attack, sir,” said Lieutenant Fredericks. “In my mind, the Kilvar don’t want us to have the exium. They want to grab what we’ve made to confirm if it’s viable and after that, they’ll blow the facility anyway.”

“And if it’s not viable, they’ll keep a close watch on the alliance and next time we show signs of being able to challenge their own tech, they’ll launch a full-scale attack.” Flint knew he was guessing, but occasionally those guesses hit upon a logical answer.

“Or maybe they’ll have seen enough from the existing sample of exium to decide we need cutting down to size,” said Moseley, his scientific exuberance replaced unexpectedly by realistic sobriety.

“Tell me again about the reactor,” said Flint, making up his mind. “Tell me what you propose.”

Having already confessed his idea, Moseley’s telling didn’t take long. At the end of it, Flint felt drained and asked himself if he was signing the death warrant of the people heading to the vault. It was the first time he’d been faced with a decision like this and he suddenly understood what responsibility his captaincy of the Loadout entailed.

It was sink or swim time, and Flint hoped beyond hope that he wouldn’t go under.

TEN

The details were ironed out, leaving Flint with a few minutes of contemplation before action. Once again, he asked himself if there was an alternative approach to the problem, such as simply waiting for reinforcements to arrive and see what followed. He shook his head at the thought – those reinforcements were heading straight into a bloodbath and if there was a way to prevent them being taken apart by that Kilvar warship, he had a duty to find it.

Flint had, on more than one occasion, been told that there were times when taking no action was the best response to a situation. However, sitting back and watching events unfold wasn’t in his nature and he wasn’t about to change now.

“So, when RL Moseley reaches the vault, he’s going to run a blast simulator, decide upon the exact combination of overstressed ternium and ingar and then he’s going to send a remote command to the reactor to set off the explosion,” said Maddox.

Fredericks gave a burst of laughter. “I reckon all that talk about simulators was just RL Moseley trying to make us feel better about his suggestion.”

“You thought that too?” asked Becerra.

“I know the type,” said Fredericks. “I doubt he has any intention of simulating anything. He’ll have what he needs up in there in his head. Or that’s what he’ll be telling himself.”

“I’m trying to convince myself you’re wrong,” said Flint.

“And those efforts aren’t working,” said Fredericks.

“Not much.” Flint sighed. “On the plus side, we won’t have to wait those few minutes for the simulator to complete.”

“It’s not too late to call this off, sir,” said Maddox. “You’re the most senior officer. Whatever you say is what goes.”

“Do you believe we should call it off, Commander?” Flint watched carefully for her reaction.

“One part of me wants to run for the hills, sir. That doesn’t mean I think it’s the right thing to do.”

“We’ll stick to the plan,” said Flint.

“Oh crap,” said Garrett. “One of the outer monitors has detected an unknown object at six million klicks from Tibulon.”

“Are we in its sensor sight?” asked Flint, jerking upright in his seat and grabbing the controls.

“No, sir, it’s blindside and with no visual line to our position.”

That, at least, was something.

“What is it? Find out!”

“I’m scanning constantly for ternium waves and I detected nothing,” said Fredericks in puzzlement. “The first enemy ship produced no recognizable signature either, so I’m convinced this is a second Kilvar warship.”

Flint was convinced as well. Once the Tibulon monitors obtained a lock it would remove any element of doubt.

“The outermost satellite has a visual,” said Garrett. “This second warship is smaller than the first – I estimate it at thirty billion tons.”

“Twice our mass,” said Fredericks. “And then some.”

Garrett put the feed onto the bulkhead. The inbound warship was coming head-on to the satellite, so the vessel’s overall shape wasn’t clear. From the front, it looked like a diamond, which gave Flint an approximate idea how it would appear in profile view.

“Nothing in our databanks matches it,” said Becerra.

“Kilvar,” said Flint. “Why’d they have to turn up now?”

“We’ll catch two in the reactor blast instead of one,” said Maddox. “Maybe we should be happy this second ship turned up.”

“I’d rather the enemy presence remained at one, Commander.” Flint bared his teeth. “This doesn’t change anything. We wait and when RL Moseley is ready, I’ll order him to blow the reactor.”

“There’s signal strength degradation on the link to the outer satellite, sir,” said Garrett. “The link is about to drop – I think the second Kilvar warship has done something to its power source. And…that warship has now vanished from the sensors.”

“It’s entered lightspeed,” said Flint. “Let’s hope they’re heading for the surface facility, rather than coming on patrol duty.”

“Scanning for hostiles,” said Becerra. “All clear so far.”

The Tibulon satellites located the second warship a couple of seconds later. It was half a million klicks over the planet and on a course that would take it straight to the refinery. Flint breathed a sigh of relief.

“Sir, the Langinstol has requested a channel!” said Becerra, rising from her seat.

“Accept it!”

“It’s Captain Vazox – he wants to speak.”

“Bring him in – open channel.”

“Captain Flint, explain the situation,” said Vazox without preamble.

Flint ran through the recent developments, including the arrival of the second Kilvar warship, while Captain Vazox listened so quietly the only indication of his continued presence in the channel was the green link light on the command console.

“I believe your annihilator and the Loadout are the only survivors of the initial engagement, Captain Vazox,” Flint concluded. “My own ship is undamaged, but our ternium drive was affected by an enemy weapon and it is no longer close to maximum output.”

“The Langinstol suffered no weapon impacts and we have regained a portion of our output.” The Daklan made a rumbling sound that might have been laughter or might have been a demonstration of fury. “Ideally I would not take my warship into battle.”

“Do you have lightspeed capability?” asked Flint.

“Yes. At a push we could enter a low multiple for a short time.”

“How low and how short? Nobody knows what will happen when the reactor blows. It might destroy the enemy spaceships, it might also take out the vault. Or it might do something we aren’t expecting.”

“I will place my money on the latter,” said Vazox. Once again, he made the noise of laughter or fury. Or maybe it was madness. “Once the blast has receded and your vessel is on the enemy’s horizon, I will order a short-range transit to the facility and together we will deal with what remains.”

“The Loadout should go first, Captain Vazox,” said Flint. “If the enemy warships are intact and invulnerable, there is no reason for us both to be destroyed.”

“That is not how it works in an alliance, Captain Flint. When you are on the horizon, we will come.”

Flint knew when it was time to argue and when it was time to be grateful humanity had allies as committed as the Daklan. “If there’s a second engagement, it needs to go better than the first.”

“Time will tell,” said Vazox.

The channel went dead, leaving Flint with a reminder of what it was to deal with an officer who knew exactly how to act in the face of adversity.

“I have RL Moseley on the comms now, sir,” said Becerra.

“Open channel,” said Flint.

“Captain Flint?” asked Moseley. “We’re almost ready to send the relevant commands to begin the ingar-ternium combination, but my colleagues and I have reached an impasse.”

“Why do I feel I’m not going to like what you’re about to say, RL Moseley?”

“We believe this is a decision for the most senior officer to make,” Moseley continued. “Essentially, we have two possible scenarios. The dangerous scenario and the less dangerous scenario.”

“Can’t you settle for the middle ground and then just blow the reactor?” asked Flint.

“If only it were so easy, Captain. The two variables over which we disagree allow for no middle ground. Assuming our calculations are correct.”

Flint had always been a fast learner and his mind raced ahead to the likely outcome of the conversation. “You’re about to spend the next five minutes feeding me speculation, before giving me a choice that I have no way of making an informed decision on. Is that a reasonable prediction as to my immediate future, RL Moseley?”

The channel remained quiet for approximately half a second. “Yes,” said Moseley.

“In that case, let’s go for the dangerous option.”

“The dangerous option it is, Captain. It’s the one I would have chosen myself.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Moseley had the tremendous ability to not hear the things he didn’t want to hear, and he didn’t answer the question. “I will initiate the reaction.”

“How long until it blows?”

“The reactor warmup process lasts eight minutes and then the reaction will begin.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“The reaction will take between one and two minutes to reach a critical stage,” said Moseley. “That is the moment the expulsion will happen. I can’t give you a precise number of seconds.”

“We’re dealing with two enemy spaceships now.”

“I know – Lieutenant Vance told me. Still, one, two, a hundred. The more the merrier when the blast goes off.”

Flint could only shake his head in wonder at the man’s unfailing cheerfulness. “Let me know when you initiate the warmup. We have backup from the Langinstol and we’re planning to sweep whatever’s left of Tibulon when the explosion fades.”

“We started the warmup about twenty seconds ago, Captain,” said Moseley. “When you agreed to the dangerous option, I gave a hand signal to my colleague and she began the process.”

“Good of you to let us know,” said Flint. He cut the channel and took a deep breath.

“I can’t help but like him a little bit. Quite a lot, in fact,” said Maddox. “At the same time, I can’t stop imagining what it would feel like to wring his neck.”

“The military needs as many RL Moseleys as it can lay its hands on,” said Flint. “I’m just glad I’m not dealing with him every day of the week.”

A frantic gesture from Lieutenant Becerra caused him to turn.

“We’ve lost another monitoring satellite, sir,” she said. “And other one is showing link degradation.”

“How many remain in a fully operational state?”

“Three.”

“They’re going to shut them down,” said Flint. He swore. “That’s going to make our lives a whole lot tougher.”

“Only if the enemy change position, sir,” said Maddox.

“Another satellite is now affected,” said Becerra. “That leaves two.”

“And we’ve got a few minutes before the reactor blows,” said Fredericks.

“And if you haven’t already realised, we’ll lose comms to the people in the vault when the last satellite does down,” said Garrett. “If there’s a problem with the reaction, or a delay, we won’t know about it.”

“The fog of war,” said Flint. “You either accept it and get on, or you let the blindness destroy your rational thought.”

“I remember that lesson as well, sir,” said Bolan. “They’re still teaching it.”

“That’s because it’s important,” snapped Fredericks with unusual anger.

“We’re not changing anything,” said Flint. “Lieutenant Garrett, speak to the comms team on the Langinstol and then contact whoever’s listening in the vault. Make them aware we’re about to lose comms to the surface personnel.”

“On it,” said Garrett.

Moments later, the final two monitor satellites were afflicted with the same power drain. They shut down quickly, which made it clear that the Kilvar weapon was far more effective against smaller ternium units than the multi-billion-ton modules found in most fleet warships. Flint filed the information away, in case it would be useful to the alliance’s propulsion scientists.

“Three minutes and the reactor warmup should be complete,” said Fredericks.

It was the warning Flint had been waiting for. Three minutes was enough for the crippled Loadout to cover the 120,000 kilometres separating it from Tibulon, with enough leeway to complete a leisurely half-circuit of the planet before arriving moments after the blast.

That was the plan, anyway, and certainly Flint wasn’t looking to arrive early to the party. Ideally, the blast would occur and he’d turn up at the refinery to discover an intact vault and two wrecked spaceships. The cynic in him didn’t think it would be so easy.

Requesting maximum power from the Loadout’s engines, Flint gritted his teeth at the discordant sound produced by the unrefined ternium. The velocity gauge limped upwards and peaked at 785 kilometres per second.

“Might want to slow it down a touch, sir,” said Garrett.

“We’ll reach Tibulon first and then I’ll reduce speed,” said Flint. He double-checked his figures. Tibulon was roughly Earth-sized and its circumference was 38,000 kilometres. The distance from his intended orbital arrival position to the facility was 16,000 kilometres, which was twenty- or thirty-seconds flight time, depending on how fast he decided to make the approach.

“I’ll reiterate that our reduced output means we can’t fire the particle beam, sir,” said Maddox.

“Thank you, Commander, I’m aware.”

“One minute and the reactor should begin the ingar-ternium combination,” said Fredericks. “Then another one or two minutes until it goes up.”

“We’re on target to reach the refinery in three minutes and thirty seconds,” said Flint.

“I’m maintaining a channel to the Langinstol, sir,” said Becerra. “I’ll advise them the moment we’re within a thousand kilometres of the detonation site.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Flint, making a correction to the Loadout’s heading which brought it into a gentle curve towards the planet. He intended to approach the refinery at an altitude of fifty kilometres, to deny the enemy sensor visibility for as long as possible.

Assuming they aren’t in pieces by then.

Tibulon’s grey, rocky surface was the only sight on many of the Loadout’s sensors. From this low altitude, loose stones and snaking cracks were sharply visible on the forward feed, while the underside feeds were a blur of sombre colours.

“The reactor warmup should have completed, sir,” said Fredericks. “We’re just waiting for the explosion. Or expulsion. Whatever the hell it is.”

“Between one and two minutes left,” said Flint. “Reducing velocity.”

A grinding beneath the floor and behind the walls greeted his attempts to decelerate. Still, the warship slowed, albeit with unmistakeable reluctance. Flint had piloted a variety of craft before this one and he was already adjusting to the reduced output, though having to deal with it was exceptionally galling.

For thirty seconds, Flint piloted the heavy cruiser so low across the surface of Tibulon that a single misjudgement would cause the warship to tear a stark furrow into the age-old stone. Bleak plains, dusty basins of dark rock and sloping escarpments of scree appeared on the underside feeds and then were gone – features a hundred million years in the making vanishing as quickly as they appeared.

“I’m detecting seismic waves on the planet’s surface, sir,” said Garrett. “I’ve traced the origin point back to the facility.”

“Thirty-five seconds for the reaction to go critical,” said Fredericks dryly. “Let’s hope that’s the last misjudgement RL Moseley makes.”

Only to himself, Flint admitted he wasn’t feeling confident. However, the die was cast and it was time to commit.

“Lieutenant Garrett, signal the Langinstol and let them know we’re beginning our approach.”

“Yes, sir.”

Flint’s grip on the controls was firm, but a cold sweat had formed on his skin and his scalp prickled. With its propulsion grumbling and strained, the heavy cruiser Loadout accelerated towards its destination.

ELEVEN

“At our current velocity we’ll have visibility on the surface facility in the next fifteen seconds,” said Lieutenant Garrett.

Flint swore under his breath and tried to predict what he was going to find at the end of those fifteen seconds.

“Nothing in the air,” said Becerra. “The Langinstol’s range is too extreme to for them to detect precise movements on the planet.”

“The Kilvar didn’t run,” said Fredericks.

“Is that a good thing?” asked Lieutenant Bolan.

“We’ll soon find out,” said Flint. “Ready on the weapons.”

“Hellburners ready, sir,” said Maddox. “The range will likely be too short for the lightspeed missiles.”

“Fire on sight. Lieutenant Garrett, signal the Langinstol.”

“Transmission sent,” said Garrett.

“Enemy warship detected!” yelled Becerra.

The words hadn’t fully left her mouth when Flint spotted a dark shape on the forward feed. It rose slowly above the planet’s curvature, either too damaged to accelerate hard, or unharmed and in no hurry at all.

“That’s the smaller one,” said Garrett. “No sign of the primary warship.”

“Hellburners locked. Forward clusters one to three fired: uppers one to three: fired. The lightspeed missiles won’t lock,” said Maddox. “Let’s see if the hellburners are enough.”

The ejected missiles accelerated across the planet, leaving trails of orange as they streaked for the target.

“Unload everything available, Commander, not just the hellburners!” ordered Flint.

“Railers set to auto-track, drones deployed. Our altitude is too low for the shock burst.”

With no other targets, the railers locked onto the enemy warship, and pulverising floods of gauss slugs followed after the missiles.

“Come on!” said Flint.

The range was low and the hellburners should have impacted in moments. Instead, the strangest thing happened – when the missiles came within eighty kilometres of target, they slowed drastically and suddenly to a fraction of their expected velocity.

“What the hell?” said Flint.

A hellburner missile’s propulsion section was incredibly potent, yet these ones had dropped to a velocity lower than ten kilometres per second. It wasn’t only the missiles – the railer slugs were affected too, and their heat traces slowed to a crawl. The muzzle velocity of a railer was still far faster than that of an on-boost hellburner, and the white lines overtook the orange, pummelling the enemy’s outer plating. While the slugs wouldn’t penetrate a warship’s armour, they had the potential to knock out a few warheads as they exited their launch clusters.

Whatever was happening, the Kilvar ship was caught up in it as well and it accelerated sluggishly, as if it was mired in a dense, glutinous liquid that gripped its hull and prevented it from gaining speed. Orange missile trails banked to follow, while Flint’s brain tried to unravel what was happening.

“Lieutenant Fredericks, your opinion, please!” he snapped.

“A failure by RL Moseley to understand the likely outcome of his experiment, sir. I can’t put it any less bluntly than that.”

“But what is happening?”

“The reactor created a stasis field if I had to guess. It’s probably hemispherical and everything inside it is running through time at a different rate to everyone else. How long the effect will last I couldn’t begin to guess.” Fredericks finished with some obvious advice. “I’d strongly recommend we don’t enter the stasis field, sir.”

“Hellburner impacts in three…two…one…” said Maddox.

The missiles crashed into their target and detonated in a slowly expanding and irregular blast formed by the overlapping plasma spheres. It all happened in super-slow motion, as if the sensor stream had been reduced to a thousandth of its usual speed. Some of the HPA simulator scenarios ran at a twenty percent reduced speed, to give trainee officers a fighting chance of success while they learned the ropes. Here on Tibulon, the effect was magnified many times.

“There’s the second warship!” said Becerra. “It’s above the facility, but the ground structures are still out of sight.”

“The Langinstol has dropped out of lightspeed at a five-hundred-kilometre altitude!” said Garrett. “They should be just out of the enemy’s visibility arc to the north.”

The creation of the stasis field was entirely unexpected and, in Flint’s mind, the early indications were that it would work to his benefit. He breathed deeply and focused, refusing to be thrown by the new variable.

“Waiting on hellburner reload,” said Maddox.

“If that primary warship is trapped in the stasis field, we may have a chance against it,” said Fredericks.

“We still don’t know if the smaller vessel is in trouble,” said Flint. “Being caught in a stasis field is no impediment if you’re immune to attack.”

Staying low, he banked to bring the Loadout’s undischarged portside clusters on target. At the same time, he kept his eye on the smaller enemy warship to see how it would emerge from the gradually receding hellburner explosions. When he saw pieces of debris falling out of the still-burning plasma fire, Flint experienced shock and joy in equal measures.

“They’re trailing alloy particles all the way to the ground,” said Becerra. “I didn’t detect them until now. There are other particles as well – rock, maybe, and something else. The readings are strange.”

When Flint stared, he thought he saw a dark smudge underneath the Kilvar warship, like its outer layers were crumbling and falling away as it rose into the sky. Not only that, the area around the enemy vessel contained a darkness, so faint that Flint wasn’t sure if he was imagining it.

“What’s that darkness in the stasis field?” he asked. “Is that causing the readings?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Becerra. “I’m analysing.”

“I’m also analysing,” said Lieutenant Fredericks. “It’s similar to…” He halted, as if he didn’t want to say anymore.

“To what?” asked Flint sharply.

“A death sphere, sir. The Lavorix created one when they screwed around with superstressed ternium. Maybe this is another.”

Flint knew history – or some of it, at least. “The death spheres didn’t kill humans,” he said.

“They didn’t slow down time either, sir. I don’t know what this is, but I’m sure it’ll make you doubly careful to stay outside the perimeter.”

“Damn right,” said Flint. He imagined RL Moseley clapping his hands together at the excitement of so many potential discoveries. Assuming the man wasn’t dead.

“Portside hellburner clusters one to three: fired!” said Maddox.

Another twelve missiles went after the first and again they dropped to a low speed when they were eighty kilometres from their target. Flint diverted his attention between the hellburners and the enemy warship, while he also searched ahead for the ground facility which was just over the horizon.

Before the Loadout’s hellburners struck home, the smaller enemy ship was engulfed in an explosion of such catastrophic proportions that the sensor feeds darkened automatically. Flint’s eyes narrowed in response and his mouth wanted to fall open at the destruction visited upon this opponent. Before his eyes, the Kilvar warship was torn into several pieces which were hurled slowly away and in different directions by the immense explosive forces.

“Full broadside from the Langinstol!” said Fredericks.

The sight of the Kilvar warship’s low-speed destruction was mesmerising and Flint watched a beautiful fan of tiny white sparks eject in a spray from the largest piece of debris, while a million other fiery motes created a chaotic display that was both wondrous and terrifying.

Tearing his gaze clear, Flint checked on the position of the Langinstol. Its movement on the tactical indicated that the annihilator was fully recovered from its lightspeed transit and it was accelerating across Tibulon, heading directly for the largest enemy warship. The Daklan battleship was a fearsome opponent, but its mass was less than half that of the Kilvar warship. Even combined with the Loadout, they might lack the firepower, especially if the stasis field collapsed.

“Make Captain Vazox aware of the stasis field if he isn’t already,” said Flint.

“Already done, sir, and I’ve informed him of the likely perimeter,” said Becerra. “The Langinstol will not come within eighty-five kilometres of the reactor’s original position.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Flint took stock. Against the odds, RL Moseley’s scientific hunch had been proven right – although surely not in the manner he imagined - and the ingar-augmented depletion burst had negated the Kilvar defences at the same time as it created the unintended stasis field.

“There’s a chance the primary enemy warship has more capable defences than that smaller one,” said Maddox. “Let’s hope it’s vulnerable.”

Flint didn’t answer and his eyes flicked to the hellburner reload timer. It seemed like an age since Maddox had launched the first salvo, when in fact only seconds had passed and the reload wasn’t complete. The starboard and rear clusters were loaded and ready, and had the heavy cruiser been operating with full output, Flint might have tried a rapid nose-tail swap to bring those clusters onto target. With the engines down on power and the Loadout handling like a construction yard shuttle, he didn’t dare take the risk.

“The primary ship is on the move!” said Becerra. “Climbing vertically from its starting position.”

Up it came, jagged and primal in shape, yet also with distinct technological cruelty, as if the Kilvar had designed this warship to be as visually intimidating as its weapons were potent. At the same time as the huge enemy warship began climbing, the Loadout’s sensors obtained their first clear view of the depletion burst aftermath.

The facility’s topside structures were gone and the reaction had created a 160-kilometre basin in the planet’s surface. The sides of the bowl weren’t shallow and they dropped steeply, as if the depletion burst’s expansion hadn’t been much affected by the presence of the stone. The moment Flint saw the basin, he feared the personnel were dead unless the mesh deflector had been proof against the blast. The search would come later.

It wasn’t a good time for distractions and Flint had to contend with a Kilvar warship that was rising towards the stasis field’s upper perimeter. The hellburners were reloaded and this was the time to use them.

“Fire!” said Flint.

“Hellburner forward clusters one to three: fired. Topside clusters one to three: fired. Railers have acquired the target.”

Again, Flint was confronted by the sight of his warship’s missiles slowing to a crawl in their pursuit of the accelerating Kilvar warship. The Daklan had fired their own second salvo, and the propulsions of fifty or more additional hellburners curved upwards towards the enemy vessel.

Even locked in the stasis field, the huge warship was fast and it was going to be a close-run thing between escape and hellburner impacts. Flint had another worry – the Kilvar had used their energy weapons to good effect in the first engagement and he had no idea how much the beam would be affected by a stasis field.

As the thought formed, he banked the Loadout and increased altitude. The warship’s response was sluggish, but it was just enough. A thick beam of crimson stabbed out from the Kilvar warship. Its formation was slowed by the stasis field, but in a split-second it was beyond the perimeter and it raked past the Loadout, connecting with the planet’s surface and creating a six-hundred-metre patch of superheated rock.

