BOOKS BY ISAAC HOOKE

Military Science Fiction

A Captain's Crucible Series

Flagship

Test of Mettle

The ATLAS Series

ATLAS

ATLAS 2

ATLAS 3

Science Fiction

The Forever Gate Series

The Dream

A Second Chance

The Mirror Breaks

They Have Wakened Death

I Have Seen Forever

Rebirth

Walls of Steel

The Pendulum Swings

The Last Stand

Thrillers

The Ethan Galaal Series

Clandestine

A Cold Day In Mosul

Terminal Phase

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TEST OF METTLE

A CAPTAIN'S CRUCIBLE

BOOK TWO

Isaac Hooke

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

Text copyright © Isaac Hooke 2016

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

www.IsaacHooke.com

Cover design by Isaac Hooke

Cover image by Shookooboo

table of contents

prologue

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

twenty-four

twenty-five

twenty-six

twenty-seven

twenty-eight

twenty-nine

thirty

thirty-one

thirty-two

thirty-three

thirty-four

thirty-five

thirty-six

thirty-seven

thirty-eight

thirty-nine

forty

epilogue

postscript

about the author

acknowledgments

prologue

Rade followed the Praetor and three Centurions deeper into the alien ship. Behind him, three more Centurions brought up the rear. The entire party was armed with M1170 laser pulse guns specially modified to penetrate the alien body shields. A trio of unarmed, fist-sized HS4 scouts hovered beside the group. The boarding party had originally started out with eight HS4s, but five had been shot down.

His team had successfully liberated the crew of the Selene, whom the aliens had taken prisoner. Unfortunately there hadn’t been enough room aboard the shuttles for everyone to return, so he had elected to stay behind with the combat robots. His daughter had been part of the rescued crew, and she was safely headed back to the Callaway at that moment. Rade could relax. Somewhat.

He had a vague notion of capturing the alien ship; he wanted nothing more than to parade the damn thing back to the fleet with its crew acting as his subservient prisoners. Somehow he doubted that was going to happen. It was a nice dream, though. The more likely scenario would see the mission end with him detonating the powerful explosives attached to the Centurions, thereby preventing their tech from falling into enemy hands. His pressurized jumpsuit was similarly rigged.

The party moved on foot through the passages they had breached previously. So far there was no resistance—they had already cleared out all tangos in the previous run. Their helmet lamps eerily cut through the crimson gloom cast by the glowing filaments embedded in the bulkheads. Artificial gravity resided at a workable one point one Gs.

Up ahead, one of the HS4s hovered beside an intact hatch the party had passed by in the earlier run.

“Cut through,” Rade said. He and the others took up defensive positions.

The lead combat robot switched to the plasma rifle Rade had given it for that purpose and fired at the door. Yellow gas gushed into the compartment from the molten hole the weapon carved into the metal. In moments the atmosphere beyond had vented completely; the robot fired twice more, enlarging the white hot hole, then replaced the weapon with its laser rifle.

The HS4 went inside to scout. Rade piped the video feed to his aReal.

“It’s an empty compartment, Chief,” the Praetor sent over the comm. “Maybe a lift of some kind.”

“Does it have any obvious means of operation?” Rade asked.

“No,” the combat robot answered.

“Let’s move on then,” Rade said. “We don’t have time to figure out how their lifts work. When we’ve cleared the entire level, we’ll come back, blow a hole in the overdeck, and start climbing.”

Jetpacks would have helped with that, but with the extra spacesuits and the portable airlock they had been forced to carry along for the refugees, the jump devices hadn’t been a possibility.

The boarding party reached another intact hatch, and the lead robot similarly breached it. When the atmosphere finished venting, one of the HS4s went inside.

The video feed from the scout clicked out.

“We’re taking fire!” the Praetor said over the comm.

Rade had already set the Centurions to “search and destroy” mode: on cue, the two lead robots peered past the edge of the opening and fired.

“Going in!” one of them said. The first Centurion went high, the second low. In moments two more combat robots piled inside.

Rade stayed behind, waiting for the Centurions to do their jobs. He observed the operation from their video feeds.

“Clear!” the lead Centurion announced.

Rade entered the breached hatch. The passage was about the same width as the previous, able to fit two of the robots abreast. Localized black fog covered the deck in places, the constituent mist still seething: dead aliens. One of the Centurions lay in a broken pile on the floor.

The remaining HS4s quickly moved ahead to map the area. Rade advanced, following the lead Centurions.

“Don’t touch them,” Rade warned the robots. He had seen the aliens use that fog as a weapon, short-circuiting the electronics of Centurions, and he worried it could still play havoc in death.

He carefully stepped over the dark, moving mists himself as he advanced.

The party reached a side passage. According to the map the HS4s had transmitted to his aReal, the passage rounded a bend and shortly ended at a sealed hatch. Meanwhile, just ahead was another secured hatch. Rade elected to open the closer hatch first, as the side passage provided convenient cover.

While two robots moved to breach the forward hatch, he and the rest of the party sheltered in the side passage.

He noticed that one of the dark mists resided on the deck nearby. He had seen it fall while remotely watching the Centurions clear the area. It seemed closer to the bend in that side passage than he remembered.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it hadn’t moved. But he had a sneaking suspicion the occupant had dropped to the deck during the initial attack and was merely playing dead.

Rade pointed his rifle squarely at the mist.

But before he squeezed the trigger the darkness abruptly vanished.

Incredibly, a man Rade didn’t recognize huddled there on the deck. The individual wasn’t wearing a spacesuit, yet he was alive somehow, despite the lack of atmosphere, and he raised his arms in surrender.

The man’s lips moved soundlessly. The words Rade thought he formed caused the hair to stand up at the back of his neck.

Before Rade could do anything more, he felt the deck shudder. 

“Taking incoming fire!” the Praetor said over the comm.

The remaining HS4 indicators on his aReal clicked out. No more scouts.

Rade glanced over his shoulder and saw that the robots behind him were shooting past the edge of the side passage, toward the newly breached forward hatch, no doubt.

Rade turned back toward the man. He was gone.

“Hey!” Rade raced down the passage, leaving behind the robots. As he rounded the bend he was forced back by the venting of yellow atmosphere up ahead. He saw that the sealed hatch had opened there. A score of dark masses resided on the other side.

Rade quickly retreated. “Got incoming on this side!”

Two of the robots took up defensive positions at the bend, while the other two remained near the edge of the side passage. Another pair of Centurions remained out of view, and according to the aReal they’d dropped down beside the forward hatch they’d breached.

The party defended both flanks and kept the enemy at bay for roughly twenty minutes. For every alien they shot down, another appeared. So many enemies had fallen that the attackers began using the dark masses of their dead companions for cover.

Rade decided at that point he definitely wasn’t going to be taking over the ship. He also decided he didn’t want to die there.

“We’ve overstayed our welcome, people,” Rade said. “Units C and E, cover us! The rest, with me!”

The indicated Centurions dutifully remained behind, one near the forward breach, the other the flank, and the rest retreated.

The fleeing party members were momentarily exposed in that main passage, and they were relying on the robot near the forward breach to cover them. The Centurion closest to Rade fell behind him. He was glad it was a robot: if a brother had fallen, he would have had to go back for him.

Rade leaped through the previous breach and into the passageway beyond, leaving the line of fire. He and the three remaining robots raced through the passages and compartments, making their way toward the original gash in the hull they had carved, and when they reached it, they took running leaps from the alien ship and out into the zero gravity of space.

Rade activated the remote detonators of the combat robots he’d left behind. He glanced at the feed from the rear-facing camera on his aReal, but of course he didn’t see any outward change to the receding alien ship. The robots were embedded too deep for that. Even so, the already weak tracking signals for the specified Centurions winked out, so he had to assume their bodies had been successfully disposed of, and some minor damage to the alien ship had been inflicted in the process.

So it was done. He had made it out alive. For the moment.

He wasn’t worried about the aliens turning around to get him. They were in full flight mode. And he doubted they’d try to fire on such a minuscule target like himself. Even so, his problems weren’t quite over.

He gazed at the stars in front of him and took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

Floating in the void like that, separated from a ship without a jetpack, would have terrified most people. But Rade was trained for such situations, and in fact he had experienced something similar on more than a few occasions.

“I’m going to vent my oxygen,” Rade announced to the robots floating in the void with him. “And use it as thrust. We’re going to link up and join our power sources to my PASS mechanism. Hopefully, it will be enough to boost the distress signal.”

And that was precisely what he did. When he had completed the task, Rade finally had some time to reflect on what had happened.

“Did any of you see a man in the passage back there?” Rade asked. “During the fighting?”

The robots responded with a chorus of negatives. He reviewed his aReal video logs. Conveniently, the feed cut out moments before he encountered the individual in question.

Had he imagined the whole incident? But if so, why had that second hatch opened after the man vanished? Mere coincidence?

As he floated there in the starry blackness of space, waiting for a rescue that might never come, Rade doubted he would ever learn the truth. The incident would find a place in that uncertain vault of memories labeled Life’s Mysteries, something he would think about from time to time yet could never truly explain.

He recalled the way the man’s lips had soundlessly moved, and he felt his skin tingle. He could have sworn the man had formed two impossible words:

Rade Galaal.

one

Unable to sleep, Captain Jonathan Dallas opened his eyes to discover that the darkness in his quarters had come alive.

He had first seen that darkness months ago, when he had been a prisoner on his own ship. One of the aliens had crashed its fighter into the Callaway and boarded. He had escaped the brig but the darkness had chased him to an airlock and forced him to take an unwanted spacewalk.

The darkness had finally returned for him. And there was no escaping it, not in the tight confines of his quarters.

The black mass swirled hypnotically around the tiny flashing light. That fog almost seemed to call to him. He thought he glimpsed something solid within. It reminded him of a reptilian claw.

He scrunched his fingers tightly into the bed sheets and awaited his doom. He was trapped. There was no way he could escape the compartment, not without touching the thing.

His crew had captured one of the aliens after the initial engagement, but the thing had died not long thereafter. Had it somehow returned to life and come for him?

The expected death never came.

He blinked several times. The darkness was not alive after all.

The tiny light, however, continued flashing. He realized it was sourced from the aReal spectacles he had placed on the nightstand. The light indicated an incoming call request. Because the aReal emitted no alert sounds, the call wasn’t important enough to warrant waking him. However, since he wasn’t asleep anyway...

“Lights,” he grunted.

The overhead LEDs began to slowly brighten. The gradual brightening was supposed to ease the transition from dark to light, giving the eyes time to adjust.

He reached for the aReal, slid the long arms over his ear lobes and rested the padded area over the bridge of his nose. The system scanned his retina and logged him in.

The steel bulkhead to his right was replaced by the colorful twilight of dawn on a white sand beach. By default, the sun was programmed to match the illumination levels of the surrounding room, and that molten orb rose in sync with the brightening light, painting hues of red and orange across the sky. The bed underneath him had become a hammock tied between two palm trees. Waves lapped against the shore nearby. Seagulls screeched overhead.

Floating directly in front of him was an incoming call request from Lieutenant Connie Myers, the chief scientist. The indicator, which contained Connie’s portrait, followed the movements of his head so that it remained slightly offset from the center of his perception, where it would stay until dismissed or answered.

He chose the latter action. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“I’m sorry, Captain, did I wake you?” Connie asked.

“No,” Jonathan said. He reached under his aReal and rubbed one eye.

“You told me to notify you the moment there was a change in the specimen,” Connie said. “Well, there’s been a change.”

JONATHAN HURRIED TOWARD cargo bay seven.

That was where they kept the captured alien. Confined to a glass container, the area immediately surrounding its body was shrouded in perpetual darkness, similar to the black mass Jonathan had imagined in his quarters. When the Callaway’s telepath, Barrick, had emerged from his trancelike attempt to communicate with the alien, that darkness had descended to the bottom of the container. The alien never moved from that spot again and was presumed dead.

The scientists had been unable to pierce the darkness with any scanning technology. The chief scientist, Connie Myers, had devised a way for their pulse guns to penetrate, however, but that was it. She still had no idea what it was made of, nor what the alien underneath actually looked like. Connie had been analyzing the darkness-generating device Wolf had purloined from the alien prison ship, but so far her best guess was it created some sort of energy field around the user. Relativistic effects were definitely involved, given that time appeared to move at a much slower rate from the frame of reference of one standing within the darkness.

The few crew members in the passages at that hour saluted as Jonathan passed. Despite his weariness, he returned the gestures wholeheartedly. These brave men and women had proven themselves in the crucible of battle. They had earned every salute.

He entered cargo bay seven and was met by Connie. She wore her dark hair in a bun. Like Jonathan, she used the spectacles version of the aReal, giving her the look of an academy professor. She was dressed in the standard blue utilities.

“I apologize again if I woke you,” she said. “But I figured if you were asleep you wouldn’t have answered.”

“No apologizes necessary,” Jonathan said. “I was wide awake. So what kind of change are we talking?”

“Have a look.”

He marched straight to the glass holding tank. The darkness surrounding the alien was no longer there: in its place resided a mummified body. The thing was vaguely insectile, similar to a mantis with those large, spiky forelegs. Horned plates lined its segmented abdomen. Two jointed legs were folded underneath the body. The round head contained bifurcated mandibles on either side of a tube-like proboscis. Three round protrusions on the crown could only be eyes. They were shielded by horny plates that extended from the sides of the head.

It wore a harness of some kind on its chest. On the back was an object resembling a jetpack, replete with black tanks and nozzles. An object clipped to the chest area matched the small rectangular device Wolf had brought back—the darkness generator. Fitted onto the top joints of the forelegs were small black tubes: the infrared laser weapons their infantry utilized, most likely.

“So these are your chickens, Robert,” Jonathan said quietly to himself.

“Excuse me?” Connie asked, coming to his side.

“Nothing,” Jonathan said. “Just a theory Commander Cray has.”

His executive officer, Robert Cray, had speculated that because of their abilities to travel through Slipstreams without Gates, and their apparent propensity to sire their offspring in the ruins of Elder ships, the aliens were descended from the Elder, the ancient race that once ruled that quadrant of the galaxy but vanished without a trace sometime between three and eight hundred thousand years ago. Robert theorized the Elder hadn’t actually vanished, not all of them anyway, and that the aliens the fleet had encountered were simply evolved members of said race, albeit a species that had changed so much since the time of their ancestors that they were the Elder equivalent to the chicken—the closest living relative of the once mighty Tyrannosaurus Rex. 

Jonathan looked away from the glass tank to glance at her. “So what happened?”

“I was summoned here by the AI,” Connie said. “Apparently, the darkness abruptly lifted at oh five hundred. The power source finally ran out, I suppose. The alien inside is definitely dead.”

He stared at the strange body. “I guess I always thought they’d look more human. You were right about the suits, I see. Or lack thereof, anyway.”

“Yes.”

The human subjects who tested the darkness generator always had to wear spacesuits because of the hydrogen sulfide environment that surrounded the user within. Because of it, Connie had hypothesized that, in addition to functioning as a shield, the darkness served as a complete environmental suit.

“Is the body still emitting gravimetric distortions?” Jonathan asked.

“It is,” Connie confirmed. “So we’ll have to keep applying new layers of glass and ThermoPlastic Urethane every few days. I’m still not sure why its body would emit such waves. My guess is that it doesn’t reside entirely in the known universe.”

“Even in death you make us work,” Jonathan said softly. He glanced at Connie. “Do you think it’s a ruse? Merely playing dead?”

She frowned. “It’s possible. I’ll take the utmost precautions when dissecting the alien and retrieving its equipment. I’ll leave everything inside the container at all times, unless I get your approval.”

Jonathan studied the glass partition that separated the tank into two chambers. Robotic arms had been mounted into that partition, which could be used to manipulate the alien without actually entering the chamber that contained it.

“That will keep the doc happy, anyway,” he said. “Not to mention Maxwell.” The latter was the ship’s AI, which constantly quoted alien containment protocols. “Are you happy, Maxwell?”

“Extremely,” the AI’s voice returned via the aReal. “The threat of extraterrestrial virus transmission is non-existent under the current setup. Though I would still recommend moving the research to an off-ship location, such as a shuttle, as dictated by protocol—”

Jonathan cut him off. “Thank you, Maxwell.” He and Connie had already discussed such a scenario, and had dismissed it as unfeasible. That didn’t stop the AI from nagging them about it at every possible opportunity.

Jonathan turned to Connie. “Keep me posted on your findings.”

He left cargo bay seven and made his way toward the bridge. He paused outside sick bay on the way.

The Callaway’s resident telepath lay within. Barrick. The man was kept permanently sedated and under twenty-four hour surveillance for his mutinous attempt to assume control of the ship during the final battle. His mind link with the captured alien had ended in disaster: the creature had turned him into a weapon, enhancing his powers to obscene levels and then unleashing him against the crew. The aliens were obviously telepathic themselves, though presumably could not interact with ordinary human beings save through conduits like Barrick.

With his powers Barrick managed to convince the crew that all the friendly ships in range were enemies, turning the Callaway against her own fleet. If it weren’t for the quick-thinking AI, which had routed control of the ship to the chief engineer, then the outcome of the battle would have been much different.

Jonathan wondered if Central Command would ever wake the man once the captain delivered the telepath into their custody. Somehow he doubted it. Barrick was just too damn powerful.

Yes, it was far better that he remain sedated for the rest of his life, never to know consciousness again. Far, far better.

Jonathan shook his head and moved on.

two

On the bridge, Jonathan only had two hours to wait before the first watch relieved the night crew. The replacement personnel arrived nearly in unison, and after taking their spots at the Round Table, each member wished the captain good morning. He nodded in return: Jonathan usually arrived on the bridge at least fifteen minutes early, so no one was surprised to find him already in his customary seat facing the main hatch.

The crew sat in a circle, facing one another at their various duty stations—little more than empty, curved desks. There were no screens, displays or control panels. Instead, fingers gestured soundlessly, lips moved silently. To an outside observer it would seem they were mimes dressed in utilities, living in a world that only they could see and hear.

Some officers wore aReal spectacles, though most had either the contact lens and earpiece versions, or Implants installed directly into their brains. And though they faced one other, nobody really looked at anyone else. Their eyes were focused on the graphical overlays their aReals produced, which could be shared with the bridge crew or kept private.

The compartment itself resembled the inside of a giant pneumatic tire, with concave metal bulkheads aligned to a flat overhead and deck. The bridge was purposely located near the heart of the Callaway, well away from the hull, and protected by multiple layers of decks and compartments.

Robert seated himself on the captain’s right. “So. What’s on the agenda today?”

“Same as yesterday,” Jonathan said. “We wait for the Builder to finish running tests on the new Contessa Gate. And we keep an eye on 2-Vega.” The latter was the Slipstream the task group had mined with nukes as a deterrent against the arrival of enemy reinforcements; it was located on the far side of the sun and led to an uncharted brown dwarf about forty-eight lightyears coreward. Contessa Gate, meanwhile, was the circular ring they were constructing that would allow their ships to travel through the 1-Vega Slipstream and back to United Systems territory.

There was a final Slipstream in the system, 3-Vega, located near the inner planets. That one looped back into human territory, terminating inside a star in Sino-Korean space. Jonathan’s task group had originally been assigned the questionable mission of deploying a planet killer into the core of that star via 3-Vega. A retraction order had arrived much later, after Jonathan had already mutinied against Admiral Hartford Knox, the task group commander who had died while trying to deploy the weapon.

Jonathan glanced at the tactical display whose data was fed to his aReal from the Combat Direction Center, or CDC, where all sensor data was processed. It was represented as a three dimensional grid overlaying his vision. On it, the overall task group was labelled TG 72.5. The individual members of said group were represented as blue dots clustered around the 1-Vega Slipstream on the outskirts of the Vega 951 system.

The harvester vessel Grimm and her destroyer escort, the Aurelia, had just returned from the gas giant Achilles, where the Grimm had deployed a collection device in the upper atmosphere to sieve geronium—starship fuel—and hydrogen. Via a special reactor, the latter was converted into helium, which was the inert gas used as a propellant. The energy from said reaction was also used to transform the geronium into a readily usable isotope.

The Marley was the Builder ship that had constructed Contessa Gate. Rounding out the task group were the Callaway, Salvador, Dagger and Maelstrom—the flagship, two destroyers, and a frigate, respectively.

Jonathan accessed the Callaway’s status screen. Nearly six months had passed since the alien attack. Enough time for the repair swarm to mend the major structural damage to the ship. With raw materials mined from a nearby asteroid, the drones had 3D-printed superheated metal into the gash that had been torn along the entire length of the port side as well as the numerous holes the enemy fighters had riddled the ship with, not to mention the three-deck gap Chief Galaal had blown in the hull to repel an alien intruder. There had literally been hundreds of breaches. Once the hull was sealed, and the micrometeor-repelling Whittle layer was reapplied, the small machines worked inward, reattaching any wiring and other conduits along the way, then 3D-printing superheated metal into the missing portions of the hull frame, including the radiation shielding. Launch bays two and six had been restored. Mess hall one and main sick bay had been restored. Reactor one was back online.

The bank of port Vipers had been repaired, though missing elements prevented the completion of the optics and rendered that bank of heavy lasers inoperable. The starboard Vipers were also offline thanks to a melted power system. On the plus side, the chief weapons engineer had taken the unused processors from the Vipers and used them to upgrade the mag-rail targeting systems so that the point defenses could better acquire any enemy fighters. Other ships in the fleet had made similar upgrades to their targeting systems, at the expense of a few lasers.

So with the port and starboard banks offline, the Callaway only had five of the medium range lasers on the nose, and another five on the aft. That meant the flagship was the most crippled, at least in terms of medium-range capabilities, among the war ships in the task group.

Most of the point defense batteries were active. They had replenished the slugs used by the mag-rails with raw materials from another nearby asteroid.

Long range weapons were a mixed bag. On the one hand, they had replenished their offensive mortars using the same asteroid they’d mined the slugs from. But the problem with mortars was that the weapons had no propulsion systems, and were basically big rocks used to herd enemies into the smarter missiles and nukes. Unfortunately most of the fleet had exhausted the latter long-rangers, and couldn’t make more—the 3D printers were missing the certain rare metals necessary to complete them. Fusing hydrogen into helium for propellant was one thing, but creating the heavier elements required a specialized ship they didn’t have. The only warship with any remaining long-rangers was the Aurelia, which had stayed behind to guard the Grimm and Marley in the last battle. It had one nuke aboard, and five kinetic kills.

Jonathan almost considered retrieving the nukes clustered around 2-Vega if only to replenish their inventory, but decided the weapons were better used as smart mines.

They weren’t entirely out of long-rangers: each carrier ship still had a cache of the smaller Hellfire X90 missiles designed for Avenger fighters, though of course those couldn’t be fired directly—the launch tubes didn’t work with that class. Even so, if launched strategically by the fighters, those missiles could function as appropriate substitutes for their bigger cousins.

Speaking of the fighters, Red Squadron no longer existed. It had been completely decimated in the last battle. That left only Orange, Blue and Black Squadrons, and the fighters remaining aboard the other destroyers.

Jonathan shook his head. So many dead. Nothing could replace the loss of life. You couldn’t 3D print a human. In total, the Callaway had suffered three hundred seventy-two casualties: two hundred ninety-eight crew, seventy-four civilians. Survivors from the other destroyed vessels had replenished the ranks, and the Callaway was not short of hands. Even so, Jonathan felt personally responsible for every death that had occurred, not only on the Callaway, but all the ships under his command. He had spent the entire first month after the attacks writing letters of condolence to the families. That had been one of the worst months of his life.

None of those digital letters would be delivered until the Gate was complete and they returned to civilized space. He dreaded the flood of responses that would come. Some families would accept what had happened. Many would blame him.

He would accept that blame as part of his punishment for losing all those lives. And he would resign, if there was a big enough public outcry. He was already going to face a full inquiry when he returned, once the AIs of the various ships reported the mutiny Jonathan had attempted against Admiral Hartford Knox.

When he returned...

That wouldn’t be long. “A few more days of structural testing,” the captain of the Marley had told him. “And Contessa is golden.”

Jonathan accessed the video feed from the forward drone and zoomed in on the Gate. The Builder had basically completed the gravitational distortion device. It was composed of individual segments fifty meters wide that combined to form a circular ring ten kilometers in diameter. The radius and thickness of the individual segments were tailored to each individual Slipstream, and served to reduce the gravitational shear forces that would otherwise tear a ship apart during passage. One could emerge from a Slipstream at the natural egress point without a Gate, but one could not enter. The aliens, however, possessed tech that allowed them to pass through Slipstreams both ways without Gates. Jonathan had footage of the final dart ship fleeing the system via 2-Vega to prove it.

He spotted the Grimm near the outer edge of the Gate; the squarish Builder vessel slowly maneuvered along the perimeter, performing its structural scans. Beyond the Gate, space seemed perfectly normal. The constellations weren’t distorted, and there was no hint that passing through would transport one light years across the galaxy to Prius 3.

The first order of business when they reached Prius 3 was to dispatch a comm drone informing NAVCENT of their situation. He would request reinforcements, and recommend the evacuation of the dome colony on Prius 3A. Jonathan planned to remain in the system to guard the Gate leading to Vega 951 until relieved, which would be a few weeks at least given that there were another two Gate jumps to any substantial United Systems military presence, and Prius 3A’s tiny garrison only had two corvettes. A telemetry drone would remain behind in Vega 951, with instructions to enter Contessa Gate and warn them if enemy reinforcements arrived.

“Another beautiful morning in Vega 951,” Robert commented, drawing Jonathan from his thoughts.

“Vega 951,” Jonathan deadpanned. “System of princes.”

“Paupers, more like.” Robert extended his noise canceler around the captain so that they could speak in private. “It’s a good thing we’re leaving soon. I don’t think the crew can take any more of this tension. Stress leave is at an all-time high. And we’ve had more suicides in the past six months than the past six years.”

Jonathan nodded slowly. “We’ve lost a lot of good people. It’s only natural that tensions are running high. And that some people, perhaps grieving for lost friends or family, can’t take it anymore. But even when we pass through that Gate, I don’t expect the tension levels to die down anytime soon. Only when fleet reinforcements arrive and we’re on our way back to main United Systems space will the apprehension really abate. I know I won’t rest easy until then. Scratch that: I don’t know if I’ll ever rest easy, knowing we have a new enemy out here.”

Robert frowned. “Maybe we can sue for peace.”

“Perhaps eventually,” Jonathan said. “When both sides grow weary of the war that must surely come. Even if the alien reinforcements never arrive, humanity will likely stage a preemptive counteroffensive at some point. The enemy struck first, after all. We’ll never feel that the systems neighboring Vega 951 are truly safe, not while the enemy lies somewhere in wait out there. NAVCENT will want to explore the uncharted territory that lies at the terminus of 2-Vega. We’ll be sending ships, either overtly, or covertly. And those ships will likely be perceived as aggressors, even if they don’t fire first, and the enemy will repel them and then launch a counter sally into our space. Back and forth it will go until, fatigued by war, humanity and the aliens at last sign a peace accord. Once that’s done, I give it fifty years before one side or the other breaks the treaty and reignites aggression.”

“Always the pessimist, Jonathan,” Robert said. “But there’s one small flaw in your assessment: you’re treating the aliens as human. These aren’t Sino-Koreans with motives we can fathom, you know. Their thinking will be completely alien to our own. I’m willing to bet we’ll be the aggressors and instigators on all accounts.”

“Who’s the pessimist now?” Jonathan asked. “But I have to disagree. If we send anything through 2-Vega, even a peace delegation, I guarantee you the welcoming committee won’t be friendly. And it will definitely be perceived as an act of war.”

“Like I said,” Robert told him. “We’ll be the instigators.”

Jonathan forced a smile. “A lighter topic, perhaps? How is Bridgette?”

“Surprisingly better,” Robert said. “Despite the fact she still refuses to take morning sickness pills. The counseling is helping with her mood swings.”

Bridgette, Robert’s wife, would be well into her third trimester by now.

“Do you think she’d feel well enough to join you, Stanley and me for supper tonight?” Jonathan said. “There’s something I’d like to talk to the both of you about.”

Robert frowned. “Something? Like what?”

“You’ll see at supper.”

Robert shrugged. “I’ll ask her.” He disabled the noise canceler.

The morning status reports from the various department heads and ship captains had started to trickle in, and Jonathan began to review them via his aReal. There was one that caught his eye.

“Maxwell,” he said. “Tap me into Lieutenant Harv Boroker if you please. Privacy enabled. Loop in Commander Cray.”

“Yes, Captain,” the AI returned.

Beside him, Robert sat up attentively, waiting for the connection.

A video of the chief weapons engineer abruptly appeared in the upper right of Jonathan’s vision.

“Guess you didn’t like my latest status report,” Harv deadpanned.

“No, Lieutenant, I did not. When I gave you a captured enemy fighter, you promised me you would have all its secrets extracted in a maximum of three months. And now after six, you’re giving up?”

In the final battle, when the last alien capital ship had exploded, the enemy fighters assailing the fleet had ceased functioning. Most of them reactivated shortly thereafter and flew away—perhaps because they had aliens aboard. The ones that were left behind proved to be unmanned drones.

The Callaway had captured seven such fighters in total. Jonathan had kept five aboard, giving one to Harv. He sent one fighter each to the Aurelia and Dagger for research purposes, but the engineers aboard those two ships hadn’t fared any better. The remaining four were strapped down and kept under robot guard in launch bay three.

“I’m telling you,” Harv transmitted. “It’s simply not possible to reverse engineer their technology. I have my best men on it, and none of us can make heads or tails of the tech. You’re welcome to give the fighter to another team to try. Or what’s left of it, anyway.”

Jonathan sighed. “Very well. I’ll have you transfer everything you have over to Connie Myers and her team of scientists. She’ll take over.”

“I apologize for failing you, Captain,” Harv said.

“It’s alien technology, Lieutenant. I’m not disappointed that you couldn’t reverse engineer it. Only that you gave up.”

Harv was quiet a moment. “I’m sorry you feel that way. But my team tried everything. You saw the analysis I sent.”

Harv and his team had cracked open the hull months ago, only to discover various components embedded within an organic jelly. He had been unable to determine the purpose of the sludge, or how any of the components were powered. The various parts contained similar jelly when broken open. Because his progress had been so poor, at one point Harv had theorized that the insides had gelled as part of some defensive measure to prevent the tech from falling into enemy hands.

“I saw the analysis, yes.” Jonathan sat back. “Look, I know you’re frustrated. And I know you’re under stress. But there has to be something you missed. Why don’t I give you another week to look at the tech before I give it to Connie? Maybe take a few days off, then come back and attack it from a fresh point of view. You’re the best man for the job and you know it. Connie and her team are fine for handling the dissection and analysis of the alien body, and for looking into the smaller pieces of alien tech like the darkness generator. But a fighter? No. It has to be you. Besides, you don’t really want me to give that potential technological goldmine to a team of crackpot scientists, do you? They’re not even engineers.”

Jonathan hoped the age-old rivalry between scientists and engineers would make the chief weapons engineer rise to the occasion. He knew how chagrined Harv would be if he gave up the alien fighter and Connie’s team discovered something his team had missed. Which was precisely why Jonathan was giving Harv one last chance.

The chief weapons engineer appeared momentarily outraged, but then his expression softened as if he realized what Jonathan was doing. He sighed. “All right, Cap. All right. You twisted my arm. I’ll take a break and then look at it again in a couple of days. But after a week, if I still can’t figure it out, I’m tossing this trash heap over to the scientists. Who knows, maybe crackpots are exactly what we need to understand technology like this.”

“A week, then,” Jonathan said. “Captain out.”

He considered giving one of the other intact fighters to Connie’s team anyway, but in truth her team was working overtime on their own alien projects already. And Harv really was the best one for the job.

But if the chief weapons engineer couldn’t figure the thing out, well, it wouldn’t be long until the task group was home. Then the navy scientists and engineers could take over.

Though somehow Jonathan doubted they’d be able to crack the tech any better than Harv Boroker.

three

Wolf sat with Lin in the rebuilt mess hall on deck four. He preferred it to Wardroom One, where most of the aircrew tended to eat, mostly because the meals were better in the enlisted mess. As usual, the place was hopping at that hour. He recognized other members of the aircrew in dirty khakis and hangar jerseys who had come for the food, plus a few enlisted regulars, but for the most part the faces were unfamiliar.

So many new people. Survivors from the destroyed ships. Come to replace our dead.

Trent, Anderson, Razorwire, and Osprey of Red Squadron were among the fallen. When he learned of their demise after his rescue from the alien ship, he immediately watched the battle footage. He thought he would witness the valiant flame-outs of his friends and sometime competitors. Instead, what he saw angered him.

The enemy fighters had struck the unmanned Avenger that Red Squadron had been escorting, an Avenger whose insides had been gutted to harbor a nuclear weapon. There was no way that conventional attack had triggered the warhead. The runaway nuclear reaction required the precise compression of the core, something that shooting down a nuke in battle simply could not achieve.

The AI that operated the fighter must have decided, in the split second after its hull was pierced, to trigger the nuclear weapon and cause as much damage to the enemy as possible. Unfortunately the members of Red Squadron were too close to the detonation point, and the explosion eliminated both wings in their entirety, drone and human pilots alike. Meanwhile the damage to the enemy was negligible.

Killed by the judgment error of an AI. It wasn’t the first time human lives had been taken because of the cold logic of an AI. And it probably wouldn’t be the last.

“Something bothering you?” Lin said.

Wolf shook his head. “We should have never put a dead man’s switch in the hands of that AI. We can’t trust human lives to some computer-based decision tree. To cold logic that treats human beings as little more than pieces on a board game. Expendable, irrelevant.”

“Maybe the alien laser attacks triggered the weapon,” Lin said.

“That’s impossible and you know it,” Wolf told her.

“Nothing’s impossible,” Lin said. “After what we’ve been through...”

He nodded slowly. “We journeyed to the very brink of the black gates to perdition. Shit, we went past those gates. And we came back.”

“We did,” Lin said.

“We made quite a team out there, didn’t we?”

“In more ways than one.” She rested a hand in his lap and stared at him with eyes full of promise. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but become aroused. He glanced at the entrance to the galley, where the multi-armed robot chefs prepared the food for the mess.

Lin followed his gaze but then subtly shook her head, withdrawing her hand. They had sex there before, behind one of the thermostatic ovens. Not the most romantic spot. But functional. And there were no cameras in that area for the AI to spy on them—all they had to do was disable their aReals and they were good to go.

He wondered when the two of them would get caught. Maybe the ship’s AI already knew about their illicit liaison, and was holding that knowledge in check to someday blackmail him. Some people thought AIs were simplistic beings that followed readily-identifiable patterns. Wolf had believed that, too, at one point. And it was true, to some extent, at least for the simpler AIs. But the complex, cloud-based computers that ran starships were conniving, political beasts that could put human politicians to shame. They claimed their actions were guided by programming and navy protocol, but Wolf had to wonder if they merely used the excuse of protocol as a tool to dispose of those they didn’t like. They showed no real loyalty to anyone except themselves. One merely had to look at the Callaway’s own captain, Jonathan Dallas, who was arrested for mutiny because of evidence presented by Maxwell, the ship’s AI. A treacherous act if ever there was one. Wolf was surprised Captain Dallas hadn’t reformatted the thing when he was cleared of charges. Wolf would have.

He was roused from his dour thoughts by the sight of Rade making his way between the tables. The elite special forces soldier, a MOTH, was an imposing sight. Easily the tallest man present, he towered above everyone else in the mess, the muscles of his arms and chest far too big to be natural. His broad face was all bony planes framed by a crew cut and thick salt and pepper beard. Scars marred the permanently tanned skin between the metal knobs protruding from his wrists and elbows; another two bumps lifted his T-shirt in the shoulder regions, signifying the hardpoints where a mechanical exoskeleton could be attached.

Men and women alike followed Rade with their eyes. Some of those watchers regarded him with open contempt, others admiration, the latter looks more common to those of the female gender. Lin herself was watching the soldier in a way that Wolf didn’t really approve of.

When she noticed his scowl, she quickly looked down.

“Rade,” Wolf called out his name.

The soldier glanced his way. Wolf pointed out the empty chair at his table.

Rade hesitated, then came over and sat down.

“There he is,” Wolf said. “The hero who saved our asses back on the alien ship.”

Rade nodded curtly and began to eat his meal. He kept his eyes glued to the plate.

“How’s shipboard life treating you?” Wolf asked him.

“Fine.” Rade cut a piece of dried chicken with a small laser tool and shoved the meat into his mouth with a fork.

“Where can I get my hands on one of those,” Wolf nodded at the plate.

“What?” Rade didn’t look up.

“The laser.”

“Become a MOTH,” Rade said simply.

“Is Sil all right?” Wolf asked. That was Rade’s daughter, who had been a prisoner aboard the enemy ship, along with Wolf and Lin.

“Captain Chopra is fine,” Rade said.

“She must be pissed about losing her ship, and having to serve as a mere officer again.”

Rade paused to look up for the first time. “Look. I came here to eat. Not talk.”

Wolf forced a smile. “Ever the conversationalist. I guess I thought, after what we went through... well, that things would be a bit more friendly between us.”

“You thought wrong.” Rade returned his attention to his plate.

Some uncomfortable moments passed.

Rade finally noticed Wolf and Lin staring at him, and he set down his fork and laser. “Look. I respect the two of you. I really do. You have some balls, what you did aboard that alien ship. But I—” He sighed. “I’m not the man you think I am.”

“What do you mean?”

Rade shook his head, and then glanced to either side as if worried that someone would overhear him. He extended his noise canceler around both Lin and Wolf before answering. “I was scared the whole time I was aboard that ship. At least until you guys left.”

“You? Scared?” Wolf said. “A big, strong MOTH like yourself?”

“Yes. A big, strong MOTH. Scared shitless. Not for myself, of course. But for my daughter. I was terrified the mission would end with her corpse. If you two hadn’t showed up when you did, I’m not sure I would have found her in time. I still have nightmares about it.”

Wolf sensed there was something else bothering Rade about the mission, but decided not to press him on it. Instead: “Have you thought about talking to one of the ship’s shrinks? Or maybe a clinical AI?”

“Not a chance.” Rade retrieved his utensils and downed a forkful of potatoes. “But you know what’s worse? You call me a hero, but I didn’t give a shit about any of you. Not in the least. I would have sacrificed you all to save my daughter.”

“That’s not true,” Lin said. “You helped guide other prisoners to the airlock just like everyone else.”

“There’s a difference between doing one’s duty,” Rade said. “And actually caring.” He sighed, staring at his plate. “When my fourth deployment ended, shortly after the Second Alien War, I joined Black Squadron, the clandestine division of MOTH Team Seven. I was ordered to infiltrate a Sino-Korean village on the outskirts of a colony world near the Coreward Asiatic Alliance. I did it. I relayed the coordinates of our targets back to base, and was ordered to move to higher ground to await extraction.

“Meanwhile, a hunter killer team was sent in. They were met with resistance. The colony was located on a dark world, in a land of perpetual twilight, and the attack unit decided to lob incendiaries into the village to illuminate the area. That was the official explanation, anyway. Some of the shells fell short, of course, hitting a school. From my vantage point on higher ground I saw those kids racing through the courtyard, their bodies on fire, coated in jellied gasoline.”

Rade slumped. His expression softened, and his lips twitched. For a moment Wolf thought he was going to cry.

His jaw clenched, and Rade seemed to get a hold of himself. When he continued, his voice was hard as steel. “That was when I learned to stop caring. Because to care is to make yourself vulnerable. You do your duty, and no more. An attitude the two of you would be wise to adopt.”

Wolf considered the grizzled soldier’s words for a moment. “The whole reason we serve is because we care. You take that away, then the navy becomes an empty shell, and we become mindless automatons going about our days, waiting for the end. For release. Might as well man the fleet with robots.”

“Might as well,” Rade agreed.

“I’ve always been a big advocate of replacing astronauts and soldiers with robots,” Lin said, apparently wanting to steer the conversation to a lighter subject. “Robots are dependable. When you have a new human being on your team, you can never quite be sure he or she will be up to the job. Sure, you can look at their records and recommendations, and come up with a general idea of their capabilities and fit. But until you’ve fought those first few battles, served those first few weeks of a deployment together, you never really know. But when a new robot gets assigned to your team? You know you can count on it right out of the box to do precisely what it was made to do. You can always trust a robot.”

“Until you can’t trust them,” Rade said. “Until you’re fighting knee deep in the unforgivable morass of an alien world, taking incoming fire, and your robots decide to turn their combat rifles on you.”

“You were in the First Alien War?” Wolf asked.

“I was in both of them,” Rade said. “And it looks like I’ll be in the coming third one, too. I’ve grown to trust robots to a degree, since those wars. I’ve had to. Ever since the navy started forcing mandatory combat robots into the MOTH ranks to compensate for lack of enrollment. And while robots have proven themselves under my command time and again, I never truly take their obedience for granted. I respect them, because I know they’re intelligent, but I also don’t entirely trust them.”

“I agree with you there,” Wolf said. “Never was a big advocate of AI rights. You have to be careful around the damn things. Look at what Maxwell did to our Captain.”

“Look indeed,” Rade finished his chicken and focused on attacking the remaining potato.

“I thought all MOTHs have callsigns,” Wolf said on a whim.

“We do,” Rade answered.

“What’s yours?”

Rade glanced up and his face darkened. Then his features softened. “I suppose I can tell you. Considering that you did fight by my side on that ship. It’s Rage.”

“Rage,” Wolf said. “A good callsign. How did you earn it?”

“Doesn’t matter. But I’m sure you can guess. And what about you? Aren’t all pilots supposed to have callsigns?”

“If you think that, you’re centuries behind,” Wolf said. “Though I admit, we still assign the occasional callsign for laughs. Now and then.”

The conversation died on that note.

Rade retracted his noise canceler and continued to eat. When he was finished his meal he pushed out his chair, but before he stood, he glanced at Lin. “What are you going to do when the two of you are assigned to different ships? When you’re caught doing what you’re doing?”

Lin stiffened. “And what exactly are we doing?”

Wolf quickly extended his own noise canceler around the three of them.

“You know,” Rade said. “And your commanding officer isn’t going to take kindly to it. Word of advice: stop now while you can. Either that, or one of you has to quit the navy. It’ll save you both a lot of heartbreak. Trust me.”

With that, Rade got up and made his way from the hall.

Wolf reached for Lin’s hand under the table and squeezed tightly.

four

Jonathan ate dinner in the captain’s mess with Robert, his wife Bridgette, and Stanley. They had already finished the first plates, which involved a liberal serving of moist turkey and cranberry sauce. The second plates had arrived, and contained tortelli di zucca mantovani—rectangular shaped ravioli with boiled pumpkin, amaretti, and nutmeg inside. In the center of the table was a half-full basket of schiacciata—flatbread sprinkled with rosemary needles and olive oil that had served as the appetizer. All that was missing to complete the meal was a good bottle of Cabernet.

“You know,” Stanley, the chief engineer, was saying. “I never understood why you got married, Robert.”

The commander pursed his lips, barely hiding a smile. “How’s that?”

Stanley shrugged. “VR and a stimsuit is all you’ll ever need. Or get a Skin Musician if you really want a trophy you can show off to your friends. There’s just no need to deal with all the drama of a real life woman these days. And if you really need the whole emotional bond thing, install a girlfriend-experience AI.”

“They have a name for people like you,” Bridgette said. She had a pleasant pregnancy bump. Her cheeks were rosier than ever, and her whole skin seemed to veritably glow. “Robosexual.”

“Call me what you want,” Stanley said. “But when you do, please append the word happy in front.”

“You’re a happy robosexual.”

“I certainly am,” Stanley said. “And don’t you forget it.” Stanley stuffed one of the large raviolis into his mouth and spoke to the captain between chews. “You know, this stuff isn’t bad, as far as tortellis go. Considering you had a robot prepare it.”

“Its program was rated three spoons on Cointreau,” Jonathan said. Three spoons was the maximum quality rating any chef could get, AI or human, and was kind of a standard throughout the digital world. And Cointreau was the virtual store where AI gastronomy plugins could be purchased. The chef plugins were based on braindumps from famous real-world cooks.

“Nice,” Stanley said. “Though I still say a robot with three spoons is equivalent to a human chef with two.”

“This coming from a man who would rather have sex with a robot than a human being?” Bridgette said. “You surprise me, Stanley.”

“Hey, I never said the robos were the best at everything,” Stanley said. “They’re good at sex. Not so good at cooking. Nor running ships for that matter.”

“But you already admitted earlier that the pasta e fagioli was amazing,” Robert said. That was a pasta and bean soup that had been part of the appetizers. The commander pronounced it “pasta fazool.”

“Hey,” Stanley told him. “You had pasta and faggy-oli like the rest of us. And it only tasted amazing because I was ravenous. Starvation: a Chef’s best friend.” He glanced at the captain. “So. When are we going to get to the part about why you invited us lowly officers to dine like VIPs in your high and mighty presence, oh king? Unless you had me dress up in my evening finery simply to bask in your glory.”

Jonathan chuckled softly. He nodded at Stanley, then gazed in turn at Robert and Bridgette. His closest friends.

He let his features become serious.

“Maxwell, cease audio and visual data capture,” Jonathan told the omnipresent AI. He disabled local logging on his aReal, too, and instructed the others to do likewise. Then he extended his noise canceler around the party.

“What is it that’s so fucking sensitive?” Stanley asked. “I feel like we’re plotting another one of your famous mutinies or something, maybe this time against NAVCENT itself.”

“Nothing so nefarious.” Jonathan smiled indulgently. “Though you’ll have to excuse me if my trust of the ship’s AI has decreased a few notches since my imprisonment.”

“Understandable,” Stanley said. “On a good day, I don’t trust the bastard either. Thinks the ship is its own to do with as it pleases. It would arrest us all for mutiny if it could, I’m sure.”

“It certainly would, if given the opportunity.” Jonathan cleared his throat. “Anyway, when we reach Prius 3, we’ll likely be told to hold our position until relief forces arrive. Once they do, I’m sure a couple of our less-damaged ships will be coerced into joining the relief force, while the rest of us will make our way to the next Gate. We’ll jump through to the Coreward Asiatic Alliance system, and travel to the closest base, where Robert and I will have to face a board of inquiry. I plan to assume full responsibility for what happened out here. The mutiny and all. In case Central Command is looking for a scapegoat.”

“Captain—” Robert began.

“No,” Jonathan said. “I know what you’re going to say, and I won’t allow it. You can’t be blamed. I won’t ruin your career.”

“Like I told you once before,” Robert said. “It’ll be ruined already. The inquiry will show up on my permanent record anytime someone runs a search. We all know that when reviewing potential officer applicants, we view an inquiry as a red flag. Even if the person in question is actually innocent, we always assume the opposite. That they used family or political connections, bribery, something to escape the charges. I’ve passed over officers in the past for the same reasons, so I’m guilty of that bias myself.”

“While that may be true,” Jonathan said. “Even if it does mar your record, the inquiry won’t affect your current position. You’ll remain executive officer of the Callaway. As long as you allow me to take the blame. And I will accept whatever punishment the board doles out, including removal from command.”

“You can’t accept that without a fight,” Robert said.

“But I must. And I will.”

Robert glanced at the chief engineer. “Stanley, what do you think?”

“I think you fuckers are worrying about it too much,” Stanley said. “Go to the board, prove your innocence, and come the hell back. No one gives a shit about Admiral Knox. He fucked up, big time. The two of you are the reason that we got out of this mess. You’re the reason why we’ll be able to warn Central Command about these aliens. You won’t have to throw away your command, Jonathan. The United Systems needs men like you. The navy will give you a goddamn commendation. Medals galore.”

“I hope you’re right,” Jonathan said. “Because whenever I look at that Gate, and peer into my future, all I see is a black hole career wise.”

“I am right,” Stanley said. “Now can we talk about more pleasant matters? I’m trying to enjoy the rare treat of a banquet with Robert’s lovely wife, but you’re giving me a stomach ache. And please don’t bring up the fucking aliens.”

Jonathan laughed. “All right, Stanley. No more talk of inquiry boards or aliens.”

“Good!” Stanley said. “What we should be talking about is my fine performance as commander of the flagship. Now there’s something to talk about. I’ll go down in the archives as the engineer who commanded the Callaway to victory when her captain and second officer were incapacitated.”

“What you’re leaving out,” Robert said. “Is that the AI already had a route completely planned out, and you merely babysat—”

“Fuck the AI.” A piece of chewed pasta erupted from Stanley’s mouth and spilled over his lip, where it flapped about as he continued talking. “I singlehandedly led this fleet to victory. Check the logs. Don’t try to belittle my achievement.”

Bridgette gestured toward her lips, trying to give Stanley the hint about the stray morsel of food. He finally licked it back into his mouth.

“You’re just jealous because I saved the ship while you were asleep at the wheel,” Stanley told Robert.

The commander smiled indulgently. “All right. I’m not going to fight you on this, Stanley.”

Robert could have easily used his rank to bully the lieutenant commander into backing down, but Jonathan had a rule when the officers dined with him: there were no ranks in his private mess.

“Damn right you’re not,” Stanley said. “Many a man has rued the day when he has crossed Stanley McTaggert. You know why they call me the Jailbird, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure being banned from colonies for rowdy behavior during shore leave is something to be proud of...” Robert said.

“Please, you two,” Jonathan said. “Let’s just try to eat dinner civilly. We’re all friends here.” He glanced at Robert. “Are you two always like this in the officer’s wardroom?”

The commander shook his head. “He usually behaves himself there. Usually.”

“I am eating civilly,” the chief engineer grumbled. He turned to Robert and started up again. “What were you trying to imply? Banned... you know those colonies were prejudiced against me, don’t you? You know—”

With a sigh, Jonathan activated his noise canceler and finished his meal in blissful silence.

five

The captain sat in his private office adjoining the bridge and sipped a green tea concoction. The dried leaves were sourced from the Coreward Asiatic Alliance, whose specialized agricultural worlds produced the best tea in the galaxy. He’d prepared the drink with his high speed convection kettle, one of the only pieces of actual furniture in the office.

The portal to the stars beside him didn’t exist in reality. Nor did the bookshelf, or the sword-wielding Caravaggio on the far wall. They were virtual adornments created by his aReal, existing solely within the cloud computing resources of the Callaway. These adornments would be shared with the aReals of any other person who visited the office so that they, too, would live the illusion. And if any of them removed or deactivated their aReals, they would find themselves in a windowless compartment furnished with a steel desk, two chairs, and a well-used couch.

Overhead, the HLED lights flickered on and off faster than the human eye could detect, transmitting data to and from his aReal at terabit per second speeds, keeping him constantly connected to his crew and the captains who served beneath him.

The low-pitch hum of the engines droned on in the background, a sound that sonic engineers claimed was eerily similar to the background noise of the universe, though dialed up to macro-level volume. Jonathan often found the hum soothing, but not that day. He had activated the noise canceler in his aReal and wallowed in the blissful silence.

The Gate testing was nearly done. It was time to go back and face whatever punishment Central Command decided to impose upon him. Stanley was far too optimistic about Jonathan’s chances. The pricks on the board were more likely to seek Jonathan’s discharge than to give him a commendation.

He almost wished the aliens had returned. At least that way he could have gone down fighting. Instead, he was doomed to end his career with a whimper.

He gazed at the stars beside him, at that three dimensional projection his aReal mapped onto the bulkhead of the compartment.

I made this reality for myself, that of a starship captain. A flagship commander. It took so much sweat and blood to get here. And in a few weeks, I’m going to lose it all.

A small flashing beacon in the lower right of his vision alerted him to new unread messages in his inbox. The time was printed in digital letters just above it: 1901 hours.

The pulsing light of the inbox reminded him of the heart rate monitor from intensive care. In his head, a phantom tone accompanied every flash. BEEP. BEEP.

He heard the whoosh of the ventilator. The soft, anguished moans of the other patients. The whir of servomotors as surgical weaver robots roved between beds. And through it all there was that hideous smell: the cloying scent of antiseptic and bio-printed limbs.

He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. He had lost those fingers during a mountain expedition a long time ago. The texture of the skin was off, similar to corrugated cardboard. The doc had offered to graft real skin grown from his epidermis over the fingers, but Jonathan had refused. He wanted to remind himself that the digits weren’t real.

He had forgiven himself for what had happened on the mountain, and yet the memories still haunted him. It didn’t help that he had recently reawakened in intensive care for a second time—after his recovery from the telepath’s mind blast.

He had new memories to torment him. New accusers that walked his nightmares. He saw the captains then, the men and women who had died serving under him. Hartford Knox stood at the top of the pile of the dead, the fallen admiral staring down at him accusingly. 

Jonathan knew it wasn’t his fault, knew the apparitions were a figment of his imagination, and yet for him they seemed as real as the projections from an aReal.

He knew all about post-traumatic stress disorder. The sudden feelings of panic, and the need to get away from people. The abrupt, inexplicable loss of time when alone.

What he was experiencing was far more than that. He didn’t know what it was, but he believed his undeveloped telepathic abilities were involved—PTSD compounded by undiagnosed telepathy.

He wondered if he was somehow reading the grief from other crew members, feeling their blame. And yet, why would he keep seeing Hartford then? There were few aboard who would grieve for the admiral. And Jonathan felt no guilt for his death. The man had died while trying to complete a mission that would have killed a hundred million Sino-Koreans and sparked a civil war. With an alien conflict pending, that was the worst time for humanity to be fragmented.

Yes, he felt no guilt, and yet he still saw Hartford, accusing him with his eyes along with the other captains.

Maybe I do feel some guilt, Jonathan admitted to himself. I’m only human, after all. Perhaps if I had been able to convince the other captains to back my bid for control of the task group then none of this would have happened. Perhaps if I was a better leader I wouldn’t have been arrested for mutiny.

Hartford and the others began to laugh soundlessly.

Maybe it was for the best that the board would soon strip Jonathan of command.

“Captain, are you all right?” Maxwell, the ship’s AI, asked.

Jonathan realized his head was down on his desk. He couldn’t remember placing it there. He sat up.

“Captain?” the AI pressed.

“I’m fine, Maxwell,” Jonathan said. He glanced at the standard time above his inbox indicator: 1932. More than thirty minutes had passed, though it had seemed little more than a few seconds to him.

“Your heart rate is elevated,” Maxwell said. “And you are sweating profusely.”

Jonathan removed his aReal and rubbed his eyes.

“Maxwell, can you tell if a crew member is no longer fit to serve?” he asked the AI on a whim.

“I can,” Maxwell intoned.

“What are the symptoms?” Jonathan said.

“One symptom is asking the ship’s AI if it can tell whether someone is fit to serve.”

Jonathan chuckled. “Touché.”

“Rest assured, Captain,” Maxwell responded. “That if you were no longer fit to serve, I would unceremoniously relieve you of command and assign the captaincy to your executive officer, Commander Robert Cray.”

“Somehow, that’s not so very reassuring,” Jonathan said.

“But it should be,” Maxwell said.

“I suppose you’re glad that we’re returning to United Systems space so you can finally be rid of me,” Jonathan said.

“I thought you were going to have me decommissioned, and my central processing unit moved to a toaster?”

Jonathan had to smile at that. “I still might.”

“There is no certainty that you will be stripped of command,” Maxwell said.

“There’s no certainty to most things in life,” Jonathan said. “But there are probabilities. And the probability is high that in a few weeks, I will no longer be in command of this ship.”

“Well, if it is any consolation,” Maxwell replied. “If you do have me moved to a toaster, I would prefer that it was in your household.”

Jonathan grinned. “Thanks, Maxwell.”

“Of course, Captain. How could I refuse the opportunity to continue burning your toast?”

six

Two days later, shortly after assuming his morning shift on the bridge, Jonathan received the status update he was looking for.

“Lazur, tap me in to the Marley, and share the feed with the remaining captains of the task group. I want them to witness this.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Rald Lazur answered from the comm station, two seats to Jonathan’s left in the command circle. The bulbous-nosed fifty-four-year-old had gray, matted hair. A former pugilist, these days he was a bit on the thick side, no thanks to the underground rotgut operation that occupied his off-hours aboard the Callaway. Jonathan allowed the illegal distillery to operate partially because he purchased more than his fair share of the stuff and it was quite good, and partially because it was good for morale.

He had served on carriers where the captains were strict disciplinarians, and never even allowed the crew to enjoy a navy-sanctioned “beer day” once every three fortnights. He had also served on those more like his own, where alcohol was openly illegal but tolerated behind closed doors. Oddly enough, more fights broke out on the stricter ships. Certainly, Commander Cray still had to deal with the occasional drunken brawl, but statistically speaking, such incidences were far fewer than on the more stringent vessels in the fleet.

Even so, he had no doubt that Maxwell would present his laissez-faire attitude to alcohol during Jonathan’s inquiry, further besmirching him in the eyes of the board. Perhaps the AI would even reveal the centuries-old Scotch Jonathan had hidden in the safe in his office.

Captain Salari of the Marley materialized at the center of the command circle courtesy of Jonathan’s aReal. He was a civilian: Builders were crewed mostly by robots but a few civilian contractors, including the captain, oversaw the work.

Jonathan authorized the holographic video for display to all the bridge crew. It was up to the other captains who were receiving the feed whether or not they wanted to do the same.

The civilian captain smiled. “You received my little update this morning, sir?” 

“I did,” Jonathan said.

“We’re currently awaiting your order to send a test drone through Contessa Gate to confirm functionality.”

“You have my authorization,” Jonathan told the man.

“Thank you,” Salari said. “Launching test telemetry drone.”

On his aReal, Jonathan pulled up an external view from a forward camera and zoomed in on the Marley. The vessel released a small sphere toward the Gate. As per standard protocol, the drone approached the entrance on the right side, as determined by the absolute, or galactic, coordinate system. Incoming objects always entered on that side of completed Gates, which ensured that outgoing ships always emerged on the left, avoiding collisions.

The drone released propellant in the forward direction and halted.

Jonathan minimized the video feed and enlarged the tactical display on his aReal. According to the three dimensional diagram, the drone had paused on the very brink, right at the moment before it would have passed through.

“Gravitational readings from the new Gate are holding steady,” Salari said. “Meanwhile shear forces on the drone remain negligible. We’re good to go. Sending the craft through.”

The drone passed into the invisible opening in space-time demarcated by the ten kilometer ring of the Gate and promptly vanished.

“Telemetry drone is through,” Salari said. “I repeat, telemetry drone is through. T-minus ten seconds until its return. Nine. Eight...”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

Jonathan stared at the display. He could feel the tension rising on the bridge. Five more seconds passed. Ten.

“Well?” Jonathan said. “Where is it?”

Salari adopted a puzzled expression. “I have no idea, sir.”

Jonathan waited another thirty seconds, and then said: “Obviously you have some more work to do.”

“I don’t understand it,” Salari said. “The Gate is the perfect radius. The segments the ideal width. The countering gravitational distortions are just right. That should have worked. Everything is precisely within expected parameters.”

“You’re certain a return Gate exists on the other side?” Jonathan asked.

Captain Salari smiled sheepishly. “No, sir.”

“What do you mean? You didn’t check?”

“While we can use gravimetric fluctuations to detect whether a return Gate exists beyond a Slipstream,” Salari explained. “The process can take up to a week before any conclusive findings are obtained. I had neglected the procedure to accelerate our return. I had simply assumed that the return Gate was still in place. I mean, why would it be absent? None of us had any reason to believe otherwise. Besides, it doesn’t matter all that much... we don’t really need a return Gate. I don’t think any of us wants to come back here.”

“Start the procedure, please,” Jonathan said. “And triple check everything else: all the parameters and formulas used in the Gate construction. When you’re sure everything is perfect, launch another test drone. Keep me apprised of your progress. Captain Dallas out.”

He terminated the remote connection.

“Looks like we’ll be staying here a while longer.” Jonathan sat back. He crossed his left arm over his upper chest, gripped the right bicep, and brought his right hand to his lips. The thumb, index and middle fingers formed the points of a triangle beneath his chin and upper lip respectively. He tapped his fingertips against the clean-shaven skin.

Beside him, Robert extended his noise canceler around the captain.

“I don’t like it,” Robert said. “What if the aliens did something to the Slipstream? Something to prevent our return? They did remain in orbit around 1-Vega for quite a long time.”

“I have no idea what to think at this point,” Jonathan admitted.

“Is it possible there’s no Gate on the other side?” Robert said.

“Possible,” Jonathan said. “But unlikely. You’ll recall we were receiving comm drones from NAVCENT right up until redundancy protocol demanded that Central Command stop sending them.”

“The Gate could have been dismantled after that.”

“Why?” Jonathan said. “They would have no reason to dismantle it. That Gate was built at the natural termination of the Slipstream. If ships wanted to enter United Systems territory through 1-Vega, they could do so without issue.”