Flint banked again and he heard Lieutenant Becerra urgently passing on news of this attack to the crew on the Langinstol. A second beam appeared before the first had vanished and this one lanced north towards the incoming annihilator. Swearing loudly, Flint hauled on the controls in anticipation of a third beam.

“Don’t take this as fact, but to the enemy sensors, we probably look as if we’re speeded up a few hundred times,” said Fredericks. “It’s no wonder they can’t land a shot on us.”

“They haven’t landed a shot on us yet, Lieutenant,” said Flint, putting the Loadout into the steepest climb its engines could handle. The third beam came, skimming past the heavy cruiser’s underside and connecting with the rocky plain a few kilometres south.

“The enemy warship has deployed a cannister, sir,” said Garrett. “It’s a big one and I don’t know what it contains.”

“Nothing we want to find out,” said Flint.

“Hellburner impacts any second,” said Maddox. “Waiting on reload.”

Before the missiles struck, the cannister – a long grey cylinder - disappeared in a tiny burst of shards which were visible on one of the Loadout’s sensor feeds. The device was clearly a weapon or countermeasures, though whatever function it was intended to perform didn’t happen either because of hardware failure or – far more likely – an interaction with the stasis field.

The failure was bad news for the Kilvar. First, the Loadout’s hellburners punched into its starboard armour, and a moment later, a larger salvo from the Langinstol struck it portside. Flint continued his evasive manoeuvres while skirting the stasis field perimeter and watching anxiously to find out if the Kilvar vessel had suffered in the plasma explosions which were currently wrapping slowly around its entire midsection.

“They’re about to break out of the stasis field,” said Becerra.

Flint saw it too and he held the Loadout in a lumbering climb. The heavy cruiser’s flank and rear hellburners were loaded and ready to go and he turned the warship, bringing those clusters to bear. “Fire the moment they’re out of the field, Commander.”

“Firing on that condition, sir,” Maddox confirmed.

The Kilvar warship erupted from the stasis field with the fury of an escaping beast, its hull ablaze and a thick smear of particles trailing behind.

“Hellburner starboard clusters one to three: fired. Rear clusters one to three: fired. Drones launched, shock pulse deployed. Holding the interceptors.”

“If the enemy defences come back up once they exit that stasis field, we’re screwed,” said Lieutenant Bolan, telling the others something they’d already guessed.

Everything happened at once. The Loadout’s railer slugs tore into the plasma shroud covering much of the Kilvar warship’s armour and drones raced from their launch bays, broadcasting crap on every wavelength and glittering like diamond peacocks.

Energy beams from the Kilvar warship jumped into the darkness, one missing the Loadout by a hair and two others lancing towards the Daklan annihilator. A sensor lock on the Langinstol allowed Flint a sight of its mesh deflector lighting up and then disappearing.

Back to the enemy vessel went his gaze, in time to see an explosion of ruptured armour on its midsection portside flank, the plating ripped clean and hurled out of the fiercely burning plasma. Flint hadn’t seen much real-life combat, but he knew what a Terrus impact looked like, and the Langinstol had landed a couple of good ones on the Kilvar.

“Enemy missile launch detected!” said Maddox. “Holy crap, there’s a bunch of them heading our way!”

“The interceptors!” yelled Flint. “Don’t wait for a damned invitation, Commander!”

“Interceptors away!”

The Loadout’s shock bomb went off close by and with a flash so intense that the sensor feeds lit the bridge vividly, producing clear-etched shadows and adding a cold blue-grey hue to everything. With the tactical covered in red and the feeds covered in white, Flint sent the Loadout suddenly lower while turning to present the smallest target – the nose – to the inbound warheads and hoping the short range would be enough to make the Kilvar missiles overshoot.

Flint’s desperate manoeuvres brought the forward and upper tubes into play, but the proximity of the shock bomb detonation had affected the sensors and the hellburners wouldn’t lock.

“Damnit!” shouted Maddox. “Lock, you pieces of shit!”

Through it all, the railer discharge didn’t stop and Flint was left doubting if they were targeting any longer. In his mind, he pictured the Kilvar missiles with their huge payloads heading straight for his warship.

The shock bomb flash faded rapidly, leaving dancing lights on Flint’s retinas. Less than a half-second later, the Loadout’s mesh deflector activated and once again the surrounding sky was turned bright, this time by the explosions of enemy missiles.

“Hellburners launched!” shouted Maddox, forgetting to specify the cluster locations in the heat of the engagement.

The mesh deflector went out and the second was activated a moment later by the Kilvar energy beam. Flint cursed. “Both charges gone.”

Hoping the deflectors had soaked everything coming the Loadout’s way, Flint changed course, heading instinctively to where he knew the Langinstol would be. From his periphery, he saw a scattering of red dots on the tactical and then two or three missiles exploded on the topside plating and a red line of energy struck closer to the Loadout’s stern.

Warning lights of intense red and cool amber appeared on Flint’s status screen and the bridge alarm sounded in a background wail that set his teeth on edge. Everything clamoured for his attention and he knew this was the moment when the lives of everyone onboard would be decided by his actions.

Leaving damage control to Lieutenants Fredericks and Bolan, Flint got a fix on the Kilvar warship. It was climbing rapidly and accelerating east, and it was in a bad way, cloaked in fire and leaving a smudge of particle-blunted heat light as it flew. Loose debris was torn off by the violence of its acceleration and a few billion tons of burning metal and ternium spilled towards Tibulon’s surface. Flint was sure the enemy had seen enough of the engagement, but he couldn’t allow them a final shot at killing him as they escaped.

His reactions took over. He pulled at the controls while placing the forward engine modules into maximum thrust portside, simultaneously putting the rear modules into full thrust starboard. The Loadout’s entire structure groaned, making Flint wonder how much damage his warship had sustained. With its propulsion howling and the sensor feeds spinning crazily, the heavy cruiser completed the nose-tail swap manoeuvre he’d rejected earlier. It wasn’t perfect, but a final correction on the control bars brought up a lock light on the loaded rear clusters.

This time, Maddox wasn’t slow.

“Rear hellburner clusters one to three: launched,” she said, so quickly after the lock light appeared that Flint knew she’d been razor-focused and waiting for it.

Twelve missiles sped off in pursuit of their target and Flint banked once more to aim the next loaded clusters in the right direction. High above Tibulon, the Kilvar warship’s acceleration had taken it out of the planet’s atmosphere and a combination of high explosives and friction had turned into a fireball.

They’re going to activate an SRT, thought Flint in anger. They’ll escape and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Flint was given a demonstration of his enemy’s mentality. Instead of entering lightspeed, the Kilvar dumped a second cannister and took another shot at both the Loadout and the Langinstol with their energy weapon. Flint swore when his warship was struck for a second time. A split-second later, the Langinstol was hit twice in quick succession. At some point, its mesh deflector charges had been spent and both beams connected with the annihilator’s unprotected hull.

The cannister exploded and this time it produced a startling flash of deep red, which expanded into a sphere a few hundred kilometres in diameter. When the hellburners raced through the sphere and crashed into the enemy warship, their warheads failed to detonate.

“So damn close!” shouted Maddox, evidently predicting the same outcome as Flint.

“Fire!” shouted Flint, as soon as he saw the reloading light go out on the topside clusters. It was too late, he was sure.

It wasn’t Flint’s day to die and it wasn’t the Kilvar’s day to live. The enemy crew failed to consider the result of multiple Terrus impacts on their weakened midsection. Four huge slugs, travelling at sixty thousand kilometres per second, crunched through their armour and tore the huge ship in two at precisely the moment its SRT activated.

The front section of the Kilvar warship entered lightspeed and the rear section stayed in place. Hellburners smashed into it from two directions and, witnessing the result, Flint was certain the four-thousand-metre part which remained at Tibulon no longer presented a threat.

“Where’s the rest of it?” he snarled.

“It entered lightspeed,” said Becerra. “Scanning.”

“They won’t have got far with half their engine mass gone,” said Fredericks.

Flint wrestled with the deep wells of anger he didn’t know he possessed and he increased the Loadout’s altitude, his jaw clenched tightly.

“Where’s that damage report?” he asked. The red lights on his status panel were numerous and the heavy cruiser’s external sensors showed him a view of splayed armour, along with heat and smoke from the missile and beam weapon impacts.

“We’re holding together, sir,” said Fredericks. “Our armour is layered and channels heat. We’re strong against energy weapons.”

“Comms message from the Langinstol, sir,” said Garrett. “They detected the enemy ship’s exit point and they’ve hit the wreckage with four lightspeed missiles.”

“It’s over,” said Maddox, puffing up her cheeks and blowing out. She looked at Flint. “It’s over,” she repeated.

Flint nodded as the news sunk in. The first engagement with the Kilvar was done, though it was hard to claim it a convincing win.

As the adrenaline ebbed away, Flint felt drained. If every confrontation with this new enemy was going to be as brutal and tough as this one, it was would take everything from both humanity and the Daklan to emerge from the coming war victorious.

Deep down, Flint’s conviction in the technological prowess of his own side was already shaken.

TWELVE

Fleet Admiral Carl Recker stood on the edge of the Amber landing strip, his gaze aimed at the sky. It was raining a fine mist which left a sheen on his combat suit, and soaked his hair and exposed skin. Nearby, his shuttle idled in a quiet hum. Overhead, the throbbing notes of lifters and the deeper, faraway sounds of the landed fleet warships, created pressure in the air. Recker breathed in steadily until his lungs were full. This late afternoon on Basalt was dreary, but there was a crispness of autumnal chill that he loved.

“The Loadout is due to exit lightspeed in five minutes, sir,” said Lieutenant Christy Garber. Following Recker’s lead, she also wore full combat gear which surprisingly didn’t look out of place on her. “Like you ordered, it has priority clearance to land.” She levelled a finger at the empty space ahead – a space into which a heavy cruiser would neatly fit. Beyond that, three other heavies were landed for routine maintenance. “It’s going right there.”

“This rain can go away,” said Lieutenant Thad Vogel.

Recker sighed inwardly when he saw the other man making a useless effort to wipe rain from his combat suit and reminded himself that Vogel was employed because he was a damned good liaison officer, not for his ability to put a gauss slug through an alien skull at fifty thousand metres in vacuum conditions.

“Captain Osteen, have there been any reports of a Kilvar appearance at the scatter points on the Loadout’s return journey?” asked Recker.

Captain Bobby Osteen was broad-shouldered, short-haired and curt with people he didn’t like – a curtness which was the main obstacle between him and promotion, since it tended to rub other vital personnel the wrong way. He was also one of the diminishing number of officers with extensive combat experience from the Daklan wars, and often came up with a different take on a situation, which was an ability Recker appreciated.

“No reports of enemy activity at either scatter point, sir.”

Recker was uneasy, but he’d done what he could to protect Basalt. During the Lavorix wars, he’d once been pursued by a vast enemy warship which could detect and follow lightspeed tunnels, and the extended engagement had been one of the most stressful times of his life.

Subsequent to the war’s conclusion, he’d created numerous scatter points between alliance planets. These scatter points were clusters of shuttles, transports and old-model warships stationed together in remote locations. The idea was for a threatened warship to stop at a scatter point midway to its destination and for every gathered spaceship to then enter lightspeed at the same time, creating dozens of lightspeed tunnels heading to different places. Of course, only one of those tunnels would lead to a populated planet, but any pursuers wouldn’t know which it was.

Given the appearance of a previously unencountered alien species – likely Kilvar - Recker had ordered the Loadout to return via two of the scatter points, introducing an exponentially larger delay to the enemy if they gave chase by exhaustively following each lightspeed tunnel.

“I think we should have left the Loadout and the exium out in deep space for a couple of months, sir,” said Osteen gruffly. “Better safe than sorry.”

“I understand your concerns, Captain. I extended the return journey to two weeks – it’s the most I was willing to consider.”

“Plus the stasis field took three days to collapse,” said Lieutenant Garber. “That’s seventeen days with no sign of the Kilvar.”

“Kilvar,” said Osteen, spitting a thick glob of phlegm onto the ground. “Another bunch of shit-eating alien scumbags for us to deal with.”

The final member of Recker’s party, was Lieutenant Jodie Farrow and she raised an eyebrow disapprovingly at Osteen’s bad manners. Farrow was an expert in comms, sensors and weapons tech. She was also as likeable as Garber, which opened far more doors amongst the researchers and scientists than Osteen’s bluntness.

“We need that exium sample,” she said. “The Firestorm is ready for testing.”

“One sample and one ship,” said Osteen. “Our main refinery is gone.”

“We have ingar in stores, plus four other reactors like they had in the vault,” said Recker. “The Daklan have ingar and they also have reactors.”

In spite of his confident words, Recker wasn’t happy with the situation. The Tibulon research facility was the first place to create a permanently stable version of superstressed ternium – assuming the claims had not been subject to scientific exaggeration – and while data from the process had been issued to other facilities, it was somewhat lacking in clarity and entirely unreviewed.

Accepting that rapid technological advancement required a risk or two, Recker had allowed the scientific teams working on Tibulon to descend into what he jokingly thought of as a semi-feral state, in which certain rules and regulations were stretched, bent or completely ignored. The upshot and downside was that RL Moseley and various senior members of his team were the only ones capable of replicating the conditions of the original reaction which created the exium sample. And they were due to land on Basalt in the next few minutes.

“How long are final tests due to take?” asked Vogel. “A few of Admiral Ivinstol’s officers are pushing for answers. They want to start creating their own exium as soon as possible.”

“The tests will take as long as they take,” said Recker. “The exium needs to be held in different states while we scan for abnormalities. We can put the prototype into a test vessel, but if we start installing exium modules in frontline warships, there’s a real risk we’ll discover a flaw or an instability in the substance just when we don’t need it.”

“The reports of invulnerable enemy warships have me worried, Fleet Admiral,” said Osteen. “We don’t even know if it was the stasis field which allowed our weapons to damage them, or something else caused by the reaction on Tibulon. Our efforts should be equally focused on answering that question.”

“RL Moseley apparently has some ideas,” said Lieutenant Farrow. “He just lacks the means to test them while he’s stuck on the Loadout.”

“I thought we put Moseley and his egghe-” Osteen stopped himself and then continued. “…Moseley and his team on Tibulon so they wouldn’t accidentally create death spheres anywhere near a populated planet like Basalt, or put us all into stasis for an eternity. And they’re coming here, probably itching to fire up those reactors and see what happens when they combine fifty Lavorix ass cheeks with superstressed ternium and the manure from a…”

“Please, Captain,” said Recker, lifting a hand in warning. “Enough.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Loadout has exited lightspeed, sir,” said Garber. “They’ve just this moment confirmed their arrival with the Amber ground controller and they’re heading in for a landing.”

“Distance?”

“A quarter of a million klicks as per emergency procedures, sir.”

“Six minutes travel time with their reduced output,” said Recker, shifting impatiently.

“Everyone onboard has been instructed to exit by the forward boarding ramp immediately, sir,” said Garber. “The pickup crews are ready for them and the recovery teams will pilot the Loadout into the vacant dock once they’ve run some initial diagnostics. Estimates based on damage audit files are eighty days for a complete back-to-new repair, including a swap out of its existing ternium modules.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” The rain trickled down Recker’s neck and he suppressed a shiver. His suit helmet was resting in the shuttle doorway a few paces away and he considered putting it on. Instead, he left it where it was and admitted what he really wanted was a coffee.

Recker left the urge for caffeine unanswered and waited for the Loadout to descend through the rainclouds. He didn’t particularly need to be here to witness the heavy cruiser’s landing, but he felt obliged for reasons he couldn’t explain. It didn’t seem likely the Kilvar would settle for just one attack on an alliance facility. That meant war was coming, and Recker wanted to see first-hand what this engagement had done to a fleet heavy cruiser.

“Latest report from Ravel, sir,” said Lieutenant Vogel, reading text off a palm-sized portable comms unit. “Admiral Tovar remains fully mobilised. Monitor satellites have detected nothing unusual.”

“Thank you,” said Recker absently.

Vogel had the comms unit halfway to his pocket when it alerted him to another message. “The hourly reports from Deep Space Quad 1, 2, 3 and 4 have arrived.” Vogel furrowed his brow as he skimmed the details. “Nothing untoward.” The device buzzed again. “Admiral Ivinstol confirms dispatch of ninety-six lightspeed missiles from Terrani. ETA at Bronze: two days.”

“Hold the updates for the time being, Lieutenant,” said Recker, not wishing to be bogged down in the minutiae. “Except the urgent ones.”

“Yes, sir,” Vogel nodded, attempting to slip the comms unit into his leg pocket. It was too quick for him and buzzed again. He smiled thinly and read the message, but kept the contents to himself.

“It’s here,” said Recker.

He cocked his head and listened intently. A rough, bass-heavy sound came from all around, adding to the thickness of the ternium-laden air. Then, the Loadout broke through the low cloud cover, descending rapidly. The heavy cruiser had suffered badly in the engagement, and its cratered hull was ragged with torn armour plating.

Elsewhere, ugly patches had formed where the alloys had been heated so much that rivers of metal had flowed and hardened again. Based on sight alone, Recker believed an eighty-day turnaround time for repairs was about right and, since the Loadout was based on a standard design, the shipyard would have suitable propulsion modules ready to drop in.

“Looks nasty,” said Osteen. He raised an arm and pointed a finger. “The size of that crater makes me think the Kilvar missiles carry maybe a fifty percent larger payload than our hellburners.”

“I agree,” said Recker. “And maybe half the payload of a lightspeed missile.”

“A third to a half,” said Osteen. “And the Kilvar beam weapon tech is way ahead of ours if the extent of that melt patch is anything to go by.”

“They had multiple beam generators on the larger of their two ships as well,” said Recker, his eyes narrowed as he followed the path of the Loadout towards the ground. “With an individual firing interval much too short for comfort.”

“I don’t think any of us expected the Kilvar to be flying rust buckets fitted with wing-mounted launchers,” said Farrow. “We’ve been preparing for this and we can take plenty away from the engagement at Tibulon – not all of it bad.”

“Missiles and beam weapons are something we know,” said Osteen. “Sooner those than disintegration cannons and shit like that.”

As the Loadout approached the ground, its pilot applied the brakes and the engines rumbled like a dozen sonic booms. Recker screwed up his face at the pain in his ears and also because the harshness of the sound made him angry. If every Kilvar warship had the capability to disable a ternium power source, the alliance needed to find a counter as soon as possible.

There was a lot to deal with and all the preparation which had come before didn’t seem to count for much.

“Setting down,” said Garber.

The heavy cruiser landed gently and the forward boarding ramp swung open. As soon as that ramp touched the alloy-reinforced concrete, the first figures emerged from the airlock. While this was happening, a huge, armoured transport sped in low from where it had been parked, and several ground vehicles carrying troops and technicians raced from the middle of the landing strip.

A second, smaller shuttle hovered in the air a few hundred metres from the Loadout’s nose. The majority of the Tibulon personnel were going onto this second transport, while RL Moseley and his most senior reports were heading straight for the research facility, along with the exium prototype.

“Seen enough, sir?” asked Garber.

“No, I don’t think I have,” said Recker, crossing to his personal shuttle and picking up his suit helmet. “There’s been a change of plan, folks. I’d like to meet Captain Flint personally.”

“You’ve read his combat report, sir,” said Vogel, clearly anxious to get on.

“I’ve read Captain Flint’s personnel file as well,” said Recker. “He’s seen battle before. I want to hear what he has to say.”

“He’s due to board the heavy transport, sir, along with the escort team,” said Garber.

“I’m going to join them,” said Recker. “I’ve got a few old friends over there and they’ve come through for me again. I’d like to express my gratitude.”

“I’ll contact the pilot on the armoured transport and order a hold until we’re onboard,” said Garber, knowing at once that Recker’s mind was made up.

“Don’t order a hold, Lieutenant.” Recker turned. The area around his personal shuttle was clear of vehicles and obstacles. “They can come and pick me up right here.” He pointed at the others. “You all have plenty to deal with, so it’ll be just me and Lieutenant Garber. Take the shuttle and return to your duties.”

“Yes, sir,” said Farrow. She gave Recker a smile. “It would have been nice to see what kind of people are on that transport.”

“Interesting people,” said Recker, smiling in return. He gestured towards the shuttle again. “Go – I’ll be back later this afternoon.”

Recker’s team didn’t argue and they disappeared into the shuttle. Those few seconds were enough for Garber to pass on the order to the armoured shuttle.

“Once the loading is done, they’ll head our way.” She fixed Recker with a hard stare, indicating a difficult question was incoming. “This unscheduled trip is definitely all about what you said it was about, and nothing to do with seeing your wife, isn’t it?”

Nobody ever got angry with Garber, and Recker was no exception. He laughed. “It’s been eight days now,” he said. “Lera-Vel and her entire team have been working sixteen hour shifts and when they’re not working, they’re sleeping wherever in that research facility they can find to lay their heads.”

“The Firestorm is important,” said Garber.

“In more ways than one,” said Recker.

Garber turned her gaze towards the transport. “According to the comms, they’re ready to depart.”

Recker looked as well. The doors were facing away, which had prevented him from watching the loading. Now it was done, the transport climbed fifty metres vertically and then flew steadily across the landing strip towards Recker. Before it arrived, his personal shuttle departed and at a velocity which indicated Captain Osteen was probably at the controls.

The armoured transport was two hundred metres in length and fitted with armour plating that could withstand pretty much anything this side of a warship-launched missile. It settled, producing groans from its multiple landing legs, and Recker gazed up at the slab side of the vessel. Having experienced enough shuttle combat to last a lifetime, he was proud for the alliance’s ground forces to have a deployment vehicle which could adequately protect them.

One of the passenger doors sank into the armour and then slid into a recess, while extendable stairs emerged from a hatch. Climbing rapidly, Recker entered the airlock, which the pilot was remotely holding in an open position.

A passage through the armour led to one of the personnel bays, a place which was fitted with rows of bucket seats and which smelled of burned rubber and sweat. Viewscreens were installed on the forward and aft bulkheads, both showing a feed of the landing strip. A replicator in one corner churned and gurgled like it was caught in a cleaning loop.

Milling around like they had too much energy to sit, the members of Lieutenant Vance’s platoon turned Recker’s way.

“Hey, sir,” said Private Eric Drawl. “Can I put in an official complaint about the replicator?”

Recker laughed and his eyes searched for Lieutenant Vance. He was there, as indomitable as ever.

“Good to see you, sir,” said Vance.

The transport’s engines rose in volume with the same metallic trait as those found in a fully-fledged warship and Recker raised his voice to be heard.

“Well met, Lieutenant. Once again, the alliance owes you thanks.”

Vance cracked a smile. He looked older than last time they’d met, but there again, Recker knew he did too.

“This one was nice and simple, sir. Only a couple of aliens to shoot and then we hid underground.”

Recker knew Vance well enough to understand that he was holding something back. The soldier had seen something on Tibulon he didn’t like.

“What is it, Lieutenant?” Recker asked softly.

“A feeling of age, sir. The Kilvar have been around forever and the ones we shot weren’t alive in the same way as we recognize it. They’re nothing like the Lavorix.”

For a man who’d seen everything and put gauss slugs into most of it, Vance looked worried. And that had Recker worried too.

Vance forced a smile. “Aside from the Kilvar, the hardest part of the mission was listening to RL Moseley explaining ingar reaction combinants and stasis field decay variables.”

“Listening to Drawl talk crap is usually the hardest part of any mission,” said Private Ossie Carrington. “This time, we got lucky.”

“Where is RL Moseley?” asked Recker, determining that he’d speak to Vance in greater depth as soon as he got the opportunity.