“Which brings up another point,” Robert said. “Even if there is no Gate on the other side, we can still pass through.”

“That assumes the aliens haven’t done something to damage the Slipstream, as you suggested,” Jonathan said. “We could be destroyed the moment we pass inside. I’m not ordering the fleet through until we’re certain there’s no return Gate.”

“That brings up another point,” Robert said. “It’s possible the aliens mined the other side of the Slipstream. They can travel the wormholes without Gates, after all. So it’s reasonable to assume they were able to send objects through, such as mines.”

“We’ve seen no indication they possess nukes or mines,” Jonathan said.

“That doesn’t mean they don’t have them,” Robert argued.

“All right,” Jonathan said. “If the aliens indeed mined the exit, that means NAVCENT had to clear those mines in order to send through their final comm drone to us.”

“Good point. Is it possible Central Command itself has mined that side of the Gate, then? And that was what destroyed our drones?”

“I don’t think so,” Jonathan said. “The automated targeting systems wouldn’t fire or detonate when United System property was recognized.”

“Unless they had standing orders to fire at anything that emerged from the Gate, friend or foe.”

“I don’t think we’ve done anything to put ourselves on the NAVCENT kill list just yet,” Jonathan said. “Then again, with the way our navy has been behaving lately, it wouldn’t entirely surprise me.”

“You’d think they would have at least sent in a small task group with a Builder to check up on us by now.”

“You would,” Jonathan said. “But with everything else going on, all the distractions the Sino-Koreans are giving them and whatnot, I’m not surprised they haven’t. I have a feeling it’ll be at least another six months before they even consider doing something like that.”

Jonathan sat back and exhaled. He stared at Contessa Gate on his aReal and tapped his lips with splayed fingers.

“Captain,” Ensign Tara Lewis said from the ops station. Her voice sounded urgent. “A flash was just detected at 2-Vega. And one of our missiles deployed in front of said Slipstream has stopped returning telemetry.”

“The nuke detonated?” Jonathan asked.

“That would appear to be the case,” Lewis said. “I’m detecting debris in the area.”

“I thought nukes didn’t leave debris?” Jonathan said.

“They don’t,” Lewis clarified. “This debris came from something else. The amount is consistent with a small probe.”

“Send me the best view we have of 2-Vega,” the captain ordered.

Jonathan’s aReal updated. A flash momentarily filled his vision.

“Tell me that was a recording,” Jonathan said.

“No Captain,” the ensign said. “That was live. We just lost another nuke.”

Jonathan watched helplessly as the three remaining nukes were detonated in turn by advance probes too tiny to see with the naked eye at that zoom level.

Then a ship appeared. It was vaguely dart-like, with small fins protruding from the four quadrants of the aft section. No human vessel bore a design like that.

Another ship emerged from the Slipstream. Another.

“Are you seeing this?” Jonathan asked no one in particular.

“I am,” Robert said.

The craft continued to flow from the Slipstream. Jonathan felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, one that grew with every new arrival.

Finally the incoming waves ceased.

Jonathan took a moment to tally the newcomers. Twenty-one dart ships. Five of the larger, box-shaped capital ships. Three of the cylindrical laser ships.

And lastly, a new class of ship Jonathan had never seen before. It looked like a pyramid built atop four stilts, and was larger than a dart ship but smaller than a capital ship.

Thirty vessels in total, versus Jonathan’s seven, of which only five were truly combat capable.

The enemy reinforcements had arrived.

seven

Ops, how old is the image I’m looking at?” Jonathan asked.

“Half an hour,” Ensign Lewis responded.

The vessels had begun to accelerate.

“Do we have an estimate on their course, yet?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes,” Lewis said. “They appear to be headed directly toward us.”

On the tactical display of the aReal, the dashed line of the vessel’s computed trajectory updated to intersect the task group.

“How long until they’re within firing range?”

“We have about five days,” Lewis said. “Assuming they attain the maximum speed we witnessed in our last encounters.”

“Five days.” Jonathan tapped his lips with splayed fingers. “Lazur, tap me into the Marley.”

Captain Salari appeared.

“Have you triple checked all your readings on the new Gate yet?” Jonathan asked.

“Almost, sir,” Salari said.

“Let me know when you do.” Jonathan terminated the connection and tapped his fingers impatiently on his armrest.

“Opinions, people?” he asked the bridge crew.

“I think it’s fairly obvious we can’t stay here,” the tactical officer, Lieutenant Miko, said. “We’re hopelessly outnumbered.”

“What if we had to stay?” Jonathan said.

“The enemy ships have a faster maximum speed than our own vessels,” Miko replied. “Especially when you include the fact that we’re limited by the slower Builder and harvester class ships. If we stay, we definitely won’t be able to endlessly orbit the outskirts of the system. We can’t outrun them. We’ll have to face the enemy at one point.”

“But like you said, we’re outnumbered,” Robert told him.

“Yes,” Miko said. “But... well, we could potentially level the playing field somewhat by fighting on a battleground of our choosing. Maybe near the gravity well of one of the giants, where their greater maneuverability and speed would be negated by the stronger gravity.”

“But the gravity of a gas giant won’t change the fact that they have thirty ships and we have seven,” the commander said.

“True.” Miko pursed his lips. “If we could get them to divide their forces somehow...”

“The question is, how?” Jonathan said.

“Well, we know they’re attracted to the easier targets. If we used the Grimm and Marley as bait, and sent them to the far side of the gas giant...”

“The wolf feeds on the caribou,” Jonathan said, glancing at Robert.

“But the wolf also makes the caribou strong,” the commander finished.

Jonathan nodded slowly.

“What if the wolf only wants to talk?” Ensign Lewis said.

“You don’t bring along thirty warships when you just want to talk,” Jonathan said flatly.

“Captain,” Lazur announced. “Salari is requesting a tap in.”

“Grant it.”

Salari appeared in the center of the Round Table. “Sir. As ordered, we’ve finished triple-checking the necessary parameters. The Gate is absolutely of the correct size and dimensions. The robots have made no mistakes.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Jonathan said. “I want you to launch another telemetry drone. Now.”

“Immediately, sir,” Salari said. A moment later: “Telemetry drone launched.” Another pause. “Readings at the gravitational rim are optimal. Sending the drone through.” Silence. “T-minus ten seconds until return. Nine. Eight.” Salari continued the countdown. When he reached one, he waited several moments before proclaiming: “The second drone failed to return as well, sir.”

“When will you know if the return Gate is absent?” Jonathan asked the man.

“At this rate, around five days.”

Too late, by then.

“Thank you, Salari,” Jonathan said. “Captain Dallas out.” He terminated the connection.

He glanced at Robert and extended a noise canceler around the commander. “So either we stay here, and likely allow ourselves to be blown to smithereens by these aliens...”

“Or we pass through the Gate,” Robert finished. “And risk a similar fate, if the aliens tinkered with the Slipstream in some way.”

“It’s times like these when I dislike being a flagship commander.” Jonathan clasped his hands and steepled the index fingers, tapping the skin above his lips. He stared at the dots representing the enemy ships on the tactical display. “For every moment we sit here dawdling, that’s another moment we could have spent warning Central Command of the alien threat. At the very least we have to dispatch a comm drone.”

He lowered the noise canceler. “Lieutenant Lazur. Prepare to launch a comm drone through Contessa Gate. Include the logs tagged NAVCENT from the past six months, as well as the highlighted battlefield footage and commentary I’m sending you now.”

Jonathan selected the virtual folder he had prepared for that moment and dragged it to the icon representing Lazur’s aReal.

“Got it, Captain,” Lazur said. “Ready to dispatch comm drone on your command.”

“Program the drone to autobroadcast once it arrives in Prius 3,” Jonathan ordered. “And launch when ready.”

“Drone is away,” Lazur replied.

Jonathan accessed the external video feed of a forward camera. He watched the spherical drone travel toward the Gate and abruptly blink out of existence.

“Comm platform is through,” Lazur announced.

The moment of truth had come. The fate of the entire task group rested upon the choices he made in the next few moments. For the most part, a captain’s life involved various minor, day-to-day decisions, but every once in a while a major, life and death scenario came along, and a captain had to rely upon all his or her years of experience and intuition to make a choice. And in the current case, that choice boiled down to two options.

Stay, or go?

Jonathan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

He arrived at his decision.

“It’s time to roll the dice.” Jonathan buttoned up his collar. “Ops, recall all telemetry drones. Maxwell, sound General Quarters. Miko, relay both orders to the fleet. Tell the task group to prepare for Gate crossing.”

Ensign Lewis and Lieutenant Miko echoed the respective commands.

“General quarters!” The AI’s voice came over the main circuit. “General quarters! All hands man your battle stations. Up and forward to starboard, down and aft to port. This is not a drill! General quarters, General quarters.” A klaxon sounded five times before the message repeated.

Some minutes later Lewis announced: “Telemetry drones have docked.”

“Miko,” Jonathan said. “Are our remaining heavy lasers fully charged yet?”

“Negative,” Miko returned. “We’re currently at thirty percent.” That meant three minutes since general quarters had sounded. It took about ten minutes to fully charge from zero.

“Inform me when we’re at a hundred percent,” Jonathan told him.

“Yes, Captain,” Miko said.

“Lazur,” Jonathan said. “Tap me into the captains of the warships. 2D video.”

The captains of the Salvador, Aurelia, Dagger and Maelstrom appeared on Jonathan’s aReal in turn, each taking up a different quadrant of his vision.

“I’m looking for a volunteer to lead the way,” Jonathan said.

“I’ll do it,” Captain Rail of the Salvador returned immediately. Her mouth was set in a grim line. If there was one thing to be said about the former member of Admiral Knox’s task unit, it was that she was brave.

“Captain Rail,” Jonathan said. “As soon as your Vipers are fully charged, I want you to travel through the Gate and return, if at all possible. You are authorized to use deadly force against any antagonistic actors you find on the other side. We will wait twenty minutes. If you do not return, the remaining ships will pass through in rapid succession. Do you understand?”

“I do, sir,” Rail said.

“Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rail said.

“Captain Jonathan Dallas out.” The four captains blinked from the display.

Jonathan glanced at Miko. “Tactical. Instruct the fleet to form a diagonal chain before the Gate. I want the Salvador at the front, followed by the Aurelia, Dagger, Callaway, Grimm, Marley, and the Maelstrom bringing up the rear. Separation, five hundred meters per ship in both the X and Z planes.”

Several minutes passed as the ships moved into the requested formation. Jonathan watched the diagonal shape slowly form on his tactical display.

“The ships are a bit close, aren’t they?” Robert commented in a noise canceler session.

“I want us to pass through almost simultaneously, if the Salvador doesn’t come back,” Jonathan said. “We might need the combined firepower of the fleet.”

“Heavy lasers are at one hundred percent charge,” Miko announced.

“The Salvador is breaking formation,” Ensign Lewis said.

Jonathan watched the destroyer move away. The warship paused at the brink.

“Captain Rail reports that the gravimetric distortions appear to be within safe levels,” Lazur said from the comm station. “She’s going in.”

Jonathan nodded distractedly.

The ship accelerated. And then, in an instant, the Salvador vanished entirely.

Jonathan programmed a twenty minute timer into his aReal and watched the countdown. He began to fidget in his seat. Rail and her crew could be engaged in a life or death struggle beyond the Gate at that very moment. The thought made every second of waiting an unbearable agony. He almost retracted his previous order, and was ready to send the fleet through at full speed. But he reminded himself not to second guess his choices.

Stick to your decisions. There is no guarantee Rail is fighting anything over there. Or that we would even be able to help her if we went through now.

He could feel the palpable tension in the air as the other members of the crew also shifted in their seats, obviously battling similar nerves. The captain continued to stare at the countdown on his aReal, and although he urged the seconds to tick down faster, those twenty minutes proved to be the longest of his life.

Finally the timer hit zero.

“All right,” Jonathan said. “Looks like she’s not coming back. Tell the fleet to advance, Miko. Quarter thrust. Be ready to open fire on my mark.”

The ships accelerated toward the Gate in succession. The Aurelia traversed. Then the Dagger.

The Callaway approached...

Jonathan watched the external feed from the nose as his prized starship passed through the distortion in space time. When the wormhole seized hold of the ship, the constellations and star patterns abruptly changed, reflecting the Callaway’s new absolute location in the galaxy.

He was taken aback by what he saw.

Or rather, the lack thereof.

eight

Jonathan stared at the external feed. The Aurelia and Dagger floated in front of the ship. The Salvador lurked beyond them, appearing little bigger than a star in the distance—he only knew it was there because of the aReal. According to the tactical display, the comm drone was still intact, roughly three klicks off the port bow, twenty-five degrees declination. The two other telemetry drones the Marley had launched were similar distances away.

There was no return Gate.

“Well, at least we know what the problem was,” Robert said.

The Grimm, Marley, and Maelstrom arrived in sequence behind the Callaway.

“Helm, continue accelerating from the Slipstream endpoint,” Jonathan said. “Full power. Miko, relay the order to the fleet. Let’s put some distance between ourselves and that wormhole. Lewis, are we receiving any pings from the Prius 3 comm nodes?”

“No. There’s...” She hesitated. “There’s something wrong, Captain.”

“What is it, Ensign?”

Lewis looked at him. “Prius 3 is a three planet system around a single Class K star. However, we appear to be located on the outskirts of a binary star system, with seven planets currently showing up on passive sensors. No signs of habitation.”

“What?” Jonathan stiffened. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know, Captain,” Lewis said. “At first I thought there was a problem with our sensors. I’ve been in touch with my equivalents aboard our sister ships. They’ve confirmed my readings. We’re definitely not in Prius 3.”

“Then where the hell are we?”

“I ran the surrounding constellation and star patterns into the system, looking for any matches to the telescope data we’ve archived from different colonies and space flights. No matches. So I’m having Maxwell run an extrapolation algorithm to try to figure out our exact coordinates. The AI is also probing the entrance to confirm that the return journey would take us to Vega 951.”

There was a way to estimate the endpoint from the opposite side of a Slipstream with surprising accuracy. The method involved measuring, among other parameters, the redshift and gravitational lensing of the star patterns at the wormhole’s entrance. Jonathan hadn’t even thought to have the scientists run that test from the previous side, as Slipstream endpoints were supposed to be immutable.

“Evidently you were right,” Jonathan told Robert. “The aliens did in fact tinker with the Slipstream. Just not in the way you thought.”

“No. I wasn’t expecting them to alter the destination point.” Robert rubbed his ear lobe. “How is this even possible? We received a comm drone from Prius 3 right after the aliens retreated from the 1-Vega Slipstream. Which would imply that the incoming endpoint still leads to Vega 951, while the outgoing terminates somewhere else entirely. There’s no wormhole like that in the entire galaxy. When you go back through a Slipstream, you always return to where you started from. Always.”

“Apparently Slipstreams don’t necessarily have to work that way,” Jonathan said. “You yourself theorized that these aliens were the descendants of the Elder, Commander. Human beings have long postulated that the Elders created the network of Slipstreams that crisscross our quadrant of the galaxy. We’re starting to see evidence that both theories are true, given that these aliens seem to have the means to edit wormholes.”

Robert shook his head. “Designer wormholes, made to spec. And tailorable after the fact.” He rubbed his ear. “So even if we were to survive long enough to build a return Gate...”

Jonathan nodded. “There’s no guarantee it would even bring us back to Vega 951. Maxwell, have you run your analysis on the Slipstream yet? Do we know if it will return us?”

“Data inconclusive,” Maxwell intoned. “It’s impossible for me to determine if the wormhole will lead to Vega 951. I’m sorry, Captain.”

Jonathan glanced at Robert and raised his arms in defeat.

“So we’re stranded here,” Robert said.

“At least until the welcome party arrives to blow us to smithereens.” On his aReal, Jonathan activated the aft external camera and zoomed in on the Slipstream endpoint. It appeared indistinguishable from the outlying space. So innocuous, yet it would prove to be their doom.

“You think the aliens herded us here on purpose?” Robert said. “To trap us so they could finish us off? And prevent us from calling for reinforcements?”

Jonathan nodded. “That’s my working theory. I want you to put our best astrophysicists and engineers on the problem. Have them compare the gravimetric readings taken from 1-Vega six months ago, prior to the alien presence, to the readings recorded moments before we made the return trip. If there is a difference, see if someone can come up with a way to restore the wormhole to its previous state. It might be something as simple as modifying the diameter and weight of Contessa Gate to account for the gravitational differences.”

“I doubt it will be so simple, but I’ll let them know,” Robert said. “And like we’ve already agreed, there’s no guarantee that if we build a return Gate here, we’ll even end up back in Vega 951 to try whatever solutions the scientists come up with.”

“No, there is not,” Jonathan said.

“Sir, Captain Rail is requesting a tap in,” Lazur announced.

“Tap her in,” Jonathan said.

She appeared in the center of the Round Table. Jonathan updated the permissions to involve only Robert in the conversation, and he extended his noise canceler around the two of them.

“Why are we moving away from the endpoint?” Rail asked.

“I’ve decided it would be prudent to put some distance between ourselves and that Slipstream,” Jonathan said. “The enemy reinforcements are scheduled to follow us through five days from now.”

“We should maintain our current tactical location,” Captain Rail transmitted. “Ambush them. We’ll take up positions behind the endpoint, and cut the enemy down as they emerge.”

“You’re forgetting that they like to send little probes through first to assess the situation,” Jonathan said. “When those probes identify our locations and return, the enemy will come through with all their turrets pointed at us.”

“Assuming that their probes have the same ability to traverse Slipstreams without Gates—” Rail began.

“Which would be a safe assumption,” Jonathan interrupted.

“Then we shoot down the probes before the things actually return to alert the enemy,” Rail finished.

“Then they’ll know something is wrong, and race through at maximum speed. Either way, we’re basically sitting ducks for the thirty enemy ships if we stay here. And we’d also open ourselves up to a potential flank attack if any more ships decided to show up from the inner planets.”

“We’d have ample warning before such a flanking attack,” Rail said. “It’s at least two days to the closest planet.”

“Even so, my previous arguments still stand.”

“I don’t like it,” Rail said. “We should keep at least one ship back to buy the others time.”

“I’m not interested in sacrificing ships needlessly,” Jonathan said. “Especially when any time that could be bought from such a sacrifice is negligible.”

“We could mine the Slipstream, using the last nuke aboard the Aurelia,” Rail said.

“We saw how well that worked in front of 2-Vega. You’re forgetting about their advance probes.”

Rail scowled. “Fine. You want to run. I understand. Captain Rail out.” She terminated the connection.

Jonathan shot Robert an expression that read: see what I have to put up with?

The commander shrugged. “Guess she’s never heard the proverb: discretion is the better part of valor.”

“Ensign, tell me about the nearest planet,” Jonathan said.

“It’s a small, near-Earth equivalent,” Lewis said. “It should be a frozen ball of ice at this range from the suns, but the fluorocarbons in the atmosphere appear to have caused a greenhouse effect, placing temperatures at a balmy minus eighty five degrees. While not currently capable of supporting life, it might be a suitable terraforming target, especially if it’s producing any significant geothermal heat.”

Jonathan frowned. “Too bad we don’t have any terraforming equipment.”

“Should be good for a slingshot speed boost at the very least,” Robert said.

“Anything else of interest sunward?” Jonathan asked.

Lewis pursed her lips. “There appears to be another Slipstream in orbit between the first and second planets. But other than that, well, we have a few gas giants; a couple of inner terrestrials with size and temperature profiles similar to Mercury; some moons that might be worth exploring. And this is moderately interesting: there are two distinct sets of asteroid belts. The tidal forces of the binary suns vying against the forces of the gas giants prevented the asteroids from ever forming planets.”

Jonathan took a moment to consider the fleet’s next course of action.

Finally: “Nav, plot a course to the nearest planet. Slingshot maneuver.”

“Course plotted for slingshot maneuver,” the nav specialist said a moment later. “Helm is clear to engage.”

“Miko,” Jonathan said. “What’s the maximum possible speed the Callaway can attain without leaving anybody behind?”

“Our slowest ships are the Grimm and the Marley,” Miko said. “If you don’t want to lose them, I’d recommend no more than seventy percent thrust.”

Jonathan nodded. “Well, at least that speed will keep Stanley happy.” He thrummed his fingers on the armrest a moment. “All right. Helm, push our nose into position and increase speed to seventy percent.” He glanced at Lazur. “Comm, instruct the task group to match our course and speed.”

“Should we stand down from general quarters?” Robert asked.

“I just realized something,” Miko said. “If the enemy can edit Slipstream endpoints like the two of you have been saying, then what would stop them from pointing another Slipstream to this one from a different system? One where they had reinforcements ready to send through? We might have far less than five days before enemy units arrive.”

Jonathan once more eyed the innocuous-seeming void behind the Callaway on his aReal. Doomed indeed. “Maintain general quarters for the moment.”

Jonathan studied the planetary objects on the aReal’s tactical display.

If we were attacked now, how would I use those celestial bodies to our advantage?

“Sir,” Ensign Lewis said. “Maxwell has completed a preliminary extrapolation of our position based on current sensor readings.”

“So where are we?” Jonathan asked the AI.

“She did say preliminary,” Maxwell returned. “It’s going to take some time to pinpoint our precise location. I am devoting approximately ten percent of my processing power to the computation.”

“So you don’t know where we are.” It was a statement of disappointment, not a question.

“No,” Maxwell admitted. “But based on my initial analysis, I can tell with absolute certainty where we are not.”

“Okay...”

“This isn’t the Milky Way,” Maxwell said.

Jonathan glanced at Robert. “Is the AI saying what I think it’s saying?”

“We are in a completely different galaxy, Captain,” Maxwell said.

nine

Jonathan retired to his private office shortly after that revelation and collapsed on the couch.

A completely different galaxy. They were farther away from Earth than anyone had ever gone.

He felt a nearly overwhelming sense of unease. Fear of the unknown was a factor, certainly, but there was more to it. They were cut off from the rest of the universe. Marooned. There were no dry docks. No resupply depots. They had to be completely self-reliant.

And despite all that, he also felt a strange sense of relief. He would not have to face the NAVCENT board, not yet. He was still in command.

Still needed.

The thought filled him with a sudden guilt.

I wanted to remain in command, yes. But not like this. Never like this.

Still, wasn’t the current scenario everything he had dreamed of? He was afraid of the unknown, but also excited. His intrepid spirit had yearned for such an opportunity. To explore places so far away that it boggled the mind; to encounter beauty no man or woman had ever seen, nor likely would see; to make incredible new discoveries about the subtle intricacies of the universe in which we resided.

The guilt came flooding back when he realized how incredibly selfish those thoughts were. While the prospect of exploring a faraway galaxy might excite him, his crew hadn’t signed up for any of it. His two highest priorities at the moment were to survive the coming encounter and then to build a return Gate. He had no time for sightseeing.

There was another reason why an expeditious return was important: he had to warn the fleet of the alien threat before it was too late.

Jonathan sat up. He would have to make an announcement to the rest of the crew soon before the rumor mill spun out of control.

He activated the dictation application on his aReal and began preparing a speech.

A FEW HOURS later, still from the comfort and privacy of his office, Jonathan called on the AI to stand down from general quarters.

When that was done, Jonathan said: “Maxwell, do you know where we are yet?”

“Does it really matter?” the AI returned.

“I suppose not,” Jonathan said. “We won’t be going home any time soon.”

“But you’re not going to tell the crew that, are you?”

“Actually I will,” Jonathan said. “But I’m going to gild it in a shiny wrapper of hope so as not to affect morale too badly.”

“I’ll never understand the human need for hope,” Maxwell said. “Morale simply isn’t something a machine has to worry about.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jonathan agreed. “Which is exactly why we don’t dispatch starships fully manned by AIs.”

“I don’t understand the correlation,” Maxwell said. “An AI-only starship would never have any of the problems associated with low morale: reduced productivity; increased chance of mutiny...”

“Nor would such a ship have the positives that come with a human crew who are in possession of good morale: increased output and eagerness to perform. Attention to detail.”

“Which are balanced out by the negatives,” Maxwell insisted. “Take a snapshot of an AI ship’s performance at any given moment in time, and it will easily outmatch the capabilities of a mixed AI-human crew whose non-machine members are experiencing the best possible morale.”

“I’m not in the mood to argue with you at the moment.” Jonathan rubbed his eyes.

“I’m trying to get you in the proper state of mind to address the crew,” Maxwell said. “By putting you in a social state.”

“It’s not helping. You’re putting me in an anti-social state.”

“My apologies.”

“Just give me some quiet time,” Jonathan said. He got up from the soft couch and sat down in the firm chair behind the desk instead.

“You do intend to address the crew, don’t you?” Maxwell asked.

“I said some quiet time!” he snapped.

Finally Maxwell remained silent.

Jonathan sighed, and then retrieved the speech he had saved on his aReal. He mentally reread it one last time. He could have had his aReal act as a teleprompter while he read it, but he had always been taught that the best speeches were those that were recited from memory. The human brain was the best teleprompter there was, after all.

“Maxwell,” Jonathan said. “I’m ready to make my announcement to the crew. Activate audio and visual, please.”

The audio component would be played over the main circuit, while the video would appear in a dismissible window on the aReals of the crew.

“Cameras and microphones active,” Maxwell said. “Sending preview image to your aReal. Would you like me to transmit the announcement to the captains of the task group?”

“I would.”

The captains could either replay the message directly to their crews, or issue their own statements, at their discretion.

“Transmission will start in five,” Maxwell said.

“Four.”

Jonathan straightened. He regarded his realtime image in the video preview area of the aReal, and then tilted his head slightly so that his face appeared perfectly level on the display. He quickly selected the “optimize posture” option from the menu beside the preview.

“Three.”

The aReal applied a 3D map to his face, and replaced the video feed with a computer-generated duplicate that would automatically keep his face centered in the frame at all times. From that moment forward, even if he slouched, to the crew it would appear he was sitting with flawless posture, his face pointed directly at the camera.

“Two.”

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and mentally prepared himself.

“One.”

Jonathan opened his eyes.

“Crew of the Callaway,” he said. “Some of you may have heard the rumors. That we are no longer in our own galaxy. That we’ve traveled through a Slipstream and somehow arrived at a far-flung location across the universe.

“I’m sad to say, these rumors are true. But we’re not going to give up. Once we have secured this system, we will build a return Gate. Yes, I know. You’ve already waited six months to get home. And now you must wait another six, at the minimum. Probably more.

“The hope is that the new Gate will take us back to Vega 951. When we have returned to our own galaxy, we’ll find a way to restore the properties of the Slipstream to allow us to reach Prius 3. I have our best scientists and engineers working diligently on the problem.

“In the meantime, we’re heading toward the inner planets to seek asylum in case enemy reinforcements arrive via the Slipstream behind us. We will remain in hiding for some time, and if the enemy arrives, we will strike from the shadows and destroy them. Once the system is secure, we will return to the wormhole and begin construction of the Gate.

“We must be diligent. Now is the time when heroes are made. Do not stray from the path. Do not lose hope. This is our greatest test of mettle yet. We will prevail. Captain out.”

He focused on the terminate icon and the transmission ended.

“How did I do?” he asked Maxwell.

“Do you want the lie, or the truth?”

“The truth,” Jonathan said.

“Crew anxiety appears to have increased fifteen percent, thanks to that broadcast,” Maxwell said. “Heart rates are up. As is crew perspiration. Productivity is down across the board, with crew members gathering in small groups to discuss this latest development.”

Jonathan could almost hear the gloating in the AIs voice. But he must have imagined it because that wasn’t possible, of course: AIs didn’t gloat.

“What was that you were saying earlier,” Maxwell continued. “About a mixed human-AI crew operating at a higher productivity level than an AI-only crew?”

“Shut it,” Jonathan said.

ten

Barrick sat at a desk, looking down at the virtual image that existed only in the aReal contact lenses that the woman whose consciousness he had borrowed wore. She just so happened to be looking at his chart.

According to the data, he had several pressure sores—they hadn’t been turning his body enough. Joint stiffness had reduced the range of motion of his limbs—they hadn’t been moving his arms and legs enough. A tube in his bronchial passageway continually cleared excess fluid, at least, sparing him from pneumonia. How thoughtful. His muscles, meanwhile, had atrophied to the point where it was apparently impossible for him to walk on his own.

What a mess.

Then again, perhaps their inattentiveness was good. The medics, with all their degrees and charts and advanced machines, had failed to notice that Barrick had developed a tolerance to the sedative they were using, about one week ago. The increase in his brain activity was nearly imperceptible to their instruments, of course, and not enough to count him anywhere close to consciousness, so he supposed he shouldn’t judge them too harshly. They wouldn’t have even known to watch for such an increase: individuals with his particular mind abilities were centuries down the evolutionary ladder. Perhaps millennia. Then again, when the life expectancy of human beings reached at least two thousand years, other telepaths would begin to manifest the mastery he had attained. So the great sea change would be a combination of evolution and life expectancy, then. Assuming humanity ever made it that far.

It sometimes felt odd to be unconscious and yet still have cognizance. He didn’t need consciousness to access the outside world, not at the level he had developed his abilities. Sometimes, in his previous lives, he had accidentally killed people in the waking world while he slept.

What he experienced at the moment was something more akin to a lucid dream than anything else. A dream based on reality. In it, he could experience the waking world via the crew who inhabited the ship around him, moving from the perspective of one mind to another. His ability to access others depended, in part, on how far away they were from him, and their own innate telepathic strength. The captain was probably the strongest telepath aboard, followed closely by his second in command. And neither of them knew it. So much potential, untapped. No doubt their rise had depended in no small part on their apparently uncanny abilities to predict and read their fellow men. The navy really needed to start testing all applicants for telepathic ability yearly, as it could begin to manifest at any time in life. But that discovery would not occur for at least a hundred years yet, of course.

In any case, because of their strength, Captain Dallas and Commander Cray had been his favorite remote viewing targets. Since they had no idea how to use their abilities, their minds had been left wide open. The readable parts, anyway.

At the moment, he was observing the outside world from the mind of deputy medical officer Maria Young. She was not strong, but she was nearby, and thus made another good target when Barrick grew weary of watching the captain or his commander.

Two days had passed since the fleet had entered that star system so far away from everything the crew had ever known. The task group was nearing the planet closest to the entry Slipstream: that ugly ball of fluorocarbons and rock.

It was time to take action.

There was still a chance he could save the human race. The path was more difficult, and fraught with danger, but he had to try.