“He’s with a bunch of like-minded individuals in one of the rear bays, sir,” said Private Enfield, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “They take turns stroking the exium prototype.”

“Enfield’s been having wet dreams about blowing it up, sir,” said Private Steigers. “Just to see the look on everyone’s faces.”

“I’m glad you resisted the urge, Private.” Recker reached out and clapped Enfield on the shoulder. “Else I’d have had to insert a second, larger charge up your…”

“Sir!” said Garber, pretending shock.

Recker laughed again. “Just catching up, Lieutenant. It’s been a while.”

“Captain Flint and his crew are in the cockpit, sir,” said Vance. “I don’t think they could stay away.”

“What do you make of him, Lieutenant?” said Recker, lowering his voice again.

“I can’t tell you much about his flight skills, sir.”

“What about the man?”

Vance nodded slowly. “He’s got iron. In his own way.”

“We’re going to need officers with the instinct,” said Recker.

Again, Vance nodded. He understood. The HPA trained its officers well, but few had that unidentifiable ability to survive against the odds – not just once, but time and again. Whether it was luck or something else, Recker didn’t know, but he had that quirk about him, and Vance likely had it as well.

“About twenty klicks to the research building,” said Recker, looking at the viewscreen on the forward bulkhead. The shuttle was flying along the edge of the shipyard and the ground teams were as busy as ever, constructing warships that already seemed inadequate to face the coming threat.

“What happens after we escort the prototype to its destination, sir?” asked Vance.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead, Lieutenant.”

“I take it the retirement offer has been rescinded?”

“Would you take it if I offered again?”

“Hell no, sir.”

“I’m going to need you, Lieutenant. I have the feeling in my bones.”

A stuttering in the transport’s engines caught Recker by surprise, but he held his balance. Most of the soldiers did too, except for a couple of the younger faces who stumbled and cursed their clumsiness. The engines juddered again.

“Sir, that’s what happened…” said Garber.

“I know,” said Recker.

He’d brought his suit helmet with him this time and he dropped it over his head and tightened it in place with ease born from practice. Accessing the top-priority comms channels, Recker gritted his teeth when he heard the ground controllers talking to each other. An unidentified object had appeared above Basalt and it was approaching fast.

“The Kilvar,” said Recker through his chin speaker. “They’re here for the exium.”

Even as he spoke the words, Recker didn’t know for certain if the enemy had come to Basalt solely to take the exium prototype, or if he was witnessing the early moves in a far wider conflict.

“Sir, you need to buckle up,” said Vance.

Recker dropped into one of the seats. In five seconds, he had the padded harness around him, and the metal clip slotted into place with a sharp clack. He turned his attention once more to the comms.

“This is Fleet Admiral Recker,” he said into the ground controller comms channel. “Are there similar sightings at other planets?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, sir,” said one of the officers. He sounded predictably agitated. “Our real time FTL comms transmitters have gone offline. Some of our other comms links are showing signs of signal degradation.”

“Damnit, we’re under attack!” said Recker. “Sound the base alarm!”

“It’s already activated, sir,” said the man.

The transport’s propulsion cut out for a half-second, resumed, and then cut out again. Realising he was losing control, the vessel’s pilot reduced altitude rapidly, banking as he searched for a suitable place to land. Recker sensed the uncertainty in the pilot’s movements, like he was unable to pick which of the parking lots or base highways to set down on.

All around him, soldiers were scrambling for their seats and then the pilot spoke on the internal comms, telling everyone to prepare for a hard landing.

With another lurch, the transport lost altitude and from the feeling in his stomach, Recker knew the life support had failed. A booming resumption of thrust lasted for five or six seconds and the view screens went blank.

The propulsion went offline and this time, Recker knew it wasn’t coming back. Hardly anyone spoke and the descent was eerily quiet. It was also short-lived. With a crash that threw the bay’s occupants hard into their harnesses, the transport came down.

THIRTEEN

Lieutenant James Vance unsnapped his harness buckle and surged from his seat. The floor was canted, though not too badly and the high-grip soles of his combat boots coped without a problem. Glancing around, he noted that everything was seemingly intact. That was expected - any impact hard enough to warp the interior would have also been fatal to the occupants, what with the life support unit being offline. Vance took a breath and began shouting orders at the members of his platoon.

“Up!” he yelled. “We’re getting out of here! Corporal Hendrix, check for casualties!”

“Yes, sir.”

Fleet Admiral Recker was on his feet, his eyes clear and his mouth talking into the comms. Vance signalled his impatience to clear the bay and Recker nodded. At the same time, the platoon comms channel filled with noise and the activity lights for several other channels Vance was linked to lit up with traffic.

“Sir, you need to stay with me,” said Vance, staring directly into Recker’s visor, so there’d be no chance of doubt. Then, he turned and pointed at the flush door to the weapons cabinet. “Sergeant Gantry, look in there. If you find any Rodans, distribute them to the squads.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gantry shouldered his way through the mustering soldiers in his haste and Vance directed his attention elsewhere. “Sergeant Tagra, take your squad into the rear bay and make sure the evacuation happens quickly. Whatever happens, don’t lose sight of that exium prototype.”

“Will my squad get Rodans, sir?” said Targa. “They were effective against the Kilvar.”

“We’ll bring out what we can, Sergeant. Now go.”

“Yes, sir.” Tagra gave an order and the members of Squad B headed for the rear exit.

Vance didn’t stand still – he contacted the pilot and discovered that the man was already on his way to the forward flank exit, along with Flint and the rest of the Loadout’s crew.

“Where did we come down?” asked Vance.

“The sensors went offline, Lieutenant,” said the pilot. “We should be in a parking lot.”

Vance exited the channel. “Corporal Hendrix, report!”

“No casualties, sir,” she said. “I’ve spoken to RL Moseley on the comms and he says that everyone in the aft bay is on their feet.”

“We got lucky,” said Vance.

“I’d say we got real lucky, sir.”

Vance and his squads were accustomed to situations where fast recovery and even faster reactions were critical. Not much more than a minute had passed since the transport came down and he felt that a degree of order had been imposed. Now it was time to get the hell away from the crash site.

“This way, sir,” said Vance, striding towards the passage leading to the airlock.

It was a relief to find that Recker had lost none of his sharpness and Vance smiled inwardly when he saw the Fleet Admiral struggling against his urge to order the troops around himself. Two leaders were one too many at a time like this and Recker kept his mouth shut.

“After you, Lieutenant.”

“Here, sir, take this,” said Gantry, offering Vance one of the Rodans from the weapons locker. “There’s plenty for everyone.”

“Thanks,” said Vance, grabbing the weapon. It weighed almost three times as much as a standard gauss rifle, had a thick barrel, a wide bore and a fifty-round magazine.

“And you, sir,” said Gantry, offering a second Rodan to Recker. “If the Kilvar come knocking, you’re going to want one of these instead of a rifle.”

Vance arrived at the airlock and his eyes went to the green light on the closed inner door. Most things these days relied on a ternium power source, but the important stuff generally had a battery backup.

Once the inner door opened, Vance hurried to the closed exit, raising his free hand behind him. “Hold, sir. I doubt the enemy have landed their troops, but it’s better safe than sorry.”

The hold order didn’t apply to the other soldiers and the Daklan Londivir followed Vance towards the exit, carrying a Rodan of his own.

“Ready?” asked Vance.

Londivir tapped the side of his helmet with his knuckles and nodded, his eyes gleaming with an intensity which came when battle was promised.

Delaying no longer, Vance touched the access panel and, with a whirr of motors, the door slid into its recess. The light outside was dull and he hadn’t caught up on local time yet. He checked his HUD readout, which received time data from the local ground controller and discovered it was mid evening. Sundown was less than two hours away.

“Like the pilot told us – it’s a parking lot,” Vance said, looking outside.

On this, the transport’s starboard side, ten or fifteen metres separated the airlock exit from the grey wall of a building. Below, several gravity cars were visible, and one of the shuttle’s landing feet had come down on a truck, crushing it flat. Vance leaned out warily and discovered that three of the aft landing legs were splayed outwards, which explained the slope in the floor.

Near the vessel’s nose, the forward steps had extended and personnel were descending carefully. Towards the stern, the cargo boarding ramp was visible, but nobody was coming down it.

“What’s out there, Lieutenant?” asked Recker.

“We’re hemmed in by buildings north, south and west, sir. I can’t see what’s to the east. We should exit the shuttle and find out what’s happening.” Vance hesitated. He hadn’t asked Fleet Admiral Recker what his plans were, though they didn’t take much guessing. “What are your priorities, sir?”

“Too many to list.” Recker’s face twisted in a mixture of anger and dark humour. “It’s imperative the exium prototype reaches the main research facility to the north. You’re still on escort duties, Lieutenant.”

“Why is that destination so important, sir?”

“The test bed warship is called Firestorm and it’s ready for the exium unit to slot in place.”

“Exium isn’t affected by the Kilvar ternium drain,” said Vance, having heard RL Moseley talk about it at great length. “We only have a small cube of it in the aft bay. That’s surely not enough to power anything bigger than this shuttle, even if exium is as much of a step change as the scientists say it is.”

“It’s not the quantity, Lieutenant. We’ve spent the last seventeen days studying the data provided to us by RL Moseley. It’s our belief that exium, as well as being entirely stable itself, also acts as a stabiliser for superstressed ternium. In the past, we haven’t dared run our propulsion modules beyond certain thresholds. The exium might change that.”

Vance nodded his understanding. He wasn’t scientifically minded and didn’t pretend to know the finer technical details of warships, propulsions or even the Rodan sweeper he was holding, but he’d been around hardware long enough that he had a grasp on some of the terminology.

“Our conventional attacks didn’t hurt the enemy warships, sir.”

“No, they didn’t,” Recker admitted. “Again, the Firestorm might change all that, but only with the exium block installed.”

“The Kilvar had a nose for the prototype and my HUD map is telling me we’re eight klicks from the research building entrance, plus another long run to the lifts once we’re inside,” said Vance. “If everything’s offline and we have no air cover, the enemy are going to find us one way or another.”

“That’s the situation, Lieutenant.”

“Like always,” Vance couldn’t bring himself to smile. Time was passing, but a mission started in haste ended in failure more often than not. “Are you coming with us, sir?”

Recker was torn, that much was clear, and a dozen emotions played across his features. He’d once been the best human pilot in the fleet – maybe the best in the human-Daklan alliance – and Vance doubted the years had blunted his skills.

“Sir, I know how much this means to you,” said Lieutenant Garber. “But someone’s got to deal with everything else that’s happening. You lead from the top now, not from the cockpit.”

“Thank you for the reminder, Lieutenant Garber. You’re right.” Disappointment flashed on Recker’s face – the acknowledgement that his past would have to stay in the past. “Captain Flint and his crew will accompany you, Lieutenant. I’ll let him know you’re in charge until you make it to the research facility.”

“Where are you going, sir?” Vance had been stationed on the Amber base many times, but the place was huge and sprawling. He called up a HUD map, and searched for the nearest command and control facility.

“There’s a bunker about a thousand metres from here,” said Recker. “I’ll find protection when I arrive, but I’d appreciate it if you loaned me three members of your platoon, just in case I run into something on the way.”

“I recommend you take five soldiers, sir,” said Vance. “The Kilvar that dropped from the roof on Tibulon soaked a lot of bullets before it went down. Maybe there are other types of Kilvar as well. Bigger ones, and meaner.”

“Another feeling?” asked Recker, his gaze intense.

“These are aliens, sir. Who knows what shit they’re storing up for us?”

“Point taken. Five soldiers it is.”

Vance furrowed his brow at a sudden thought and Recker was not going to like what he was about to say. “I don’t think we can take the researchers with us, sir. I doubt half of them can run more than fifty metres and none of them are wearing combat armour.”

“And if you handed them a gauss rifle, you wouldn’t trust them not to accidentally kill a friendly,” said Recker. He twisted his face in thought. “Plus, it doesn’t make sense to keep the exium module and the scientists together. If we lose the prototype, RL Moseley and his team can show us how to make another one.”

“That is what I was thinking, sir. Perhaps the scientists should go with you and Lieutenant Garber.”

“You’ve dodged a bullet here, Lieutenant.”

Vance kept his face neutral. “Absolutely, sir.” He pointed at some of the vehicles close by. “Will the base gravity cars work? I don’t know what grade ternium they’re fitted with, but any vehicle would be a lot faster than running.”

“Best guess is no, since they use refined ternium for power. It’s low grade and nothing like we install on a warship, but it’s not the same as the raw product. Same with most of the shuttles on the base,” said Recker. “There might be a few older models which aren’t on the inventory but which are being used by a ground team somewhere.” He shrugged. “Nothing we can rely on.”

“In that case, we’d best get moving, sir.”

Vance knew he’d taken up a couple of valuable minutes holding everyone in the shuttle, but a lot was riding on this and he didn’t want to screw up a future decision just because he hadn’t taken the opportunity to ask questions now.

Down the steps he went to the bottom, where he was able to look east through the armoured transport’s landing legs. He saw a road, and personnel running everywhere, their vehicles abandoned. The rain was coming down heavier than when he’d first disembarked from the Loadout, but the air carried no scents of smoke or destruction.

“No vehicles, so we are walking,” said Londivir, descending to stand next to Vance.

“Looks that way.”

The platoon descended rapidly and took up watchful positions against the nearby vehicles. The double doors to the adjacent building opened briefly, allowing the noise of the interior alarm to spill into the parking lot, and Vance saw hurried movement of personnel in the lobby area.

The shuttle’s crew and those from the Loadout joined the soldiers. Everyone was on one comms channel or the other and Vance hoped a semblance of order would soon be restored to the base. At least Flint looked calm enough and he had the foresight to have dug out a Rodan of his own from one of the forward weapons cabinets, and equipped his crew likewise.

Vance got on the comms as well, where he announced the five names to accompany Fleet Admiral Recker and the scientists. The soldiers he picked weren’t from his veterans, but they were calm, they could shoot, and he trusted them. If they needed direction, Recker could handle that well enough.

“Sergeant Tagra, I expected to see you exiting the shuttle by now,” said Vance, watching for movement on the aft bay ramp.

“RL Moseley is finishing some adjustments to the exium prototype, sir. Its original propulsion was ternium and it failed in the Kilvar attack, so the exium must be reconfigured to provide its own propulsion.” The normally forthright Tagra sounded puzzled, like he was imperfectly repeating something he didn’t understand himself.

“That’s fine, Sergeant. Is RL Moseley finished?”

“Yes, sir.”

Vance switched into the platoon channel and sent invitations to the Loadout’s crew, so they could hear what he was about to say.

“Listen up, folks, we’re at one end of shit creek and we’ve got to bring a 120-ton lump of exium to the other end. Our ternium paddle isn’t going to get us there, so it’s time to use our feet.”

“I see what you did there, sir,” said Private Carrington.

“This is the real deal, Private, so cut the crap,” said Vance. “We’re not on Tibulon now – this is Basalt and last I heard, there were eighteen billion people living here. There’s a warship in an underground facility north of here and it’s packed with alien-busting technology. Without that exium module, it’s going nowhere.”

The message finally began to sink in and the newer members of the platoon shifted uneasily at the load Vance had just dumped on them. They weren’t lacking in training, they simply hadn’t been given an opportunity to gain experience and this was where they’d need good officers to keep them steady.

“Are we going to run into more of those Kilvar, sir?” asked Private Faye Raven. She was carrying two Rodans as well as her gauss rifle, and the soldiers around her were also laden with spares for Sergeant Tagra’s squad.

“Take it as given. That’s why you’re carrying guns, soldier. You use them to shoot bad guy aliens before they blow your head off and make humanity and our Daklan friends extinct.”

“Yes, sir,” said Raven, straightening. “I will shoot every bad guy alien I see.”

“There has been a facility-wide comms outage, Lieutenant,” said Corporal Charnos. “Our suit units will function adequately, but we may run into problems when we’re underground.”

“The Amber comms are more robust than those on Tibulon, soldier,” said Recker. “We’ve got hard links to ground receptors, along with battery power to every major hub. We won’t be sending any real time FTL comms, but everything on the base should work exactly as intended – it just may take a few minutes for the re-routing to happen.”

“That is good,” said Charnos. He grinned, showing both his fangs and his more humanlike teeth. “You have configured your base in the Daklan way.”

“Hey, it’s you Daklan copying us humans, my good buddy,” said Drawl.

“Enough,” said Vance at once. “Let’s get things moving while the going is good.”

He looked into the sky, expecting to find nothing but clouds. Instead, he saw a gargantuan shape descending through the developing gloom of evening. At the same time as he spotted the Kilvar warship, Vance caught the sound of its engines, which produced an oppressive resonance that made him growl low in his throat. The other soldiers looked as well.

“Damn and crap,” said Private Bautista. “Looks bigger than the one on Tibulon.”

“It is,” said Recker, who was likely to be the best judge out of anyone here. “It’s twelve klicks from nose to tail.”

The Kilvar warship wasn’t just long. By Vance’s judgement it was about eight kilometres across the beam at its widest point, with an overall shape similar to an elongated diamond. As it dropped through the clouds, Vance spotted more of the forward-jutting spines that he’d noticed on the warship at Tibulon.

“Any chance we can bring the Ixidar back into service, sir?” Vance asked Recker. “We’re going to need it.”

The Ixidar – known as the Destroyer - was a warship of immense, destructive prowess, captured from the Lavorix twelve years ago. Last Vance had heard, it had shut down and the alliance hadn’t yet figured out how to return it to an operational state.

“If I could, I would, Lieutenant.” The longing on Recker’s face was unmistakeable. “The Ixidar would turn that Kilvar warship to powder in two shots. We’ve installed the first replica of one of its cannons on the Firestorm.” He shook his head, his gaze distant. “Twelve years of research and it’s got nothing like the punch of the original tech.”

The Kilvar warship descended until it was hovering at an altitude of three thousand metres. It seemed to Vance that he could reach out and touch it from where he was standing and he stared at this enemy, like his anger could reduce it not just to powder, but to the very atoms from which it was made.

“Fleet Admiral, we should go,” said Garber. “Lieutenant Vance has this under control.”

“That he does,” said Recker. “Good luck, Lieutenant. Whatever help I can send your way I’ll do it.”

“I’m not sure this calls for thousands of troops, sir. Crowds will attract attention.”

“Let’s watch and see. This is a military base and there are tens of thousands of ground troops stationed within its perimeter. I know how vulnerable they are to an orbital strike, but I don’t want the exium snatched from our grasp by a lightning attack either.”

Vance had never been a man for bravado and figured that actions always spoke loudest. He didn’t pretend he could hold out against a thousand Kilvar ground troops and he didn’t act like this was going to be a walk in the park. “We’ll hold the device as long as possible, sir.”

“I know you will.” Recker turned and his gaze settled on Captain Flint. “I can’t promise you I won’t relieve you of this duty, Captain, but if you’re first to the Firestorm, don’t wait. Take it and do what you can.”

Flint’s voice was deep and steady. “I’m locked out of the Firestorm documentation, Fleet Admiral. If I’m to fly it, I should know what it’s capable of.”

“I’ll fix that for you once I’m at the command and control bunker, Captain,” said Recker.

Vance was impatient to be on his way, and by now, Sergeant Tagra and his squad were at the bottom of the cargo ramp, doing their best to corral a dozen of the alliance’s finest technical minds who were arguing heatedly over the exium prototype which hovered silently in the middle of them. A few bellowed orders had the scientists hurrying in Recker’s direction. Absently, Vance counted five humans and seven Daklan making up the dozen.

“A thousand metres to the command bunker? It’s going to be a long trip for the Fleet Admiral,” said Sergeant Gantry, handing his spare Rodan to Private Janie Mack.

“It’s the scientists I’m worried about,” said Vance. He spoke into the comms. “Everyone listen up! We’re moving out to the main research facility. Any sign of a Kilvar, shoot it first and ask questions later.”

Vance interfaced with the exium unit and gave it a command to follow. The fastest way to get on course was by heading underneath the shuttle. He glanced at the sky again, which had darkened appreciably since the Kilvar warship settled into its low altitude position. It wasn’t only the vessel’s bulk which was responsible – where the clouds were visible, they were darker than before.

“I don’t know if I’d prefer night or day,” Vance said, more to himself than anyone.

The underside of the shuttle was high enough that he wasn’t required to duck and he hurried rapidly towards the opposite side. Behind him came twenty-four soldiers, five members of the Loadout’s crew and an exium module which might or might not be the most valuable object anywhere in the alliance.

Holding briefly at the far edge of the transport, Vance once again looked up, just as a beam of deep red energy stabbed outwards from one of the Kilvar warship’s jagged protrusions. It struck somewhere to the south and was followed by another. A rumble followed a few seconds later, and then Vance spotted bright specks of missile propulsions coming down at incredible speed. The missiles detonated, again out of sight and the crack-boom of a sound wave came soon after.

Vance had already decided this mission was going to be a tough one and that was without the explosives. Now the missiles were raining down and he had energy beams to dodge, it had just got a whole lot harder.

FOURTEEN

Vance pushed the pace, but not so much that his platoon would be exhausted two kilometres from the shuttle. Gravity on Basalt was lower than the training baseline, which gave them a slight advantage, as did the higher gravity on Tibulon where the soldiers had recently been stationed. Having exited the parking lot, Vance kept it simple by choosing the main avenue north. He could have plotted a route undercover directly through the tall buildings to either side, but he took a gamble based on the Kilvar’s tactics last time he’d fought them.

The Amber base was logically arranged and the avenue stretched far into the distance. It was cluttered with power-drained vehicles in all shapes and sizes. A column of angle-sided lightly armed transports was grounded and empty, the hundred-metre crawler they’d been escorting abandoned with them. Where the occupants had gone, it was elsewhere than here. Once the bombardment started, they’d probably decided to shelter in one of the many bunkers beneath Amber and await orders.

That didn’t mean the streets were empty – personnel ran or walked hurriedly in groups or alone. Some shouted questions and the best Vance could suggest was that they take cover wherever was available.

“Do you require assistance?” yelled one Daklan officer, who was leading a platoon in the opposite direction on the other side of the road. Weapons bristled from their ranks and they held good order.

Vance was impressed by the alien’s perceptiveness and he slowed to a walk. “We’re taking this device to the main research facility. It’s what that warship came here for. Can you follow us at a distance? The enemy may be watching for large troop movements.”

The Daklan tapped the side of his helmet and his green eyes glowed pinpricks in the shadows. “We will follow.”

“These are Kilvar and they’re tough,” warned Vance, setting off again.

“So are we, human,” said the Daklan.

Something in the officer’s defiance gave Vance a shiver of pride. The alien had been referring to the alliance when he said we, not just his own species. Respect was mutual and, when Vance thought back to his years fighting the Daklan, he knew it always had been.

A few dozen personnel vehicles had been left haphazardly along the side of the road and Vance was required to divert away from cover in order to go around them. He felt immediately vulnerable and his internal alarms started chiming. Looking up at the warship overhead, Vance saw two more of the energy beams stabbing into the Amber facility.

The first energy beam hit somewhere to the east, only three or four buildings over and the crack of sound was painful. It was followed by the squealing of tearing metal and the sharp snapping of concrete.

“Next come the missiles,” said Steigers.

In came the warheads, a couple of them landing near where the first energy beam had struck. Turning to look along the eastern side road, Vance saw the bright flashes against the matte walls of the flat-sided buildings along that way. A warm breeze washed along the street, turning rapidly into a hot wind.

“Shit, move!” said Vance, increasing his pace. It was looking like time for a change of plan and his eyes scanned ahead for options. All he saw was cars, trucks and people running.

“I thought the Kilvar wanted to capture the exium, not blow it up in a random attack,” said Private Enfield.

“You are very stupid, even for a human,” said Private Rendos. “The enemy behaviour mimics that which we saw from them on Tibulon.”

“Yeah, Enfield you dope,” said Drawl. “They’re blowing up peripheral targets, aren’t they? Like warships and stuff, just in case we manage to get them off the ground.”

“I hope they aren’t blowing up our warships,” said Lieutenant Fredericks, who was in the platoon channel along with everyone else. “I sent out instructions on how to install the old control software and get the engines running again.”

“We have forty-five warships currently stationed at Basalt,” said Flint, evidently with high-level access to the juicy stuff. “Lieutenant Frederick’s instructions went to every one of them. Sooner or later, that Kilvar warship is going to have hellburners exploding against its hull. Even if it’s no more than a distraction.”

“Do we know it’s only a single enemy vessel we’re facing, sir?” asked Vance. The last he’d heard, only one had been sighted, but after that initial report, he’d been dealing with other issues and as a ground officer he wasn’t party to discussions about the fleet.

“I’m not sure, Lieutenant,” said Flint. “I know we’ve lost our satellite ring – all of them in one go this time, not piecemeal like on Tibulon.”

Nearly ten minutes had passed since the shuttle came down and Vance thought it was time someone got a grip on the situation. Recker was the man to do it, but according to a suit comms ping, he was still four hundred metres from the command bunker.

“Shuttle!” yelled Private Raven.

The vessel flew into sight from one of the side roads a few hundred metres ahead of Vance. It was twenty-five metres long, rectangular in shape, and both ends were tapered, making it impossible to be sure which was the front. Slowing to a halt, the vessel rotated.

“Take cover!” shouted Vance. “Hold fire until I tell you.”

With that, he sprinted behind one of the personnel cars and crouched out of sight, with his shoulder pressed against the metal and his Rodan held tightly in both hands.

The platoon wasn’t spread and most of the soldiers threw themselves behind the same two vehicles which had been left on the pavement in front of a row of bushes. Amber didn’t have much in the way of greenery, so the building beyond those bushes probably housed a senior officer or two, Vance guessed.

“I can take it down, sir,” said Private Raimi.

“And then bring every other enemy shuttle our way?” said Vance, chancing a look along the street. “Don’t be stupid, Private – we’ve got a long way to go yet.”

Vance heard a thumping sound coming from somewhere else and he turned to pinpoint the sound. A pair of rockets sped along the avenue and detonated against the Kilvar transport, momentarily hiding it in the centre of a blinding flash. Whatever tech the enemy used to make their warships immune, this shuttle wasn’t fitted with it and when the light faded, its front end was crumpled from the impacts and the plasma heat. Laboriously, the vessel climbed, its engines droning like they were holding up ten times their rated load.

What Vance at first thought was two pieces of flaming debris dropped from the Kilvar shuttle and plummeted to the ground. He swore when he realised it wasn’t wreckage – it was the same alien types as he’d encountered on Tibulon. For a few seconds, the shapes lay on the ground unmoving, and then one struggled upright with plasma still chewing at its flesh.

“Want me to shoot it, sir?” asked Sergeant Gantry.

Before Vance could answer, a third rocket and then a fourth hit the shuttle. This time, the vessel was ripped apart and a shower of superheated fragments were scattered in the sky. One piece came down vertically, crushing the alien which was already tottering and with smoke billowing from its flesh.

That Daklan officer and his platoon did us a real favour, thought Vance.

He leaned out so he could see back along his route, guessing what was coming. The Kilvar warship didn’t keep him waiting and it dropped a warhead into the middle of the street about three hundred metres south. Vance wasn’t sure if the Daklan officer and his platoon had perished. Hopefully, they’d dashed straight for cover and avoided the missile blast.

“I can hear other transports, sir,” said Private Steigers. He was a couple of metres from Vance, behind the same vehicle and with his head raised so he could peer through its open windows.

“Look, the enemy warship is under attack!” said Private Banks.

Vance tipped his head back and saw lines of white and orange coming up from the surface to strike the enemy vessel’s underside. Against its enormous size, the attacks looked pitifully small, but at least it was something that might keep the Kilvar looking in multiple directions.

“I thought everything was shut down,” said Drawl.

“Almost everything in the HPA military runs on a variation of the same backend software, just tailored or developed for each particular use,” said Lieutenant Fredericks. “It’s possible some of the guys out there figured out how to kick their engines into life again.”

“Can you do the same with any of these cars, sir?” asked Drawl.

“Not likely, Private. These vehicles are locked down to stop untrained personnel screwing around just for the hell of it,” said Fredericks.

Vance ordered silence and set off again. The parked vehicles thinned and he was able to hug the walls on the west side of the road. He spotted another platoon of soldiers along the next side road and most of them were carrying shoulder launchers which they aimed at the warship over the base.

“Going to need something bigger,” said Corporal Hendrix.

The increased pace Vance set had deepened his breathing and increased his heart rate. His eyes kept going to the distance counter on his HUD map, where the numbers were counting down far slower than he would have liked.

“Fleet Admiral Recker has reached the bunker,” said Captain Flint. “Maybe we’ll see a more focused response.”

Vance was sure it would happen, but doubted there was much Recker could do that would make this sprint to the research building any safer. The base was in twilight already and darkness was approaching fast, making it harder to discern shapes in the road and those in the sky. Between the warship and the rooftops, Basalt’s lone moon was rising in a crescent of pale-yellow luminance. Soon, Vance knew he’d be relying on his night sight and motion sensors. Perhaps the enemy ground troops would be hampered by darkness, but he wasn’t banking on it. Certainly, night time wouldn’t make a difference to the warship.

Over the course of the next minute, the exchange of fire increased steadily in intensity. Hundreds of tracer lines from ground-launched weaponry made patterns on the sky, while the explosions from return fire produced much larger flashes and the thunder of plasma detonations was a constant rumble which came from all directions. Watching it from ground level as he ran between the flanking buildings made Vance feel like an insect – too insignificant to control his fate and just waiting for a boot heel to descend and crush the life from his body.

Unaccustomed to flights of fancy, Vance cursed himself for being distracted. His anger gave him energy and he increased his pace once more, leaving the soldiers to grumble in the squad channel that he was killing them.

Between each wave of missiles, the Kilvar unleashed their particle beam at whatever ground targets they’d selected, and each discharge produced a rending crack of expanding air, audible over everything else. So far, not one of those beams had struck anywhere close to Vance and his platoon, but he was beginning to wonder if his time was running out.

From his single experience with the Kilvar, he’d assumed an underlying intelligence lay behind the apparent randomness of their attacks. Here on Basalt that randomness was happening again and he asked himself if this was a case of aliens being aliens and doing their own damn thing that only made sense to them. The only explanation Vance could think of was that they needed time to locate the exium.

“Another shuttle,” said Sergeant Tagra. Even when he talked at his normal volume it sounded borderline like he was shouting an order.

Faces turned upwards to look just as the enemy transport emerged into full view across the avenue, no more than a hundred metres ahead. It was the same shape as the last model, scaled up to twice the size. It banked and the nose, tail or whatever it was, tilted downwards. Vance spotted an assembly of some kind mounted on the transport’s underside and he cursed.

“Raimi, Stanar, Danstol, bring it down,” he snarled. “The rest of you, take cover!”

There wasn’t much cover to be had - the next vehicle was fifty metres away, just outside a darkened doorway. After that was a side street another fifty metres further. That left the side wall and it wasn’t going to save anyone from a nose cannon. If the rockets didn’t take out the shuttle, death for the platoon was the likely outcome.

An unspoken competition existed between the squad’s rocket troops, as to who could fire first and still hit the target. The sound of rocket coils whining reached Vance’s ears. A whump of discharges and a whoosh of acceleration made him duck instinctively and three missiles raced over his head.

“Raimi wins,” said Raimi while the missiles were in flight.

“Negative, human,” said Stanar. “The Daklan eye is triumphant.”

Vance didn’t want to call a winner. For him, it was sufficient that all three missiles hit their target and within a split-second of each other. The shuttle’s tapering nose was ripped open and one of its flanks sagged and then tore with the rapid heat expansion caused by the multiple detonations. Still, the vessel was tough and it didn’t break up. Its engines beat a throbbing resonance of distress off the side walls and it rotated towards the platoon. Vance guessed its nose gun was disabled, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Run!” he yelled, waving the soldiers on with his free arm. Maybe the shuttle’s forward sensors were destroyed, he thought, even if the gun wasn’t, and that would mean its crew would be firing blind at the last known position of his platoon.

Given the incredible rate of fire of most repeaters, it was a scant hope that they’d escape the pulverising bullets. As he ran, Vance stared at the shuttle, willing it to come down or fly elsewhere. It was too late. By some twist of fate, the three rocket strikes had missed the shuttle’s nose turret and Vance saw the weapon’s seven barrels pointing in his direction. In the shortest of moments, they spun up to firing speed and he saw his death coming.

FIFTEEN

The gun barrels turned but no bullets spewed out. From the corner of one eye, Vance saw the reason. Still following him, the exium prototype was only three metres away and any attack on the soldiers stood a good chance of hitting the device at the same time.

“Shit,” swore Vance angrily. He was happy to be alive, but not happy at having to rely on a floating cube of exium in order for it have happened. “Destroy that shuttle,” he said.

“Waiting on coil recharge,” said Raimi.

Several bulky shapes fell out of the shuttle’s open flank exit and crunched to the ground.

Setting his Rodan to a narrow spread, Vance fired, aiming high to find out if the Kilvar soldier was vulnerable to head shots. Recoil made the gun thud into his shoulder and its power supply whined softly as the weapon readied itself for another discharge.

“Kill those bastards!” roared Vance.

Even as he said the words, three new rockets launched from his platoon struck the shuttle. Pieces of armour were hurled around and the largest section dropped like a stone. This time, the Kilvar troops scrambled clear with the same piston-like movement as the one Vance had seen close up on Tibulon. As one, they turned towards the platoon, no more than two metres separating each. From this distance and in the twilight, their faces were identical, with depthless eye sockets and a seeping hatred.

“Six targets,” bellowed Tagra. “Grenade out.”

With a convulsive heave of his arm, the Daklan sent a fist-sized plasma grenade towards the enemy soldiers. The explosive glinted in the air as it spun, catching the firelight from the falling shuttle. Drawl believed himself to have the most powerful throw in the entire alliance and Vance saw the soldier whip out a sideways throw, sending his own grenade after the first.

“Fast arm Drawl,” said Private Carrington in a rare compliment. Adjacent to Vance, she stood upright and fired her Rodan into the closest enemy soldier. “I see you’re fully healed after that punch you couldn’t handle.”

“Stronger and fitter than ever, Carrington,” shouted Drawl to be heard over the crashing of the shuttle as it hit the ground.

For all the man’s bravado, Drawl really did have the best throw Vance had ever seen and the soldier’s grenade exploded between two of the Kilvar soldiers, while Tagra’s landed short. The blast engulfed the enemy, turning them into rough outlines amongst the brightness. Neither flinched and they paid no attention to the flames clinging to their limbs.

Vance fired at the same target again, his shot producing a spray of flesh. The top of the Kilvar’s head was half gone, but it didn’t seem to care. “Get ready,” he said. “They’re going to come at us.”

“Deploying MG-12,” said Gantry, sprinting wide and kicking out the tripod on his gun.

“Also deploying,” said Private Rendos. The Daklan swung his heavy repeater magazine from his back and snapped the barrel into a firing position. In a single movement, he dropped low and readied himself.

“Second shuttle incoming!” called Bautista. “This one’s east.”

“Waiting on reload!” said Raimi.

“Another on our six!” shouted Private Fidel Coates. “Damn it’s getting hot out here.”

Vance sent his third Rodan shot into the same enemy soldier’s head. Its face collapsed inwards and it shuddered violently without crashing to the ground. Twisting about, Vance got sight of the two new shuttles – one south and one approaching east over the flat roof of a four-storey research building. They weren’t close but there was no mistaking which way they were headed.

“Kilvar soldiers deployed from that southern shuttle,” said Coates. “Estimate eight or ten, sir. They jumped straight out.”

In a sign that the Kilvar weren’t having everything their own way, a rocket launched from elsewhere struck the eastern shuttle on its underside plating. The vessel banked and accelerated on a course that would see it emerge into the street a short distance behind Vance and his platoon.

“Stay close to the prototype,” joked Private Raven. “It’s the only thing keeping us alive.”

A hard-edged clanking of rapid fire told Vance, without looking, that Gantry and Rendos were putting their repeaters to good use. Eager to find any sign of weakness in his opponents, Vance wheeled away from the two incoming shuttles to witness the effect. In the three or four seconds his attention had been elsewhere, the Kilvar had broken into a run, seemingly oblivious to the concentrated Rodan fire which was punching vast holes in their bodies. They were eighty metres away but coming fast.

The repeaters were more effective than the Rodans, but that was to be expected given the disadvantages in portability and their setup time. The torrent of bullets ejected clouds of matter from the ravaged bodies of the Kilvar and the head of one enemy soldier vanished entirely beneath a concentrated burst of fire. For a few paces, it stumbled on and then collapsed chest-down.

Vance tested something out. He aimed low and shot one of the Kilvar in its lower legs, counted a quick one-two, which was all the time the coils in his Rodan need to recharge and then fired again at the same place. Vance was face-on to the enemy, making it easy to land his shots. One of the alien’s lower legs was shattered by the impacts and, with its enormous weight unsupported, the Kilvar fell to the ground, hardly making an effort to put its hands out. Awkwardly, it tried to rise, only for one of Drawl’s grenades to explode in its face.

With his Rodan tucked into his shoulder and its barrel waving about, Drawl whooped and thew again, dropping his next grenade in the same place. Having suffered enough punishment the Kilvar lay still, flames licking at its body and thick smoke rising into the air.

For the first time, Vance caught the odour of burning Kilvar. He hadn’t expected it to be steaks on a summer barbecue, but the scent was almost caustic and it was only because he’d experienced so much of warfare that he was able to hold down his urge to gag.

“Three still moving to our north,” said Sergeant Gantry.

“There’s shooting to the south,” said Steigers. “I think it’s that Daklan officer and his platoon we saw earlier.”

“I count more than ten Kilvar south,” said Corporal Charnos, staring that way intently.

“’Ware to the east,” said Private Bautista. “Those bastards are dropping from the roof. Sixty metres.”

It was suddenly clear to Vance how much trouble he and his platoon were in. Their lack of cover didn’t matter too much against these unarmed opponents, but the sheer quantity of bullets the Kilvar were soaking made him feel like he was building walls of sand to hold back the tide.

Over to the east, two Kilvar had already dropped from the roof of the flanking building and they were heading directly for the exium prototype. Once again, Vance found himself looking into pools of darkness and this time he sensed a hunger in the Kilvar, as well as the same hatred he’d felt before.

“Private Danstol,” snapped Vance.

“Yes, sir,” said the Daklan. His launcher was already on his shoulder and he fired at once, targeting the ground directly between the two Kilvar. The rocket detonated and the force of the explosion knocked the aliens off their stride. Rodan slugs punched into them the moment the fireball had receded.

“Here come another bunch,” said Bautista. “Falling from the same place.”

“I recommend we move, Lieutenant Vance,” said Sergeant Tagra, his gun up to his face. He pulled the trigger and swept his gaze east, noting the location of other targets.

Vance looked north, where only two of the Kilvar were upright, though from the ragged state of their grey flesh, they wouldn’t be standing for much longer. Six others were on the eastern side of the street and a little way south of the platoon. When Vance focused south, he saw plenty of activity. He estimated that maybe fifteen Kilvar were running full pelt towards the exium prototype. Those Kilvar were being subjected to concentrated fire from human and Daklan soldiers.

Vance prided himself on being able to deal with pressure. “Squads A and B, focus on these last Kilvar to the north and then we’re going to make a run for the building entrance ahead!” he shouted. “Squad C, slow down those assholes to the east!”

Just then, everything seemed to step up a notch. A missile, travelling so fast that Vance didn’t see it, landed south, behind the coming Kilvar. A second and third landed on the roof of the building closest to the platoon. The flash lit up the darkening street and the rumble was a physical force that buffeted Vance and reminded him acutely of his mortality.

Directly after the missile strikes, one of the red energy beams lanced into a building about five hundred metres away. The walls of the structure turned red and then orange, bowing out as they absorbed the heat.

“Down!” yelled Vance.

In truth, he didn’t know if hitting the deck would have any affect against the coming heat blast. He dropped to his chest and felt his Rodan fall naturally into position. The final two Kilvar ahead were less than twenty metres away and their gaits were uneven. Vance fired at one and then again when his gun recharged.

Sensing movement, Vance twisted so he could look up. He was just in time to witness a salvo of hellburner missiles detonating against the side of the huge Kilvar warship. The blasts were vivid and they roiled against the vessel’s armour. Orange propulsion trails and an energy beam went the other way, fired at an alliance warship Vance couldn’t see.

Diverting his attention again, he put another densely packed cluster of slugs into what was now the final Kilvar to the north. Strangely, its face was almost intact and it was staring right at Vance.

Superhot air from the nearby beam strike swept howling along the avenue. Vance thought he detected an orange cast to the winds, like hell’s inferno was blowing his way. The last of the Kilvar before him died and Vance kept low, watching the temperature readout in his HUD race upwards towards the design maximum of his suit. An alarm bleeped twice in his earpiece and the polymers of his suit went from universe grey to a yellowy brown.

The engagement wasn’t finished with Vance’s platoon.

“Shit, shit, coming east!” yelled Private Jay Arnold. “Need backup!”

Gunfire resumed at its highest intensity yet. Vance surged to his feet, yelling at the others to do the same. Detecting the panic in Arnold’s voice, he wheeled that way, readying his weapon for a shot. Somehow, Arnold had got himself a few paces further across the street than the rest of his squad, maybe to get a better firing angle around one of the vehicles in the centre of the avenue. Now, one of the Kilvar, its flesh a mess of Rodan wounds and heat charring, was bearing down on him.

Scrambling away, Arnold couldn’t aim at the same time. His squadmates directed a fusillade of slugs at the onrushing Kilvar, yet still it came, its eagerness a palpable thing which made Vance’s blood boil and his teeth clench. He couldn’t get a clean shot and took rapid, sideways strides north to obtain a firing angle that wouldn’t hit Arnold at the same time.

It all came too late. The Kilvar swung one of its massive arms at Arnold, swatting his body seven or eight metres north. Even before the soldier had landed on the ground, Corporal Hendrix was on her way, shrugging the med-box off her back.

Having landed its blow, the Kilvar kept on coming, but at the same time, it tipped its head back and opened its mouth, shuddering in what Vance took to be a state of repulsive ecstasy. That ecstasy didn’t last long and the withering hail of Rodan fire shredded what was left of its face and torso. The creature dropped to its knees, still convulsing, and then toppled face down into the road where it went abruptly still.

“Corporal Hendrix, report!” shouted Vance, hurrying after her. The way north was clear and he wanted to resume the sprint.

Private Arnold was on his side, facing away and not moving. In two or three seconds, Corporal Hendrix had wires from her med-box linked to receptors on the soldier’s combat suit. She swore loudly, grabbed Arnold’s shoulder and flipped him over.

“Dead.” She swore again. “You should look at this, sir.”

Vance had seen enough dead soldiers that he should have been numbed to it by now, but somehow it never got easier. He crouched next to Hendrix and looked into Arnold’s visor. All that remained of the man this soldier had once been, was a husk, shrivelled up and with yellowed skin tight against bones.

Hendrix’s voice was low and accented, and Vance almost didn’t hear her next words. “Like it sucked everything out him and left this behind.” She pointed at Arnold’s combat suit near his hip, where the Kilvar’s blow had struck. The material was blackened and corroded and Hendrix reached out as if she wanted to test its strength with her finger.

“Best not,” warned Vance, pulling back her arm. “He’s dead, but we aren’t. Let’s not waste the gift.”

“We’ve got a bad time ahead, sir.” Hendrix was one of the veterans and she’d seen the worst atrocities war could bring. She looked scared and her dark eyes searched Vance’s face for reassurance.

He had none to give – at least none that was convincing. “We’ll get through it, Corporal. Same way we always get through it.”

“The price might be higher than we can afford,” she said, her voice still soft.

Vance didn’t want to think about it – not now and not with his platoon under threat. He pushed himself upright. North was clear and a check eastward told him the next closest Kilvar was forty metres away. It was being subjected to a hail of slugs fired by alliance troops south along the street, as well as shots from Vance’s platoon. If he was any judge, the creature would be finished before it covered another five steps. Unfortunately, more of the huge creatures were dropping from the roof of the building opposite and would soon be on their way.

A link was created to Vance’s comms unit.

“Lieutenant Vance, I’ve got the Lost Boy heading your way to give you some cover,” said Fleet Admiral Recker.

“Sir?” asked Vance. The name was familiar, yet for some reason he couldn’t place it. He opened his mouth to say what fate had befallen Private Arnold, but Recker was already gone.

“We’ve got us another enemy shuttle!” said Private Raven. “Make that two shuttles!”

With the pressure ratcheting, Vance pushed himself into motion. He twisted his gaze south and saw how close the next wave of Kilvar were coming to his platoon. Without thinking, he put slugs into the Kilvar east, just as it collapsed in a pile of churned up flesh, and sprinted north, his feet slithering on a layer of char which came from hell knew where.

“With me!” he snarled in a voice which brooked no hesitation. “Private Arnold is dead, but I’m damned if the same thing is going to happen to the rest of us.” The name Lost Boy slotted into Vance’s head. He didn’t like to believe in coincidence, but this was a big one right here. “We’ve got some air cover heading our way,” he called on the squad channel. “Smile and wave when it arrives.”

“The approaching enemy shuttles are preparing to deploy,” said Sergeant Tagra.

Vance’s ability to cope with the number of variables was pushed to its limit. The nearest shuttle was north and it sped along the street towards his platoon, while the second was east and keeping pace. There may have been others, but the way the sounds reflected off the buildings made it impossible to be sure.

Despite the short break for the engagement, Vance’s breathing was already becoming ragged and he inhaled deeply to reduce his heart rate. Then came a shrieking noise that went from quiet to all-encompassing in half a second, and the shuttle to the north exploded with such devastating completeness that Vance was sure it had been struck by a hellburner. Before the first realisation had fully formed, the next shuttle was destroyed with equivalent ease and Vance heard other blasts coming from elsewhere.

Assailed by competing sound waves, pursued by Kilvar shock troops, and with an invulnerable twelve-thousand-metre enemy warship hunting the exium protype he was sworn to guard, Vance bitterly admired the depth of crap he found himself in.

“Whoa this shit is crazy!” said Drawl.

If the soldier said anything after that, Vance didn’t hear it. A shape – the promised warship - appeared out of nowhere, aligned directly with the street. He knew who was at the helm, but this was Vance’s first sight of the 1200-metre, Riot Mk V fleet warship Lost Boy. Its engines sounded like shit and the pressure they generated made him feel as if he was wading through treacle.

Just when Vance thought his brain was dealing with all the stimulus it could manage, the Lost Boy’s railer guns fired. He’d experienced a proximity discharge before, but nothing like this. The warship’s fusillade was deafening, bestial and savage. High-calibre slugs pounded the street, ripping channels in the concrete and sending shards pinging against the alloy walls of the flanking buildings.