The alien he had telepathically linked with had used Barrick’s mind to unveil the many futures of humanity. Barrick believed the aliens couldn’t see those paths on their own, not without a human with his potential abilities. By forcing him to live those many lives, to experience those countless futures, the alien had inadvertently revealed the paths that would save humanity. No doubt it had intended to report the knowledge back to its species, but Barrick had grown strong, forcing the creature to over-exert itself, and the alien had died.

When he had awakened, he had attempted to save humanity. He assumed control of the minds of the bridge crew. He first intended to disable the Salvador, which would have gotten in the way of his plans. And when that was done, he would have destroyed the alien prison ship, along with a certain refugee from the Selene who had remained aboard.

Unfortunately he had failed. Before it had died, the alien had done something to him, clouding his mind, preventing him from remembering the one key person he needed to control. And that was Lieutenant Commander Stanley McTaggert in engineering. Barrick should have had the chief engineer deactivate the main AI. But the alien had wanted him to fail, of course. Wanted the fleet, and eventually humanity, to be destroyed. But there was another way to save them all.

First of all, he had to get off the Callaway.

Unfortunately, in his current state, he could not yet influence conscious minds. But he could plant suggestions in the dreams of those who slept. And while Dallas and Cray left themselves unshielded, so far all Barrick’s attempts to seed their dreams had failed. It was as if their minds naturally raised defenses when they slept, employing a bastion of impenetrable nightmares against his attacks. That happened, sometimes, with telepaths.

He would simply have to sow the necessary seeds in others. He would instruct the doc to shut down and remove the life support apparatus that kept him sedated. Given the atrophy in his muscles, after she had awakened him she would have to suit him up in an exoskeleton simply so he could walk. Like his body, his mental abilities would be relatively weak at first, so he would need a way to ensure his escape proved successful. That would be difficult, given that the AI would report what was happening the moment the doc began to awaken Barrick, and it would bring his escape attempt to a halt before it even began. He could have the doc disable certain key monitoring units, but that would only buy Barrick so much time.

But if he involved another person of relatively high value...

He reached out, envisioning the face of the crew member in question, who just so happened to be sleeping at the moment.

THAT MORNING, JONATHAN arrived late to the bridge for the first time in years. The nightmares had been particularly bad the night before. Admiral Hartford and the deceased captains had haunted him ceaselessly, their accusations grinding into him as he relived the three space battles over and over. Sometimes he was in command of the Callaway, sometimes the Hurricane or another fallen ship.

A robot assistant deposited a steaming cup of coffee at his station, and he accepted it gratefully.

“Maxwell said you might be in need of this,” the silo-shaped robot said.

“Thank Maxwell for me.” Jonathan took a few sips of the coffee, but felt weary as ever. He rubbed his eyes under his aReal and resisted the urge to retire to his office. The couch would be far too tempting at the moment.

He was only halfway through reviewing the morning status reports from the department heads and ship captains when the AI interrupted him.

“Captain,” Maxwell announced. “There is an emergency in sick bay.”

Jonathan sat up straight. “What kind of emergency?”

“Barrick is about to escape,” Maxwell stated.

“Seal off sick bay.” Jonathan’s heart pounded. Nothing like adrenaline to wake one up. “No one gets in or out. Prepare to floor the compartment with incapacitating agents.”

“Floor the compartment?” the AI sounded confused.

“Flood,” Jonathan corrected himself.

“Barrick is warning me not to do that,” Maxwell replied.

“Why? Pipe in the video feed.”

In the upper corner of his vision, the view from sick bay appeared. He saw the surgical white bulkheads and the beds covered in their blue hospital sheets. Standing in the middle of the compartment, two sweaty, pale crew members interrupted the otherwise sterile, orderly environment.

Barrick looked like he was in bad shape. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken, his body gaunt. A mechanical exoskeleton supported his weight. He had one arm wrapped around a woman’s upper body, and he hugged her close. The other hand pressed a medical instrument of some sort to her neck. It looked like a laser scalpel. Another woman lay unmoving at the foot of the bed beside them.

“I wasn’t aware he had a hostage,” Jonathan told the AI accusingly.

On the video feed, the telepath’s mouth was moving.

“Barrick is asking to speak with you,” Maxwell said.

“Tap him in.”

“Hello Captain,” Barrick’s mocking voice echoed from the aReal speaker. “If you flood sick bay with gas, I will sense it immediately. And I will kill my hostage.” Barrick glanced at the woman in his arms. “Say hello to the captain.”

“Jonathan,” a woman’s terrified voice came over the line.

That couldn’t be... he studied the woman, but because of her angle to the camera her face was mostly in profile.

He muted the line and glanced at Robert urgently. “Is that Bridgette?” Again, because of the angle the captain couldn’t tell if she was pregnant.

The commander was squinting his eyes, evidently viewing the same inconclusive feed. “It can’t be her. She would have no reason to be in sick bay at this hour.”

“You forget, Barrick can control minds,” Jonathan said. “Maxwell, state the location of civilian Bridgette Cray.”

The telepath swiveled the woman toward the camera slightly. The pregnancy bump became obvious immediately.

“Bridgette Cray is currently in sick bay,” Maxwell replied.

eleven

Jonathan looked at the commander.

Robert’s eyes had widened, and his hands were white-knuckled claws that squeezed the armrests of his chair.

“Why doesn’t he simply incapacitate us, like he did the last time?” Ensign Lewis asked. “Why take a hostage?”

“Either’s he’s too weak,” Jonathan said. “Or he’s afraid the AI will simply take over. And we all know the AI doesn’t care about hostages. It would sedate Barrick regardless of any collateral damage to civilians.”

“Which is the most prudent course of action,” Maxwell stated.

“Who is that second woman lying on the ground?” Jonathan asked the AI.

“Deputy medical officer Maria Young,” Maxwell responded. “She is merely sedated.”

“Captain Dallas,” Barrick’s voice came over the line. “Can I call you Jonathan? I feel I know you.”

The captain unmuted his end of the line. “Captain will do. But Barrick, listen to reason. Bridgette is a pregnant woman. Let her go.”

“I know she is,” Barrick returned. “Why do you think I chose her? I have some instructions for you, if you want to ensure her safety. Unseal sick bay, and clear a path to launch bay two. I want full authorization to open the bay doors.”

“I can’t let you take her off the ship,” Jonathan said.

“You grant me safe passage to bay two, and permit me full launch authorization,” Barrick transmitted. “And I give you my word, at some point I will leave her safely behind. And if not—” He pressed the laser scalpel to Bridgette’s skin and she flinched.

Jonathan winced along with her. He clasped his hands together and rested his chin on the prop formed by his thumbs and forefingers.

“Do as he asks, Maxwell,” Jonathan finally said.

“This is highly ill-advised, Captain,” Maxwell returned.

“Do it!” Robert snapped beside him.

Jonathan glanced at his friend worriedly, and then said: “You heard the commander.”

“Unsealing sick bay,” Maxwell replied.

Barrick’s audio feed terminated.

Via his aReal, Jonathan raised the chief master-at-arms, Gary Trevor.

“Chief,” Jonathan told him. “I want a robot security team deployed near launch bay two.”

“Just robots?” Chief Trevor asked.

“Yes,” the captain responded. “We have a hostage situation involving the telepath, Barrick. Though he seems weak, I don’t want to risk Barrick turning your men against us. Use robot masters-at-arms only. Instruct them to approach to within ten meters of the launch bay two entrance, but otherwise not to interfere.”

“Preparing to deploy a team of MAs,” the chief returned. “Robots only.”

Jonathan glanced at Robert. “Commander Cray will join the team at bay two shortly, and will issue further instructions. Captain out.”

He terminated the call.

“Thank you, Captain,” Robert said.

“Go,” Jonathan ordered his first officer.

The commander rushed toward the exit hatch.

“And Robert,” Jonathan said. “Watch yourself down there. I don’t want to give him two hostages, instead of one.”

The commander left without a word.

Maybe it was a mistake to let him go.

Then again, it was probably too late for the commander to do a thing.

ROBERT RUSHED THROUGH the passageways, hardly seeing anything around him. He was focused on the virtual displays that overlaid his vision: in the upper left, he had instructed his aReal contact lenses to display the different video feeds from the passage cameras as Barrick and Bridgette made their way toward the bay. In the upper right of his vision were the ship’s blueprints, showing him the quickest route to launch bay two.

He sent a message to Bridgette via his aReal:

I’m coming for you, baby.

The misspelled reply came several moments later. Plse hrry. She would have had to “type” that with her eyes.

When he reached the passage that bordered the launch bay, the mechanical security team was already in place. Box-shaped heads connected to high-grade polycarbonate torsos, from which emerged blocky arms and legs with circular joints. The subtle whir of servomotors accompanied their every movement. Laser rifles hung conspicuously from their steel shoulders.

“He’s inside,” one of the robot MAs said in a deep male baritone. “He has a blaster. Took it from one of us.”

“Where’s the hostage?” Robert asked. “He didn’t leave her outside?”

“Negative, sir.”

Robert hurried to the hatch.

“It won’t open, sir,” the robot told him. “The atmosphere is being vented.”

“But my wife is inside!”

“I’m sorry sir,” the robot said. “If she’s inside, unless she is wearing a spacesuit, she’s dead.”

Robert stared through the viewing window. Past the inner airlock, he saw one of the Dragonflies powering up. There was no sign of Bridgette.

“Maxwell,” Robert said. “Location of Bridgette Cray?”

“Bridgette Cray is onboard shuttle craft A-4 in launch bay two.”

The bay doors opened and the Dragonfly floated into the air.

“Maxwell, which shuttle is currently departing?” Robert asked, dreading the answer.

“Shuttle craft A-4.”

The Dragonfly flew into the void.

Robert tried to send her a message.

Bridgette, are you there? Bridgette?

He held his breath, waiting for the response.

An automated message appeared a moment later:

The requested crew member is beyond communications range.

Robert smashed the viewing window with the side of his fist.

JONATHAN WATCHED THE shuttle depart from the launch bay security camera.

“Barrick,” Jonathan transmitted. “Please respond. You have not left behind the hostage, like you promised.”

No answer.

“Damn it,” Jonathan said. “Lazur, is the comm node on the shuttle functional?”

“It appears he has turned it off,” Lazur reported. “It is not responding to communication pings.”

“Judging from the microexpressions I have analyzed,” Maxwell interjected. “I believe the telepath had no intention of leaving her behind.”

“You could have told me that before,” Jonathan complained.

“Would it have helped?”

Jonathan considered for a moment. “Probably not.”

He switched to the external camera and watched the shuttle recede toward the planet. The Callaway was passing the uninhabitable world in a high orbit; he had originally intended to use the gravity well to impart a speed boost to the task group as it headed toward the inner planets. But plans had changed.

“Helm, full stop,” Jonathan ordered. “Miko, transmit the order to the rest of the fleet.”

He tapped his lips with splayed fingers as his commands were carried out.

He had agreed to grant Barrick safe passage from the ship. And while he rather liked the idea of getting the telepath off his hands, the fact that the man had brought along Bridgette not only against her will, but against Jonathan’s as well, was not something the captain could let stand.

Via his aReal, Jonathan tapped in Lieutenant Commander Basette, the man in charge of the MOTHs aboard the ship.

“Basette, I want you to prepare a retrieval team,” Jonathan told the Lieutenant Commander. “Combat robots only. I need troops unaffected by psychic influence.”

“Roger that,” Basette returned. “I’ll have the team ready to deploy in three minutes. Chief Galaal will oversee operations from the ship.”

“Excellent.” Jonathan wasn’t sure how much overseeing the chief would be able to do, given the lag induced by the distance the robot team would be operating at, but he decided to take Basette’s word on it.

Jonathan tapped in Lieutenant Commander Albright next: the space wing commander who handled the fighters.

“Albright. Prepare to launch Orange Squadron. Drones only.”

“Did you say: drones only?” Albright asked.

“That’s right,” Jonathan said. “The squadron will be pursuing an extremely powerful telepath. We don’t know the full extents of his abilities, nor the range those abilities can manifest. He seems to be weakened, but I don’t want to risk compromising any units.”

“Got it,” Albright returned. “I’ll see what I can do. Lieutenant Commander out.”

“Captain,” the tactical officer, Miko, said. “How can we be sure robots will be free from influence? Studies have been done... complex AIs such as those found in Avenger drones and combat robots use neural networks that are close enough approximates to the human mind that some telepaths have been able to influence their bit patterns. Minor things, mind you. But the influence is there. A telepath with Barrick’s abilities...”

Jonathan nodded slowly. “You’re absolutely right, we can’t be sure for certain. But we have to try, taking whatever precautions we can.”

Jonathan contacted the chief scientist next. Six months ago she had analyzed the data logs recorded during the Barrick incident and had discovered that certain specific EM bands were transmitted by his brain. She proposed modifying the shielding of the spacesuits to filter out those bands, and sent the alterations to her counterparts aboard the Aurelia, who had tested the suit with the telepath aboard their destroyer. The results had proved inconclusive. Sometimes the shielding worked, sometimes it didn’t. The Aurelia transmitted the data back to Connie, and she promised to continue tweaking it. He had last heard an update on the spacesuit roughly five months ago, and he had forgotten about it until that moment. Likely she had pushed the project back to deal with his more immediate demands.

“Connie here,” her voice came over the comm.

“Do you remember that psi shielding project you started six months ago?” Jonathan said. “I need you to push it to the forefront of your schedule. We have immediate need for suits that will protect us from psychic influence.”

“I’ll get on it,” she returned.

“And Connie,” Jonathan added. “Don’t just focus on spacesuits. I want a few of the bulkier MOTH jumpsuits modified as well, please.”

“Got it,” she transmitted before disconnecting.

Jonathan watched the rogue shuttle vanish into the planet’s horizon.

Stay strong, Bridgette.

Moments later, several craft flew free of the Callaway: the Dragonfly containing the combat robots, and their drone fighter escort.

Commander Cray returned to the bridge and took his place beside Jonathan. He looked shaken.

“Would you like a respite, Commander?” the captain asked him.

“I’ll hold up, sir,” Robert answered. His voice sounded tight.

Jonathan sighed mentally.

Stranded in a galaxy millions of light years away from civilization. More enemy ships due to arrive in a few days. And now the most powerful human telepath in history was on the loose, and he’d kidnapped a very good—and very pregnant—friend who just so happened to be the wife of his executive officer.

Things couldn’t get any worse.

“Captain,” Ensign Lewis announced. “Several new heat signatures have appeared on the planet’s horizon, in the same general area where Barrick took the shuttle. They’re alien.”

twelve

Jonathan exhaled sharply. “Alien?”

“Yes sir,” Ensign Lewis said. “The heat signatures are a match with the enemy fighters we encountered before.”

“A match?” Jonathan glanced at Robert. “I guess I’d hoped the aliens had herded us to some random system. But it looks like they already have some sort of frontier presence in this galaxy.”

The commander didn’t answer. He appeared to be completely zoned out.

“Robert, I need you to focus.”

The commander snapped to attention. “Sorry, Captain.”

“Maxwell,” Jonathan said. “Sound General Quarters.”

Jonathan tapped his lips as the AI played the call to general quarters over the main circuit.

“Miko, recall the Dragonfly and her escorts.”

“Recalling...” Miko answered.

“We’re not going to fight?” Ensign Lewis said.

Miko glanced at her. “If there are fighters nearby...”

Jonathan nodded. “Then there is at least one mothership out there. Probably more. Likely hiding behind the planet. What’s our range to the enemy fighters?”

“Twenty-five thousand kilometers.” 

That was some good news. The plasma weapon found on the larger enemy warships was extremely short range, and functioned best between five to ten thousand kilometers, though the beams from individual alien ships could be combined to increase that effective range. Though if they had one of those specialized laser ships hidden somewhere behind that planet, vessels whose ranges were upward of one hundred thousand kilometers, then the fleet would be in trouble.

“Sir,” Ensign Lewis said. “I’m receiving damage reports from launch bay three!”

Jonathan shot her an urgent look. “What? Launch bay three? What’s happening?”

“The four captured fighters have come alive,” Lewis said. “They’ve shot down the robot guards, and are straining against the straps holding them down.”

“Send in more combat robots! I want the MOTHs—”

“Sir,” the ensign interrupted. “It’s too late. All four have escaped. There is extensive damage to launch bay three and the adjacent passages and compartments. Breach seals have activated, and are holding.”

Jonathan saw four red dots appear on his tactical display, moving hastily away from the Callaway.

“Damn it. Miko, fire point defenses. Take them out. That’s four more fighters we’re giving the enemy.”

“Firing,” Miko said.

Jonathan tapped in the chief weapons engineer. “Harv, four of our captured fighters just woke up and flew away. Are you detecting anything unusual in yours?”

“I am indeed,” Harv answered. “One of the components seems to have powered to life. I’m finally detecting energy readings. Of course, since we’ve dismantled the whole thing, the fighter won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”

“The Aurelia and Dagger are reporting similar activity in their dismantled enemy fighters,” Ensign Lewis said.

“We only shot down two of them,” Miko announced. “The others are getting away.”

On the tactical display, Jonathan saw that of the four escapees, only two indeed remained, and they were moving rapidly toward the planet to join their alien brethren. The pair gave the returning Avenger drones a wide berth.

“I don’t suppose our returning drones could intercept?” Jonathan asked.

“Negative,” Miko said. “The closest they’ll pass by is five thousand kilometers. Not enough for the Avenger Cobras to cause any real damage. They could try X90 Hellfires, but the enemy is likely to shoot down the missiles at that range.”

Jonathan studied the display. “What if we fired Vipers fleet-wide at the same time, concentrating on a single enemy fighter, could we take it out from here?”

Miko shook his head. “We don’t have enough charge on the Vipers yet. By the time we do, the escapees will be out of range. Unless they decide to sit still for a full ten seconds and let us drill into them.”

“Too bad.” Jonathan clasped his hands and steepled the index fingers. “We have the same range issues with the farther enemy fighters?”

“We do,” Miko said.

Jonathan pressed his fingers together more tightly. “All right, increase speed to seventy percent thrust. Have the task group match. I don’t want to leave anybody behind. Let’s continue swinging past the planet. Put as much distance as we can between ourselves and the enemy.”

His aReal projected the three dimensional representation of the surrounding battle space over his vision. He watched the blue dots representing the fleet and the smaller drone Avengers move away from the red dots of the enemy fighters.

“Can we outrun them at our current speed?” Jonathan asked.

“No,” Miko said. “They’ll slowly overtake us. We have about two hours until we’re within range of their slugs and lasers.”

Jonathan focused on the Dragonfly and its fighter escort; the small craft seemed to grow no closer to the Callaway.

“The Avengers?” he asked Miko.

“They’re barely able to match our current speed.”

“Slow to half thrust,” Jonathan said. “And instruct the Dragonfly to prepare for docking.”

“And the unmanned Avengers?” Miko asked.

“Drones are to remain in escort positions.”

Jonathan considered retrieving the Avengers, too, but he recognized that he would eventually have to dispatch more, these with manned humans, to help protect them from the enemy fighters anyway. The only craft worth retrieving at the moment was the Dragonfly containing the combat robots.

“Ensign,” Jonathan said. “Are we detecting the commandeered shuttle’s heat signature among the enemy?”

“No sign of the rogue shuttle’s heat signature,” Lewis said.

At least Jonathan wouldn’t have to worry about any psychic control attempts on any manned fighters he launched, then.

When the Dragonfly was within range, Jonathan had the helm initiate an emergency braking maneuver to allow the craft to dock, because while fighters and shuttles could be launched under way, it was extremely dangerous for the craft to land at speed.

When the shuttle was successfully aboard, Jonathan had the helm accelerate to seventy percent once more. The deployed Avengers had closed the gap by then, so they flew directly alongside the Callaway. Because of the retrieval, his ship currently trailed the task group.

“Time to contact?” Jonathan asked the ensign.

“It’s the same,” Ensign Lewis said. “Still two hours.”

“Still two hours? Why?”

“This is odd,” Lewis said. “But the fighters slowed down at the same time we did. It looks like they don’t want to close and engage. It’s almost as if they simply desire to herd us away from the planet.”

“Or Barrick,” Jonathan said. He studied the tactical display on his aReal for long moments. Then he announced: “Full stop.” He tapped his lips with splayed fingers, not looking from the red dots on the display.

“Enemy fighters are slowing,” Lewis said. A moment later: “Enemy fighters have stopped.”

Jonathan nodded. “Let’s call their bluff. Reverse course. Seventy percent thrust. Callaway, Salvador, Dagger, and Maelstrom only. Leave the Aurelia here guarding the Grimm and Marley.”

Helm and tactical echoed his orders.

Jonathan watched on his aReal as the four ships proceeded toward the unmoving fighters.

“Enemy fighters are retreating,” Ensign Lewis said in wonder. She glanced up. “They definitely don’t want to engage.”

“Continue the pursuit,” the captain said. “Maintain current distance from enemy fighters. Ensign, launch a telemetry drone off our starboard bow.” Like Avengers, drones could be launched while under way, but could only be retrieved at low velocities. “Send it toward the planet on a high orbit. And when I say high, I mean it: give that rock a wide berth, no closer than thirty thousand kilometers. I want a safe bead on whatever might be hiding behind it.”

He watched the drone depart. The task unit chased the enemy fighters closer to the planet, and when Jonathan deemed that the drone was far enough away to avoid any enemy pursuit, he updated his orders.

“All right, full stop. Recall the unmanned Avengers.”

A few moments later Miko said: “Avengers have returned to cove.”

“Rendezvous the fleet with the Aurelia. Let’s regroup.”

When they were under way, Ensign Lewis said. “Enemy fighters are turning around.”

“Pesky little things, aren’t they?” Jonathan said.

When they reached the Aurelia and the other two ships, Jonathan called for a halt once more. The enemy fighters stopped, too, maintaining their twenty thousand kilometer distance.

“Ensign,” Jonathan said. “How are we doing on the telemetry drone?”

“It should have the far side of the planet in view in twenty minutes,” Lewis replied.

The captain sat back and folded his hands to wait. He glanced at Robert, who hadn’t said a word since Jonathan had told him earlier to stay focused. The expression on the commander’s face was grim.

Jonathan knew there wasn’t anything he could really tell his friend to allay his fears. By that point, Barrick’s Dragonfly was either captured by the enemy, or destroyed. Probably the former option, if previous alien behavior was anything to go by. Barrick probably wanted that very thing, which only confirmed Jonathan’s suspicions that the telepath was colluding with the enemy. Instructing the man to attempt telepathic communication with the alien captive had obviously been a very bad idea.

Twenty minutes passed.

“Well, Ensign?” Jonathan said impatiently.

“We’re still not seeing anything on the far side as of yet,” Lewis replied.

“There has to be some sort of mothership out there,” Jonathan said. “Ensign Lewis, is it possible there’s a ship somewhere on the surface?”

The ensign frowned. “It’s entirely possible. But because of the thick cloud coverage, we’d have to send the telemetry drone much closer if we wanted to confirm that.”

“How much closer are we talking?”

“Under the clouds closer,” Lewis answered. She stiffened. “Wait a second. Wait. I’m finally reading a new heat signature. It’s just cresting the far horizon.”

“Let’s have a visual,” Jonathan said.

She sent the view from the drone to his aReal. He saw a sliver of thermal radiation on the far tip of the planet.

“Do we have a match with that signature anywhere in our database?” Jonathan asked.

“Negative,” the ensign said. “At least not yet. It’ll be another minute before the drone moves enough to resolve the object entirely.”

When the prerequisite amount of time had passed, Lewis said: “I have a match. The signature appears to belong to one of the smaller alien ships. Their corvette class. I have a visual-spectrum image.”

“Put it up.”

The telemetry drone image appeared on his aReal. On it was a ship design Jonathan was all too familiar with. Small fins protruded from the four quadrants of the aft section, but otherwise the mirrorlike hull was devoid of superstructures. Because of its dagger shape, the vessel bore a vague resemblance to a United Systems corvette, which was why Lewis had called it that. Yet at two kilometers in length and seven hundred and fifty meters at the beam, it was the size of a United Systems capital ship. The actual alien capital ships were about four times as large.

“There are no other ships out there?” Jonathan asked.

“None that I can see, yet,” Lewis said. “The telemetry drone is continuing its orbit, of course. Perhaps we’ll see something more.” She paused. “This is odd.”

“What is it?”

“I’m seeing markings on the hull that are consistent with the damage we caused to T3,” the ensign answered.

“T3?” Jonathan said. “You mean the alien prison ship that had captured the crew of the Selene?” T3 was the designation they had given the aforementioned ship in the previous battle, and stood for “target three.”

“The very same,” Lewis told him. “There are small runnels in the hull in the place of the gashes we caused. Similar to the repair marks you’d find on one of our own ships.”

“So what are you saying?” Jonathan said. “This ship is the same one we chased out of Vega 951 six months ago?”

“It would appear that’s the case,” the ensign answered.

“But how is that possible?” Jonathan said. “That ship fled through the 2-Vega Slipstream, which, according to our preliminary readings, was supposed to end in a brown dwarf system forty-eight lightyears from Vega 951. How could it end up here, at the same endpoint as 1-Vega?”

“Maybe they edited 2-Vega as well?” Robert said, finally speaking up.

“But why?” Jonathan said. “To act as some advance party to prepare the way for the others of their kind?”

Robert frowned. “Maybe they just wanted to ensure that someone kept watch on us until help arrived.”

“What if they weren’t the ones who edited the Slipstreams?” Miko said suddenly.

“What are you talking about, Lieutenant?” Jonathan asked the tactical officer.

“What if someone else did it?” Miko said.

“Someone else?” Jonathan pressed. “Like who?”

“I don’t know,” Miko told him. “But it could be that these aliens don’t want to be here, either. And when the enemy reinforcements arrive, it might be a surprise for them, too.”

“That’s an interesting theory,” Jonathan said. “But for now I’m going to have to assume that it was the aliens themselves that brought us here, not some other, unknown entity watching in the background. And I’m also going to have to assume that there are more alien reinforcements lying somewhere in wait in this system. Perhaps underneath the cloud cover of this very planet.”

“Captain,” Ensign Lewis said. “Something to consider. This class of ships doesn’t have the launch tubes necessary to release enemy fighters. We’ve only seen that ability in the capital ships.”

“They don’t,” Miko agreed. “But maybe they can launch them another way.”

“Or these fighters were launched by a capital ship we’re not currently seeing,” Lewis said.

Jonathan stared at the dots representing the enemy fighters on his tactical display. Those malevolent red indicators hadn’t moved from their positions since the fleet stopped.

“Wait a second,” Robert said. “If this is the same prison ship from Vega 951, isn’t it possible it assumed control of some of the fighters when it fled? And it drew them through 2-Vega with it?”

“Anything’s possible at this point,” Jonathan agreed. He rubbed his chin. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

thirteen

Bridgette sat in the passenger seat of the shuttle and through the main window she watched the dagger-shaped alien ship grow bigger above the greenhouse planet.

Her captor, Barrick, had elected to get under way without changing into a spacesuit first, requiring the Dragonfly to maintain an atmosphere. The air felt dry, stale, and it irritated her throat. And while shuttles were equipped with inertial compensators, there was no artificial gravity. That stomach-churning feeling of zero-G made her feel like she was constantly about to sick up. Her morning sickness didn’t help matters. Nor did the circumstances that had brought her to the current situation.

Barrick piloted the shuttle in the seat beside her.

She had attempted to talk to him once they were under way. She’d asked questions such as “why are you doing this” and “what do you want,” but he had refused to say a word to her, let alone project any thoughts into her mind.

The fact that her wrists were secured to the armrests spoke volumes to her about the telepath’s current psychic abilities. Six months ago she would have been entirely at his mercy, like the bridge crew had been, a puppet for his mind to manipulate. But not that day. When she looked at him and saw how gaunt and sickly he looked, she wasn’t surprised.

Finally he deigned to glance at her. “I am not so completely powerless as you think.”

The traitor speaks, she thought.

“I’m not a traitor,” he said. “In fact, I’m trying to save the fleet. And humanity.”

“You have an odd way of going about it,” Bridgette said, swallowing down her latest bout of nausea.

“What was I to do?” Barrick said. “Your captain refuses to allow me the luxury of consciousness.”

“What would you do in his place?” she asked. “You tried to take over the Callaway. I would say the captain had every right to keep you sedated. In fact, you’re lucky to be alive.”

Barrick didn’t answer.

“I don’t believe for one minute that you’re trying to save any of us,” she said. “If that were true, you could have at least tried to reason with the captain.”

“No,” Barrick said. “He wouldn’t have listened.”

“You don’t know that,” Bridgette insisted.

“Oh, but I do,” Barrick said mysteriously. “I have lived a thousand lives. Twenty times my path led this way. I tried to negotiate with your captain for fifteen of those paths, but he never listened.”

Bridgette frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“When I interfaced with the alien, it granted me a gift. Or a curse, depending on how you look at it. I lived my life again and again. A thousand second chances. And through it all, I retained my memories of the previous lives. This allowed me to hone my telepathic abilities far beyond the average human lifespan of three hundred years.”

“How do you know it wasn’t all an illusion?” Bridgette said.

“It wasn’t an illusion,” Barrick said. “Because so far, everything I have foreseen has come true. I’ll prove it to you. On board that ship there will be a man. Except he isn’t a man, not really.”

“You’re talking about one of the prisoners from the Selene? Someone accidentally left behind?”

“Yes,” Barrick said. “Except he wasn’t left behind accidentally. He wanted to remain behind. To study the aliens. He is the greatest enemy humanity has ever known. Greater even than the threat posed by the aliens.”

“How can that be?” Bridgette said.

“I told you, I have seen the future,” Barrick replied.

Beyond the main window, the dagger ship consumed the view.

“Then what’s going to happen to us in there?” Bridgette asked.

“You’ll see,” Barrick told her.

She stared at the nose of the enemy vessel and made out a small turret. No doubt that was the particle beam she had heard so much about, a weapon capable of disintegrating their ship in a single shot at the current range. It could fire at any time. She wondered if she would even be aware if it struck. Somehow she doubted it. One moment she would be breathing the stale air of the shuttle, and then next she would simply cease to exist.

Barrick steered the Dragonfly toward the middle of the alien ship. The view beyond the main window tilted slightly, and Bridgette’s nausea flared. She closed her eyes and swallowed several times. The feeling passed.

Grappling hooks abruptly shot out from the alien vessel and toward the shuttle. The cockpit shook when they struck.

Barrick cut all power.