Unable to resist, Vance spun to look. At least two railers were aimed into the street and their slugs raked in every direction. A running Kilvar soldier vanished completely and then the one after. Others were smashed to paste and still they came, until the railers had slaughtered every last one of them.

The Lost Boy’s guns cut out and the relief Vance felt was immense, though not as immense as his gratitude for the intervention.

A new link was made to his comms unit. “How’s it going down there, Lieutenant?” The voice was familiar – a reminder of old times.

“Same as ever, Captain Montero,” said Vance. “The crap keeps on coming and we keep on going.”

“The Lost Boy doesn’t want to stay in the air, let alone dodge missiles. Fleet Admiral Recker thinks the Kilvar won’t dare attack if I sit directly on top of the platoon.”

Captain Nelle Montero had, many years ago, been under Vance’s command. She’d moved onwards and upwards, but she’d always be one of the squad.

“I can’t say I agree one way or another, Captain, but damn I’m glad to see you.”

“I’m glad to see you too, Lieutenant. You’d best pick up your feet.”

“Try and keep up.”

Holding his Rodan one-handed, Vance quickly fell into a rhythm and the soles of his boots thumped on the ground. Above, almost brushing the rooftops, the Lost Boy offered a physical barrier between the platoon and the Kilvar warship.

“I feel like we’re running blind here, Captain Montero. What’s happening out there?”

“A few members of the fleet are operational again, but we’re so down on power we’re sitting ducks. Not that we wouldn’t be sitting ducks anyway, but dying would probably feel better with the output gauge sitting on one hundred percent. Anyway, we’re hitting that Kilvar warship with everything and so far, it’s been a spitting in the wind exercise.”

“How many mesh charges is that Riot packing, Corporal?”

“Just the one, and if Fleet Admiral Recker has called it right, I’m not going to need it.”

Vance didn’t need to tell Montero that once the Lost Boy’s mesh deflector was on recharge, the warship wouldn’t survive a single hit from one of those energy beams, and a couple of missile strikes would likely put it out of action as well. This was a time when everyone had to share the risk.

“If you get hit, try not to land on top of us, Captain. My steel toecaps weren’t built to withstand a billion tons.”

“I’ll do my best.” Montero’s voice turned serious. “Listen - if the mesh deflector goes off, take cover in one of these buildings and I’ll do what I can to make it seem like you’re heading a different way.”

“There won’t be much time once the Kilvar start shooting at you, Captain.”

“I’ve got backup coming as well – you’ll hear it when it arrives. The Fleet Admiral sure wants that exium prototype getting to its destination.”

Vance couldn’t hear anything above the Lost Boy’s propulsion and when he looked, he couldn’t see anything of the sky either. It sounded like the Amber base was recovering from the surprise of the attack and he fervently hoped this late response wasn’t simply delaying the knockout blow.

“Anything you hear, I’d be grateful if you’d let me know,” said Vance.

“No need for gratitude, Lieutenant. We’re in this together, like it always was.”

Switching channels, Vance updated the squad. The news that it was Captain Montero watching over them boosted everyone’s mood after the death of Private Arnold, and they ran faster still. A check of his HUD distance counter showed Vance there was a long way to go, but he was more determined than ever that he was going to make it.

SIXTEEN

Less than two minutes after Captain Montero had talked about incoming backup for the Lost Boy, the sound pressure level in the street increased several notches until it felt to Vance like his chest was being constricted and it was an effort to draw in each breath. Added to this crushing new thunder was the ongoing sound of high explosives and the hammer crack of energy beams plunging into the Amber base. The Lost Boy’s guns and launchers weren’t silent either – its railers fired and its missiles burst from their clusters with dull booms of ignition.

“Wave to the Kostralias and the Revistax, boys and girls,” said Captain Montero entering the platoon channel to deliver the good news. “Two of the Daklan’s finest annihilators and they’re here just for you.”

“They got the battleships running,” said Drawl. “Things are starting to go our way.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure, Private,” said Montero. “I’m shooting down a ton of shuttles and sooner or later, something’s going to give.”

Drawl was never one to let an opportunity slip. “Anyways, Captain, how come you’re flying the Lost Boy instead of the Lost Girl?”

“She definitely lost her way, so the name is half-right,” said Carrington. “Captain Montero, if you want to return to the side of all that is right and holy, I’m sure the Lieutenant can make space for you in the platoon.”

“Thanks for the invitation, Private. I’ll give it some thought.”

Montero had more to occupy her time than talking crap with her former squadmates and she cut the channel. The brief reminder of past camaraderie was over and the realities of the situation came back at once.

On the positive side, the Amber ground troops were far more in evidence than they had been only a short time ago, and Vance spotted platoons stationed on the corners ahead. The first soldiers only watched his approach and made no attempt to keep pace, having been ordered to cover the road behind, in case any Kilvar shock troops came this way.

Five hundred metres later and Vance passed a company of soldiers waiting in a recessed area off the road, in front of one of the high-security buildings. Without saying a word, half of these soldiers kept pace behind Vance’s platoon, while the other half ranged ahead, their legs fresher and with more energy for a sprint.

Two thousand metres further and Vance was finding it tough. His heartrate was elevated and his loadout seemed heavier than before. He didn’t doubt his fitness and he put his reduced performance down to the resonance caused by the warship flying over his head. No matter how much air he sucked in, it wasn’t enough.

All around, smoke from the ongoing attack was gathering into thick, swirling clouds, which clung to the street and added a layer of murk to the advancing night. Although the filter in a combat suit blocked the particulates, it allowed some of the odour through and Vance felt grubby breathing it in.

Still, he wouldn’t contemplate anything other than maximum effort and he exhorted his platoon to keep up. Everyone was feeling the same borderline exhaustion and the comms channel was mostly silent as the soldiers focused on moving forward.

“Maybe we should take booster shots, Lieutenant,” said Private Bautista. Every soldier carried two injectors of Frenziol-15, a concoction designed to make a human or Daklan run and fight way beyond the usual limits of their body.

Having taken enough boosters to last a lifetime in the Lavorix wars, Vance wasn’t feeling the need. Not yet and, he hoped, not ever. “Take one if you need it, soldier.”

“Is this a competition?” panted Bautista in puzzlement. “Like, see who can go the longest?”

“Shut up,” said Vance, not wanting to get into a discussion.

“Maybe we’ll tell you all about it later, if you’re clever enough to listen,” said Corporal Hendrix.

Vance didn’t see if Bautista took the needle. In truth, he didn’t have the energy or the interest to turn. Even after all these years, his body remembered what it was like to run on boosters and the craving was still there. The Frenziol-15 was different to the old mix, he’d often been told, but that didn’t make him want to try it.

When I start slowing down, that’s when I’ll boost.

Metre by metre, the distance to target fell and Vance didn’t allow his pace to slacken. The Lost Boy hovered overhead and the exchange of weapons continued. More and more soldiers appeared on the street, though everyone was on foot rather than in vehicles.

“Still with us, Captain Flint?” asked Vance. The Loadout’s crew had remained calm during the engagement with the Kilvar, kept out of the way and fired their weapons effectively.

“Still here,” Flint confirmed, his breathing laboured. “This situation can’t last.”

Vance understood. The enemy were – to all intents – here for the exium and they were being denied it by warships sitting right on top of their target. It didn’t matter how many shuttles the enemy launched, the local fleet would shoot them down as quickly as they appeared and if the Kilvar wrecked the Kostralias, the Revistax and the Lost Boy, they stood a good chance of losing the exium beneath several billion tons of alloy.

“What else can they do, sir?” asked Vance. “I guess we’ve caught them with a tactic they weren’t expecting. If they bury us underneath our own spaceships, they’ll need to wait for one of their heavy lifters to come and pick up the wreckage and I doubt they’ll have one parked nearby.”

“I hope they’re as undecided as you think, Lieutenant.” Flint combined a laugh with a rapid exhalation of breath. “If they’re desperate enough, they could bury us anyway and then shift the debris using the warship above us. It would be messy and it might not work, but the Kilvar might decide its worth a shot.”

Flint fell silent and Vance concentrated on running. So much about the enemy was a mystery and he wished he knew more. The key to success often came down to fine margins and understanding which way an opponent was likely to react. Right now, Vance was in the dark and he didn’t like it.

“Your destination isn’t too far ahead, Lieutenant,” said Fleet Admiral Recker on the comms. “The avenue you’re running on comes straight up against the south wall of the research complex. Once you enter the facility compound, the nearest personnel entrance will be directly in front of you.”

“How far to the airlifts, sir?” asked Vance. The research facility was huge and on his HUD map he’d located several lifts to the subterranean levels, the closest of which was more than six thousand metres from the entrance. Usually, access to those areas was by shuttle and that wasn’t an option unless the base personnel had figured out a way to get the transports flying again.

“It’s a long run, Lieutenant. My first plan was to have the Lost Boy set down and you all climb onboard for a drop-off at the facility topside entrance nearest the lifts. If I order that, it’s my belief the Kilvar will shoot down the Lost Boy, thinking that we’re trying to escape with the exium.”

“Could we get one of the topside shuttles working, sir? The Loadout would be big enough to keep us hidden as we fly up to the roof.”

“We’re finding it hard getting any of the shuttles to accept the old control software. We can fix it, but not in time.”

“You’ve got a plan, sir. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Am I that transparent?” Recker gave a short laugh. “Lieutenant Vance, your records indicate your tank training is up to date.”

“Yes, sir,” said Vance, wondering where this was leading.

“There are two new Gundik tanks parked in the facility yard. RL Moseley is here with me and he’s run the maths – those tanks have the mass and thrust to punch all the way through the inner walls to your destination.”

“The outer facility wall must be a dozen metres thick, sir. Plus, the tank has a ternium drive. How will we get it running?”

“The outer walls are twenty-five metres thick, Lieutenant, which is why the Kostralias is going to make an opening for you.”

“What about the ternium engines, sir?”

“The exium prototype is designed with several uses in mind, Lieutenant. The first of which is to stabilise superstressed ternium. It does this by forcing alignment on the agitated…” Recker stopped himself. “Damnit, I’m sounding like RL Moseley all of sudden. What you need to know is that those posts studding the prototype’s outer surface are interface antennae. With the right instructions, the prototype should get the tank running. After that, you’ll climb onboard and drive the Gundik to the airlifts. I promise I won’t bill you for the damages. I’ll have someone calculate a route through the interior and send the details to your suit computer as soon as they’re ready.”

Vance felt the intoxicating promise of order and chaos coming into conflict, where the line between the two was so fine that only the most tenacious or the downright luckiest could possibly walk it and survive.

“I’m ready to put the plan in motion, sir,” he said. “How do I make the exium prototype do what we need it to do?”

“RL Moseley can control the prototype remotely and he can send the relevant commands to the Gundik. All you need do is drive. I’m watching your progress from the bunker – I’ll contact you again when you’re in position.”

The channel went dead and Vance found new wind. He ran hard in the darkness, skirting around vehicles and the other obstacles which littered the road. His troops came with him, each one giving their utmost to keep up with the pack. The smoke was thicker than before and in places was enough to reduce visibility way below Vance’s comfort level.

“What’s up, sir?” panted Drawl, detecting Vance’s change in mood.

“I’ll tell you when we get there, Private. If everything works out, we’re finishing the last six klicks in style.”

“Intriguing,” said Raven.

The wall of the research facility compound grew larger with each stride and Vance locked his gaze on its sheer surface, relying on peripheral sight to detect enemy movement. Not that he expected an attack with the fleet’s warships watching for Kilvar deployments and the thousands of ground troops who were evident in the area.

Another street – equally wide – cut left and right at the end of the avenue and it formed a square around the facility’s perimeter wall. It also allowed Vance a view to the east and west that he’d been denied while running north.

In both directions, above and between the buildings, an orange glow was apparent, partly shrouded by greasy smoke. Every second or two, plasma light flashed, and Vance spotted a Kilvar shuttle come down in a blazing fireball a couple of kilometres east.

A guard station – which was little more than a cabin adjacent to the personnel door - protected this compound entrance, and a platoon of soldiers were in positions around it. As he approached, Vance half-expected – and wouldn’t have minded - to hear a couple of barbs about his fitness. Instead, the platoon’s commanding officer gave him a salute while someone in the cabin sent the command to open the door.

“Good luck,” said one of the soldiers as Vance dashed past.

The personnel door was three metres wide and similarly high, so the platoon wasn’t required to bunch up to pass into the tunnel cutting through the compound wall. A pair of miniguns were mounted on the alloy ceiling and they didn’t track Vance’s movement, leading him to wonder if they’d failed.

Exiting the tunnel, Vance came into a massive compound, which measured five hundred metres from the outer wall to the inner wall and surrounded the facility. From memory, he knew this space was used as temporary storage for materiel requested by the labs and construction plants within the research complex, and piles of crates in every conceivable shape and size were stacked a few thousand metres west.

“The Gundiks are directly ahead, Lieutenant,” said Recker on the comms. “RL Moseley will take remote control of the prototype.”

Vance saw the tanks as well – they were angular shapes against the looming wall of the main research facility. “I can’t see an opening through the inner facility wall, sir,” he said, before Recker could exit the channel.

“We’re holding the missiles until the last possible moment, Lieutenant. The pressure is building.”

The channel went dead and Vance put in a final burst to reach the tanks. Recker’s last words had him worried and he hoped the base aerial defences weren’t about to fall. The Lost Boy remained overhead, but Vance lacked the breath to ask Captain Montero what was going on.

The exium prototype wasn’t constrained by the limitations of heart and lungs and, controlled by RL Moseley, it flashed silently ahead of the pack and raced directly for the left-hand Gundik. Vance didn’t know how long the interface and kickstart would require, but he didn’t slow down even though his body demanded a rest.

“Somebody left the doors open,” said Gantry, indicating the lowered forward and rear access ramps on the Gundik.

“Remotely activated,” said Vance, finally slowing.

He cast his gaze across the Gundik’s hull – at 120 metres in length, sixty wide and fifty high, it was the heaviest, best-armoured land vehicle in the alliance and was a collaborative effort between humans and the Daklan.

Angled plates of armour gave the vehicle a polygonal shape that was vaguely rectangular, but with plenty of projectile-deflecting faces. Multiple chain guns protruded from low-profile turrets, and the Gundik was also equipped with offensive and defensive missiles. Capping it off were twin main armaments, each barrel being eighty metres in length and capable of independent fire.

A Gundik was designed to punch through anything on the ground and return to base needing little more than a reload and a new paint job at the end of two weeks in a combat zone. Naturally, given the pre-eminence of lightspeed capable warships, there wasn’t much need for vehicles like the Gundik, but the military liked to keep its options open. And here in the research facility compound, Vance was exceptionally glad they did so.

“Squads A and B inside!” he shouted, dashing for the forward ramp. He could have waited outside for the engines to start, but he gave RL Moseley the benefit of the doubt. “Sergeant Tagra, Corporal Charnos, you’re up front with me. Squad C, wait outside with the prototype and listen for my orders. Once we get moving, hold tight - it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

“Sir, we’re instructed to remain here and let you go on ahead,” said an unfamiliar soldier, standing twenty metres from Vance’s platoon.

Vance belatedly remembered the soldiers who’d followed him for much of the way here. He’d hardly turned back to look and here they were, still with him.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said, catching sight of the woman’s insignia. “Thank you for the escort.”

“No problem.”

Vance got back to business. Whoever had activated the forward ramp had done him a favour, since that was the fastest way to the cockpit. Meanwhile, the rear entrance gave access to the tank’s compact cargo bay, which was the only place into which the exium prototype would fit.

When Vance was halfway up the steep steps to the forward entrance, Fleet Admiral Recker opened a new channel. “RL Moseley has made the interface and he’s promised to get the tank running. Head to the cockpit and keep your fingers crossed he’s successful.”

“I almost hate to say it, sir, but RL Moseley is one of the few people I’d trust to make it work.”

“Me too,” said Recker. “Some of us can fly, some of us can shoot, and some of us can look at a bunch of numbers and use them to create weapons capable of destroying worlds.”

“And then hand those weapons over to the ones who can fly and shoot,” said Vance without rancour.

He stooped into the low forward entrance tunnel and the first thing he noticed was the significant and merciful reduction in the sound volume from the Lost Boy’s propulsion. The tank’s interior was illuminated in the pale red of its emergency lighting and the passage continued through fifteen metres of armour to the inner door, which was also open.

Vance’s muscles were tired and they complained at the low stance he adopted to make it to the far end of the tunnel. On the plus side, his heart rate was falling and his breathing was no longer quite so laboured.

Emerging into one of the tank’s passenger bays, Vance was struck anew by how little space there was. Five rows of four bucket seats faced forward, with just about enough room for a Daklan in a full loadout. Nobody ever accused a tank of being comfortable, though few complained about the protection of its armour.

To Vance’s right, another passage led up steep steps to the cockpit. The stairwell was strictly single-file and he turned his shoulders to fit.

“Take your seats, folks,” he said on the comms, before any wiseass could ask where the ballroom was located.

The Gundik’s cockpit wasn’t any more generous than the passenger bay, being a small, trapezoidal room that tapered towards the front. The ceiling sloped downwards too, ensuring that a fully-grown Daklan wouldn’t have any more than six inches of spare headroom.

Sourly, Vance wondered if the weapons designers were playing some kind of game where they purposely tried to make their vehicles as shit as possible for any passengers. There was no way that allowing a half-metre of internal space here and there would impact the tank’s battlefield performance. Or they could have just built the damned hull two metres wider.

By the time Vance’s irritation had played out in his head, he’d scrambled into the centre of the three seats. A wraparound console was covered in screens, all of them offline. Experimentally, Vance poked one of the many buttons on the top panel. Nothing happened.

“Without engines, we’re going nowhere,” said Sergeant Tagra, squeezing into the weapons control seat to Vance’s left.

Corporal Charnos was last and it was touch-and-go as to whether he would fit without the application of external force.

“Come on,” muttered Vance, waiting expectantly for a comms channel to form. It didn’t happen, so he got on to Sergeant Gantry. “Any sign things are about to start up?” he asked.

“No, sir. The prototype is just floating near the tank’s ass.”

“The tank’s ass, huh?” asked Vance.

“It’s the technical term, sir.”

Without warning, the lights in the cockpit turned from red to cold blue and the Gundik’s propulsion gave a shuddering heave. For three or four seconds, the engines grumbled worse than Private Drawl on guard duty and then they steadied.

Better than steady, thought Vance.

The last time he’d been on a Gundik, it had possessed a smoothness, like its propulsion was so capable it required hardly any effort to lift the vehicle off the ground. Here, the engines were loaded with metallic anger, as if they could fly the tank into orbit and then hurl it into lightspeed.

As soon as the propulsion settled, every screen on the console lit up and lines of text indicated the onboard processing unit was going through a series of power-on tests. A file appeared in Vance’s suit computer. He opened it and new data was saved to his map files, which generated an orange route line directly through the facility building to the airlifts.

“Sensors coming up,” said Corporal Charnos.

“Weapons online,” said Sergeant Tagra.

“Feeling good, Sergeant?” asked Vance, detecting an eagerness in the Daklan’s voice.

“Not good. Ready.”

Same difference when it comes to the Daklan.

“Sir, the Lost Boy’s railers started firing again, sir,” said Gantry. “And it’s launching hellburners at something I can’t see from here.”

“What’s the exium prototype doing?”

“It’s just started again moving, sir - it’s heading up the loading ramp.”

“Get inside with it,” said Vance. No sooner had he cut the channel to Gantry, than a new one opened. It was Captain Montero.

“The situation out here may be about to change, Lieutenant,” she said. “My engine officer is picking up some readings from that Gundik’s hull, which makes him think you’re online.”

“We’re about ready to move, Captain. Will you be leaving us soon?”

“I don’t know. The Kostralias is going to blow open the facility wall. Whatever happens, I’ll cover you until you get inside.”

“Good to know you’re watching out for us.” Vance seized the twin sticks that operated the Gundik.

“We’ll catch up later,” said Montero.

“It’ll be a pleasure,” said Vance.

The comms channel went dead and he gave the control panel his full attention. A green light appeared on the rear bay door to indicate it was closed and then the sensor feeds came up on the screens. Immediately, Corporal Charnos began altering their focus and direction, to allow Vance the best possible view of what lay outside.

“Friendly missiles incoming,” said Tagra, his green eyes watching the tactical screen.

A moment later, the facing wall of the research facility was torn apart by multiple hellburner detonations. In true Daklan style, the captain of the Kostralias didn’t hold back and erred on the side of excess force. When the blasts faded, Vance stared into a 200-metre opening in the structure wall. Inside, he saw shapes and forms which had been bent and broken by the explosions.

It was time. Hesitating no longer, Vance gave the Gundik three-quarters power and threw the joysticks forward. With engines howling and accelerating far more rapidly than was normal, the tank sped across the compound towards the opening.

SEVENTEEN

The surge of acceleration brought a tight smile to Vance’s lips. “We’re about to enter the facility,” he said on the internal comms. “I’d suggest, you all sit back, catch your breaths and enjoy the ride.”

The tank was travelling fast when it plunged into the heat-rimmed opening and it entered an open area which had likely once been filled with bespoke equipment of incalculable value, now reduced to irrecoverable scrap. Vance guided the tank directly through the middle of the room, the vehicle’s two-metre hover height allowing it to pass above much of the wreckage. The larger pieces of equipment were simply batted aside like they weighed nothing.

“First wall coming up,” said Vance. The wall looked solid, but there again, at an average thirty tons per metre cubed of volume, the Gundik came up at a cool seven million tons on the scales.

The tank’s front section was angled and with a slight point. It struck the wall head-on and Vance braced himself for a sensation of impact. Instead, the vehicle punched clean through the barrier without slowing even a fraction.

Almost at once, it struck a second wall and then a third. These two impacts produced a faint shaking in the Gundik’s hull and the velocity gauge dropped by a couple of kilometres per hour. Picked up by the hull sensors, the sound of it happening was a terrible squealing and shrieking that set Vance’s teeth on edge.

“Impacts registered on our main armaments,” said Sergeant Tagra. “I expect we will lose both guns before we arrive.”

“Tank repairs are cheaper than losing this entire base, Sergeant,” said Vance, altering course to follow the orange route line.

The tank tore through a fourth wall like it was paper, and entered another room, this time with a ceiling that was lower than the vehicle’s maximum height. Consequently, Vance was treated to the sensor sight of the Gundik ploughing straight through several dozen computer cabinets on the ground floor, while one of the upper sensor feeds was of a wave of buckling alloy, with consoles and other pieces of equipment being knocked in all directions.

The added resistance made itself known on Vance’s console and the velocity gauge fell from its maximum. Requesting yet more power from the engines, he was surprised to see the output gauge climb past one hundred percent and for the electronic needle to reach the end of its available travel. Howling at a noticeably increased volume, the Gundik surged and the velocity gauge climbed steadily.

“So this is what it feels like to pilot an overstressed tank,” said Vance in wonder.

“Support pillars ahead,” said Charnos.

Those vertical pillars were immense, positioned in the corner of the upper room and hidden by walls in the lower level. Vance didn’t want to test if they or the Gundik were the stronger and he turned sharply to avoid them.

Tearing through another series of closely spaced walls, the tank began picking up speed rather than slowing down, and the boy Vance had long ago been urged him to find out exactly how fast the Gundik would go before its thrust and mass were matched by the walls of the facility.

“This is excellent,” said Sergeant Tagra, the tone of his voice suggesting he was talking about something entirely mundane. “I should not enjoy the destruction, yet I do.”

Onward went the tank, entering a huge hangarlike space within the facility. The orange line went directly across the middle, straight through what looked suspiciously like one of the ingar-ternium reactors which had detonated on Tibulon. Visible beyond that was a solid-looking cube of hardened metal with a heat-scarred surface that suggested it was used for testing new energy weapons. The cube was at least as big as the tank and with a greater mass.

“I don’t think we need to run into either of those,” said Vance diverging from the route line enough so the tank would avoid the reactor and the cube.

“Our sensors have detected movement,” said Tagra. “Here, on the feed.”

Incredibly, some of the facility personnel had ignored the local evacuation order and a cluster of humans and Daklan stared dumbly at the tank from about a hundred metres west, as if they’d been expecting an evening visit from the snack replicator bot, but instead found a seven-million-ton tank smashing its way through their invaluable equipment and research stations.

“Our chain guns have acquired a stupidity lock on the technicians,” said Tagra, grinning behind his visor. “It is tempting to give them a few hundred warning shots.”

“Perhaps if we stopped to ask directions it would double their confusion,” said Charnos with equal glee.

Vance appreciated the suggestions, but decided against both. He gave the reactor a wide berth, in case any debris thrown up by the Gundik struck its housing and produced an unwanted outcome. The energy weapon test block wasn’t so delicate and he skimmed past before aiming the tank into the exit wall.

The vehicle smashed through this wall as easily as it had all the others, but this time an amber warning light appeared on one of the main armaments. The gun barrels were tough, but they were exposed and weren’t intended to be used as battering rams. It wasn’t likely to matter and Vance ignored the light. Having seen the technicians in the previous test area, he was more concerned about inflicting accidental fatalities on his own side. Corporal Charnos was busy trying to find a way to tap into the facility internal comms, but any warning he issued was likely to come too late for anyone who’d chosen to ignore the initial evacuation order.

“Three thousand metres to target,” said Vance. “Halfway there.”

Captain Montero linked directly to his suit comms. “The shit is flying out here, Lieutenant. The Lost Boy is still over your heads, but a few enemy troops have landed at the entrance.”

“They won’t catch us,” said Vance. He glanced at the instrumentation. “Not unless they’ve suddenly figured out how to run at sixty klicks per hour.”

“Understood,” said Montero. “Stay safe, Lieutenant.”

“You too.”

The Gundik continued along its destructive path and, far from slowing when it crunched through a series of walls which divided offices and corridors, the tank’s velocity gauge kept on climbing. The instrumentation was programmed to show outputs and readings within the vehicle’s design limits and couldn’t cope now the Gundik was operating outside those bounds. Consequently, most of the needles were stuck on a hundred percent, though Vance was certain the true readings were far higher.

“Whatever the exium prototype did to kickstart this vehicle’s engines, it is continuing,” said Sergeant Tagra. “We may not appreciate where it finishes, though we should enjoy the journey.”

“I’m not convinced about the enjoyment part, Sergeant,” said Vance.

The Gundik burst out of the offices and corridors, entering another of the huge internal test areas - this one about fifteen hundred metres square. Once more, equipment in every shape and size was placed in a disorganized fashion, filling much of the available floorspace.

By now, Vance was becoming inured to the destruction and he made no effort to guess at which pieces of kit were more valuable than the others. Instead, he held the tank straight and it ploughed on through, causing untold damage and probably setting back the affected projects by many months.

Some outcomes were more important than others, and getting the exium prototype to the Firestorm was as important as it came. By the time the tank ruptured the far wall, it was travelling at ninety kilometres per hour and Vance was certain it had plenty more to give, since he’d been steadily bringing the control sticks back in order to keep its velocity to a level he was comfortable with.

“Captain Flint, we’ll reach our destination in about sixty seconds,” said Vance on the comms.

“We’re ready to go,” Flint confirmed. “As soon as you give the word.”

Vance closed out of the channel and focused on the road he was making. A glance at the HUD map told him the destination wasn’t one of the personnel lifts – rather, the route Fleet Admiral Recker had provided was for the cargo lift. Having never visited the subterranean bay, Vance suddenly realised that if he’d used the personnel lift, there’d likely have been another extended run at the bottom before his platoon arrived at the Firestorm.

Several seconds later, and having caused a few billion additional feds’ worth of damage, the Gundik came near the end of the orange line and Vance slowed it to forty kilometres per hour, intending to puncture the final two walls and then bring it to a halt while he got his bearings on the cargo lift.

Vance’s plan didn’t work out.

“Incoming,” said Captain Montero on the comms. This time, the pressure of combat was evident in her voice.

“What’ve we got?” asked Vance. He didn’t know what was coming or from where, but he threw the tank off course anyway. A moment later, the Gundik’s external feeds erupted in stark white that made Vance narrow his eyes instinctively.

“Enemy missile,” said Tagra. “This tank is not designed to withstand a direct hit from a large-payload warhead.”

“No shit,” said Vance, increasing the Gundik’s speed once again.

The plasma light didn’t fade and the hull sensors detected an ongoing rumble that made him believe the Kilvar had subjected this area of the research building to an extensive bombardment. Vance guessed the rules had changed and the enemy had decided to destroy the exium rather than let it escape from them. Or maybe they were shit scared that the alliance had a way to use it against their warship. The hope was faint but there wasn’t much else to cling to.

“We’re going straight for the lift,” said Vance, with no obviously better options. His HUD map indicated the Gundik wasn’t more than five or six hundred metres from the cargo lift. Another explosion – this time closer than the others – possessed enough force to knock the tank sideways and generate several heat alarms for the hull plating.

“I wish I could give you something to go on, Lieutenant,” said Montero, back on the comms. “The Kilvar warship is saturating this area with missiles. We’re shooting them down, but we have to save a few railers for our warships as well.”

“Have the enemy gone all-out?” asked Vance.

“I think they’ve seen enough. We’ve got most of our fleet in the air and the amount of firepower we’re dumping on the Kilvar armour is probably more than those bastards want to take.”

“Are they suffering damage?”

“No sign of it yet, but something must have caused this change of tactics. Shit! Missile!”

Vance threw the control sticks hard right and the tank burst through another wall. The Kilvar warhead detonated close by and suddenly it seemed to Vance as if he was looking at an instrumentation panel that was all reds and ambers. The controls shook and several of the sensors went offline, causing Corporal Charnos to swear profusely in the Daklan tongue.

A moment passed and a few of the backups kicked in automatically, turning several ambers green and several reds into amber. Mercifully, the propulsion was running and it had lost none of its potency.

“Lieutenant, are you there?” asked Montero, stress in her voice.

“Still here,” said Vance. “If that cargo lift is blocked, we’re in the crap.”

“There’s an opening in the roof directly over the lift,” said Montero. “Damnit, something’s burning.”

“What about the lift?” asked Vance.

“I can’t tell you, Lieutenant. You’re nearly on top of it – you’ll be able to see for yourself in a moment.”

Everything seemed to be alight and the Gundik’s few remaining sensors detected no break in the plasma flames. Vance saw darker patches that he guessed were walls and the tank sliced easily through the heat-softened alloy, its own hull alight with plasma.

Erupting from the final wall, the Gundik entered a long, rectangular space that had probably been used as storage for components intended to be taken by cargo lift to the subterranean level. The space was empty now, though its high ceiling was wide open to the night sky and half of its walls had been split or melted by Kilvar missiles. Two huge craters had been created in the floor, their rims orange like sullen volcanoes. Glancing at the upper feed, Vance spotted a grey shape racing across the opening, too quickly for him to know if it was friend or foe.

The original cargo lift had been large enough to accommodate the Gundik, though all that remained of it now was a two-hundred-metre opening in the centre of the far wall, about three hundred metres from the tank. Plasma still burned nearby from the recent missile strike and there was no sign of the lift platform.

“Let’s go,” said Vance, knowing what he had to do.

Tagra and Charnos also knew what was coming and they said nothing. Under Vance’s control, the Gundik accelerated into the holding area, its engine output undiminished.

“Missiles incoming,” said Tagra.

The tank’s damaged sensors detected inbound warheads through the open ceiling and Vance had no idea where they were going to strike. He kept his narrowed eyes on the shaft ahead and requested maximum output from the Gundik’s overstressed engines. It surged across the floor and its velocity gauge raced from left to right.

“Functioning countermeasures tracking,” said Targa.

Most of the tank’s armaments were out of action, but two of the rear chain guns were operational. Flames spat from their multiple barrels and thousands of slugs poured out of the ceiling opening. The inbound missiles disappeared from the tactical and the far wall of the holding bay bulged inwards with the weight of an explosion which had taken place somewhere beyond. A moment after, the silvery debris of a shattered missile clattered through the ceiling opening, and, as he steered the Gundik into the lift shaft, Vance knew what a close call he and his platoon had survived.

Safety was not nearly guaranteed. The tank’s velocity was enough for it to strike the far corner of the alloy-lined lift shaft before Vance could bring it to a standstill. The impact was distant and he was beyond caring about the additional damage to the front plating.

Having collided with the wall, the tank’s auto-levelling system kept it hovering. The underside sensors were undamaged and, on their feeds, Vance saw the shaft dropping for thousands of metres into the ground. Three-quarters of the way down, something was red with heat and he guessed it was the cargo platform blocking the shaft.

Vance was about to set the tank into a controlled descent, where the engines would let it fall steadily, when he spotted yet more incoming missiles on the tactical.

“Cancelling hover,” said Vance, setting the tank into freefall. He glanced at the life support status light, which couldn’t decide if it should stay red or amber and flickered irregularly between the two.

It was too late to ponder the safest option and Vance gritted his teeth as the tank plummeted straight down the shaft. The sensation of falling came on and off in his guts, perversely in time with the life support light. In theory, the Gundik’s engines should halt its fall anyway, but Vance had never liked gambling with technology on the basis that technology didn’t have a wife and children to go home to.

“One of those missiles is coming straight into the room above,” said Tagra.

A split-second later, that missile detonated on the edge of the cargo shaft high above the falling tank. The lower part of the blast sphere was channelled into the opening and it roared down the shaft. For long moments, Vance could only watch the plasma-lit sensor feeds, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching.

Then, the sensors cleared and the heat-red of the walls was infinitely preferable to the harshness of white-hot plasma. Suddenly, Sergeant Tagra burst out in laughter, close enough to Vance’s ear to make him wince.

“This is the way, human! We fight with everything and we survive!”

Vance didn’t feel like smiling, but the adrenaline was pumping and he was gripped by the same kind of high which usually came when he and his soldiers had escaped an engagement by the skin of their teeth. He grinned briefly and then spotted the next hazard in the endless parade.

“Cargo lift platform, coming up,” he said.

“Leave the Gundik in freefall, Lieutenant,” said Tagra. “We will smash it clear.”

“Freefall it is,” said Vance.

The platform was hardly more elaborate than a slab of metal, which had fallen and become wedged across the shaft. Travelling at its terminal velocity, the Gundik hit the platform, dislodging it with a shriek. Vance felt the thump of impact, though not enough to test his harness. The two heavy objects descended together for a short time and then Vance switched the tank into a controlled descent.

Slowed by its propulsion, the Gundik separated from the lift platform and the space between the two increased rapidly.

“Impact,” said Tagra.

The lift slab struck the bottom of the shaft about five hundred metres ahead of the tank, bouncing once and then becoming still. An increased howl from the Gundik’s engines indicated they were slowing the vehicle in preparation for a soft landing. Vance exhaled, his relief markedly increased because the life support light had finally decided it preferred red to amber.

When the tank arrived gently at the bottom of the lift shaft, the Daklan sitting next to Vance proclaimed it the most exciting ride they could remember in their many years of service.

Unwilling to make such a statement himself, Vance piloted the vehicle into the vast underground hangar that lay beneath the Amber base. The lights were on and the low-slung shape of a warship lay dead ahead.

Knowing his part in this mission was nearly over, Vance steered the Gundik towards the exium class warship, Firestorm.

EIGHTEEN

“Right, folks, we made it to the Firestorm. Time to unbuckle and get your asses outside.”

The moment Captain William Flint heard those words on the Gundik’s internal comms, he unclipped his harness and rose. The passenger bay seemed noticeably warmer than before and the sharp scent of machined alloy was much stronger. It was an odour which reminded him of every spaceship he’d ever flown and Flint breathed it in.

A hulking shape emerged from the cockpit steps.

“Captain Flint,” said Sergeant Tagra, straightening to his full height. “We have reports from the surface that Kilvar soldiers are on their way. My squad will escort you to the Firestorm.”

“They’re in the subsurface bay?” asked Flint in surprise.

“Perhaps. They had an entrance through the facility roof. Two of the Gundik’s shoulder guns remain operational, but this is not a time for risks.”

“I agree,” said Flint. “Lead on, Sergeant.”

Tagra’s voice was monumentally loud, even when he wasn’t trying, and he bellowed orders at his squad. Some of those soldiers were in the next bay behind this one, but those nearest squeezed their way along the narrow aisles and headed into the exit tunnel.

“Won’t we burn up when the exit hatch opens?” asked Lieutenant Garrett.

“Negative, Lieutenant,” said Tagra. He smiled broadly. “As long as you move quickly.”

“I can move,” Garrett confirmed. “You bet your ass I can.”

“Approaching the exit hatch,” said Private Janie Mack, who was the first soldier into the passage. “If it’s melted shut, we’ll need to hit it with rockets to get it free.”

“Just open the door and stop the jaw, Mack,” said Drawl.

The pressure was still on, but the soldiers weren’t showing much sign they were affected by it and Flint admired how well they worked together. He and his crew were all in this bay and he beckoned them to follow as he headed for the exit passage. Turning once to make sure they were with him, Flint found himself staring into Lieutenant Becerra’s visor. Her blue eyes were wide, her lips pressed tightly together and she was holding onto a Rodan like it was the most valuable object in the known universe.

“You’re doing great, Lieutenant,” said Flint. “Soon it’ll be our turn to kick some ass.”

Becerra’s voice was taut, but with no sign of panic. “Absolutely, sir.”

“I’ve got a green light on the exit hatch,” said Mack on the platoon channel. “I guess we won’t need those rockets after all. Get ready for the heat, folks.”

With Sergeant Tagra ahead, Flint stooped low into the exit passage. The Daklan’s broad shoulders blocked his sight, but the hatch wasn’t far ahead. Flint heard the thumping of gears and he braced himself.

Pressurized cool air fled the tank’s interior and blisteringly hot air rushed in to take its place. A temperature alert went off on Flint’s HUD and he glanced at the material of his combat suit, which was already a sickly yellow-brown from the energy beam heatwave it had been subjected to on the surface.

Despite his size, Sergeant Tagra wasn’t slow and he made it through the hatch before clambering rapidly down the steps. Flint came afterwards – the hatch seemed higher above the surface on the way out than it had on the way in, and the ground was ten metres below.

Descending as rapidly as he dared, Flint hurried away from the steps, turning his head in every direction to absorb as many details as he could about the subterranean bay.

Lieutenant Vance had stopped the Gundik a short distance from the nose of a warship which Flint knew to be the Firestorm. The viewing angle wasn’t perfect, but he was able to obtain an impression about the warship’s overall shape. It was bulky, yet retained the design cues of other HPA fleet warships.

The Firestorm was surrounded by a mixture of standard warship construction gear – cranes and lifter shuttles, all of which were grounded by their failed engines – and other equipment that looked like it should have been in a research lab. Hundreds of personnel were performing various tasks in the vicinity and Flint was impressed by the organization.

“The Firestorm,” said Lieutenant Fredericks, gesturing with his gun. “They got the engines running.”

“It sounds terrible,” said Commander Maddox.

“That’s what the exium prototype is here for,” said Flint.

He turned to find out what state the Gundik was in after its destructive journey through the research facility. The bay viewscreen had given him a good idea, but hadn’t told the whole story.

It turned out the Gundik was in better shape than he imagined – its clean edges where the angles met were now rounded and lumpy, as was the rest of the armour. In addition, one of the main armaments was bent at a ten-degree angle in the middle, the front section of the vehicle was compressed and some of the plating split.

Under the circumstances, the Gundik had come through remarkably well and its rear loading ramp was extended. Soldiers descended and the exium protype was coming with them.

Before Flint could avert his gaze, he saw one of the rear chain gun turrets rotating towards the lift shaft. The gun roared, cut out and roared again.

“We’ve got incoming ground troops,” said Vance on the comms. “They’re dropping straight down the lift shaft.”

Realising he’d been gawping, Flint got himself moving towards the Firestorm’s forward boarding ramp. Several personnel were coming his way and he diverted to meet them.

“Captain Flint?” asked one of the group, a remarkably attractive Daklan woman.

“Yes,” he said, wondering who she was.

“I’m Lera-Vel.” She looked tired but undaunted. “This is my operation. You are here to pilot the Firestorm.”

“Those were the last orders I received,” confirmed Flint. Having learned her name, he knew who Lera-Vel was, but didn’t know if she outranked him or not.

“You and your crew must board at once,” she said, brushing past. “My personnel will take the exium prototype.”

Flint was stuck by a sudden thought. “Wait!” he said.

“What is it, Captain Flint?” asked Lera-Vel impatiently.

“The surface doors protecting this facility,” said Flint, pointing upwards. The bay ceiling was thousands of metres overhead, flat and uniformly grey. “What kind of protection do they offer?”

Lera-Vel narrowed her eyes. “You fear the Kilvar warship will attack the doors once they realise this subsurface bay exists.”

“They’ve sent their shock troops down the cargo shaft,” said Flint. “I’d say there’s a good chance they already know.”

“The doors are strong, but we must evacuate the bay as soon as the exium prototype is installed,” said Lera-Vel.

“It’s going to be tight fitting everyone on the Firestorm,” said Flint.

“Discomfort is better than death.” Lera-Vel gave him a sudden grin. “There is another thing I did not mention. The bay doors may not open.” She waved airily towards one of the ternium blocks where the bay floor and wall met. “We managed to bring the gravity field generators into an operational state, so the walls and overhead doors are partially supported, but not everything is receiving sufficient power.”

“Meaning the door motors?”

Lera-Vel speared Flint with her gaze and took a half step closer, which was perhaps the Daklan way of putting someone at ease. Or, more likely, Flint thought, to get a better gauge of how well he’d fit in the oven. “Precisely,” she said, her voice low and husky.

“We’ll deal with it as it comes,” said Flint, trying hard to hold his ground. A muffled boom caused him to look directly overhead. “Missile strike,” he said.

A comms channel formed. “The enemy have detected your position and have begun directing missiles at the surface doors protecting the underground facility, Captain Flint,” said Fleet Admiral Recker. “I have ordered the fleet to shoot down any missiles aimed for those surface doors, but you are aware that it’s not an exact science.”

“Yes, sir, I am,” said Flint, setting off towards the Firestorm’s forward boarding ramp and waving at his crew to follow.

“The moment you’re out of the bay, fly clear,” said Recker. “I don’t want the Kilvar dropping an incendiary down there.”

“Your wife and the bay personnel will be onboard the Firestorm with me, sir. There’s too much risk if we leave them behind.”

“Damnit,” said Recker, that single word conveying many different emotions.

“I’ve had a quick look at the unlocked warship’s files, sir. If the weapons work as intended, I’ll be able to do something with them.”

“The weapons may not work as intended until certain conditions have been met, Captain Flint.”

“What conditions, sir?”

“It may be that without full superstress of the Firestorm’s engines, the destroyer cannon will be ineffective.”

“I feel like I need an hour’s briefing to discuss this, sir, and I know there’s no time.”

“Everything may become clearer once the exium unit is installed, Captain Flint. We’re all waiting on the outcome of that.”

“Whatever happens, I’ll fly this warship and I’ll test its weapons against that Kilvar warship.”

“Don’t let doubt hold you back, Captain Flint.”

“No, sir, I won’t.”

The weight of pressure and expectation should have been a heavy burden to carry, yet Flint felt strengthened knowing he had this chance to show the Kilvar what the consequences were of attacking the human-Daklan alliance.

Halfway to the Firestorm’s boarding ramp, he was painfully aware that his body hadn’t recovered from the earlier run and he breathed deeply. Another burst from the tank’s chain guns was joined by a second explosion on the bay doors overhead. Flint looked again, expecting to see red heat forming, but so far, the twin slabs of alloy were the usual dull grey of metal.

“Move,” Flint panted, as he ascended the steps leading to the Firestorm’s airlock. Here, beneath the warship, the propulsion note was even more oppressive than that of the Lost Boy on the streets above, and his head ached with it.

Again the tank’s guns fired and Flint twisted with one hand on the rail. From this height, he could see straight over the top of the Gundik to distant shapes in the cargo shaft. The chain guns unleashed another torrent and the Kilvar were mown down like chaff. If the enemy hoped to achieve something by throwing bodies at a tank, Flint couldn’t imagine what it might be.

“What the hell are they playing at?” gasped Maddox. “That Gundik could chew through thousands of those bastards before it runs out of ammo.”

Flint didn’t bother guessing. He entered the airlock space and spared one last glance through the opening to check on the progress of the exium prototype. It was floating past the boarding ramp in the direction of the Firestorm’s midsection, though where it would be installed, Flint had no idea.

The inner airlock door was held in an open position by the onboard security system, allowing Flint and his crew to dash through into the passages beyond. These passages were a little more lavishly proportioned than he was accustomed to, and with far more diagnostic stations. A high number of technical personnel were also in evidence and they pressed themselves into the walls to allow Flint and his crew to pass.

Fleet warship design didn’t vary much when it came to interiors and Flint didn’t require directions to the bridge. He located it easily enough atop a short flight of steps and with a three-metre-thick blast door – currently open – offering protection from attempts to storm the warship’s command and control centre.

Slowing as he entered, Flint looked around. The Firestorm’s bridge was much like every other bridge, being overly compact, with a low ceiling that sloped towards the nose. Each console was the latest model and teams of technical staff bustled around, comparing readouts on their diagnostic tablets. The only significant addition to the bridge was the obliterator core in one corner. Its gravity drive was powered up and thick data cables connected the device to an interface port in the floor.

“I’m Captain Flint – anyone who doesn’t need to be here, please leave,” said Flint loudly. He advanced towards the command console at the front of the bridge. The obliterator core made the air freezing, but he couldn’t feel it through his suit insulation.

“RL Ivon, sir,” one man introduced himself. He was about forty years old, wearing a combat suit, and looked as exhausted as Lera-Vel and everyone else. “The Firestorm is as operational as we can make it in the circumstances. We’re severing the last diagnostic links and the vessel will be in active mode in the next two minutes. After that, we’re just waiting for the exium unit to tie in.”

Without turning, Flint indicated his crew should enter their seats while he finished talking with RL Ivon. “How long until the exium tie ins are finished?” he asked. “And what the hell is the prototype meant to do, anyway?” Flint knew that exium was meant to act as a stabiliser, but what the precise effects would be on a warship, he didn’t know.

Ivon took a deep breath. “Well, Captain Flint, you’re aware that we can achieve a high degree of overstress on a standard module of refined ternium, but when we increase the overstress beyond a certain level, the substance becomes unstable and unpredictable.”

“Yes, I know this,” said Flint. Rightly predicting he was about to be given the long answer instead of the short one, he stepped past RL Ivon and sat at the command chair. The console was powered up and all he needed to do was sign in with his security details.