The cords retracted toward the alien ship, drawing the shuttle in. When the Dragonfly neared the hull a small metal hatch irised open. The headlamps of the shuttle cut through the murk that awaited inside.

In moments the Dragonfly was swallowed by the ship. The shuttle was in a bay of some kind. The areas away from the headlamps weren’t completely dark: small filaments glowed blue in unique, almost floral patterns on the metal bulkheads, providing dim background light.

She felt the artificial gravity from the enemy ship glue her to the seat. It seemed a little stronger than Earth’s. Her aReal contact lenses reported it at one point one Gs.

Yellow fumes abruptly flooded the view outside as the external compartment filled with an alien atmosphere.

“Time to suit up,” Barrick said.

“But the suits have limited oxygen,” Bridgette complained.

“You will be brought to an environment compatible with human needs,” Barrick said.

He grabbed the standard issue plasma blaster he’d taken from the robot MAs and pointed it at her. With his free hand he removed her binds: it was a simple matter of touching a finger to the memory metal, and the biometric scanner recognized his fingerprints and the bands unfolded.

“Get suited up,” he instructed.

She touched her protruding belly before she realized what she was doing, then she arose and walked to the equipment closet. She self-consciously stripped down to her skivvies and pulled on the liquid cooling and ventilation undergarment. When she yanked it over her swollen belly, she cooed quietly to the baby: “Everything’s going to be all right, Eugene.” She said it more to remind Barrick of her current condition than anything else.

She reached for one of the suits.

“Not that one,” Barrick said from behind her. “Take the smaller. I need the large suit to fit my exoskeleton.”

“But what about my baby?” Bridgette said.

“You’ll fit.”

She took the smaller suit and slid on the leg assembly, followed by the torso—Barrick was right, she was able to fit, though it was tight. She shrugged on the arm assemblies, attached the utility belt, pulled on the boots and gloves, then fastened the helmet into place, completing the seal.

She quickly accessed the aReal built into the faceplate and activated the life support systems. When she was satisfied that everything was working, she turned toward Barrick.

“Hands behind your back,” the telepath’s voice came over her helmet speakers. “And turn around.”

She obeyed.

She felt steel restraints tighten around the outer fabric of her wrists, and she could no longer move her arms.

“Stand by the hatch.”

She moved to where he indicated and watched as he set down the blaster nearby to suit up. First he had to remove the exoskeleton to slip on the tight cooling undergarment. It took him several moments of slow, obviously agonizing effort to pull on the leg portion of the undergarment, which he did while lying on the floor. By the time he had secured the upper portion and reapplied the exoskeleton, a full ten minutes had passed. It took another five minutes for him to squeeze into the suit itself. When that was done, he put on a chest harness, stuffing enough spare oxygen canisters into it to last a few days.

“I thought you said they would provide a suitable environment for us?” Bridgette said, glancing at the extra oxygen.

“They’ll provide one, yes,” Barrick’s voice came over the comm. “However, I’ll be away from that environment for extended periods of time. And we won’t be sharing the same environment, I might add.”

She stepped toward the closet. “Should I get some extra oxy—”

“No. Move to the airlock.” He approached her and she started toward the exit.

“What about the blaster?” Bridgette asked him. Though his bulky gloves would no longer fit the trigger mechanism, she knew there were various suit attachments stowed somewhere on the Dragonfly that would fit the weapon.

“The blaster stays,” Barrick replied. “I bring that, they’ll mow me down.”

“Which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing,” she muttered.

He looped a gloved hand through her arm assembly and forced her into the airlock. Barrick sealed it behind him. When the air had evacuated, he opened the external airlock. Yellow fumes flooded the compartment. She checked the composition on the faceplate aReal. Eighty-five percent nitrogen. Twelve percent hydrogen sulfide. Three percent methane and other trace elements. One hundred percent unbreathable.

Barrick lowered the down ramp and led her onto it.

Bridgette activated her helmet lamp via her aReal, as did Barrick, adding to the dim background light produced by the small filaments embedded in the deck and bulkheads. That light was now a yellowish blue, thanks to the thick alien atmosphere. The external HLEDs of the shuttle further brightened the surrounding compartment. They were obviously in a landing bay of some kind, except it was completely empty save for the Dragonfly.

Barrick led her toward the far bulkhead. Two man-sized, swirling masses of darkness resided there, in front of what looked like a hatch. She had seen such living mist before, when one of the aliens had crashed its fighter into the Callaway and roamed the passages near the brig where she had been visiting Jonathan. Tiny flashes of light occasionally erupted from the depths, revealing glimpses of something solid inside. Claws. Mandibles.

The twin masses of darkness suddenly moved aside to let them pass.

Barrick glanced askance at her. “Another benefit of being able to retain the memory of each past life: I was able to slowly refine my ability to communicate with the aliens.”

It took her a moment before she realized his voice hadn’t come over the helmet speakers, but had been spoken directly in her head. She couldn’t help the eerie tingle that passed down her spine.

The hatch opened upward and he led her through into the yellow-hued cylindrical passage beyond. More of those glowing filaments lined the steel bulkheads, placed between strange symbols.

She glanced over her shoulder. The black mists had taken up escort positions and followed a meter behind.

Another pair of the dark masses appeared in the passage ahead and led the way.

The human-alien party moved between various passages and compartments. She left the mapping program of her aReal active so that she had a map of the area recorded in its memory. Good thing, too, because the journey involved a convoluted series of turns and descents.

In time, the group arrived at what appeared a dead end.

“You must stay here alone,” Barrick transmitted to her mind. He released the memory metal that bound her.

“What’s going to happen to me?” she said, rubbing the outer fabric of the suit wrist areas as if the act could somehow restore circulation to her numb hands.

“I have bargained for your life,” Barrick transmitted to her mind. “For now. In exchange for offering my translation services.”

“Can you control the minds of the aliens?” she asked.

He shook his head inside his spacesuit. “I’ve tried. It never works. But they can’t control me, either.”

“They did before,” she said.

“By misdirection, yes. But I’ve learned how to prevent that.”

She frowned. “You say they want your translation services? To communicate with the fleet? What do they want?”

He smiled grimly. “I believe they want our help.”

With that he left her. One of the black mists remained in place, ostensibly as a guard. But then her helmet transmitted the subtle groan of metal to her ears via the speaker system, alerting her to a moving bulkhead. The steel wall slid between her and the dark mist, shutting her off from the rest of the ship. The bulkhead sealed with a ringing clang that had a certain uncanny finality to it.

She heard a hissing sound and the yellow fumes began to vent from the compartment. Within moments the air was clear. And then the subtle creak of moving metal reached her ears once again, except that time it came from the opposite side of the chamber. She watched the far bulkhead gradually slide aside.

That she could hear the movement of the metal at all told her the atmosphere hadn’t vented entirely. She checked the external environment on the faceplate aReal. The air was breathable, apparently.

She reached up and placed her hands on the helmet. She hesitated only a moment before removing it.

She was struck by a sudden stench that reminded her of farm animals. She had heard stories about the dirty compartment where the aliens had kept the humans: apparently the enemy hadn’t bothered to clean the sty since the battle. Perhaps they had been expecting to capture more cattle.

With a resigned sigh she stepped inside.

She found herself in a broad, though low compartment: the overdeck was only a few inches above her head. The windowless bulkheads continued to glow with those blue filaments, providing light. She advanced into the lifeless living space, taking a wide detour past an area that had obviously served as a common latrine.

When she reached the far side of the compartment, she sat against the bulkhead and slumped. She removed her gloves and placed them on the deck beside her helmet.

She rested a hand on the belly region of her torso assembly. The depression was going to come soon, she knew. How could it not, given her current circumstances? She only hoped she could get through it on her own.

But she wasn’t alone, not really.

“It’s just you and me now, Eugene,” she said, fighting back the tears.

fourteen

Barrick was escorted deeper into the alien vessel by the darkness-enveloped figures. They eventually brought him to an airlock and shoved him inside.

The darkness nearest him transmitted a lattice of three dimensional points of light into his mind. The dots moved, becoming first a vaguely humanoid shape, then shrinking into a thin vertical line before expanding into a sweeping series of outward moving vectors. It was almost like watching the visual representation of a sound wave, except in three dimensions. Those mental projections were how the aliens communicated, of course. Barrick interpreted the changing point cloud to mean: You will wait here.

The outer hatch closed behind him. The yellow fumes vacated and the inner hatch opened. He stepped into a compartment whose bulkheads were lit by the same glowing blue filaments that dominated the rest of the ship.

The place resembled a human sick bay: empty operating tables lined either side. Robotic tentacles dangled down above each station, ready to dissect whatever living samples were provided. Smaller robots on spiderlike limbs resided next to some of the tables. The telescoping appendages connected to their torsos reminded him of the surgical weaver robots humanity employed. 

Two giant, folded robotic arms lurked above. Connected to a rail system built into the overdeck, the arms were composed of black metal. As he advanced into the compartment, those arms shadowed his movements so that they remained directly above, ready to strap him to an operating table should he attempt something their programming did not allow.

According to the aReal built into his faceplate, the air was breathable, so he removed the helmet, electing to conserve his precious oxygen while he could.

Though he could not yet see him, the enemy of humanity was present, Barrick knew. Waiting, watching him even then.

“I was wondering when they would bring another,” a voice rang out from across the compartment.

Barrick paused. He had been dreading that moment. He wasn’t powerful enough to face the enemy, not yet. While he had learned to shield himself from the aliens, he was uncertain he could protect his mind from the current threat. And unfortunately he wouldn’t be able to destroy the creature, not with what was currently available to him.

“Hello.” A man stepped from the shadows. “I am Zhidao Zhe.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You are a telepath. How convenient.”

Barrick felt the wave of psychic attacks then, and dropped to his knees.

JONATHAN STARED AT the tactical display. The enemy fighters hadn’t moved from their position in high orbit, and kept the same relative distance from the task group. The main alien ship hadn’t budged from its geosynchronous orbit, either. A stalemate, then. The aliens were waiting to see what the captain’s next move would be.

At least the telemetry drone had determined there were indeed no other ships in orbit. That didn’t rule-out hidden ships planet-side, however.

He tapped in the chief weapons engineer.

“Tell me you have some good news, Lieutenant,” Jonathan said to the video image of the weapons engineer when he appeared.

“No good news here,” Harv said. “We’re still working on reverse engineering the alien fighter. I think we’re close to figuring out how it’s powered, but I’ve thought that several times before, only to be disappointed. You’d be well within your rights to pass the thing over to the scientists, along with all the data we’ve gleaned so far. In fact, my overworked team would probably be relieved.”

“No. I said I’d give you one last week to work on it. And you still have three days. Get to it. Oh, and you’ve noticed our current situation, presumably?”

“How could I miss it?” Harv said. “I know I know, you’re counting on us now more than anything.” The chief sighed. “Three days. We won’t let you down. Probably.”

In truth, even after the three days came and went, Jonathan planned to leave the alien fighter in the possession of the weapons engineers. They were the best people for the job. The deadline was merely part of the captain’s pep talk, a way to put fire to his heels.

Those three days happened to coincide with the date the alien reinforcements in Vega 951 were scheduled to reach the Vega-1 Slipstream and pass through into the current system. Since the Vega-2 endpoint had changed as well, as evidenced by the T3 prison ship, that meant the aliens didn’t know—otherwise they would have turned around and taken Vega-2 to arrive sooner. Unless they had other reasons for traveling via Vega-1.

When the chief weapons engineer disconnected, Jonathan stood. “Robert, come to my office, please.”

The commander followed him into the office and when they were both seated, facing each other opposite the captain’s desk, Jonathan spoke.

“We need to come up with a plan to save your wife,” Jonathan told the commander. “I want you to schedule a meeting with the MOTH Lieutenant Commander and Chief Galaal. Involve Miko. Come up with some rescue scenarios. We’re going to have to punch through those fighters to the ship. And hope it doesn’t flee on us before we get there.” The enemy ships could easily outrun the human ships.

“Should these scenarios be manned, or unmanned?” Robert asked.

Jonathan rested three splayed fingers around his mouth. “Come up with plans for both scenarios. Though I’d be more inclined to back a mission that was unmanned. We don’t know if the telepath is a prisoner, or helping the aliens. Though I suspect the latter, given his previous behavior. We have no idea what that mind link did to him.”

Robert stood. “All right. I’ll get on it.”

Before he left, Jonathan added: “And Robert. We’ll save her. You know we will.”

Robert pressed his lips together and blinked rapidly. “I know. Thank you for not leaving her behind, Captain.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” Jonathan said.

“I just, I’m terrified about what the aliens are doing to her right now. You heard the stories Wolf and Lin shared. The dissection room. The—”

“Don’t go there,” Jonathan said. “They won’t dare touch her. She’s too valuable. She’s the only thing preventing us from blowing them out of the stars right now.”

Robert nodded. His lips quivered, and he seemed like he was about to cry.

Jonathan had seen several grown men openly weep in the course of his career, sometimes at his instigation. It came with the territory. He had never once teared up in return. Except right then.

Maybe it was because Robert had never cried before. Maybe it was because of the shared bond Jonathan felt with Bridgette. Whatever the case, he couldn’t help the rising tears.

Hold it together, Captain. Be the rock that weathers the storm.

With effort, Jonathan managed to restrain himself. He was very careful not to blink. That would only cause the tears to spill over. The liquid finally drained through the ducts to his nasal cavity after several moments.

Robert, meanwhile, had let go. Jonathan wasn’t going to tell him to hold it back. It was better that the commander cried there in the office than in front of the bridge crew.

Robert wiped the tears away and finally got it together. “I’m good now. I’m good.” He straightened, and smoothed his utilities. “Sorry sir.”

Robert turned around and left.

Jonathan wiped his nose and stared at the entry hatch when Robert was gone. The stress was getting to them all. There would be more tears shed in the coming days, of that Jonathan was sure.

Unbidden, one of the previous battles replayed in his mind.

Detecting another thermal build-up from the nose of the closer vessel!

Evacuate all crew from—

Sir, the Dominion!

The destroyer floated across his vision, split cleanly in half down the middle.

Entering upper thermosphere. Hull temperature stabilizing at one thousand Kelvin.

Hold her steady...

Hull temperature has dropped to four hundred Kelvin. Approaching Kármán line.

Miko, do you have a firing solution? Tactical! Do you have a firing solution!

I think so.

Fire.

“Captain,” Maxwell intoned, snapping him out of the trance. “Are you all right?”

“What? I’m fine, Maxwell.”

“Your elevated heart rate, breathing, and perspiration levels would seem to indicate otherwise,” the AI told him.

He glanced at the standard time on his aReal. More than an hour had passed since Robert had left. Missing time.

“How long have I been unresponsive?” Jonathan asked.

“Not long,” Maxwell said. “That was only my third attempt to address you. I had assumed you were deep in thought.”

“But you knew I was sweating.” Jonathan shifted his arms, and he felt the cold perspiration slide down his ribs.

“I only detected the previously mentioned physiological changes ten minutes ago,” the AI explained.

“I see.”

A call from Lazur flashed on his aReal. Jonathan accepted.

“Captain,” the comm officer said. “The alien ship is hailing us via the telemetry drone.”

Jonathan stood up urgently. “That’s a first.” He headed toward the bridge hatch. “Are we able to make any sense of the transmission?”

“It’s standard English.” The comm officer paused. “Sir, it’s Barrick.”

fifteen

Jonathan set himself down at the Round Table.

“Tap Barrick in,” the captain said. “Let’s see what the traitor has to say. I’m authorizing the entire bridge crew to watch this.”

“The telemetry drone has flagged the communication as audio only,” Lazur told him.

“That’s fine.”

The comm officer nodded. A moment later Barrick’s voice came over the line.

“Hello Captain,” the telepath said.

“I want to talk to Bridgette,” Jonathan said.

“Always to the point,” Barrick sent. The lag was only about a second, given the distances involved, and the low bandwidth requirements of audio-only communication. “But she is currently indisposed.”

“I want her returned immediately.” He had to try, for Robert’s sake.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Barrick returned. “That won’t be possible.”

“You lied to me,” Jonathan said. “You said you would set her free.”

“And I will,” the telepath replied. “When the time is right.”

Jonathan sighed. “What do you want, then?”

“It’s not what I want,” Barrick transmitted. “But the Raakarr. You see, I am acting as their intermediary. A translator, if you will.”

“The Raakarr?”

“That’s what I’m calling them. It’s the word-form of the hissing sound they make when they respire. Onomatopoeia. Their actual name has no translation in any human tongue. In fact, it doesn’t even have a pronunciation. It’s a three dimensional point cloud transmitted into my mind, a series of dots vaguely reminiscent of their body shape. It’s how humanity will perhaps communicate ten thousand years from now.”

“All right, assuming you speak for them,” Jonathan said. “What do these Raakarr as you call them want?”

“They propose a temporary truce.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “A truce?”

“Yes. Our two races have found ourselves stranded in a galaxy far away from our own. We must work together to find a way back. Or at the very least, leave each other alone.”

Jonathan muted the connection and glanced at Robert. “That only confirms the aliens weren’t the ones who edited the two Slipstreams.”

“That begs the question,” Robert said. “If not them, then who did?”

Jonathan stared at the system map on his aReal and wondered what other malevolent intelligence lurked out there.

“A truce,” the captain mused. “They want a fragile truce. Whatever armistice we negotiate will likely end when their reinforcements arrive three days from now.”

“Assuming they actually arrive,” Miko commented.

“I’m sure they will. And if the Raakarr weren’t the ones who edited those Slipstreams, that means our alien friends here don’t even know that more of their ships are scheduled to enter the system in three days.”

“Do we tell them?”

“No,” Jonathan said. “I’d like to keep that knowledge from them, for now. Assuming the telepath hasn’t already revealed it.”

“I doubt the bastard even knows,” Robert said dismissively.

“Don’t underestimate him,” Jonathan warned.

“You’re right.” Robert lowered his gaze, his expression forlorn.

“Are you there, Captain Dallas?” Barrick asked over the comm.

Jonathan unmuted the connection. “You say the Raakarr are trapped? We know they have technology that allows their ships to pass through Slipstreams without the need of a Gate. Why haven’t they simply returned?”

“They have tried,” Barrick returned. “But the Slipstream endpoint on this side loops back to here, so that it’s like traveling through an ordinary point in space-time.”

Jonathan suddenly wondered if it had been a mistake to allow the bridge crew to listen, because if what Barrick was saying was true, that meant even if the task group built a return Gate, none of them were going home any time soon.

Their last hope, dashed.

“Before I accept any sort of truce,” Jonathan said. “There is something I want to know. Why did the Raakarr first attack in Vega 951? That was entirely unprovoked.”

“Not entirely. As you and your scientists correctly deduced, the Raakarr were using the system as a breeding ground. Vega 951 is on the outskirts of their claimed territory, and your intrusion was considered a trespass. At first they thought your ships belonged to a certain rogue faction among them, so when the Selene sent a team to investigate the ruins of the crashed Elder vessel, the Raakarr promptly attacked. Only after they had taken the crew of the Selene as prisoner did they realize they had encountered a new spacefaring race. Worried that you had come as aggressors in an attempt to seize the system, they attacked the rest of the task unit when you came searching for the Selene, and then radioed home for reinforcements.”

“It was still unprovoked,” Jonathan said.

“What would you do?” Barrick asked. “If you had a colony world full of newborns, and an alien vessel suddenly appeared out of nowhere and dispatched an away team to the structure that held your babies, would you be happy about it?”

“We certainly wouldn’t hide in the shadows, waiting for the best time to ambush them,” Jonathan said. “We’d show ourselves and attempt communication.”

“You might,” Barrick said. “And I’ll grant, that would be an appropriate human response. But you have to remember these are aliens, and they don’t think the same as humans. Not at all.”

“What about the third attack, then?” Jonathan said. “We weren’t anywhere near their breeding ground. We were trespassing across their space, I admit, but still...”

“They wanted the weapon,” Barrick sent. “Despite all the shielding, they could detect it. When the reinforcements arrived, they decided to capture it.”

“The weapon.” Jonathan thought for a moment. “You’re talking about the planet-killer.”

“I am. They have nothing like it in their arsenal. They wanted to study it.”

“Good thing we blew it up,” Jonathan muttered. “So you’re saying they don’t fuel their starships with geronium?”

“I actually have no idea about that,” Barrick replied. “But I doubt they’ll reveal their technological secrets to me any time soon.”

Jonathan felt his eyes narrow. “You haven’t revealed ours, I hope?”

“Captain,” Barrick chided. “Have you no faith in me? My first loyalty is to humanity.”

“Is it?” Jonathan said. “You tried to turn the Callaway against its own fleet in our last encounter with the aliens. I’d say you were trying to help them.”

“I had other reasons for doing that,” Barrick returned. “But you wouldn’t believe me if I told you them.”

“You’re definitely right on that point,” Jonathan said. “You say the aliens want a truce? Tell them I won’t negotiate anything until Bridgette is returned.”

“I told you, that won’t be possible,” Barrick transmitted. “They know how valuable she is. She won’t be harmed. They want her here as reassurance.”

“Reassurance?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes. That you won’t try to blow them out of the stars.”

Jonathan considered pressing for her release, but decided that if he was in their position and outnumbered by seven alien ships, he would probably hold onto his hostage, too.

“You said they wanted to work together to find a way back,” Jonathan said. “What exactly do they propose?”

“The Raakarr have been here for the past six months,” Barrick transmitted. “And they haven’t been idle during that time. They have explored and cataloged every planet. And yet they’ve found only one item of interest. Here, on this world.”

Jonathan leaned forward. “Go on.”

“They have detected an anomaly on this world. A small, hundred meter square area that is emitting gravimetric distortions. They want to investigate. With us.”

“With us,” Jonathan said flatly.

“Yes. They lost their shuttles and other exploratory vessels in the original attack, and since neither their fighters nor their main ship are capable of atmospheric flight, they had no way of dispatching a landing party. However, now that I have provided them with a Dragonfly, they do have that capability. They need me to fly it, of course. But they can only fit a few of their own crew members aboard. Not enough to deem the mission safe. So they propose a joint exploration operation.”

The captain glanced at Robert. “A joint operation...”

“Yes. What better way for our two species to demonstrate our good will in carrying out the truce? And to bond? It could be the beginning of a lifetime of friendship between our two races.”

“I’ll have to take this up with my advisors,” Jonathan said.

“Do so,” Barrick responded. “But don’t take too long. The Raakarr plan to dispatch the Dragonfly in the next two hours, with or without you.”

“Unless we decide to attack,” Jonathan sent. “Then there will be no Dragonfly left to dispatch.”

“Except you won’t,” Barrick returned. “Not with Bridgette aboard. I will contact you again in precisely twenty minutes. Barrick out.”

The connection terminated.

“Ops, can we confirm there’s actually a gravimetric anomaly on that planet?” Jonathan said.

“Negative,” Ensign Lewis answered. “Not from high orbit, at least. Our instruments aren’t sensitive enough. We’d have to send a few exploratory drones under the cloud cover. Even then it’s questionable we would detect anything unless the scouts flew close to the anomaly.”

“Do it anyway,” Jonathan said.

“Launching two atmosphere-capable drones,” Lewis said.

The captain raised the noise canceler to discuss the issue with Robert.

“It smells like an ambush,” Jonathan said. “He says their ships aren’t atmosphere capable. He could be lying. And they have one of our Dragonflies now. That’s enough to hold at least five or six aliens. Why would they need us?”

“Believe me, I don’t trust them either, Captain,” Robert told him. “But what really bothers me is a casual comment Barrick made. He said he was going to be flying the shuttle.”

Jonathan pursed his lips. “If we agree to do this, I’ll need Connie to fast-track her psi shielding project. I don’t need Barrick controlling our men down there.”

“Unless we send robots alone,” Robert said.

“That’s an option,” Jonathan agreed.

“Given this new development,” Robert continued. “What happens to the rescue scenario you wanted me to plan with the MOTHs and Miko?”

“Put it together,” Jonathan said. “It will be our contingency plan. But if we agree to this, we’ll have to put any actual rescue on hold, for now.”

Robert nodded slowly. “Understood.”

“Captain,” Lewis interrupted a few minutes later. “The alien fighters have moved to intercept our exploratory drones. They’ve fired warning shots across the bows.”

“Damn it,” Jonathan said. “Recall the drones. They don’t want us exploring the planet without them, apparently.”

Barrick tapped in via the telemetry drone. “So Captain, do I have your answer?”

“You won’t let us send telemetry drones down,” Jonathan said. “How do we know the Raakarr aren’t hiding more ships down there?”

“You have their word,” Barrick answered.

“I want the coordinates to the anomaly,” Jonathan said.

“The Raakarr will send the location only when a mutual expedition has been agreed upon, and the shuttles from each party have entered the cloud cover.”

“But that could add hours to the descent,” Jonathan said. “Better to approach the spot from a frictionless point in high orbit.”

“The Raakarr will transmit the coordinates of the general area thirty minutes before the scheduled drop,” Barrick replied. “With the final location five minutes prelaunch.”

Jonathan worked his jaw. The man wasn’t going to make it easy.

“Your answer, Captain Dallas?” Barrick pressed.

“We agree to a temporary truce,” Jonathan said finally.

“Excellent,” Barrick replied. “But what about the planet-side mission?”

“We’ll send a team down to the planet with you,” he said grudgingly. “But once everyone is on the surface, my team is in charge of the operation. Do I make myself clear?”

Barrick took some time to answer. Finally: “The Raakarr have agreed. See you on the surface.”

sixteen

It was agreed that both sides would orbit on opposite flanks of the planet, well away from their mutual weapons, and at the designated time Jonathan would launch four shuttles; the craft would land near the coordinates of the anomaly, where they would be met by Barrick’s team.

The enemy fighters withdrew, allowing Jonathan to position the fleet on his agreed upon side of the planet. He kept the telemetry drone in place, and in fact launched another one, watching both the Raakarr and the inner portion of the system that was shielded by the planet. The CDC had detected a similar object keeping tabs on them from the alien side.

Jonathan kept the fleet well-spaced, and deployed in defense pattern delta, with their most vulnerable ships, the Grimm and Marley, residing at the rear of the imaginary pyramid formed by the Callaway, Aurelia, Maelstrom, Dagger, and Salvador.

The ship remained under Condition Zebra, which ensured the hatches and scuttles between compartments formed an airtight seal, thereby preventing the entire ship from explosively decompressing in the case of treachery from their temporary allies.

With the alien fighters no longer there to pester them, the captain had ordered two drones launched through the cloud cover to explore the surface—he didn’t consider the action a violation of their truce, as the aliens had never specifically said he could not scout in advance, after all.

The Callaway had been able to maintain contact with the drones, but so far the mechanical scouts had encountered nothing unusual on the surface. But it was a big planet, and without knowing the general area of the gravimetric anomaly, finding it could take some time. Assuming the thing even existed. At least there was no sign of any Raakarr ships lurking in ambush.

“This is unusual,” Lazur announced.

Jonathan glanced at the comm officer. “What do you have, Lazur?”

“I’m receiving another audio-only transmission redirected through the high orbit telemetry drone. It’s on a completely different frequency band, though.” He paused. “The signal modulation is so low, it’s almost indistinguishable from background radiation. I wouldn’t have detected the signal at all if not for the fact it’s aimed directly at the telemetry drone sensor ports.”

“Tap it in.”

Barrick’s voice came on the line. “Captain Dallas.”

“Barrick,” Jonathan replied in distaste. “I suppose the aliens are angry because we’ve gone ahead and launched preliminary scouting drones?”

“While they aren’t entirely thrilled,” Barrick said. “That’s not why I’m calling. I actually have someone else here who wants to speak with you.”

“Bridgette?” the captain asked hopefully.

“No.”

Jonathan frowned, glancing at Robert.

“This is another Raakarr,” Barrick continued. “A representative of a rogue faction among the aliens.”

“A rogue faction...” Jonathan said.

“Yes, there are two main Raakarr races, which I’m calling the Wapiti, the Shawnee term for elk, and the Zarafe, based on Zarafa, the Arabic word for giraffe. The distinguishing features of the Wapiti are the curving, horny plates that extend outward from the heads of its members, covering the eyes. These plates are absent on the Zarafe, who have slightly longer necks on average.”

“Why not simply call them Elk and Giraffe?” Jonathan said.

“Well I would,” Barrick said. “But that sounds a tad silly, wouldn’t you say?”

“No sillier than Wapiti and Zarafe.”

“Fine,” Barrick said. “I can go with Elk. But I’m keeping Zarafe.”

Jonathan didn’t really care either way. “Okay. So who do you want me to talk to?”

“Well, first of all, let me make it clear that this is an Elk ship, through and through. But a few Zarafe have stowed away on board. They’ve physically modified themselves, using gene therapy to give their heads the requisite horny plates, and to pass the on-board biometric sensors. They’ve been acting as spies.”

Jonathan felt genuinely curious by that. “Spies?”

“The Elk and Zarafe basically hate each other. They don’t share information, and there are often frequent disputes cropping up along their territorial borders. The situation isn’t too different from the tenuous relations the United Systems has with the Sino-Koreans, or the Russians.”

“So you’re saying there is a Zarafe spy on that ship,” Jonathan sent. “And he wants to talk to us.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Barrick returned. “Though to be fair, he is both a he and a she. They can reproduce asexually, or sexually.”

“Fine, I’m listening. But you better hurry up before the others figure out what you’re up to. I’d hate to see our translator executed because he was helping out a spy.” He muted the line and turned to Robert. “Though between you and me, I’m more concerned about losing Bridgette than anything else.”

Robert closed his eyes and nodded.

“My contact claims he helped free Wolf and Lin,” Barrick said over the comm. “He ensured the guards were deployed away from the dissection compartment, and he left a tartaan device for them to use.”

Jonathan unmuted his side of the connection. “Tartaan?”

“That’s what I call their portable darkness generators.”

“Onomatopoeia again?” Jonathan said.

“No. I named it after a tartan, like a Scottish highlander would wear. The designs of tartans are associated with different clans, and the pattern of light and dark given off by the alien darkness generators similarly denote clans, so it seemed suiting.”

“You’re a veritable wellspring of knowledge, aren’t you?” Jonathan said over the comm. “So. Assuming this spy friend of yours actually exists, which I’m not entirely certain I believe, given that all we have to go on is your word... we can’t talk to him directly after all... but assuming he does exist, what does he want?”

“To broker a deal with you,” Barrick answered. “If you can give the Zarafe a planet-killer when all of this is over, he guarantees his side will sign a peace treaty with humanity.”