RL Ivon leaned against the console and continued his exposition. “We know the Lavorix experimented with superstressing ternium, which – despite what you may think – is not the same as a greater degree of overstress. We also know they were practising a method whereby several highly overstressed ternium modules would hold a smaller quantity of superstressed ternium modules stable.” Ivon attempted a smile. “Kind of stable.”

“Not at all stable,” said Flint. “Tell me about the exium before the Kilvar warship kills everyone.”

“The exium will align the ternium atoms in the Firestorm’s engines and allow them to produce a far greater output than any of the alliance’s overstressed propulsion systems produced to date.”

Flint had an eye for detail and he caught the doubt in Ivon’s voice. “You don’t know what’s going to happen, do you?”

“No.” RL Ivon pushed himself defiantly away from the console and stared at Flint. “This is what we were planning to test – we weren’t expecting a Kilvar warship to drop into orbit and begin firing missiles and energy beams.”

“Sir, I’m bringing up the sensors,” called Lieutenant Garrett from her station, offset and behind.

“Put the feeds on the screen,” said Flint. He turned once more to RL Ivon. “We’re running out of time. All I need to know is will the Firestorm fly out of this subsurface bay, will its mesh deflector activate and will its weapons fire?”

“Yes to all three, Captain. Assuming the exium unit ties in like it’s meant to.” Ivon checked over his shoulder. “That’s Lieutenant Stan Fredericks, isn’t it?”

Flint nodded. “That’s him all right.”

“I read about what he did on the Pulveriser at Ivisto. For all our sakes, we need him to be that good.”

“He is.”

Backing away, Ivon began calling for the other technicians to exit the bridge. Flint didn’t watch, since his attention was taken by the sensor feeds which had appeared on the bulkhead.

“Visible damage on the surface doors,” said Lieutenant Garrett.

The two immense plates of alloy were white hot in the centre, changing to orange and then red further out. Such was the intensity that Flint couldn’t be sure if the metal was bowing. The gravity generators would support them for a time, but they couldn’t do anything against a rupture in the metal, and if Flint was any judge, it wouldn’t be long before the Kilvar weapons tore an opening.

He shifted his gaze to the feeds of the bay. The exium prototype wasn’t visible anywhere, though a bunch of technicians were running for the mid-section boarding ramp. Meanwhile, dozens of personnel were on their way up the forward ramp and others were on their way.

“The Gundik is still firing, sir,” said Becerra. “Here’s a zoom of the cargo shaft.”

On the zoomed feed, Flint spotted three Kilvar drop into sight. They landed on the canted lift platform and rolled down, while the Gundik’s chain guns raked them with slugs. At the bottom of the slope, they joined the other dead aliens already chewed up by high-calibre gunfire.

“Commander Maddox, what’s the status of our weapons and countermeasures?”

“We’re carrying hellburners, railers, interceptors, shock bombs and drones,” she said. “There’s an entry for something called a Fracture and it’s offline. There’s also an entry for the destroyer cannon, again offline. Looks like they’re planning to install a Terrus-V gun and something called a decay pulse at some point, but they haven’t fitted the hardware.” She swore softly. “In fact, there’s a shit-ton of options on the weapons panel, most of it currently unavailable.”

Having read the files, Flint knew what most of those weapons could do if they were fitted and operational, and it gave him a shiver to think that many of the ideas and underlying tech originated from a species which had done its best to make humanity and the Daklan extinct. The Lavorix were gone, but their one-time opponents were here at Basalt and it was going to require something special to take out their warship.

“Aim one of our railers at the cargo shaft,” said Flint, putting thoughts of alien tech from his mind. “Lieutenant Becerra, pass on the order to those soldiers. I want them onboard the Firestorm as quickly as possible.”

Flint had signed into his console almost without thinking and he checked the propulsion readouts. “Twenty-seven percent of maximum,” he said loudly.

“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Fredericks. “There’re no new tie-ins, so the exium unit isn’t in place.”

“I can’t see it on the external sensors,” said Flint. “It’s gone somewhere.”

“There’s likely an underside hatch leading through the armour to the prototype’s intended position, sir. I guess it’s on its way.”

“Did you hear what RL Ivon said?”

“Most of it, sir. When the exium is patched in, I expect everything on my console will go crazy and I’ll have to figure it out in double-quick time.” Fredericks grunted with dry humour. “I hope I’m the miracle worker he says I am.”

“Do you require a comms link to RL Moseley?” asked Flint. “Or should I ask Lera-Vel to come to the bridge?”

“I’d prefer it if they stay away, sir. The thing about designers, scientists, researchers and technicians is that they’re shit hot when it comes to figuring out how things fit together, or how to make things work once that fitting together is finished. But if you put them in front of a station when the missiles are coming in left, right and centre, that’s when those brains of theirs don’t know how to handle things.”

“I understand,” said Flint. Privately, he thought Moseley and Lera-Vel had far more steel than Fredericks believed and he was equally sure the latter would be on her way to the bridge, with or without an invitation.

“The status monitors are reporting a new tie in!” said Fredericks.

“Is it the exium?”

“Yes, sir, it’s the exium and the tie in is complete.”

Before Flint had met RL Moseley, he’d have expected something slow and steady, requiring infinite patience before an Integration Testing Stage 1 out of 50: Complete green light appeared on his console, thirty minutes after the Firestorm had been wrecked by incoming missiles. Now that he’d been granted an insight into the somewhat more eccentric – gung-ho, perhaps – methods of the man and his cohorts, Flint was prepared for fireworks.

He watched and waited, hoping the exium prototype would be worth the effort involved getting it here – for the sake of Private Arnold and everyone else who’d perished since the Kilvar climbed out of their stinking celestial cesspit and decided it was time to attack the alliance.

In this, Flint’s hopes were high.

NINETEEN

Ten seconds after the exium tie in was complete, the Firestorm’s engine note settled and its output gauge rose to forty-five percent. Ten seconds after that, the output gauge was at eighty-three percent, and the propulsion sounded almost normal.

“Output still climbing,” said Fredericks. “The exium stabilisation is sweeping through our ternium blocks way faster than I’d imagined it would.”

“It’s a good thing it’s happening quickly,” said Lieutenant Garrett. “The bay doors took another hit and I can see the night sky through the hole.”

“Damnit, we can’t go yet,” said Flint. It wasn’t just about the engines. The bay personnel weren’t onboard and the destroyer cannon - the weapon Fleet Admiral Recker believed would bypass the Kilvar defences – was offline.

Unfortunately, like seemingly everything else fitted to the Firestorm, the cannon was a prototype and only anticipated to create an 800-metre sphere of negative energy. After that, its components required an extended cooldown before the weapon would fire again. Given the size of the opposing warship, a single discharge every five minutes wasn’t going to cut it.

“Everything’s either missing, or limited by something,” said Maddox. Since coming onboard, she’d hardly looked up from the weapons panel and it didn’t seem like she’d unearthed any game-changers.

“As long as the destroyer cannon fires, we’re going to put a hole in that enemy warship and draw it away from the base. That’s the intention, anyway,” said Flint.

“What do you mean intention, sir?” asked Maddox.

Flint let the others in on the bad news. “Fleet Admiral Recker thinks we may need to be in superstress before the weapon will be effective. We’re facing a lot of unknowns.”

Maddox’s worried face broke into an unexpected, broad grin. “Screw the issues and screw the unknowns. We’re going to give those Kilvar assholes something to think about.”

“Hell yeah!” said Lieutenant Bolan. The man had been so quiet that Flint had almost forgotten he was here.

“Glad you’re still with us, Lieutenant.”

“I was always told if I’ve got nothing to say, to keep my mouth shut, sir.”

“Maybe you should start following that advice,” said Fredericks dryly.

During the short exchange, the Firestorm’s engine output had climbed to a level indicating a two-hundred-percent level of overstress, and the readouts continued heading the right way. Not only that, but the engine note had developed a hard edge that was different to that of any normal ternium drive.

Maybe it’s a good sign, Flint thought. If it isn’t, I’ll soon find out.

“Mesh deflector online,” said Maddox.

The words had hardly left her mouth when the red Kilvar energy beam sliced through the upper doors at an angle and struck the exit shaft wall a few hundred metres above the Firestorm. It wasn’t close enough to trigger the mesh deflector, but it turned the alloy and rock wall into a deep, molten orange.

“The Firestorm has a two-module deflector, sir,” said Maddox. “Two hits and we’re out of answers until the hardware recharges.”

“The last few people are coming onboard,” said Becerra. Figures were running hard from the Gundik towards the boarding ramp. “That one’s Lieutenant Vance.”

“Time’s a-pushing, Lieutenant,” Flint heard Garrett say on the comms.

Flint shook his head in frustration. His warship was under attack, but he couldn’t leave those soldiers behind. Perhaps the Kilvar would ignore the bay once the Firestorm was in the sky, but he doubted it. They’d send a dozen missiles through the opening on the off chance the alliance was holding several other pieces of juicy new technology in the same place as the warship.

More people will die if I lose the Firestorm while it’s on the ground.

For the second time since he first arrived at Tibulon, Flint was confronted by the knowledge of what it was like to hold so many lives in his hand. He’d always known he might someday be forced to choose between two bad ways and now those choices were knocking on his door before he was ready to deal with them.

“We hold!” he said, anger coming out in his voice.

The centre area of the upper bay doors was melted into a sludge by the energy beam strike and rivers of it dripped groundward, hardening into dull red pillars which hung from the edges of the massive hole above.

“Three hundred percent output and climbing!” said Fredericks.

“Why aren’t we on the Amber battle network?” asked Flint. “Obtain access and do it now, even if you need to force open a channel to Fleet Admiral Recker.”

“Uh, the Fleet Admiral is on the comms, sir,” said Garrett, her voice betraying early indications of stress. “He wants to know what the hell is holding us back.”

“We’ve got troops on the ground. The Fleet Admiral will understand,” said Flint, fighting to keep the tension from his voice. “Ask him to add us to the battle network.”

“He’s gone, sir.”

“Well get him back!”

“Sir, Captain Montero has added us to the battle network,” said Becerra. “Tactical populating. We have thirty-two operational warships in the arena.”

The quantity of green dots on the tactical was heartening, since it indicated that many members of the local fleet had recovered from the surprise attack. A glance was enough for Flint to understand their tactics – the Amber warships were staying low beneath the planet’s curvature to interfere with the Kilvar vessel’s line-of-sight missile lock.

Every few seconds, the alliance ships would appear, launch missiles and countermeasures and then drop out of sight again. Against this invulnerable opponent it was a delaying tactic and nothing more. There again, Flint thought, the entire fleet was waiting to discover if the Firestorm would turn the tide.

“Commander Maddox, what’s keeping that destroyer cannon?”

“I don’t know, sir. There’s technical documentation that I haven’t had time to read through. I’m sure it’s not a hardware issue, which means it requires more power than the engines are providing.”

Flint opened his mouth to respond, when his intended reply was drowned out by a step change increase in propulsion volume. For two or three seconds, the metallic howl of overstressed ternium become something different – hollow and rattling, which made Flint think of a dying man’s last breath. His eyes went to the status panel and the electronic needles and numerical readouts had gone completely crazy, spiking way beyond anything Flint had seen on a warship before.

As quickly as it came, the hollow sound of propulsion vanished, to be replaced once more by the same howling as before. Except this time the howl contained hints of pure, unrestrained savagery. The needles dropped back to a six hundred percent overstress and started rising again.

“Tell me what’s happening, Lieutenant Fredericks,” said Flint tightly.

“I think we went briefly into superstress, sir,” said Fredericks. He sounded both excited and utterly terrified. “I don’t know what caused us to switch back. Hell, I don’t know half of what’s happening here.”

“You might not have long to find out, Lieutenant.” Flint’s flesh had become deathly cold at the thought of what could happen if the exium prototype’s programming pushed the Firestorm’s engines too far. The potential for catastrophe was real, yet if Fleet Admiral Recker was correct, the weapons might not be effective without embracing that risk.

“Lieutenant Vance is onboard, sir!” said Becerra. “The forward boarding ramp is closing. There are no other personnel in the bay.”

“Missiles incoming,” said Maddox. “Railers activated, range too short for interceptor lock.”

Having recently been pushed to his limits during the engagement at Tibulon, Flint was better able to handle the deluge of information cascading into his brain. The Firestorm’s instrumentation showed it was ready to fly and he didn’t wait any longer.

“We’re getting out of here,” he said, even as the distant rumble of the topside railers started up, the hail of slugs stabbing out into the darkness. “Make Fleet Admiral Recker aware and then send the open command to the topside doors.”

One-by-one and in rapid succession, the incoming missiles disappeared from the tactical, though Flint didn’t have time to feel relief. He wrapped his fingers around the controls. They were comfortable and familiar in his grip.

Flint pulled the twin bars towards him while requesting power from the engines. The background sound hardly changed as the twelve-billion-ton Firestorm lifted effortlessly from its hover over the bay floor.

“The topside doors aren’t responding, sir,” said Garrett.

“Try again,” said Flint. He was sure the outcome would be the same, but escaping the bay would be unnecessarily complicated if the doors didn’t open like they were meant to.

“We have mode 3 lightspeed travel, sir,” said Maddox. “That would take us out of here.”

“There’s not enough room in the bay to achieve launch velocity, Commander. We’re exiting through the roof.” Flint’s eyes darted to the upper feeds. The bay doors were huge and glowing with heat from missile strikes and the energy weapon. Through the hole, the underside of the Kilvar warship was visible, at the same altitude as before.

“Fleet Admiral Recker has ordered the local fleet to give us some cover,” said Becerra. “He has also ordered that under no circumstances are we to use the Fracture.”

“The Fracture isn’t online anyway,” said Maddox, her eyes not leaving the sensor feed. “We won’t fit through that opening in the doors. We could punch through with the Firestorm, but…” She swore and shook her head. “Those doors look tough even with the damage they’ve taken.”

“Target them with the topside hellburner clusters.”

“Yes, sir. Topside clusters targeted,” said Maddox.

“Change of plan,” said Flint, thinking fast. “Lieutenant Garrett, request a hellburner strike from the covering warships.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re at eight hundred percent overstress,” said Fredericks. “It seems to be holding…maybe.”

“The destroyer cannon came online!” said Maddox. “And the Fracture.”

“Don’t touch that one,” said Flint, repeating Recker’s order from moments ago.

The green dots representing the local fleet came racing across the tactical, converging on the Amber base. They didn’t have far to travel, so even with their reduced propulsion output, those vessels covered the distance quickly.

“Hellburner strike request acknowledged, sir,” said Garrett. “Missiles incoming.”

In the bay exit shaft, Flint held the Firestorm horizontal with the ground, two thousand metres beneath the doors. The sensors gave him an idea how little clearance he had at the nose and stern, and, on the portside, the shaft wall hadn’t nearly cooled down from the earlier beam strike.

Without warning, the Firestorm’s mesh deflector activated, surrounding the spaceship with an intricate pattern of lights. The shaft was briefly lit in blood-crimson and Flint’s brain caught up a moment later.

“Energy beam strike!” he yelled.

The attack had elongated the hole in the doors, though not enough for the Firestorm to fly through unless it was standing on its stern.

“Hellburners!” shouted Maddox.

Multiple warheads detonated on the upper surface of the doors and a column of fire was channelled into the opening, wrapping the Firestorm’s topside but not triggering the second mesh deflector.

The bay doors had suffered enough punishment and they sagged noticeably. Flint knew this was the moment and he pushed the controls along their runners. An electrifying howl and bellow came from all around and the Firestorm accelerated at such a rate that the life support module was tested beyond its limits. Flint was pushed hard into his seat and he tensed his muscles against the forces crushing his body.

“Get ready,” he said through gritted teeth.

With no interruption in its upward progress, the Firestorm smashed through the bay doors, buckling the two slabs of burning alloy and leaving them a twisted mess in its wake. Immediately the warship was clear, Flint banked hard and aimed it low across the base, thinking the Kilvar might lose track of his vessel given the quantity of targets in the area.

The sensors told a story. A few thousand metres overhead, the enemy ship was concealed beneath a shroud of nonstop detonations. The plasma from hundreds of missiles clung to its hull and new explosions came with hardly any time between them. Light from the blasts illuminated the structures below, many of which were already alight or glowing with heat from the Kilvar energy beam attacks.

From the flames rose dark smoke, which added a gloomy cast to the light and blurred the outlines of every building. As Flint’s eyes darted from feed to feed, he saw other explosions rip open walls, incinerating whoever or whatever was too close. Energy beams flickered, each one turning alloy into liquified waste.

Everywhere around, warships from the local fleet twisted and turned in tight patterns of evasion, their countermeasures spilling out and turning the gap between the Kilvar warship and the ground into a chaos of lights and flashes. Flint spotted annihilators and desolators, along with HPA battleships and heavy cruisers, several of which had suffered missile or energy beam strikes. Mesh deflectors lit up and then vanished, each activation bringing a warship closer to vulnerability and then destruction.

A shock pulse went off and then a second. A hundred green missile specks appeared on the tactical and then vanished. Red specks took their place and then came multiple new waves of green.

“Hell came to Basalt,” said Fredericks.

“And it’s coming to the Kilvar in return,” said Flint. He tried hard not to be mesmerised and tore his eyes to the instrumentation in front of him. A few of the gauges weren’t in the places he expected and the mesh deflector recharge timer was counting down erratically.

“Our output is climbing again, sir,” said Fredericks. “I can probably put a stop to it, but part of me wants to see where it’s going.”

“We may need superstress,” said Flint. “But not yet.” He snarled, deep in his throat. “Everyone’s waiting for us, so let’s show them what we’ve got.”

The Firestorm’s savage acceleration had taken it almost beyond the perimeter of the base and Flint brought it into a tight turn which again pushed the life support to the bounds of its suppression limits. Every muscle in his arms, shoulders and neck screamed with the effort of holding him in position, and when he brought the Firestorm out of its turn, the relief was immense.

A few thousand metres above and fifteen kilometres ahead, the Kilvar warship presented its flank and Flint slowed in order that he wouldn’t overshoot the target. Beneath the explosions, the enemy vessel’s armour was pristine and that only served to anger Flint even more. He opened his mouth to order the discharge of the destroyer cannon, when a second Kilvar target dropped out of lightspeed fifty kilometres east of the base and at a ten-kilometre altitude.

“Holy crap!” yelled Becerra. “Sir, check the feeds!”

It took Flint a moment to understand what he was looking at. This new vessel was a thousand metres shorter than the first, but with a flat nose, stern and flanks, along with a much higher profile. Immediately, Flint guessed what it was.

“A transport,” he said. “A warship carrier.”

The situation, already in tumult, was about to get much, much worse. With the local fleet attempting to re-organize, Flint prepared himself for the toughest fight of his life.

TWENTY

“Commander Maddox, target the first Kilvar warship with the destroyer cannon and fire,” said Flint. “Be ready on the hellburners.”

On the forward sensors, the enemy vessel hung over the base like a technological sword of darkness, beams of red flickering into the structures of the base and into the alliance warships racing through the night. Streaks of orange propulsion cut stark across the deep blue of dusk on the horizon and alliance countermeasures spilled out ceaselessly.

“Destroyer cannon targeted and fired,” said Maddox. “Hellburners ready.”

Flint tensed. This was the time when he’d discover if all the effort to reach the Firestorm had been worthwhile.

A bone-deep bass emanated from somewhere forward of the bridge. The sound built rapidly, pressurising the air and then it hit an expulsive, thumping crescendo before fading rapidly into nothingness. Watching expectantly on the sensor feeds, Flint cursed bitterly when the Kilvar warship was completely unaffected by the attack.

“We have entered a five-minute recharge time on the destroyer cannon,” said Maddox. “I can’t see a way to reduce the interval.”

“The enemy vessel is undamaged, Commander,” said Flint. “We need to be in superstress before we try again.”

“Our output is still rising, sir,” said Fredericks. “I can’t find a way to switch us into superstress. I’m not even sure the prototype is controllable.”

“Keep looking, Lieutenant. It’s imperative we figure something out,” said Flint. His eyes went to the feeds. “Let’s keep our heads down. Lieutenant Becerra, I’m relying on you to update the other members of the fleet.”

“Yes, sir.”

Although the destroyer cannon attack had failed, Flint had a feeling the Kilvar warship would detect the presence of exium within the Firestorm and subject his vessel to focus fire. In anticipation, he banked west towards the Kilvar vessel’s stern and accelerated. The propulsion thundered and his eyes jumped from place to place, absorbing the developments in the combat arena.

Nothing had changed – the local fleet continued evasive manoeuvres, while unloading every weapon they had available. A Daklan desolator was in flames and heading down. Soon, the fleet would be forced to break off and resume their hit and hide tactics to reduce losses.

“The primary enemy warship is on the move!” said Lieutenant Becerra.

“Coming for us,” said Maddox.

It was too early to conclude that for certain, though Flint didn’t doubt who the enemy was targeting. The Kilvar vessel rotated around its vertical axis and began a gradual acceleration at the same time.

“I’m getting us out of here,” said Flint.

Beneath the Firestorm, the ground was a blur and the Amber facility was already ten kilometres behind.

“They’ve finished a 180-degree turn and they’re definitely heading our way!” said Becerra.

Sure enough, the first Kilvar warship was on a direct line after the Firestorm, its hull tauntingly unscathed by the best attacks the alliance could muster.

Flint realised he didn’t have much of a plan. The Firestorm was accelerating across the surface of Basalt at a five-thousand-metre altitude. Below, towns and cities of millions were relying on him, his crew and the local fleet for protection.

In pursuit came the Kilvar warship and many of the alliance fleet. Missiles sped between the two sides, while shock pulses went off with such frequency they illuminated the horizon in a madman’s image of dawn. Meanwhile, the second enemy spaceship was also turning to follow, and Flint experienced an uneasy feeling the carrier was going to be the greater threat.

“We’re leading the enemy vessels away from the base, sir,” said Maddox. “But if even a single warship ditches in one of the Basalt oceans, it’s going to make a wave that puts a quarter of the planet’s land mass under water.”

Having experienced the strength of determination earlier, Flint was now feeling the weight of a billion lives on his shoulders. The Firestorm’s acceleration was of such brutality that its nose temperature was at three thousand Centigrade and climbing, and the warship was leaving a thick trail of smoke in its wake. Not wishing to have his vessel’s armour softened by atmospheric friction, Flint was forced to rein in the warship’s potential and he could almost feel it urging him to aim for the skies and give it everything.

“Sir, we’ve received numerous suggestions from the other warship commanders,” said Garrett. “And we got one from the Fleet Admiral himself.”

“What does he recommend?”

“He says go with your instinct, sir.”

“Damn,” said Flint. He still lacked a plan, yet he had a feeling of what he should do. Where his action would lead, he didn’t know.

He pulled back on the controls and pointed the Firestorm’s nose directly away from Basalt. In seconds it had entered the thin air of the upper atmosphere and then it was into the vacuum. Half a million kilometres away, the planet’s single moon was another grey sphere. The local star shone across its cusp, producing spears of refracted yellow and reminding Flint that even the most unremarkable features of the universe could be made beautiful.

“Shock pulse deployed,” said Maddox, not waiting for the instruction. “Ready on interceptors.”

“Nose temperature falling slowly,” said Lieutenant Bolan. “We’re going to be hot for a while.”

A red energy beam activated the Firestorm’s mesh deflector and Flint swore when it happened. He requested maximum power from the engines and the warship’s velocity gauge readout became a blur. The local fleet fell rapidly behind, but the Kilvar ship matched pace even if it didn’t close the distance.