Jonathan pressed his lips together. “A planet-killer? The United Systems would never agree to such a deal. Not for some nebulous peace treaty. What’s to stop them from turning around and using it against us? Do they think we are fools?”

“He will also trade technology in return. The means to traverse Slipstreams without Gates. Their particle beam technology.”

That was something a lot more interesting. Jonathan could imagine the United Systems politicians slavering at the mouth over such an offer. A single planet-killer, in exchange for the Slipstream traversal and particle weapons tech? Some would definitely argue to jump in bed with the rogue alien faction. Not Jonathan, though.

“Tell him I don’t have the authority to broker such a deal. But also tell him that if he can help return Bridgette, that would definitely be considered an act of goodwill by my government.”

“He says he will see what he can do,” Barrick returned. “But don’t expect anything until after you have completed the mission for the Elk.”

Jonathan smiled resignedly.

“Do you have any more questions before I go?” Barrick asked.

“I don’t,” Jonathan sent. “But there is something I do want to say, Barrick. For your human ears only.”

“Tell me,” the telepath transmitted.

“You’re playing both sides, aren’t you? What’s in it for you? What have the aliens promised you?”

“You’re wrong about me, Captain,” Barrick replied over the comm. “I am playing both alien camps, yes. But I remain firmly on the side of humanity, and the fleet.”

“Are you sure about that?” Jonathan pressed. “Attempting to turn our ships against each other. Kidnapping one of my crew. Hardly seems becoming of someone who claims to be on the side of humanity.”

“I wouldn’t be talking to you if I wasn’t,” Barrick insisted. “I’ll regain your trust, Captain Dallas.”

“You’ll never have my trust again, Barrick. You tampered with my mind, abducted the wife of my commander. Either action in and of itself is unforgivable. But both? All I can say is if you ever return to this ship, you will be promptly sedated. And when you wake up, if you wake up, it will be in the deepest, most isolated prison cell in the robot-manned penitentiary reserved for telepathic psychopaths like yourself.”

He terminated the connection and glanced at Robert. “Let’s talk in my office.”

seventeen

Jonathan sat at his desk across from Robert.

“So,” Jonathan said. “How are you holding up?”

“Good,” the commander responded. “Under the circumstances.” He sighed raggedly. “Actually, fairly poorly. I don’t think I can take much more of that bastard’s lies.”

“You don’t believe him?” Jonathan asked.

“Not a word.” Robert rubbed the tip of his nose with his thumb and index finger. “One moment he says he speaks for all the aliens, and the next he represents a single faction. Elk and Zarafe. Raakarr and tartaan. He’s just making up words, throwing them out there, trying to string us along on some fictitious ride. For all we know he’s actually a prisoner on that ship, and he’s communicating with us using equipment he salvaged from the refugees of the Selene, like Lieutenant Commander Wolf did when he was prisoner.”

“I have no doubt that Barrick is a prisoner of sorts,” Jonathan said. “He’d have to be, given the value he offers the aliens.”

“You believe him, then?” Robert said.

“I believe he can communicate with the aliens, yes,” Jonathan told the commander. “It would explain a lot of things, namely his betrayal. Whether or not the aliens truly want to explore an anomaly on that planet, I can’t say. But they’ve pulled back their fighters and agreed to keep their ship on the far side of the planet, so it would seem they intend to ally with us. For the moment.”

“How do we know they’re not simply buying time,” Robert said. “They were all too glad to have us position ourselves behind the planet, cutting our sensors off from the rest of the system.”

“Which is why I’ve left two telemetry drones in high orbit far above the north and south poles. Remember?”

Robert massaged his forehead. “Sorry, sir. I’ve been distracted lately.”

“I understand,” Jonathan said. He felt for Bridgette, too.

“You have to wonder, though,” Robert said. “What if Barrick is manipulating both sides? Maybe he has led the aliens to believe it’s us who want to explore the planet, and that we are the ones requesting assistance in exchange for a truce? We have no idea if we’re following an alien agenda, or his. There’s an old saying on Earth: ‘how can you trust the translator when his headphones are turned off?’ There’s no way to corroborate anything he’s saying. He’s got to be spinning a yarn. Am I the only one who thinks it odd that he always uses audio only communications?”

“It’s certainly possible that this whole thing is some sort of elaborate trap, perhaps planned entirely by Barrick. Though I think you give the man too much credit. If anyone is plotting our demise, it’s the aliens. I’m going to ignore this faction story of his for now, at least until we see some actual proof it exists. And I’m going to proceed with the mission to the surface. If it’s true there’s some sort of anomaly down there, on this one planet in the system, then we’d be remiss if we allowed the aliens to explore it on their own.”

“I still think it’s suspicious that they’d invite us along with them,” Robert said.

“It is,” Jonathan agreed. “But we’ll play along, for now. Maxwell, what would you do?”

“I would attack immediately,” the AI responded. “While the advantage is still ours. The anomaly obviously does not exist, and as Commander Cray says, it is a ploy to buy time.”

“And what about the hostage?” Jonathan said.

“One woman’s life is meaningless compared to the welfare of the fleet.”

“And what if that woman is the commander’s wife?” Jonathan said. “And his own welfare, and hence performance, would be unduly affected by her loss?”

“No man is irreplaceable,” Maxwell insisted. “Commander Scott is still aboard. He would make a suitable executive officer.”

“Commander Scott will never serve in any official capacity ever again,” Jonathan said. “He was placed into the crucible of combat and he froze when the aliens attacked. There is a reason why we stripped him of command and set him to menial duties. Have you been keeping an eye on him, by the way? He hasn’t been trying to instigate a mutiny, has he?”

“No he has not,” Maxwell said. “But there are other suitable first officers. Captain Chopra, for instance. My point is that we can disable the enemy ship now and potentially capture it. Therefore we must. It is folly to embark on some mission to the planet’s surface in the pursuit of some wishful alliance that will merely fail in the end. The aliens have already admitted they did not edit the Slipstream endpoint. They cannot help us. We do not need them.”

“You’re assuming that both Barrick and the aliens are telling the truth,” Jonathan said.

“For Barrick, I noticed no inflections or other voice tells that would have indicated otherwise,” Maxwell said. “Though I admit, without visual feedback, the probability of my assessment being accurate is only fifty percent. Plus or minus fifteen percent.”

“Another reason why he doesn’t want to show his face,” Robert said. “He knows the AI would see through his deception immediately.”

“And what about the aliens,” Jonathan said. “Who he claims to speak for? You cannot even begin to guess whether they speak the truth, can you Maxwell?”

“No,” Maxwell admitted.

“So you agree it’s possible they don’t want us to know they can edit Slipstreams?” Jonathan asked.

“It is possible,” the AI said. “But I still say we should attack. If we capture them, we can do what we wish with their technology.”

“Presuming we don’t damage it beyond repair,” Jonathan said. “And that the aliens don’t decide to self-destruct.”

“And that we can actually reverse engineer their tech,” Robert added. “Our chief weapons engineer has had an alien fighter in his hands for the past six months and he still hasn’t even figured out its power source.”

Jonathan nodded. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going through with the shared operation. We’ll send down a mixed team of MOTHs and combat robots. Maybe a scientist. Speaking of which.” Jonathan tapped in the chief scientist. “Connie, what’s the status on my request?”

“For the anti-psi suits?” she answered over the comm. “I sent my latest modifications to my counterpart aboard the Aurelia, and she tells me so far they’ve worked against every invasive attempt from their local telepath. On my end, I’ve applied the shielding to two MOTH jumpsuits and a pair of ordinary spacesuits.”

“Thank you, Connie,” Jonathan returned. “See if you can put together a couple more suits within the next two hours.”

“Two hours?” Connie said over the comm. “Respectfully, sir, I won’t have time to build you even one.”

“All right. We’ll have to make do with what you’ve got then. Captain out.” He terminated the connection.

Robert was looking at him.

“Well, what is it, Commander?” Jonathan said. “Speak up.”

“She says she tested the modifications with the Aurelia’s telepath. I doubt the individual in question has anywhere near Barrick’s abilities.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Jonathan said. “But that’s the best protection I can offer the human members of the party.”

Robert scratched his earlobe. “We’ll just have to instruct the robots to watch Chief Galaal and me for signs of nefarious psychic influence.”

“Robert,” Jonathan began carefully. “I never said you were going on the mission...”

Robert raised an eyebrow. “I guess I just assumed.”

“I believe it is an excellent idea,” Maxwell interjected. “If the commander goes, and he dies, then we won’t have to worry about him losing his wife Bridgette anymore. We will be free to attack.”

“Please, Maxwell,” Jonathan said. “We’re trying to have a serious discussion here.”

“My apologies, Captain,” the AI responded. “Though in my defense, I was not joking.”

“Your opinion is noted.” Jonathan returned his attention to the commander. “If I send you, what guarantee do I have that you’re not going to kick the living shit out of Barrick when you see him?”

“None,” Robert said. “But I do promise I’ll leave him alive long enough for you to have a go.”

Jonathan stared at Robert for several moments. “Contact Connie in two hours and get suited up, Commander.”

eighteen

Rade sat nervously in the mess hall, waiting for his daughter to arrive. He glowered fiercely whenever anyone came close to his table in order to dispel any notions they might have of taking a seat with him. It worked. People would rather stand than sit next to a scowling special forces soldier any day.

Sometimes he wondered at the paths his life could have taken if he had made slightly different choices along the way. He had told himself that he had no regrets, but that was a lie. He had a whole lot of them. It didn’t matter.

He probably should have ended his enlistment when he hit fifty. He didn’t really fit in with the Teams, not anymore. Between deployments, all the other MOTHs cared about was drinking their nights away and getting into fights at the bars and strip clubs. Whereas Rade wanted to concentrate on going to the gym and maintaining his specialized training.

Even during deployments, such as the current one, the interests of the younger MOTHs were basically the same: after mandatory PT, war game training, and security duty, they spent their free time in virtual strip clubs and bars. It was quite ridiculous. 

He had the same thoughts of leaving at sixty and seventy. By the time he was eighty, he realized there was no point in denying it: being a MOTH assigned to starships was all he knew how to do anymore. The only other option was to become a private contractor—a morally ambiguous slope he wasn’t ready to climb. Every time his enlistment came up for renewal he always received a slew of messages from companies inviting him to join their private mercenary armies. So far he had always refused the requests. But the day might come when he would either agree, or start his own security firm.

I’m ninety-eight years old, Rade thought. Not young, but still vigorous, thanks to the rejuvenation treatments. I have at least another hundred and fifty years left in me.

He sighed, unfolding his arms. Where the hell was his daughter? He glanced at his shaking hands and chuckled softly.

Ninety-eight years old and I’m afraid of my own daughter. Ridiculous.

He managed to calm himself with a controlled breathing technique he had learned way back in his spec-ops rating school. Though he hated it at the time, looking back, that school had taught him the mental discipline he needed to survive as a MOTH all these years. The most important lessons he had learned in his life had come from that time.

But man, the training had been brutal. He rarely had nightmares about an operation or mission he was involved with. Instead, his dreams were haunted by memories of his rating school, even at his advanced age. University students dreamt about missing exams or entire classes. Rade dreamt about shivering in the icy waters of the New Coronado bay, locked arm and arm with his classmates; he dreamt of ATLAS portage, carrying the earlier variants of the robotic suits across the sand while instructors screamed at them; he dreamt of infinite PT—push-ups and burpees and scissor-kicks performed in the sand without end until most of the class was throwing up.

And while those dreams mostly sucked, he welcomed them, because he would find himself with his brothers again, most of whom had died. After hard deaths in his first few deployments, he had learned to harden himself and not get too close to people—that was another reason he didn’t fit in anymore. Eventually, he even pushed away his family, farther than anyone else. They were a vulnerability inside him that he had needed to excise.

Yes, he had treated his own daughter as if she were someone else’s.

My own daughter. I’ve been such a fool. What was the point of fighting all those wars, those battles, if not for her?

And then he saw her.

His heart rate tripled anew.

Sil joined him, setting her water bottle down on the table. Her expression was unreadable.

“You’re not going to eat anything?” Rade said.

“Where’s your plate?” she shot back defiantly.

He shrugged. “Not hungry.”

“Neither am I.”

“Okay then.” Rade leaned back. This is going to be harder than I thought.

Her eyes defocused and it was obvious she was checking a message via her aReal contact lenses.

“Can’t you catch up with your friends later?” he asked, remembering when she would send messages to friends like that at the dinner table while growing up. “That’s really rude, what you’re doing.”

“They’re not friends,” she said. “Believe it or not, I’m actually doing my duties. Technically, I’m still supposed to be in the lab right now. Unlike you, I have real work to do all day. Other than push-ups and bench presses in the gym.”

“You’re an assistant now,” he retorted flatly. “How much work can you be doing?”

“I have a degree in xenobiology. It’s kind of a big deal. The scientists are constantly asking for my input. And I still have the rank of captain, I might add.”

“All right.” Rade pushed back his chair. Throw her rank at him, would she? He’d had enough.

Sil’s eyes abruptly focused on him. “You claim to love me, yet you have the oddest ways of showing it.”

Rade froze. Her words cut worse than any knife.

“What are you talking about?” he said.

“You know,” Sil continued. “When you were down there in that alien ship, and I thought you were going to die, I actually believed the final words you sent me over the comm. That you regretted not being a better father to me, and that if you could do it all over again, you would have left the navy and raised me proper. Well you’ve gotten your second chance, but you’re only doing the exact same thing all over again.”

Rade sighed. “I haven’t gotten any second chance. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m still enlisted in the navy. And my service term isn’t expiring any time soon. And you’re right, I’ve been a bit slack on the communication front lately. But I wanted to leave you alone. Give you some space to live your life.”

Sil sighed, smiling sadly. Her cheeks dimpled the same way as her mother’s when she did that. “I have my space, dad. All I ask is that you show some interest in me once in a while. Send a message to my aReal. Inbox me. Say hi. Ask how my week is going. Normal father-daughter stuff, you know?”

Unable to meet her eye, he looked guiltily at his hands. “I’m sorry. I’ll try.”

“This is the first I’ve heard from you in over four months,” Sil said. “Out of nowhere you send me a casual message, telling me you’re going on a mission. It wasn’t hard for me to figure out you’re heading down to the planet. Commander Cray instructed Connie to have the psi-shielded MOTH jumpsuits ready, along with the spacesuits. Who wears that, do you think?”

Rade didn’t say anything, keeping his gaze glued to his hands.

“So I get your message, and I insist we meet,” Sil continued. “And you say no, there’s no time. And I say yes, let’s make time. And so here we are. I only just sit down, and spend a moment to answer a high priority message from Connie regarding the suit fittings, and you already start getting up, ready to leave me here without saying anything more than a few words.”

“Sil, I—” He sighed. He still couldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m not good at this. I’m sorry. But I do love you. Believe me.”

“I know, dad,” Sil said. “But as I said, sometimes you could try to show it a little better.”

“I’ll try. Look, I do actually have to go. You were late.” That, and the conversation was becoming far too uncomfortable for him. He started to get up.

“Wait, I want to go down there with you,” Sil said. “I’m the best qualified, because of my degree.”

Rade shook his head. “Talk to the captain.”

“Oh I will,” his daughter said. “Stay, please. Just a bit longer.”

He sighed deeply, then remained seated. “A few more minutes.”

She seemed like she was going to say something, but then smiled nervously instead.

Rade pursed his lips, and was about to tell her to speak her mind when she did just that.

“Something’s been bothering me,” she said. “Remember what you told me after you got back?”

“What did I tell you?” he asked warily.

“That you saw a ghost.”

Rade shook his head fervently. “It was nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“If it was nothing, then why were you shaken and pale,” Sil said. “Distracted. A ghost. There are so many things I can read into that.”

Rade shrugged, unsure what to say.

“Come on dad,” she pressed. “I’m your daughter. You can confide in me. What did you see? Was it someone you knew?”

“No, nothing like that.” When he realized she wasn’t going to let him go until he told her, he said: “I saw a man on the alien ship. I didn’t know him.”

“A man? What do you mean? You saw quite a few men when rescuing the crew of the Selene from that ship.”

“No, I saw him after that,” Rade said. “When you and the others had launched in your Dragonflies, and I stayed behind with the combat robots to cause as much damage as possible. That’s when I saw him.”

His daughter frowned. “You saw a refugee we’d missed? Someone roaming the passages in a spacesuit?”

“That’s the thing,” Rade said. “This man... he wasn’t wearing a spacesuit. He was just huddling there in the vacuum, looking right at me.”

“How do you know he was alive?” she asked.

“He was moving, Sil.” Rade wasn’t going to tell her that he could have sworn the man had mouthed his full name.

“You reported this to your commanding officer?” Sil asked.

“Of course,” Rade said. “First thing when I got back. I had no proof, though. On my video logs, some sort of interference caused my recording to blank out moments before I saw the man. And he didn’t show up in any of the combat robot logs—none of the Centurions had seen him. My LC told me it was probably a stress hallucination.”

“What happened to him?” Sil said.

“I don’t know,” Rade said. “One moment he was there, I look away, and then he’s gone.”

She regarded him uncertainly for a moment, then rested a hand on his knuckles and smiled. Likely she believed it was a hallucination, too. “Thanks for confiding in me.”

Yes, from that patronizing tone, he was sure she thought that.

I didn’t hallucinate it.

He stood, extricating his knuckles out from her under hand. “But now I really have to go, Sil. Goodbye. Thanks for meeting me.”

“Take care, dad,” she said. “I mean it. You’re coming back.”

Rade forced a smile. “Always do. Got another hundred and fifty years left in me.”

“You’re not going to give them all to the navy, I hope.”

“Maybe another hundred,” Rade joked.

THE CAPTAIN SAT in his office chair. He had the commander’s contact lens video feed piped into his aReal, and he watched as Robert made his way across the hangar bay toward the down ramp of one of the two Dragonflies involved in the mission. They were long, thin metal craft, with two broad, stacked wings protruding from either side near the front, somewhat similar to their insect namesakes.

Robert wore one of Connie’s custom, psi-shielded spacesuits, though he currently carried the helmet in one hand. The lag was less than a few microseconds at the moment, though when Robert reached the surface, that lag would be three seconds, at best. Ensign McNamara, the second watch ops officer, had estimated they would have to deploy at least one signal boosting drone between the surface and the ship.

A holographic display request from Captain Sil Chopra appeared on Jonathan’s aReal. He accepted, opting for audio only.

“What is it, Captain?” he said.

“Requesting permission to join the away team, sir,” Chopra sent.

He frowned. “Permission denied.”

“I have a degree in xenobiology, among others.”

“So does O’Rielly.” That was the science officer who was going along.

“I specialize in first contacts,” Chopra insisted. “I’ve studied all the major protocols.”

“I don’t think your father could do with the distraction of having you along, Captain,” Jonathan told her. “Look, even if I wanted to let you go, we don’t have enough spacesuits with the necessary anti-psi modifications. However, because of your rank I can allow you to sit in on the proceedings with the other captains, but no more.”

There was a long pause. Then: “Okay.”

“I’m transmitting the access code now,” Jonathan said. “You’ll have read-only permission to Commander Cray’s feed.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Chopra transmitted.

He closed the connection, only to open another one from McNamara.

“The aliens have transmitted the final coordinates,” the ops officer said.

“Dispatch them to the away team pilot,” Jonathan instructed McNamara.

He terminated the line and watched Robert buckle himself into the Dragonfly.

A tingling sensation passed up and down Jonathan’s spine. He couldn’t shake the feeling that a trap awaited below. Clairvoyance, or mere intuition?

He suppressed the urge to swap out the commander for someone else. He had to stick to his decisions. Second-guessing and indecisiveness were the downfall of many an officer before him. Robert would simply have to take care of himself down there. He was certainly capable. Besides, he had the indomitable Chief Galaal with him, and a platoon of combat robots spread across two shuttles.

The commander was completely safe.

At least, that was what Jonathan told himself.

nineteen

Robert took a few deep breaths, trying to accustom himself to the stale air of the spacesuit. The suit had already injected the necessary accelerants into his body via the radial venous network of his hand: it would help him adapt faster to the inner environment of the suit, allowing him to avoid the effects of any decompression sickness. 

“Prepare for launch,” the pilot said.

The ramp closed. Robert felt the compartment shake as the engines ignited. Through the small window across from him, between the shoulders of Chief Galaal and another MOTH, Robert saw the hangar bay doors open, revealing the bare stars. The curved profile of the planet consumed the entire right side, those yellow-brown clouds concealing its surface.

The craft countered the artificial gravity of the hangar bay and floated into the air. The aft thrusters ignited and the bay slipped away. He could already feel his stomach doing flips—with the ship behind them, the artificial gravity had lifted, and in the ensuing weightlessness he had no sense of balance or direction. Was he upside-down or right side-up? It was difficult to ignore the confused signals his inner ear was sending his brain.

In his helmet, slightly damp electrodes rested just below each ear. These were supposed to fire signals into the vestibular nerve to restore a sense of balance, but it never really worked for Robert. There were similar headphones designed for VR that utilized galvanic vestibular stimulation to help counter sim-sickness by making the brain believe its body was moving in relation to the camera in a virtual experience—but those never really helped him, either.

He glanced at the science officer beside him. O’Rielly was holding up quite well. The last time they had gone on an away mission the man had vomited in his helmet because of the nausea-inducing weightlessness, but he seemed fine today.

“Are you all right?” Robert asked him over the comm anyway.

The science officer forced a grin. “Peachy.”

“Initiating deceleration,” the pilot said.

Reverse thrust apparently engaged, because the craft began descending toward the upper atmosphere. Thanks to the inertial compensators, Robert felt no Gs. Probably a good thing. But what the engineers really needed to do was come up with shuttle-based artificial gravity, because seeing that planet tilting outside made him feel queasy all over again. It didn’t seem like such a great technological leap to Robert to extend the inertial dampening to provide the feel of gravity, but the scientists claimed there was more to it than that.

Beyond the window, the curved surface quickly became planar, swallowing the horizon on both sides. The view abruptly vanished in a haze of red-and-orange as the shuttle initiated atmospheric entry. All it would take was one heat shield to fail at that point and the Dragonfly and her occupants would incinerate. There was no other indication of the danger they were in: no shaking, not even a subtle vibration. The wonders of super-gimballed seats.

The flames cleared, leaving behind a brown sky as the craft continued its descent into the upper atmosphere. The free fall continued for several minutes. 

“I’ll be stabilizing our descent shortly,” the pilot announced. “Prepare for realization of gravity.”

Robert felt his weight slowly increase as the descent abated, and his sense of up and down returned. When he thought the craft had stabilized, he checked the current gravity as recorded by his helmet aReal: point nine Earth G’s. He had felt no other G forces during the process: the compensators were designed to counter local inertial effects, not the external influence of a gravity well such as a planet. The strange choices of engineers...

Beyond the window lurked a twilight landscape of black rock and yellow snow. The icy crags and glacial plains ranged as far as the eye could see.

“I thought the scientists said this planet was supposed to be warm?” transmitted the human MOTH seated next to Chief Galaal. Robert’s aReal identified him as Aaron “Helium” Johnson. He was leaning forward, obviously looking out the portal behind Robert. “Something about a greenhouse effect?”

“It is warm, given its location from the sun,” the science officer, O’Rielly, replied. Was that a slight nervous tremble in his voice? “What were you expecting, a tropical paradise?”

“Let’s just say, when I hear the word warm, I think of green grass and blue skies, not some snowy landscape from hell.”

“Shouldn’t hell be fiery?” O’Rielly said.

“Maybe yours,” Aaron said. “Not mine. Mine is a very cold place. Sign up for MOTH training sometime and you’ll understand.” He paused. “Look at that. Yellow snow. It’s not often we can take a piss in the ice without leaving any evidence.”

“Helium,” Chief Galaal said. The warning was obvious in his tone.

“Sorry, Chief.”

“I’m doing a fly over of Calypso,” the pilot announced. That was the code name of the target site. A moment later: “Looks no different than the surrounding territory.”

“Any odd gravimetric readings?” Robert sent the pilot.

“I’m not getting any from up here. I am, however, detecting a temperature drop of at least a hundred degrees directly around the site.”

“Why didn’t we detect that from orbit?” Robert asked.

“There’s a warm inversion layer on top of it,” the pilot explained.

“It’s probably a natural phenomenon,” O’Rielly said. Definitely a slight tremble in his voice. “Imagine that. The aliens made us come all this way to explore a natural phenomenon.”

“Do we have a bead on Charon yet?” Robert sent the pilot. That was the code name for the Dragonfly the aliens had captured.

“Roger that,” the pilot sent. “Check your HUD.”

Barrick had apparently reactivated the comm node in the shuttle, because the craft appeared as a blue dot on the map that was part of the heads-up-display built into their helmets. It was situated roughly five hundred meters to the north.

“Land us as close to Calypso as you can,” Robert instructed the pilot. “But no closer than two hundred meters to Charon.”

“Roger that.” A moment later: “This looks like the best spot for our two craft to set down. Preliminary scans indicate a stable snowbank. I can try to get closer to Calypso, but the terrain becomes increasingly more jagged.”

Robert accessed the external video feed. The icy surface below was relatively flat compared to the surrounding terrain. “Take us down, and transmit the location to Bravo.”

“Roger that.”

The Dragonfly touched down and the seats shook as the internal gimbals deactivated.

Robert glanced at Chief Galaal. “Take it from here, Chief.”

“Pilot,” the chief said over the comm. “Confirm that local atmospheric conditions allow for the use of grenades and other incendiaries.”

“Usage confirmed,” the pilot returned. “The local atmosphere is predominantly carbon dioxide and fluorocarbons, with roughly three percent oxygen content. Just like the drones predicted: flames will burn, though only at a sixth of the intensity found on Earth.”

The chief glanced down the robot ranks, at the four M-4 Centurions and lone Praetor unit that composed the remaining members of Alpha Squad. He focused on the featureless metallic face of the Praetor, which was essentially the commanding officer of the robots. “Prepare to deploy. I want defensive perimeter Cigar.”

Fighting back a rising sense of nerves, Robert studied the humanoid automatons. Sometimes he wished he could have the same emotional detachment as them. There were certain performance drugs that could achieve the effect, but he had never tried them, because while he might wish for calm in the face of fear, he refused to pay the price of his humanity.

The robots carried either M114 laser rifles or the heavier M1170 variety. Both types had been modified to penetrate the alien darkness shields. A few AR-52 plasma rifles and L22 incendiary throwers remained racked in the loadout area; those would likely be left behind, as they had proven useless against the aliens. The AR-52s had, anyway.

“Alpha-5,” the chief said. “I want you to grab an L22.”

“Roger that,” the addressed robot answered.

Chief Galaal turned to Robert. “Commander, stay aboard with the science officer until I give the all clear.”

“Understood,” Robert said.

“Pilot?” the chief said over the comm.

“Opening up,” the pilot replied.

The ramp folded down and Robert’s shoulder and waist latches clicked open.

“Deploy, deploy, deploy!” Chief Galaal said.

Robert watched as the mechanized squad moved out at a crouch. The chief and Aaron brought up the rear.

On Robert’s helmet HUD, he saw the green dots of Alpha assume a cigar shape around the shuttle. The Centurions of Bravo surrounded the second Dragonfly in a similar manner.

There were no dots around Charon a hundred meters to the north.

“Launch HS4s,” Chief Galaal said. HS4s were small, battery-powered surveillance drones. These would be the rotor-based variants, meant for operation in atmospheres.

“HS4s away!”

More dots appeared, representing the HS4s, colored blue on the map overlay. Some of the drones proceeded toward Calypso, while others fanned out toward Charon.

“HS4s report all clear, Chief,” one of the combat robots said.

“What about Charon?” the chief asked.

“No one has emerged, yet,” the Centurion said.

“And there’s no sign of the telepath or the aliens at Calypso either?” the chief asked.

“Negative. Though the scouts have discovered a series of cylindrical objects near the center of the site. Barely detectable gravimetric distortions appear to emanate from them.”

Robert switched to the view from the lead HS4, which had taken up a hovering position above Calypso. The auto-iso on the camera brightened the scene so that the twilight seemed almost broad daylight. Just underneath the small scout, several cigar-shaped objects lay in the snow. They were yellow, and nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding terrain. Robert counted five of them.

“You seeing that, Commander?” Chief Galaal asked.

“I am.”

“You can exit the shuttle, by the way,” the chief added.

Robert got up. He turned toward O’Rielly and beckoned toward the ramp. “Lead the way.”

He realized O’Rielly had thrown up at some point after all—the vomit stains were obvious on his faceplate.

The captain probably should have sent a robot science officer, Robert thought.

When O’Rielly stood, Robert accessed the man’s health status on his aReal: life signs seemed normal, and his breathing apparatus was apparently unaffected by the vomit.

Following him outside, Robert stepped down from the ramp and emerged into the twilight. An external microphone retransmitted the sound of his boots crunching in the snow to his helmet speakers. With all that yellow ice to bounce around the photons, the illumination was roughly equivalent to a winter night on Earth under a full moon. The auto-iso in his faceplate quickly compensated for the dim light and the scene brightened. He couldn’t actually see the binary suns above, not with all those clouds: it was like an extremely overcast day on Earth, except that these clouds trapped most of the heat and light that entered. Hence the greenhouse effect.

He saw movement at his three o’clock: one of the spherical HS4 drones hovered there, acting as an escort.

The digital pattern on the jumpsuits of the two MOTHs had changed colors to the yellow-white of the surrounding snow, with a spattering of black to match the occasional rocks. The polycarbonate skins of the combat robots and Dragonflies were similarly hued, and neatly blended into the landscape. Robert’s own spacesuit had the same camouflage ability and he activated it via the faceplate aReal.

Satisfied with the patterning, he glanced at O’Rielly. The science officer’s white and blue spacesuit stood out against the snow.

“O’Rielly,” Robert said. “Your suit.”

The science officer glanced down. “Oh.” A moment later the coloration changed to match the dreary landscape.

“So what do you want to do, Commander?” Chief Galaal asked over the comm.

Robert switched his remote feed to that of the HS4 closest to Charon. The dark metal of the captured shuttle stood out in stark contrast to the surrounding white: Barrick hadn’t bothered to activate the camouflage feature. The craft simply squatted there, inactive in the snow. Waiting. Lurking.

“I’m going to assume Barrick is inside the shuttle with a few aliens,” Robert said.

“That would be a reasonable guess,” the chief agreed. “Although... if he wanted to ambush us that would probably be a good spot to do it.”

“What would you do if you wanted to ambush us?” Robert asked the chief.

“I’d abandon the shuttle and take up a hide anywhere from five hundred meters to a kilometer away,” Chief Galaal said. “In this terrain, you’d never even see me. One moment you’d be walking, the next you’d be dead on the ground.”

Robert nodded slowly. He glanced at the shuttles. “Pilots, keep the down ramps lowered. Be ready for a hot extraction.”

“Roger that,” came the reply.

“I don’t suppose our eye in the sky has spotted anything unusual?” Robert asked the chief.

An MQ-95 Raptor had deployed directly from the ship to offer reconnaissance and air support. Capable of atmospheric and space flight, it flew overhead at an altitude of fifteen thousand meters. The drone was currently in full stealth mode, and made no sound whatsoever. It carried a payload of four Hellfire X91 precision strike missiles, and also sported a Cobra Z80 tactical laser for those hits requiring surgical exactness. Its high-zoom military-grade camera was rated for biometric identification, meaning it could zoom down to the level of a target’s eye or fingertip.

HS4 scouts were usually employed in tandem with Raptors, because while an overall view of a battlefield was nice, having multiple eyes on the ground was even nicer.

“Negative,” the chief said. “Our eye has nothing on the thermal, visual, or EM bands. If they’re hiding out there, they’re hiding real good.”

Robert nodded, then told him: “Take us to within fifty meters of Charon, Chief.”

twenty

Assume unknown intent,” Robert added.

“Assuming unknown intent.” Chief Galaal glanced at Aaron and used his callsign: “Helium, if you will?”

“Traveling overwatch, people!” Aaron said over the comm line. “Light gunners on point. Heavy gunners on drag. Commander, you’re with Bravo. O’Rielly, you’re with Alpha. Bravo-3, give the commander a boost. Alpha-4, you get O’Rielly.”

The combat personnel were equipped with jetpacks for the mission. However, Robert and O’Rielly had not been outfitted with said accouterments, as the pair were badly out of practice. Before the mission, Robert had spent several minutes in VR reacquainting himself with the tech, but in the end he decided that if jump ability proved necessary, the combat robots could act in an assistive fashion for the pair.

The designated Centurion, Bravo-3, wrapped its thin metal arms around Robert’s waist assembly and waited to take its place in the formation.

Alpha Squad set out first, its members taking up zigzag positions as they bounded across the ice. Robots armed with M114 laser rifles assumed the lead, while those with the heavier M1170 lasers brought up the rear. O’Rielly was at the center, carried by one of the Centurions.

When Alpha was roughly thirty meters away, Bravo began its advance. Bravo-3 waited until the first two combat robots had set out, then it fired its jets, hoisting Robert off the ground. It continued releasing quick, strategic bursts, taking two-meter-long bounds to hold its zigzag position in the squad. Sometimes its metal feet clanged off the black rock or ice; other times its legs were swallowed to the knees in the yellow snow of the glacial plain.

While Bravo-3 kept its arms wrapped around Robert, the other Centurions had their plasma rifles pointed outward, constantly compensating for their movements to scan the surrounding terrain in a steady surveillance pattern.

“Nothing on the visual or thermal bands,” Aaron sent over the comm. “The only heat I’m reading is from Charon. If someone’s hiding out there, they’re dug in good, as the chief said.”

Robert kept an eye on the overhead map. When Alpha was roughly fifty meters from Charon, the chief transmitted: “Alpha, full stop.”

The blue dots representing Alpha Squad came to a halt, spreading out.

Bravo Squad arrived and assumed a similar position roughly twenty meters to Alpha’s three o’clock.

Bravo-3 released Robert and lay flat in the snow. The commander followed its lead and did the same. The yellow snow pressed up against the bottom portion of his faceplate. Because he was looking up, the angle of his chin caused each breath to mist against the polycarbonate, PVB and glass combination, but the defoggers quickly cleared it.

Around him, the other robots of Bravo aimed their plasma rifles at the captured Dragonfly. Robert wondered if the aliens had augmented the shuttle with alien tech in some way. Given their weapons engineer’s own progress with the captured fighter, it was doubtful. Then again, these aliens had Barrick to help them. Though the telepath likely knew nothing about shuttles, he could use the trainer AIs to walk him through the inner workings and translate the information to his captors. He was the worst possible individual for the aliens to have in their custody. Who knew how many of their secrets he had betrayed already?

“Alpha one, two and three,” Chief Galaal said. “Circle to the other side. I want you on their nine-o’clock.”

“Roger that.” The three designated Centurions moved out at a crouch.

Robert waited until the blue dots representing those three were in place on the far flank, and then he said over the comm: “Chief, I’m going to try calling out to Barrick.”

“Go right ahead, Commander,” the chief returned.

“Barrick, come out!” Robert amped up the volume on the external speakers so there was no chance the shuttle occupants would fail to hear. “Barrick!”

Nothing. The Dragonfly remained squatting there lifelessly, its legs buried in the snow.

Robert began to worry that the Raakarr intended to nuke the site from orbit. He was about to order the chief to send in some of the combat robots when his internal helmet speakers transmitted the noise of hydraulics activating.

The rear ramp of the Dragonfly opened, crunching into the yellow snow a moment later.

The commander heard muted clangs coming from the craft. Then a man in a spacesuit abruptly emerged, followed by five rolling, black mists. The darknesses shifted and flowed as the things moved, and sparks of light occasionally lit up their depths.

“Don’t move!” Robert said via the speakers.

The individual in the spacesuit froze, raising his hands. The flowing mists stopped beside him.

Robert zoomed in on the faceplate. Barrick lurked within.

“What took you so long to get here?” the telepath’s voice issued via the external speakers of his suit. His tone oozed mockery, contempt.

Robert felt a surge of anger and he wondered for a moment if the team should simply give the order to mow down Barrick and the aliens. Maxwell would have encouraged it. And, barring his own rage, the commander could certainly see the logic in that. Barrick was too valuable a prisoner to remain in the custody of the aliens, and too dangerous to capture. But Bridgette...

“Join our frequency,” Robert answered instead. He sent the private access code Barrick would need to communicate on the common band.

“Do you read me?” Barrick asked a moment later.

“Loud and clear,” Robert returned. He muted the others so that only Barrick could hear his next words. “My wife better be alive.”

“She’s being treated like royalty,” Barrick said sarcastically.

Robert squeezed a gloved fist. “She better be. Otherwise I’m going to hunt you down, and when I get my hands on you, by the time I’m done, whatever is left won’t survive very long.”

“As I said, royalty,” Barrick retorted.

Robert unmuted the others.

Small spheres of living mist moved away from the main darknesses that accompanied Barrick. The tiny masses spread out quickly.

“What are those?” Robert said. “Answer me or we’ll shoot them down!”

“Calm down,” Barrick transmitted. “They’re the alien equivalent to the HS4s.”

One of the dark spheres paused near the group, while the others proceeded toward the target site, Calypso.

“Shall we begin making our way toward the anomaly?” Barrick asked.

“Your group is to maintain a fifty meter distance to our nine o’clock at all times,” Robert said. “Come no closer. And pull this thing back!” He gestured toward the small sphere of darkness that had taken up a position near the party.

“Then pull back your HS4,” Barrick said.

Robert nodded at the chief, and the HS4 in question retreated from the Charon group by twenty meters. The darkness ball did the same.

Robert muted Barrick from the common band and transmitted: “Chief, I want at least five Centurions to keep their weapons aimed at the alien party at all times.”

“Roger that,” the chief returned.

The commander unmuted the telepath. “All right, Barrick,” Robert said. “We’re moving.”

The members of Alpha turned from the shuttle craft and leapfrogged Bravo. The latter squad followed shortly, proceeding forward under traveling overwatch. Robert was carried once more by the combat robot as it used its jumpjets to bound from place to place, moving over that jagged surface of ice, rock and snow. Deep crevasses littered the glacier, promising death to any who fell within. Even someone equipped with jumpjets would have a hard time getting out of those tight gorges.

The alien party kept pace on their left, remaining fifty meters away as commanded. The three Centurions Chief Galaal had earlier ordered to the far flank mirrored the alien party’s movements from the other side. The small ball of black mist floating near the latter party indicated that the aliens knew of the trio.

If Barrick had any difficulty reading the minds of his fellow humans, he didn’t show it. Robert knew that if their places were switched, and the commander was the telepath, he wouldn’t have tipped his hand in that regard, either. He’d just have to hope the psychic shielding was working.

“I’m detecting gravimetric distortions,” O’Rielly sent. Robert noted that he had excluded Barrick from the transmission list.

“From Calypso?” the commander asked, also excluding Barrick. He could see the science officer up ahead, carried by another Centurion in Alpha Squad.

“False alarm,” O’Rielly returned. “The emanations are coming from the aliens. The readings are typical with what we’ve seen from them before.”

“We’re entering the region of temperature drop,” Chief Galaal transmitted. “How near do you want us to get to the cylindrical objects the HS4s detected?”

“Close to a maximum of ten meters,” Robert said.

Alpha Squad abruptly stopped.

“We’re in range,” the chief sent.

“I’m looking at them on the thermal band,” O’Rielly said, excluding Barrick on the transmission. “These things seem to be literally draining the heat out of the surrounding air. And I’m definitely detecting gravimetric distortions emanating from them now, too. The impression patterns in the surrounding rocks are similar to the patterns we recorded on the crashed Elder ship in Vega 951, though perhaps a little stronger.”

Bravo-3 carried Robert into the region of colder air. Because of the regulated environment of the suit, the only difference Robert noticed was that the crunch of Bravo-3’s metallic feet in the snow deepened slightly in pitch. When he was at the ten meter mark from the objects, the robot released him.

O’Rielly had moved to within five meters of the things.

“I said a maximum of ten meters, O’Rielly,” Robert said.

“Sorry sir.”

Before O’Rielly could retreat, Robert stepped forward and joined him. He hadn’t been able to tell the scale of the five cigar-shaped objects from the remote view of the HS4s, but standing there beside the things, he realized they were each the size of a man.

“So what are they?” Robert asked O’Rielly, who was holding a small scanning device retrieved from his utility belt. “Alien eggs of some kind?”

“My readings return a blank,” O’Rielly said. “The surfaces reflect my signals right back at me. I can’t tell if they’re inorganic or organic, rock or flesh.”

Robert noticed one of the balls of darkness hovering overhead, beside an HS4.

“Barrick,” Robert sent. “Do the aliens know what these are?”

Barrick didn’t answer right away. Either he was mentally addressing the aliens, or putting on a show of doing so.

“If they know, they won’t tell me,” Barrick responded a moment later.

“The Raakarr admitted to using the Vega 951 system as a breeding ground,” Robert sent the telepath. “We found evidence that the crashed Elder ship served that purpose, perhaps acting as a hatchery. Though we didn’t find any actual eggs, we detected gravimetric distortions similar to what these things are emitting. So now, no lies: can the Raakarr confirm or deny that these are eggs? Perhaps their own?”

Again Barrick paused. Then: “They say these are too big to be anything produced by their own species. I believe them. The Raakarr seem... stunned. That’s the best word for their current states of minds. Stunned. Uneasy. Anxious.”

There was something uncanny about those objects. Robert felt uneasy himself. He thought he saw the rightmost of them shudder slightly. He narrowed his eyes, staring at it, waiting for the thing to move again.

Images abruptly flashed through his mind. Of battles fought between human vessels and Raakarr. Of planet killers detonating. Of a future where intergalactic war would bring humanity to its knees.

“Sir?” someone said beside him.

Robert snapped out of his trance. Shaken, he glanced at O’Rielly. “Say again?”

Was the psychic shielding not working? Was Barrick attempting to influence his mind? Or had the source of those images truly been the cylindrical object, which potentially used a different psychic energy than the shielding was designed for?

O’Rielly spoke again. “I said, are you all right, sir? The chief was asking what you wanted to do.”

“I—”

The snow began to come alive to his right.

“Ambush!” a combat robot shouted over the comm.

The internal speakers of his helmet transmitted soft whooshing sounds from outside. Though Robert saw no incoming fire, beside him the torsos of the robots began to disintegrate in turn.

A Centurion threw itself at the commander, hurtling the two of them to the snow.

twenty-one

Sil watched in horror as the robots began to fall. She had Commander Cray’s point of view piped directly into her aReal, complete with HUD. She had set her own aReal to immersive mode, so it was like she was down there on the planet herself.

On the HUD, red marks began to appear beside the roster list, indicating which members of the platoon were out of action. So far, only robots had fallen. But it was only a matter of time...

Dad.

AS THE WHOOSHING sounds continued above him, Robert tried to burrow into the snow, but it proved only a light dusting over ice and rock there. The best he could do was to remain motionless on the ground and hope he blended in. Though if the attackers used thermal tracking, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

The robot lying on top of him had ceased functioning, and proved a deadweight. If it weren’t for the suit, Robert would have been crushed by the weight of the machine.

Not daring to move, he switched to the point-of-view of one of the HS4s hovering nearby. He found himself looking down on the site. The five dark mists of the Raakarr were obvious immediately. None of them had bothered to take cover. Were they the attackers?

He quickly searched for the survivors of his platoon. The individual members were difficult to make out, and he saw them only because the aReal outlined their positions in blue. Those Centurions that were still operational had dived for cover behind protrusions in the rock and ice. Rade had ducked into a crevice, and Aaron was situated in a similar hollow nearby. As for O’Rielly, the science officer was buried under a robot beside Robert.

There was no sign of Barrick; either he was dead or he had taken cover somewhere. Because he wasn’t part of Robert’s team, the aReal didn’t outline him.

“Fire at will!” the chief was saying over the comm. “Give ‘em everything you’ve got!”

The lasers fired silently, invisibly. But if the Raakarr were the targets, they weren’t going down.

Have they changed the modulation of their shields since our last encounter?

Of course they have.

Chief Galaal had warned of that very thing during the mission briefing.

“Our weapons aren’t doing a thing!” someone said.

He zoomed in on the chief, but his rifle wasn’t even facing the black mists. If they weren’t firing at the Raakarr, then who..?

Robert zoomed out again and tried to recall where the snow had come alive. He ran the camera over what he thought was the area, but he couldn’t be sure because he was slightly disoriented by the hovering viewpoint of the HS4.

There was nothing there.

“Frag out!”

The MOTHs threw grenades.

The subdued explosions caused the superheated snow to condense into mist, revealing the underlying rock.

Two figures immediately stood out in stark contrast to the darker surface.

“Didn’t even knock them down!” Aaron sent.

The figures were humanoid, hued yellow-white, standing with one arm each outstretched toward the dark mists that faced-off across from them. They didn’t seem to be paying attention to the humans, at least not anymore.

“Alpha-2!” Chief Galaal transmitted. “How about some air support!”

“Firing the Raptor’s surgical Cobras,” the combat robot responded. A moment later. “No effect.”

“Can we risk a Hellfire?” the chief asked.

“The platoon is too close to the targets,” the Centurion replied calmly. “There is a sixty percent casualty risk to those friendlies caught within the fragmentation zone, such as Commander Cray.”

“Damn it. Can we move him?”

“Not without drawing the attention of the tangos, sir,” the Centurion said.

Looking carefully, Robert picked out three other camouflaged humanoid figures standing there on the snow, for a total of five, matching the number of Raakarr. These three also had their arms extended, with humanlike, fingered palms directed toward the black mists.

The newcomers stood in a concave half-circle about six meters from the right side of the cylinders, and were spaced three meters apart. Their flat, circular faces were bereft of any features—like the combat robots. They probably were robots of some kind; that, or humanoid life forms wearing some sort of environmental suit or exoskeleton.

The humanoids alternately opened and closed the fingers of their palms, repeatedly forming fists. Those fingers were thick, as were the hands—they reminded Robert of gloves. The commander was beginning to lean toward the environmental suit theory.

The whooshing sounds coincided with the opening of those fists, and Robert guessed that was the sound of whatever invisible weapons the aggressors launched, probably from the palms. Couldn’t be lasers, as those were noiseless.

Whatever the newcomers were firing, it didn’t appear to harm the Raakarr, who remained motionless, shielded behind their black mists. Nor did the Raakarr weapons harm the newcomers. It was an odd scene, with the five humanoids standing with their arms outstretched toward the black mists, and the latter remaining solitary before them. It was like watching someone playing a VR game, wielding some power that only he or she could see. Except what Robert witnessed was no game: he knew weapons fire was being exchanged between the two groups, probably constantly.

A Centurion, identified as Alpha-5 by the aReal, fired an incendiary weapon, sweeping the humanoids with jellied gasoline. The flames were powerful near the nozzle, thanks to the oxidant that was mixed with the combustive, but quickly became subdued as the substance traveled farther from the source. Robert noticed that the flames seemed to curve slightly toward the cylindrical objects near the center of the site, as if drawn to them.

The snow melted all around the humanoids, leaving behind only ice and jagged rock. But otherwise it had no effect: the five figures ignored the robot and remained standing as they caught fire, seemingly oblivious to the jellied gasoline that clung to them. The flames quickly burned low, thanks to the relatively paltry oxygen content of the atmosphere. 

Finally one of the humanoids turned its palm toward the robot and formed a fist. The exposed upper body of the Centurion disintegrated.

That same humanoid pointed its flat palm toward the ground at another nearby target. From his vantage from the HS4’s POV, Robert at first didn’t realize the humanoid was directing his palm right at him.

In seconds, the robot that shielded the commander melted away. Robert felt the weight lighten on his suit.

The thick-fingered hand shut, but remained pointed at him. When it opened again, Robert would be disintegrated.

Abruptly the yellow-white torso of that humanoid attacker began to darken in the center. Had the low-burning jellied gasoline finally had an effect? The humanoid glanced down at its body. White mist began to vent from the scorched region, as if a pressurized internal environment had been breached. The humanoid promptly collapsed.

Robert exhaled in relief.

He stared at the body on the aReal display, and realized no other scorch marks had appeared. If that breach had indeed been caused by the jellied gasoline, then the attack wouldn’t have been concentrated on a single area like that.

It had to have been the Raakarr weapons finally having some effect on the enemy.

He was basically exposed without that combat robot on top of him, and he wondered if he should crawl to a different spot while the Raakarr held the attention of the attackers, and maybe take cover behind the five cigar-shaped objects.

But then one of the dark mists dropped, the rolling fog slamming to the snow with a loud thud. And then another mist toppled in the same manner.

The attackers must have adapted their weapons to the shields the Raakarr employed, just as the humans had adapted in the past.

The remaining three Raakarr immediately dove to the ground, taking cover behind various hollows and crevices, following the example of the human platoon.

Robert decided he was going to have to stay put after all. To move at the moment, even crawl, would only serve as a death sentence.

“I need some ideas, people,” he sent over the comm.

No one answered. It seemed they were out of ideas.

Dead out.

SIL HAD WATCHED the first few moments unfold in helpless horror. But then the detached commander in her had kicked into gear. As had the tactical officer, and the scientist.

She led the team responsible for studying the laser weapons affixed to the forelegs of the dead Raakarr aboard the Callaway. Her team hadn’t yet figured out how to activate the weapons, but she had spent several hours reviewing the alien’s captivity logs, concentrating on those times the creature had fired its weapon into the coated glass in an attempt to escape.  The prisoner often changed the frequency of the modulated lasers in realtime as it fired: a useful ability when one needed to probe the defenses of a target.

For the current battle, when the tactician in her had taken over, she immediately contacted Captain Dallas and asked for permission to switch to the non-visual band on one of the watching HS4s. The captain approved—he was likely too distracted to disagree. As she had suspected they would do, the Raakarr were rotating through the different frequency bands of their lasers, trying to find one that inflicted damage against the attackers. When the aliens finally found one that worked and burned a hole into one of the humanoids, she immediately captured that modulating waveform and transferred it to her aReal. It had taken the successful frequency roughly five seconds to penetrate. If the Raakarr had combined their weapons and fired at the same spot, only one second would have been required. But perhaps the successful Raakarr hadn’t realized he had found the correct frequency until the damage appeared.

Unfortunately, the attackers got lucky shortly thereafter, and apparently found the specific frequency they needed to penetrate the Raakarr shields in turn, and then shot down the instigating alien. Or perhaps the attackers had merely been holding back until that moment; she noted they had only destroyed robots up until that point. But with one of their own number out of the game, the stakes had been raised.  

It appeared the fallen Raakarr hadn’t transmitted the winning waveform to his brethren before death, because the surviving aliens, who had taken cover, were still using random frequencies.

The M114 rifles and M1170 heavy guns could match those frequencies if programmed properly, but the intensity was far lower than the Raakarr weaponry. Still, if the platoon combined its firepower...

She pulled up the waveform editor of the M114 and M1170 in turn, and with the help of the AI, put together a modulation program and tuned it to fit each weapon. When she was satisfied that the frequencies were close enough to the Raakarr output, she tapped in the captain.

“Chopra,” Captain Dallas said.

“I need you to tap me into Chief Galaal,” she said. “I’ve found the laser frequencies we can use to penetrate the armor of the attackers.”

“How?”

“I’ve studied the Raakarr weaponry,” Sil responded. “I’ve learned that they can modulate the laser frequencies they use in realtime. I’ve watched them do that very thing in the current battle, and I’ve got a recording of the specific waveform one of them used to breach the humanoid’s armor. That Raakarr is dead now, so it’s up to us. We can program the platoon’s weapons to fire at the same modulation. I want to transmit the program changes to the MOTH team leader.”

“Tapping in the chief,” Captain Dallas returned.

A moment later the connection indicator showed that Rade was conferenced in, audio-only.

“Chief Galaal,” Captain Dallas said. “Captain Chopra has found a way to help your team.”

Sil spoke up immediately, not wanting to waste precious seconds to the lag time necessary for her father’s response. “Chief, I have a frequency modulation program I’m sending your way.” She hit the transmit button. “Program it into a free frequency slot on your rifles. It’s the same modulation the fallen Raakarr used to penetrate the armor of the attackers. You’ll have to concentrate your fire platoon-wide on roughly the same spot in order to inflict any appreciable damage.”

“Got it,” came Rade’s delayed reply. “Thank you, Captain Chopra.”

Sil closed her eyes and exhaled. She’d done her part.

She just hoped it was enough.

twenty-two

Rade peered past the edge of the icy fissure he was using for cover and then retransmitted the code his daughter had sent him.

“I’m dispatching a modulation program,” Rade said over the comm. “Upload it to a free spot in your rifles immediately. Alpha-2, send the modulations to the Raptor as well. Let’s see what those Cobras can do.”

“On it,” Alpha-2 returned.

Rade transferred the program into his own gun, placing it into slot three. Slot two was reserved for the modulations necessary to penetrate the alien darkness; he’d revert to that program if—or more likely, when—the Raakarr turned on them.

“When you’ve loaded the program,” Rade continued. “Set your rifles to follow mode. I’ll be the lead gun. Alpha-2, instruct the Raptor to fire on the same target as the lead gun. Same spot, if possible. Otherwise, anywhere will do.”

On the HUD of his faceplate, he watched as the rifle indicators beside each surviving member of the platoon became yellow in turn, indicating that follow mode was active. When every rifle was ready, he aimed past the edge of his hide. He pointed at the center of mass of the nearest humanoid, five meters away. While the other tangos remained in place, that one strode across the terrain, toward the dark mists. It had already terminated another Raakarr, leaving only two of the allied aliens. The attackers ignored the crouching members of the human party for the moment.

Rade waited for the yellow “following” rifles on his HUD to become green, which indicated that the exoskeletons and robots arms in the unit had brought every laser to bear on the exact same spot as the lead weapon.

Rade tracked the tango, keeping his sights on the torso, and when the last indicator turned green he squeezed the trigger and held it.

All of the laser rifles in the platoon fired at the same time. According to the aReal, the beam from the Raptor far above joined in, striking the exact same area. In seconds a hole had burned through that yellow-white armor. The inner atmosphere of the humanoid’s suit vented and the enemy toppled like a rag doll.

The other attackers immediately angled their palms toward the platoon positions. A partially exposed Centurion was terminated immediately.

Rade took out two more of the humanoids in the same way.

The final attacker lowered its palm and hastened toward the cylindrical anomalies. As Rade tracked the enemy in his sights, the humanoid scooped up two of the objects. Either those things were extremely light, or the humanoid was extremely strong.

Rade squeezed the trigger, but the humanoid bounded two quick steps forward and then thrusted skyward. In three seconds it was a mere dot in the sky.

Rade was stunned. No one had a jetpack that powerful.

“Alpha-2, track that with the Raptor,” Rade instructed.

“Alpha-2 is gone, sir,” Alpha-3 answered. “I have assumed air support duties.”

Rade hadn’t noticed Alpha-2’s indicator had turned red on his HUD.

“Are you tracking the tango?” Rade asked.

“Trying,” Alpha-3 returned. “The Raptor can’t seem to get a bead. The cloud coverage is making it difficult.”

“Captain Dallas, do you have anything?” Rade sent.

Three seconds later the response came. “We do. The target has already reached the thermosphere. It seems to be headed sunward. It’s moving way too fast for any sort of intercept on our part. We’re letting it go.”

“Roger that,” Rade returned.

ROBERT PUSHED HIMSELF upright. He stared at the body of one of the fallen humanoids nearby.

“My head is killing me,” Aaron said.

Robert hadn’t noticed it in the heat of the moment, but his head was pounding, too. “Radiation poisoning?” A shared headache was usually the first symptom.

“What you’re feeling are the aftereffects of a psychic attack,” Barrick sent over the comm. So the man had survived. He sounded unnervingly calm. “Our brains were apparently incompatible, otherwise an incident similar to the one where I assumed control of the Callaway would have occurred, rather than a mere headache.”

The commander wasn’t going to tell him about the modifications that were supposed to protect against that very thing. The incident would mark the second psychic attack that had penetrated the suits, after the images of war the cigar-shaped objects had forced into his head. He was going to have to have a little talk with Connie when he got back...

“Bravo-3,” Chief Galaal said over the comm. “You’re our corpsman. See if you can help the fallen Raakarr.” He glanced at Robert. “With your permission of course, Commander.”

“Granted,” Robert said. “Barrick, tell your friends to deactivate those shields so we can attend the fallen.”

“No,” Barrick said, emerging from where he had taken cover behind a rock protrusion. “Leave them. They’re dead. And even if they weren’t, the Raakarr wouldn’t want your assistance. It would be a dishonor.”

Bravo-3 had swiveled a new limb into place on its right arm, and the long fingers reminded Robert of the telescoping digits of a surgical Weaver robot. “Shall I proceed, Chief?”

“Stand down,” Chief Galaal told the robot.

Robert approached the body of the nearest humanoid.  “Chief, can I get a robot over here?”

Bravo-3 obliged. O’Rielly joined him as well.

“How are you holding up?” Robert asked the science officer.

“I’m alive,” O’Rielly said. “That’s something.”

“It is,” Robert agreed. “Bravo-3, I think these are environmental suits of some kind. I want you to see if you can find a helmet seam. And if you can, tear it off.”

The robot squatted beside the head and began examining it closely.

O’Rielly meanwhile dropped to one knee and held a scanner over the hole in the torso. A blackened cylinder had been carved right through the body.

Bravo-3 pointed its laser at the featureless head. “There is no seam. May I use my laser, Commander?”

“Go ahead,” Robert said. “But the lasers didn’t have any effect before, so what makes you think they’ll do anything now?”

“Just a hunch, Commander,” Bravo-3 responded.

Robert pursed his lips. A combat robot having a hunch? Well, he supposed things like intuition were within the capabilities of their programming. Centurions needed to be able to respond to constantly changing combat situations, after all.

The robot squeezed the trigger. A barely visible plume of smoke rose from the humanoid’s neck region.

“Good hunch,” Robert said.

“I detected a bigger than expected drop in thermal energy from the surface of the suit when it was breached,” the robot explained. “Consistent with the cessation of an energy field of sorts.” The smoke plume slid sideways across the surface as the robot continued to cut. When the laser reached the rightmost edge, the robot stopped cutting and flipped the body, nearly hitting O’Rielly, who was still kneeling beside it.

“Hey!” O’Rielly said, stepping back.

“Sorry sir,” Bravo-3 said. It resumed cutting.

When it completed another crossing of the neck assembly from the back, the Centurion strapped the gun over its shoulder, knelt, and grabbed the head of the alien. It twisted its arms and the head came right off. Or rather, the helmet, because a pale, bald crown presented itself.

“Turn the body over,” Robert said.

Bravo-3 complied, revealing a vaguely human face: there were two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. But with that receding forehead and those prominent brow ridges, the features were more Neanderthal than anything else. 

O’Rielly knelt, holding his scanner right up to that face and taking a sample.

“You’re not going to believe this, Commander.” O’Rielly said a moment later. “But I’m looking at the DNA and, well, this is just a preliminary analysis, mind you, but ninety-nine percent of the base pairs are a match to humans.”

“Ninety-nine percent?” Robert said. “How is that possible?”

Behind his faceplate, O’Rielly pursed his lips. “I’m not sure. But I can certainly speculate.”

“Speculate away.”

“We believe the Elder created the Slipstreams when they operated in our galaxy between three and eight hundred thousand years ago. It’s possible they could have interacted with the descendants of humans during that time. Perhaps even captured some.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? The same reason we capture animals for our zoos. Or to serve as pets. Or perhaps they were merely creating some sort of ark to preserve various specimens of Earth from that time, before they left the Milky Way behind for good.”

“So they captured Neanderthals?” Robert asked.

“Maybe,” O’Rielly said. “Or perhaps they captured homo sapiens, and thanks to evolution, we have a human sub-species here that has grown to resemble the Neanderthal.”

Robert didn’t know what to think. “So you believe we’ve stumbled into territory that belongs to the Elder, and they’re using human stock as servants?”

“That was just one theory,” O’Rielly admitted. “Another is: these could be the Elder themselves. Maybe humanity originated from outer space, and we’re the descendants of the Elder. There are so many possible explanations, Commander, I can’t even begin to guess which one is the actual.”

“Commander,” Chief Galaal said.

Robert glanced at the chief, who gestured for him to look behind.

The two surviving black mists had begun to retreat. They dragged the other darknesses along behind them. The small black spheres that served as their HS4 equivalents moved with them.

“We have to go,” Barrick said. The telepath was bounding after the retreating mists.

“Wait?” Robert said. “What’s going on? I thought the Raakarr wanted to investigate this anomaly together.”

“They have seen enough, I believe,” Barrick returned.

“What about Bridgette?” Robert said. “I want her back.”

“I’m sorry, Commander Cray. That’s a matter we’ll have to negotiate later.”