“Five thousand klicks per second, six thousand,” Flint said, glancing at the instrumentation. “We can’t outrun an energy beam as long as we remain sub-light, but we can definitely outrun it by going into mode 3.”

“I’m issuing a synch code to the local fleet, sir,” said Becerra. “Any warship that accepts the code will arrive at the same place as we do.”

It was extraordinarily quick thinking. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Flint, grateful his crew were backing him up. “Setting the Basalt moon as a short-range transit destination,” He touched his fingertip on the tactical screen to set the end point.

“We’re at a thousand percent overstress, sir,” said Fredericks, before Flint could activate the short-range transit. “I’m trying impose some control over the increase, but the exium prototype is repeating its configuration routines quicker than I can block them.”

Flint was torn. On the one hand, uncontrolled superstress had disastrous potential. On the other, without superstress the destroyer cannon was already a proven failure. “Lieutenant Fredericks, if we enter superstress, it might bring us salvation or it might bring us death.”

“I know, sir, and I’m the one at the console.”

“And I wouldn’t choose anyone else, Lieutenant.”

“Rear hellburner clusters one to three: fired,” said Maddox. “Enemy missiles heading our way. Shock pulse deployed.”

With no expectations for the hellburners, Flint pressed the SRT activation button on the control bar and braced himself for the in-out trauma. The transit was over in the blink of an eye and he grimaced with the nausea and at the pounding in his temples.

“Sensors!” he shouted.

“They’re coming online, sir,” said Garrett. “Damn, they’re working fast.”

“Sir, there’s something up with the timers,” said Maddox, her gaze intent on her central console screen.

“What kind of something up?” asked Flint angrily. It sounded as if he was about to have another spoonful of the brown stuff heaped on his already full plate.

“We’re meant to have a five-minute cooldown on the destroyer cannon and the mesh deflector,” Maddox continued. “The destroyer cannon is available already and the first mesh deflector generator is recharged again.”

“Are the timers out of calibration or are the availability indicators inaccurate?” asked Flint sharply.

“Neither, sir. The timers are decreasing faster than they’re meant to.”

The sensors came online. Garrett and Becerra got to work aiming and focusing the arrays, though the picture outside was already clear enough. The Firestorm had emerged from lightspeed on the far side of Basalt’s moon, exactly where Flint had intended. The starboard feeds showed the grey, pocked surface, no more than fifty thousand kilometres away.

“Battle network repopulating,” said Becerra. “We brought more than half of the local fleet with us and I’m receiving comms from several others who had overriding orders to hold position at Basalt.”

“Those Kilvar warships are going to arrive in the next few seconds,” said Flint. “I can feel it.”

He increased the Firestorm’s velocity while aiming it towards the moon. It seemed clear the best way to avoid the Kilvar energy beam was to take shelter behind a massive object, allowing the mesh deflectors an opportunity to recharge between each activation.

“Our escort ships are accelerating to join us, sir,” said Becerra.

“No reports of the Kilvar warships returning to Basalt,” added Garrett. “They’re out in space where we left them.”

“Not for long,” said Maddox.

Aware the Firestorm was the fastest vessel in the local fleet, Flint restrained his approach to the moon. He watched the sensors and the tactical closely. Even though the alliance warships were blind side of the moon, he was sure the Kilvar would follow. Either they could read lightspeed tunnels in the same way as the Lavorix or – and Flint was convinced this more likely – they had a way to detect the presence of exium.

Before the Firestorm had covered ten thousand kilometres from its starting position, the propulsion note once again switched to the sound of a deep, continuous inhalation which made Flint’s skin tighten in a primal fear reaction and produced a cold sweat on his scalp.

“We’re back in superstress,” said Fredericks.

“Hold it there!” said Flint.

“I don’t know if I can, sir.”

The propulsion went back to a howl and Fredericks cursed at his station. The man was normally calm, whatever came his way. Seeing him so agitated put Flint on edge as well.

“If we don’t figure out how to control the superstress, we’re going to lose this engagement, Lieutenant.”

“You’re reminding me of something I already know, sir.”

“Enemy warships on the sensors!” shouted Garrett, diverting Flint from one critical issue to another.

The twelve-thousand-metre Kilvar vessel had exited lightspeed approximately fifty thousand kilometres from the Firestorm’s position. A few hundred kilometres further, the slab-sided carrier was also stationary at the end of its SRT and Flint spotted a half-open hatch on its visible flank. Whatever was inside, he knew he wasn’t going to like it, and he estimated the bulky vessel might have enough interior space to hold ten or twelve warships of similar size to an HPA battleship.

The moment the Kilvar appeared, the alliance ships launched missiles. Flint noted that several vessels were firing in staggered waves, which he knew was a good way to limit the effectiveness of the enemy knockout cannisters. Not that it mattered too much when the hellburners were failing so badly.

“The second vessel is also invulnerable, sir,” said Becerra. “It was hit numerous times on Basalt and it’s unmarked.”

“I don’t think anyone’s surprised by that news,” said Flint sourly.

“The destroyer cannon is ready, sir,” Maddox reminded him. “We could take a shot at one of those vessels.”

“We’re not in superstress,” said Flint. He checked the output gauge – it was higher than last time, but with no indication it was about to switch state.

Flint got a break. The propulsion deepened, once again taking on the eerie superstress note.

“Target the first warship and fire,” he said.

“The first warship is out of the cannon’s firing arc, sir,” said Maddox. “Our nose is pointing in the wrong direction.”

“Not for long.”

The Firestorm was travelling at three thousand kilometres per second, but velocity in a vacuum didn’t – in theory - make it any harder to pull off the nose-tail switch and Flint’s hands retained a memory of the same manoeuvre he’d executed at Tibulon.

What he hadn’t accounted for was the change brought about by the superstressed propulsion. Such was the monumental thrust from the engines that Flint spun the warship around by 270-degrees instead of 180. He tried to correct, but ended up flying sideways with the enemy vessel far outside the nose-mounted destroyer cannon’s narrow firing arc.

“Both enemy warships are heading in pursuit,” said Garrett.

Determined to salvage something from his failed effort, Flint rotated the Firestorm again, so that it was heading stern-first towards the moon, still travelling at the same velocity as before. The Kilvar crew had recovered quickly from their SRT and they launched weapons and discharged the energy beam.

One of the Daklan desolators – already damaged by the engagement at Basalt - was hit by the energy weapon and its mesh deflector didn’t activate. Expansion of superheated alloy ruptured much of its rear quarter, creating a burst of fiery debris which trailed in its path. The desolator’s commanding officer must have judged another strike would be fatal and he executed an SRT, taking his warship elsewhere.

“Second chance,” said Flint, his eyes on the Kilvar warship.

“Happy to accept it, sir,” said Maddox. “Destroyer cannon fired.”

The bass thump of expulsion wasn’t unexpected this time and Flint let it wash over him. Since the enemy ship was coming head-on, Maddox could only target its nose. The cannon shot hit the Kilvar vessel, turning fifteen billon tons of alloy and ternium into a rapidly expanding sphere of grey powder.

“Damn and crap!” said Garrett. “How did that one feel, you Kilvar bastards?”

The particles cleared rapidly and it was immediately obvious that the destroyer cannon had disintegrated a far greater volume than expected. The Kilvar vessel’s nose was completely gone and debris was falling in massive chunks from the adjacent areas of the hull.

“Hellburners!” yelled Flint.

“Forward tubes one to three: fired,” said Maddox at once.

The other alliance warships reacted with similar speed, launching their own missiles and firing Terrus cannons. The Kilvar warship didn’t even have time to bank before dozens of hellburners and gauss slugs crashed into the area exposed by the destroyer cannon. An explosion of gratifying size and destruction tore apart another few billion tons of armour and ternium.

Whatever piece of tech was providing energy for the Kilvar warship’s invulnerability, it suddenly failed. Before Flint’s eyes, every single alliance weapon became effective and every detonation produced a crater or ripped free some plating.

“It’s entering a spin,” said Garrett.

With no vacuum drag, a spin often indicated a warship’s control system had failed, causing its engines to fire randomly. Either that, or the engine modules themselves were no longer generating thrust evenly. Whatever the reason, it was invariably terminal for the affected vessel.

Sensing the kill, several of the local fleet warships broke off tailing the Firestorm and treated the Kilvar vessel to an extensive bombardment.

“Game over for those alien scumbags,” said Maddox in satisfaction.

“There’s a vessel exiting the carrier,” said Becerra, before anyone could form thoughts of celebration. “It’s four-point-two klicks in length and with an estimated twenty-five-billion-ton mass.”

Demonstrating to Flint that he had plenty to learn when it came to space dogfights, four or five of the nearby alliance warships switched targets, firing Terrus shots and missiles at the emerging spaceship.

“The engine monitoring tools are no longer interpreting the data in the way I’d expect,” said Fredericks. “I’m guessing that means we have an instability in our propulsion.”

“Stop it happening, Lieutenant! If we go into uncontrolled superstress, we might destroy Basalt, or lock it in permanent stasis!”

“I don’t think I can stop it, sir,” said Fredericks.

“Try!”

“I am trying!”

“There’s a second warship exiting the carrier. And a third,” said Becerra. “They are unaffected by our weapons.”

Although the Kilvar were outnumbered – the same way they’d always been – their invulnerability meant it wasn’t a fair fight. The countdown timer on the Firestorm’s destroyer cannon was tumbling, and while a single discharge might knock out one of these smaller vessels, it wouldn’t be enough to finish the carrier.

On top of everything, Flint had a clenching in his gut and it wasn’t caused by fear of his opponents. What terrified him most of all was the feeling his warship was far and away the most potentially destructive force in the arena. Worst of all, he had no idea how to control it and no idea what it might do.

The Kilvar warships began ejecting missiles in great quantities and then the familiar red beam jumped twice into the alliance fleet, discharged from locations on the carrier’s nose and stern. An annihilator’s mesh deflector activated, while the flank of an HPA heavy cruiser was turned into burning white and orange by the attack.

Flint’s mind threw up ideas, many of them desperate, and his eyes went to the SRT activation button on his screen. Perhaps the best idea of all would be to enter lightspeed for as long as the mode 3 would hold and take the Firestorm and the exium prototype far away from Basalt.

He reached out a finger and quickly withdrew it.

Go with your instinct.

“Shit,” he swore.

Right now, his instinct was telling him to go for broke.

TWENTY-ONE

“Commander Maddox, fire the destroyer cannon at the enemy carrier,” said Flint, allowing the Firestorm to continue coasting stern-first towards the moon. At its current velocity, it would impact soon and he increased forward thrust, to slow the approach.

“Targeting enemy vessel’s beam generator,” said Maddox.

The weapon fired and a two-thousand-metre section of the carrier’s nose was reduced to particles.

“Whoa, crap,” said Maddox. “That discharge affected a larger volume than the first.” She swore again. “There’s an amber light on the cannon’s charge module – it’s being fed too much power.”

“Can you limit the input?” asked Flint.

“There’s no option in the software, sir.”

“This is what happens when you take experimental hardware into battle,” said Flint. “Without that destroyer cannon, we can’t finish off these Kilvar.”

The tactical was filling up with enemy warships. Missiles sped in both directions and countermeasures sought them out. Shock bombs began to flash at erratic intervals, adding to the confusion.

“A lot of missiles are heading our way, sir,” said Maddox.

“We’re at the greatest distance, Commander. They have to pass through a lot of countermeasures to reach us - including our own.”

Those countermeasures weren’t so effective against particle beams and the carrier aimed one at the Firestorm.

“Mesh deflector activated!” said Maddox. “Cooldown timer dropping fast. Amber light on mesh deflector module #1.”

“They have a varying interval on their energy beams, sir,” said Lieutenant Bolan. “I’ve been counting the discharge times on both Kilvar warships and they’re unpredictable.”

Flint couldn’t do much about it and he hated relying on hope. “Fire the destroyer cannon, Commander Maddox,” he said. The recharge timer had fallen from an indicated five minutes to zero in approximately ten seconds.

“Destroyer cannon fired,” said Maddox.

A second massive section of the carrier exploded into dust, this time hitting the stern and part of the bay. The Kilvar warship was looking ragged, but it hadn’t broken up. Hellburners and Terrus slugs thundered into the areas exposed by the destroyer cannon shots, but the contents of the carrier’s hold continued spilling out. Each new vessel immediately launched missiles towards the Firestorm.

“We’ve dropped out of superstress, but the propulsion is at fifteen hundred percent overstress, sir!” said Fredericks. “I think I’ve figured out how to shut us down, but I don’t know if that’ll stop the instability!”

Flint opened his mouth, unsure what he was about to say. Before he could speak, the Firestorm’s propulsion changed state again and this time the inhalation sound which accompanied the superstress was cavernous and with infinite depths, with a godlike quality which gave Flint a sudden insight into how little of the universe humanity and the Daklan truly understood.

“Commander Maddox!” he shouted. “The destroyer cannon!”

Another officer might have suggested caution – might have told him that that overloaded weapon module could explode, unleashing its stored potential in a devastating blast that would turn the Firestorm into so much scrap, or set the ternium modules critical. Not Maddox.

“Firing the cannon,” she said.

A third huge hole appeared in the carrier, this time in its flank above the open bay doors. Through the opening, Flint spotted the three remaining battleships it was carrying, one of which had been cut in half by the cannon burst.

“Keep firing!”

“Cannon fired!” said Maddox.

This time, she aimed at the nearest enemy warship and its entire midsection vanished, leaving the nose and stern as separate pieces. Instead of continuing their journey at the same velocity, the ruined sections slowed until they were travelling in super-slow motion.

“We created a stasis field!” said Flint.

“Cannon fired!” said Maddox.

Half of another Kilvar warship was turned into powder and what remained entered the slowest of death tumbles towards the moon.

“A second stasis field,” said Flint. “Advise the other members of the fleet.”

“Yes, sir,” said Becerra.

“Missiles inbound!” warned Maddox. “Impacts any moment.”

The mesh deflector had recharged again already and it sprang into existence, causing the enemy warheads to detonate fruitlessly. It winked out and then reappeared in time to block one of the carrier’s energy beams.

“Red light on deflector module #1,” said Maddox. “It’s offline.”

“Fire the cannon!”

“Cannon discharged! The cooldown is finishing almost immediately.”

Only a handful of seconds had passed since the Firestorm entered superstress and Flint heard a background whine rising alongside the inhalation. Whatever was causing the noise, it probably wasn’t a positive development.

“One of the smaller Kilvar warship has been destroyed by missile fire!” said Garrett excitedly. “It wasn’t one of our targets!”

Sure enough, an enemy battleship was aflame and its hull was breaking apart, and it was happening at normal speed.

“The captain of the Kostralias reports that their last missile salvo was effective!” said Becerra. “Those smaller warships can’t remain invulnerable as long as the capital ships.”

“A red light appeared on the destroyer cannon, sir, but it’s showing online,” said Maddox. “Should I fire?”

Before Flint could answer, Garrett shouted loud enough for him to divert his attention.

“Fleet Admiral Recker is on the comms, sir! He wants to speak with you!”

“Pass him through! Open channel.”

“Amber light on mesh deflector module #2,” said Maddox. “Cooldown at one second.”

“Captain Flint,” said Recker, talking fast yet without panic. “We’re monitoring the Firestorm’s instrumentation from base. RL Moseley thinks you have one more shot out of the destroyer cannon – two at best. Worse, he’s certain you’re on the brink of an uncontrolled reaction in the ternium drive. That’s if one hasn’t already started.”

“Lieutenant Fredericks says he can shut the exium prototype down, sir, but the enemy threat is not neutralised. If they believe this engagement is lost, their best option will be to escape by SRT and that’s a reset we don’t need.”

“I agree,” said Recker. It sounded like he was well-informed about the real time events happening on the blind side of Basalt’s moon. “Listen carefully, Captain Flint. I’ve sent a synch code to the other warships and I’m going to order them into lightspeed. The moment it happens, I want you to discharge the Fracture, using the targeting coordinates I’ll send you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Flint. It wasn’t time for extended discussion and all he could do was accept the order.

“Keep me in the channel,” said Recker.

“Yes, sir.”

“Missile impacts imminent!” said Maddox. “Shock bomb deployed. Drones released.”

“The entire local fleet vanished from the tactical, sir!” said Becerra. “It’s just us and the Kilvar.”

“Mesh deflector activated! The status light is jumping from red to amber!”

This was far and away the most pressure Flint had ever been under. The tactical was full of red, his warship was failing and his superstressed engines were about to go into meltdown. Instead of breaking, he discovered an area of calm deep inside and allowed himself to descend into it. The tension in his muscles faded and his mind saw order amongst the chaos.

The Fracture could only be discharged by the Firestorm’s commanding officer. Touching the control panel, Flint brought it online and discovered it already contained the firing coordinates provided by Fleet Admiral Recker.

“I’ve confirmed a criticality in one of the aft ternium modules, sir!” said Fredericks. “There are signs of it happening in a second. I don’t know if I can…”

“Discharging Fracture,” said Flint.

A rending, cracking sound like a quadrillion-ton boulder being shattered by a planet-sized sledgehammer, made Flint yell in pain. The needles on the status panel jumped back and forward and some of the numerical readouts displayed figures that should not have been possible.

“Red light on the Fracture module!” said Flint.

“What is it meant to do?” asked Maddox.

“The enemy warships are still firing,” said Becerra.

“Fleet Admiral, I don’t know if the Fracture discharged or not.”

“If the Kilvar ships are shooting missiles, it hasn’t worked,” said Recker, his fury emerging from the bridge speakers like a physical force.

The Fracture had failed to operate, leaving Flint deeper in the shit than before. The enemy were certain to destroy the Firestorm, given the red lights on the warship’s defensive hardware. Then they’d either leave Basalt, or maybe they’d return and start punitive bombing.

As far as Flint could see only one option was left, and it wasn’t escape. “The destroyer cannon, Commander Maddox!” he ordered. “Use it!”

“Cannon discharged. Seven enemy ships plus the carrier remaining,” said Maddox. “Cannon recharged. Firing. Six left. Target selected. Firing. Five. Cannon recharged. Four. Holy crap! Carrier selected. Firing!”

Each cannon shot disintegrated an enemy warship and left the pieces in stasis. Such was the recharge speed of the weapon that it fired as rapidly as Maddox could retarget. It also seemed that each subsequent shot affected a greater volume than the one before and the burst aimed at the carrier wiped out most of its remaining midsection.

All the while, the whining of the propulsion became louder, and the superstress inhalation altered in pitch, like the two sounds were combining into one.

Despite the power of the cannon, it didn’t stop the enemy missiles, many of which were in flight. Flint’s eyes went to the flickering mesh deflector light. It was more often red than amber. He shifted his gaze to the forward feed, where the railers continued spewing thousands of slugs into the vacuum. Considering the quantity of missiles, it wasn’t nearly enough.

“Cannon discharged! Three left.”

“The Langinstol appeared on the tactical, sir!” said Becerra. “Some of the other ships are coming back!”

“Two more engine modules went critical!” said Fredericks.

“Target selected,” said Maddox.

The sensors went blank and Flint’s head thudded. “We entered lightspeed,” he said, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“It was a remote activation, sir,” said Lieutenant Bolan. “The command came from the Amber base.”

“Fleet Admiral Recker?” asked Flint, belatedly remembering that a lightspeed transit would cut the comms channel dead. He guessed at what had happened. The personnel on Basalt believed the Firestorm’s ternium drive had reached a tipping point and they’d sent it as far from the planet as possible, relying on the local fleet to finish off the last of the smaller Kilvar warships.

That meant Flint had one priority and the increased whining of the propulsion made him sure there wasn’t much time left.

“Lieutenant Fredericks, shut us down,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”

“Sir, I’m trying. The critical modules won’t respond. They’re resonating with the adjacent modules and the effect is spreading.”

“How long do we have and what will happen?”

“Minutes. Seconds. I’m not going to give you a prediction about the outcome, sir.”

“We’ve got a lot of people onboard, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir, we have.”

“You’re the best there is, Lieutenant Fredericks,” said Flint, turning so he could see the other man. “The technicians can’t fix this and I’ll wager neither RL Moseley nor Lera-Vel could do it in the time we have left. This one’s yours.”

“Damnit, sir,” said Fredericks, though from his tone, his brain was elsewhere. “It might be too late, but let’s try this. I can recover all the non-critical modules and hold them at twelve hundred percent overstress. If I divert their output into the critical modules, maybe I can…there!”

“Is it done?” asked Flint. “Already?” He wanted to jump from his seat and stand at the engine console, but he needed to remain at his station.

“Yes. Maybe.” Fredericks sounded exhausted. “The overstressed modules are containing the critical modules. How long it’ll last, I don’t know.”

“Should we evacuate?” said Bolan.

“There’s no shuttle on the Firestorm,” said Flint. “I assume they preferred to use that space for extra weapons or propulsion.”

“Damn.”

“I’ve got Fleet Admiral Recker on the comms again, sir,” said Becerra.

“Bring him in – open channel.”

“Captain Flint,” said Recker. “I see your engine man has worked something out.”

“Yes, sir. It’s not a permanent solution - we don’t know how long it’ll hold.”

“RL Moseley is on the comms to Lera-Vel. They may have the makings of a resolution.”

“Will it happen in time, sir?”

“It’ll happen in minutes. I can’t promise that it’ll be in time.”

“What about the rest of the Kilvar fleet, sir?”

“Gone. One of their battleships entered mode 3 and our lightspeed tracking hardware failed to locate its trail. Luckily, one of our remote monitors spotted it. Our fleet pursued and the Kilvar vessel was destroyed.”

“What now, sir?”

“For you, your crew and for me, a nervous wait to discover if the Firestorm can be returned to a stable state. After that? War.”

Five minutes went by and Lera-Vel arrived at the bridge. She spent several additional minutes in a three-way conversation with Lieutenant Fredericks and RL Moseley. In the end, their combined expertise was enough to shut down the critical ternium modules. It was a close-run thing, that much was obvious.

Fleet Admiral Recker was not prepared to allow the Firestorm back to the Amber base and a rescue vessel was dispatched.

As he sat in the starkly lit transport’s passenger bay, an hour after the last shot had been fired in the engagement at Basalt’s moon, Flint thought about the future. Hardship and death were coming in great measures.

Whatever war brings, I’ll face it head on.

Flint tipped back his head, closed his eyes and let the transport carry him home.

AMBER

Fleet Admiral Recker sat at his desk, deep in one of the Amber underground bunkers. The Kilvar were gone – for now – but the base had suffered extensive damage. Much of it was recoverable, though only because the enemy warship hadn’t dropped incendiaries.

His mind wandered back to the Lavorix wars. The Lavorix had been equipped with vile weapons called extractors, which could suck the life from living creatures and use the energy for purposes which Recker had never gleaned.

Having heard a report about Private Arnold’s death, and how the Kilvar had drained his life, Recker was struck by the thought that perhaps the Lavorix’s efforts to extract life had been a way to contain the Kilvar. Perhaps, the Kilvar had a use for life energy that was so terrible the Lavorix had chosen to expunge life wherever they found it, so their opponents would be denied use of that resource.

Recker’s thoughts swum with guesses and possibilities. The universe could be appallingly cruel and, in his mind, it was a wonder that life strove to exist at all, given how easily and painfully it could be snuffed out.

Putting the thoughts aside, Recker bit down on his simmering anger and planned how he was going to deal with the Kilvar.

* * *

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