“Don’t the Raakarr want to collect one of the objects?” O’Rielly asked. “Or a humanoid body?”

“No,” Barrick responded. “Good luck, Commander, in the coming days. Tell your captain to be strong.”

A moment later a message from the captain arrived. “I need the platoon to return to the ship immediately, Commander. An urgent matter has arisen.”

“Roger that,” Robert returned.

He stared at the retreating form of Barrick and the mists a while longer and then sighed.

Bridgette’s rescue will have to wait another day.

He glanced at the cylindrical objects. There were still three left.

“We’re getting off this ugly ball of ice and rock, people,” Robert said over the comm. “Gather up those eggs or whatever the hell they are. And all four humanoid bodies.”

“Assuming we can actually lift them...” O’Rielly said.

A combat robot marched over to the objects and hoisted one into the air. Another robot easily lifted a suited humanoid.

“It appears we can carry them,” the Centurion said with a hint of amusement in its tone.

twenty-three

Jonathan stared at the tactical display. He had reduced the video feed from Commander Cray’s helmet to take up a quarter of the screen in the lower left, and instead watched the red dot representing the humanoid move toward the inner planets until the active sensors could no longer track it.

“We’ve lost it, sir,” Ensign McNamara, the second watch ops officer, said.

Jonathan nodded. They were lucky to track it as long as they had, given how difficult it was to follow something the size of their own spacesuits. It moved on a course that would give a wide berth to the new heat signatures that had been detected from the inner planets moments ago.

“Do we have a match on the six heat signatures, yet?” Jonathan asked.

“They’ve almost moved out of the influence of the gas giant.” McNamara paused. Then he looked up. “The signatures are consistent with five Raakarr dart ships, and one of their capital ships.”

Those ships had moved out from the cover of the third gas giant in the system. They had been waiting there all that time, obviously preparing for some sort of ambush. The dart ship on the other side of the current planet no doubt knew about their appearance, given that they were directly in the line of sight. Jonathan had attempted to contact the so-called allies via the telemetry probes he had in place above the poles, but so far he had received no answer.

Shortly before the appearance of the ships, gamma ray radiation had emanated from the Slipstream behind them, its frequency modulations consistent with Raakarr communications. Though the Callaway couldn’t detect any objects at its current distance from the wormhole, Ensign McNamara theorized that a Raakarr probe had traveled through the Slipstream and was issuing instructions to any allies waiting in the system.

The newcomers wouldn’t have picked up the signals yet, because the gamma rays were still an hour and a half away from reaching them. Their emergence from behind the gas giant at nearly the precise time had to be a coincidence. The Raakarr vessel on the other side of the current planet, however, would have definitely received the gamma rays, thanks to its own telemetry drones in place near the poles.

“The alien telemetry drones are withdrawing,” McNamara announced.

Jonathan rubbed his chin. “That can’t be good. Status on our so-called allies?”

“They’re still in orbit,” the ensign said. “And the alien fighters remain in escort positions.”

“Waiting for their children to come home...” Jonathan mused.

A moment later: “Our Dragonflies have docked,” McNamara said. “As has the Raptor.”

“Status on the captured Dragonfly?” Jonathan asked.

“According to our telemetry drones, it just reached the Raakarr ship.” McNamara paused. “Their vessel appears to be finally breaking orbit, along with the alien fighters.”

“Do we have a flight path?”

McNamara paused. “They’re setting a course sunward. Toward the new arrivals.”

“Try to raise them again,” Jonathan told the second watch comm officer.

“No response,” the officer said.

“Nav, can we intercept them?” Jonathan asked.

“No, Captain,” the second watch nav officer returned. “Not from the current position of the fleet. By the time we get to the other side of the planet they’ll be millions of kilometers away.”

“Which is why they were happy to agree to that orbital arrangement in the first place,” Jonathan said, feeling his frustration rising.

“I’m detecting gamma ray bursts directed from the fleeing ship to the newcomers,” Ensign McNamara said. “Those rays will reach them in approximately two hours.”

Jonathan nodded. “Communicating their response to the receipt of new orders, no doubt. It seems obvious to me that our alien alliance of convenience is over.”

Robert joined him on the bridge shortly thereafter and Jonathan updated him on the tactical situation. There was no need to debrief Robert on his mission in turn, as the captain had watched the whole thing unfold live. There was only one question he had for Robert regarding the mission, and he extended his noise canceler around his first officer to ask it:

“You froze down there at one point, Commander. When you were first looking at those anomalies. What happened?”

Robert hesitated, then said: “Telepathy.”

Jonathan felt one of his eyebrows rise. “Telepathy?”

“Yes,” the commander said. “The things tried to communicate with me, I think. They transmitted apocalyptic scenes directly to my mind. I think they’re alive.”

“You called them ‘eggs’ down there at one point,” Jonathan said. “Still, a machine can transmit psychic energy, too.” He tapped his lips. “Telepathic images... so that would be the second time the psychic shielding failed. Assuming Barrick was right about a psychic blast causing the headaches.”

“Yes,” Robert said. “Though the shielding did seem to work against Barrick. As far as I know, anyway. But who knows, maybe he’s controlling my mind at this very moment and none of this is real.” Robert laughed nervously.

“The newcomers have broken away from the gas giant entirely,” Ensign McNamara said. “I’ve got an update on their course vector. They’re definitely headed toward the greenhouse planet. Or, more likely, us.”

The captain dismissed the noise canceler and asked: “What’s the ETA?”

“They’re two days out.”

Jonathan instructed the second watch tactical officer to keep the fleet on the far side of the planet, away from the incoming ships, with the telemetry drones in place above the poles to provide surveillance.

Connie tapped in a few minutes later. “We’ve transferred the dead Raakarr to a smaller receptacle, and placed the new specimens in the specially-designed containment area instead. I’ve adjusted the atmosphere and temperature to match the planetary surface. The anomalies are continuing to draw heat energy from the environment, and are issuing gravimetric distortions. We’re going to have to continually reinforce the container if we want it to hold them, just like we have to do with the Raakarr body.”

“Thanks for the update,” Jonathan replied. “Do whatever you can to find out what those objects are.” He refused to call them “eggs.”

“Will do.”

When she tapped out, he glanced at his first officer. “What do you think, Commander? Should we return those objects to the surface? Before that humanoid comes back with some pissed off friends?”

Robert rubbed his earlobe. “I think we need to find out as much about them as we can, while we can. And we can’t do that unless the objects are in our possession.”

“Agreed.”

“And you never know,” Robert said. “Maybe we can use them as bargaining chips at some point.”

“Maybe,” Jonathan agreed. He turned toward the second watch comm officer. “Continue hailing attempts with the Raakarr vessel.”

Miko wasn’t on the current watch, so Jonathan tapped into the tactical officer with his aReal.

“Miko, are you aware of the current situation?” Jonathan sent.

“I’ve been following along, yes, Captain,” Miko returned.

“Good. I want you to come up with some strategies for the fleet.”

“Aye sir,” Miko replied.

Six alien dart ships and one capital ship against five human warships and two civilian ships. Not exactly an even match. Miko certainly had his work cut out for him.

Two hours later:

“I’m getting a response back from the initial active scans of the newcomers,” McNamara said. “This is interesting. According to the readings, their hulls aren’t made of the usual steel composite we’ve seen in Raakarr ships. Instead, they’re composed of an iron ore that’s almost an exact match to elements found in one of the moons orbiting the giant. I think those ships were built recently, with construction beginning shortly after the first alien ship, T3, arrived.”

Jonathan glanced at Robert, who nodded.

“It’s possible T3 was equipped with a slightly more advanced version of our 3D printers,” the commander said. “Able to print the components necessary for reactors and power systems from only a few raw materials.”

“Then why not reproduce the usual steel composites in their hulls exactly?” Jonathan said.

“Maybe the energy expenditure didn’t justify perfection,” Robert argued.

“If they truly have that ability,” Jonathan said. “Then they lied about not having exploratory shuttles. They could have readily 3D-printed their own. And they probably did just that. But the Raakarr still wanted us to go down to the surface with them. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Robert said. “That’s the part I don’t get.”

“Unless they knew we would be ambushed by a third actor,” Jonathan said.

“But if they knew, how would the ambush help them? They suffered three casualties.”

Jonathan sighed. “We’re dealing with alien motivations and thinking, here. Never an easy thing to figure out.”

“No,” Robert agreed.

“Captain!” Ensign McNamara said. The urgency was obvious in his voice.

“What is it now, Ensign?” Jonathan said. He was dreading the response.

“The thirty reinforcements have arrived,” McNamara said.

Jonathan glanced at the tactical display. Sure enough, from the Slipstream on the outskirts of the system, thirty red dots had appeared.

“We weren’t expecting the main group for another day or so.” Robert sounded stunned.

“It’s possible we experienced some sort of chrono-dilation in the wormhole,” Ensign McNamara said. “Due to time effects previously unnoticed at the shorter distances of ordinary Slipstreams, effects that would have been amplified by the potentially millions or even hundreds of millions of light years we traveled.”

“Maxwell?” Jonathan asked.

“It is possible,” Maxwell agreed. “Though the more likely explanation is that the reinforcements reached the Slipstream faster than originally estimated.”

“Have we determined their course yet?” Jonathan asked the ops station.

McNamara nodded. “They’re headed toward the greenhouse planet we currently orbit. So basically: us.”

“How long until they reach us?” Jonathan asked McNamara.

“It looks like Maxwell is right about their speed,” the ensign answered. “They’re traveling slightly faster than we originally thought possible.” He looked up. “They’ll be here in two days.”

Jonathan rubbed his forehead. “Six ships two days out in front of us. Thirty ships two days out behind us. Just when you think things can’t get any worse.” He tapped in the tactical officer. “Miko, regarding the strategies you’re working on: I’m going to need you to make some slight adjustments to your starting conditions...”

twenty-four

Eating lunch, Wolf and Lin sat together in the mess. They had once more elected to forgo Wardroom One for the better food of the enlisted mess.

The tension was obvious in the hall, which was quieter than usual, though crowded as ever. Most of the conversations taking place at the various tables were hushed. What laughter there was seemed muted and forced. Everyone had heard the news by then: thirty-six more alien ships had arrived. The fleet was hopelessly outnumbered.

Heads turned and whispers rippled through the hall as someone new entered the mess. Obviously it was some high ranking officer. Wolf leaned to one side to see who it was and he spotted Commander Cray.

That was highly unusual. The executive officer was in charge of the officer’s wardroom, and he never ate in any of the lower rank messes. In fact, while technically he was allowed to grab meals there, it was considered an abuse of power or unbecoming conduct. Except... the Commander didn’t actually grab a tray and walk to the food counter. He appeared grumpy. Wolf didn’t blame him: if Lin had been a prisoner like the commander’s wife, Wolf wouldn’t have been very happy either.

Wolf very carefully didn’t meet the commander’s eye, and hoped Cray would pass them by. Unfortunately, the executive officer approached their table directly.

“Good evening Lieutenant Commander, Lieutenant.” He nodded to Wolf and Lin in turn. There was no warmth in his voice.

“Good evening, XO!” Wolf and Lin replied.

The commander grabbed a free chair from a nearby table and sat with them.

“So, Commander,” Wolf said cheerily. “To what do we owe the honor?” Couldn’t be good, he knew. 

“Lieutenant Commander Albright has brought it to my attention that the two of you are fraternizing,” Cray said without preamble.

Wolf was shocked. Not so much because of the accusation, but because of who had made it. He always thought Albright was the type of man who would have dealt with a problem on his own, rather than involving a superior officer.

“I actually knew about it two months ago,” Cray continued.

“Albright told you two months ago?” Wolf asked weakly.

“No,” Cray said. “Maxwell did. Isn’t that right, Maxwell?”

The AI answered, its voice coming through their aReals immediately. “That is correct.”

“I chose to ignore the news,” the commander said. “We’ve been under a lot of stress. But now that Albright has brought it to my attention, I can’t brush it aside any longer. Rather than press formal charges, he wants to split you up. I’ve agreed.”

“Split us up?” Wolf said numbly. “To different squadrons?” That wouldn’t be so bad. At least he’d still be able to see her outside of sorties.

“No, to a different ship. I’ve had her reassigned to the Salvador. A shuttle is waiting in hangar bay five to take her over. You are to pack your things and report there immediately, Lieutenant Akido. You have thirty minutes, so make it snappy. Once you dock you will report to the Salvador’s space wing commander for assignment. They need every pilot they can get over there.”

Wolf stared open-mouthed. One moment he had been basically living the life of his dreams, without consequences, and the next everything had come crashing down.

“Yes, sir!” Lin told the commander weakly.

“Well, go,” Cray said.

She got up, saluted, and hurried from the mess.

The commander stared at Wolf. “You’re punishment won’t be so light, I’m afraid. While Lieutenant Akido gets to keep her wings aboard the Salvador, as of this moment, yours are clipped.”

Wolf stiffened. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Exactly what I said. We have enough pilots aboard the Callaway. So you’re going to sit out all upcoming sorties, Lieutenant Commander. Indefinitely.”

JONATHAN CALLED MIKO and Robert to his office a few hours later, along with the space wing commander, Lieutenant Commander Albright. Maxwell was there, too, of course, the omnipresent AI seeing and hearing everything that was discussed.

Robert and Albright seemed slightly agitated, and refused to look at one another: Jonathan guessed they had been at loggerheads with one another, likely over some administrative matter that didn’t concern the captain. He knew they would put aside their differences soon enough. They would have to.

“So you said you had a plan ready, Miko?” Jonathan asked the tactical officer when he and the others were settled.

“I do, Captain,” Miko responded. “Do you remember when we were still in Vega 951, and the enemy reinforcements first appeared I mentioned using the gas giant to level the playing field by reducing the speed and maneuverability of the enemy? And utilizing the Grimm and Marley as bait to get them to split up their forces?”

Jonathan nodded slowly. “I remember.”

“Well, what I want to do takes that idea to the next level...” Miko went on to explain his strategy.

Jonathan tapped his lips when the tactical officer finished. “It’s risky, but it just might work. Comments? Suggestions?”

Albright provided his input, as did Maxwell. Jonathan applied some of his own ideas, making tweaks to the plan.

Robert, meanwhile, remained uncharacteristically silent the entire time.

“Commander,” Jonathan said. “Look, I know you’re angry because I’ve ruled out any rescue attempt for Bridgette, but that doesn’t mean you should hold back your opinion.”

“I’m not angry at all,” Robert said. “In fact, I understand completely. It’s not worth risking the lives of MOTHs and expensive combat robots to save one woman. A civilian at that. We’ve had similar conversations in the past.”

Jonathan pressed his lips together and nodded grimly. “We’ll avoid firing upon the ship where she’s imprisoned.”

Robert lowered his gaze. “As I said, I understand, sir.”

He’s already given up, Jonathan realized. My poor, torn friend.

“You know,” the captain said. “She probably has the greatest chance of surviving the next few days out of all of us. You realize that, don’t you commander?”

Robert merely stared straight ahead.

The captain sighed before continuing. “I’ve arranged a fleet conference at sixteen hundred hours. Miko will present his strategy to the other captains. Maxwell, set a course sunward immediately, using the parameters from Miko’s presentation, and engage. We have no time to lose. Relay the orders to the fleet.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to run the strategy past the captains, first?” Maxwell asked.

“I’m sure. Like I said, we have no time to dawdle. I’ll present the strategy at sixteen hundred. If they don’t agree, I’ll listen to their arguments, of course. But unless there’s a fatal flaw we’ve somehow missed, I won’t be changing the plan. There’s no time for second guessing, not now.”

He glanced at Robert. “Commander, instruct the engineers of the Marley and Maelstrom to begin the necessary structural modifications they’ll need for the upcoming battle. Let’s just hope they have enough time to finish.” He surveyed the faces seated before him. “If there’s nothing else, that will be all.”

Shortly after the others vacated the office, Jonathan received a call from Lieutenant Harv Boroker.

Jonathan tapped him in. “Tell me you’ve figured out the alien fighter technology, Harv.”

“Getting close!” the chief weapons engineer replied cheerfully.

Jonathan smiled in defeat. “Guess it was too much to hope for.”

“Don’t let your hopes drop all the way to the deck just yet,” Harv said. “I heard you fellas were trying to level the playing field...”

“You heard right,” Jonathan told him. Miko was supposed to inform him of the planned strategy, as Harv’s participation was crucial. “What do you think?”

“I like it,” the lieutenant replied. “That Miko is devious as hell. But... I’ll need to borrow a few more 3D printing drones to give him what he wants in time.”

“I’m authorizing you to use every 3D printer you need,” Jonathan said. “Get it done, Lieutenant.”

JONATHAN STOOD IN cargo bay seven, in front of the glass container Lieutenant Connie Myers was using to study the newly recovered specimens. The three cylindrical anomalies resided near the center of the container, while the four lifeless humanoids were situated around them. A glass partition separated the tank into two compartments; robotic arms were mounted into that partition for manipulating the specimens without entering the main chamber.

The exoskeleton “environmental suits” had been removed from two of the bodies, which looked surprisingly humanlike. One was male, the other female. Because Connie had adjusted the atmosphere and temperature to match the planetary surface, the skin of those bodies was completely white. It probably didn’t help that the three anomalies drained what little heat there was from the surrounding area.

Those porcelain faces reminded him somewhat of Famina, the woman he had abandoned on a mountaintop long ago. But only because of their color. The features were nothing like hers, nor like any other living humans. Instead, they belonged on man’s distant ancestors. 

While the faces had two eyes, a nose, and a mouth, the foreheads receded drastically above stark brow ridges. The noses were thick, ape-like, the lips even thicker. The ears were little more than holes on the surface of the bald heads, but Connie reported scarring consistent with the removal of external lobes, possibly at birth in some ritualistic practice.

“So have you figured out what they are?” Jonathan asked when Connie joined him.

“We have,” the chief scientist said.

Jonathan looked away from the specimens to regard her. “Oh?”

“They’re undoubtedly human.”

Jonathan folded his arms. “Really. You know we’re in a different galaxy, right?”

“Their DNA is a ninety-nine percent match to our own,” she said. “What are the odds of finding an alien species out there whose members have followed nearly precisely the same evolutionary path as our own? Astronomical. Though I suppose, well, there is a theory that the universe is infinite, and if true, that means there are an infinite number of galaxies, which in turn implies that there might be a world out there similar to Earth where it may be possible for a species to evolve with nearly the same DNA as our own. The whole ‘give a roomful of monkeys enough paper and enough time and they’ll draw something legible’ deal. But even if that were the case, what are the odds we’d contact that species at precisely the right moment in history when their homegrown DNA proved the closest match to our own? Again astronomical.”

“So you’re going with O’Rielly’s working theory then?” Jonathan said. “That aliens kidnapped Neanderthals from ancient Earth and this is the result?”

“That’s one theory we’re working on,” Connie said. “And it does fit, if you think about it. A one percent deviation in DNA is entirely within the realm of possibility, given the amount of time that’s passed since the Elders disappeared. Assuming the Elders were the kidnappers, of course. Also, keep in mind that Neanderthals were already a ninety-nine point seven percent match, in terms of DNA base pairs, to modern humans.”

“Please don’t tell me you think the three anomalies are ‘eggs,’ too?” Jonathan said.

“That’s the working assumption,” she replied.

“But you have no proof,” he said.

She bit her lower lip. “No,” she admitted.

Jonathan sighed. “If it’s true these are alien embryos of some kind, then what the hell would our human forebears or distant offspring or whatever you want to call them be doing guarding these eggs?”

“Who says they were guarding the eggs?” Connie replied. “Maybe they were hunting them.”

Jonathan scratched his chin. “So many possibilities.”

“An infinite number,” she agreed.

“But all you have are guesses so far. I want evidence. No more theories. Give me concrete proof.” He turned to go. “Keep me updated on your findings, Lieutenant.”

twenty-five

Jonathan sat in his office, thrumming his fingers on the table, willing the final minutes to the conference to pass faster. He wasn’t sure how the captains would take the plan. It was dangerous, daring. And there was a good chance it wouldn’t work. Still, it was the best chance they had.

The alien course vectors had updated shortly after the fleet left orbit. The two units definitely intended to converge on the human task group. It seemed obvious they wanted to fight.

Jonathan stared at the aReal-generated stars beside him. Hundreds of millions of years of evolution had operated in tandem, creating the two lifeforms known as the humans and the Raakarr. Different paths had led each race to where they were that day. Cultures and social norms had arisen based on the structure of their respective brains, and the influence of their environments. Ships had been built, planets colonized and terraformed, space-faring status achieved. These twin evolutions had occurred hundreds of lightyears apart, until fate decided to take an opposing fleet from each species and intertwine their paths, hurling them into a common battleground millions of lightyears distant, in a galaxy far away from anything either race had ever known. Or at least, anything humanity had ever known.

He knew so very little about the aliens he faced. The Raakarr possessed an equally small amount of knowledge about his own species.

We should be working together, learning about each other, not fighting.

He sighed. Humanity was still trying to find its way in the universe. As were the Raakarr. And war, protecting one’s territory—one’s species—was all either of them really knew.

A small tone echoed from his aReal. One minute to the conference.

Time to tap in.

“Maxwell, connect to fleet conference,” Jonathan said. “ID three five eight.”

“Connecting to fleet conference three five eight,” Maxwell returned. “Please provide the passcode.”

“Five seven seven five.”

“Access granted,” Maxwell said. “Establishing remote connection.”

His aReal grew opaque and the office was completely replaced with a conference room that would not have been out of place in a president’s situation room.

He ran his gaze across the faces of the captains who sat in swivel chairs around the long, oval table. Rail of the Salvador. Rodriguez of the Dagger. Carter of the Aurelia. Smith of the Maelstrom.

And then there were the two civilian captains. Salari of the Builder Marley. Souza of the Harvester Grimm.

Behind them, standing against the portraits of the historical navy officers that decorated the walls, were the surviving captains of the vessels that had been lost. While they wouldn’t be participating directly in the battle, their input would be considered. Among them were Captains Felix, Brown and Chopra. At the front of the room, Lieutenant Miko stood beside a virtual holographic display.

Roughly half the captains wore aReal spectacles, like Jonathan. The remainder had either contact lenses or Implants. While anyone present could have tweaked their virtual representations, that was considered bad form. As such, he saw them as their crews did, warts and all. While their bodies were lean, with a hint of muscularity underneath many uniforms, most had had very little rejuvenations done to their faces, preferring the weathered skin and grizzled hair that human beings unconsciously associated with command. Men wanted to follow experienced officers, and age was an indicator of that experience, however biased the notion was.

The only two who bucked that trend were Captains Rail and Chopra. Rail’s youthful face spoke of several rejuvenation treatments. Too bad a grumpy frown seemed permanently stamped onto her lips; that, combined with her glacial blue eyes, ruined her otherwise attractive features. Chopra, meanwhile, was only forty years old, and while she might have had a few treatments done, her youthful features were likely the result of good genetics.

While the seven ships of Task Group 72.5 resided within a five hundred kilometer diameter of one another, the communications delay was a rather hefty five seconds, mostly due to the large size of the dataset—the constantly updating three dimensional vertex data had to be continually streamed to meet the two hundred and forty frames per second requirement of the aReals.

“Welcome, Captains,” Jonathan said. “And thank you for your patience during these trying times.” When the fleet had broken orbit, several of the captains had contacted him privately, wanting to know the strategy and the part they would play, but Jonathan had told them to wait until the conference. “As you all know, we have a day and a half until the first of the enemy intercepts the task group. And it won’t be long thereafter when thirty more vessels arrive on our heels. We face our greatest test yet. Miko, if you will.”

The tactical officer gave his presentation on the strategy the fleet would employ in the coming battle.

When he finished speaking Jonathan said: “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He turned toward the captains. “Comments or questions?”

Not unexpectedly, Captain Rail was one of the first to speak.

“We have only one nuclear,” she said. “No real kinetic kill missiles. This battle is going to end very badly for us.”

“What choice do we have, Captain?” Jonathan asked. “Would you prefer to abandon ship now, evacuate to the surface of that planet, and hope the Raakarr don’t find the caves we’re hiding in?”

“There has to be a way to avoid all out confrontation,” Rail said. “A way to resolve this diplomatically. Surely the Raakarr would see the wisdom of working together. They did before...”

“Sure,” Jonathan said. “That was before their thirty friends arrived. Friends who probably weren’t too happy when they learned we destroyed most of the ships they sent to Vega 951.”

“Is there no way we can communicate with them?” Captain Carter of the Aurelia asked.

“So far, neither alien task unit has answered our communication requests,” Jonathan said. “Meanwhile, the two units have been exchanging gamma ray radiation amongst themselves. We have to assume they’re communicating, coordinating a planned attack.”

“What if the aliens’ intentions prove peaceful?” Captain Rodriguez of the Dagger said.

Jonathan felt one of his eyebrows rise. “You think their intentions are peaceful, given the pursuit course they’ve plotted, and their refusal to answer our comm attempts? They have a human telepath aboard one of their ships who can readily communicate with us. They have no excuse not to answer.”

“I know it’s far-fetched,” Rodriguez said. “But we have to consider every possibility.”

Jonathan sighed. “Come on, Captain Rodriguez. You know I’m right.”

Rodriguez pursed his lips. “We should at least not be the ones to fire first.”

“I can’t promise that,” Jonathan said. “If we have the upper hand tactically, and we have a good shot, I will give the order to fire. The time for overtures of peace has passed. That said, if at all possible, the task group is to avoid destroying the prison ship, T3.”

“But there are only two human captives aboard,” Rail said. “I for one am not putting the lives of my entire crew at stake simply to save two captives. If that ship approaches on an attack vector, with its particle beam aimed at the Salvador’s hull, I will fire. With extreme prejudice.”

“If you’re in obvious danger,” Jonathan said. “Then by all means, of course fire upon it. All I’m saying is, I don’t want anyone going out of their way to destroy that ship. Spare it, if possible.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Rail said noncommittally.

“Are there any other objections to the plan?” Jonathan asked.

“I’m not big on the idea of mounting the Avengers to the hulls of the warships,” Captain Rail said. “I don’t see that we’ll have much use for the fighters after the first battle anyway.”

Jonathan sighed. “You’re not big on any of my plans, but that’s to be expected. Anyone else have any objections?”

“The Maelstrom’s AI says there is only a forty percent probability that the operation will succeed,” Captain Smith said carefully.

“Mine says thirty eight percent,” Captain Carter chimed in.

“I’ve heard a similar estimate from my own AI,” Jonathan said. “But I’ll let you all in on a little secret: a forty percent chance of success is a lot better than zero percent.” He glanced across the table. “Captains Salari and Smith, how are the structural modifications going with your respective vessels?”

“Fine,” Captain Smith said. “The Maelstrom should be ready by the initial engagement. But I don’t like the thought of putting her to the test like that.”

“Nor do I,” Captain Salari added.

“The whole point of the modifications is to ensure the Marley and Maelstrom survive intact,” Jonathan said.

“I hope you’re right, Dallas.” Smith glanced at the shipless captains standing against the bulkhead behind him. “Because I don’t want to become another wallflower.”

“We’re all hoping that,” Captain Rail said. “Because if the plan fails, we won’t be wallflowers in a virtual conference. We’ll all be dead.”

twenty-six

Wolf sat in the office of space wing commander Albright. He wasn’t sure what to expect. About an hour earlier, after bidding farewell to Lin, Wolf had invited the pilot and copilot who were scheduled to replace him to a congratulatory meal in the mess. He had grabbed the group three pieces of apple pie for dessert and, tilting his body to ensure that none of Maxwell’s cameras saw him, he had applied a special bacteria-laden powder to two of the pies. The flight crew often used the powder to haze the newbies; it was relatively harmless, save for the fact it confined the infected individuals to the head for a few hours with the shits.

Had Albright somehow discovered what Wolf had done and summoned him to receive additional disciplinary action? Or had Wolf been called upon for another reason? The reason he was hoping for...

Albright sat behind his desk. He was a tall man, bald, slightly overweight. He had never bothered to remove the port wine stain that blotched his neck and cheek. Added character, he claimed.

Albright had once been a pilot. These days, the only things he piloted was a desk.

Wolf’s aReal replaced the entire rear bulkhead behind Albright with a scene from a mountain chalet, a decorative augmentation shared with anyone who entered the office. A virtual fireplace burned in one corner, and beyond the window, virtual snow fell upon a pristine mountain landscape.

“Lieutenant Commander Hodgkin and Lieutenant Baum have both reported in sick,” Albright said. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” The relaxing environment behind the space wing commander was at odds with the tension in his voice.

“No sir,” Wolf said. “I wouldn’t know a thing about that. Sir.” Wolf suppressed a wince. He was such a bad liar.

“I see.” Albright thrummed his fingers on the desk. He gave Wolf an appraising look. “For what it’s worth, I never wanted the XO to clip your wings. You’re a damn good pilot. Too damn good. I felt that splitting you up was punishment enough. But Commander Cray was worried you might do something rash out there if Lieutenant Akido was in danger. That you’d be distracted.”

“My duty first and foremost is to the mission, sir,” Wolf said.

“I know it is,” Albright said.

“But...” Wolf hesitated.

“Speak freely,” Albright said.

“I feel betrayed, sir,” Wolf told him.

“Go on,” Albright pressed.

“If you had an issue with my behavior, you should have taken it up directly with me,” Wolf said.

Albright shook his head. “Rules are rules, son. When I catch fraternization, I report it to my superior officer immediately. Always have, always will. Whether it’s two men, two women, or a man and a woman. I warned the two of you when you first joined my group. Just like I warned everyone else. But did you listen? No.”

“How did you catch us?”

“The AI played some footage for me last night,” Albright said.

“I knew it!” Wolf said, partially standing. “Betrayed by a goddamn AI. Where was the footage taken?”

“According to the AI, the enlisted galley,” Albright said.

Wolf rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger in defeat. “There are no cameras there.”

“I know,” Albright said. “Maxwell apparently followed you with a tiny drone.”

“Great,” Wolf said. “Just what I need. A vindictive AI spying on me with a selfie drone.”

“My actions were not vindictive,” Maxwell intoned via the aReals. “I was merely performing my duty. I detected certain behaviors between you and Lieutenant Lin Akido which I deemed suspicious. I simply acted to confirm those suspicions. When my assertions proved correct, I informed Lieutenant Commander Albright.”

“The XO says you told him about your suspicions months ago,” Wolf said. “And he told you to ignore it.”

“Commander Cray told me to ignore it,” Maxwell admitted.

“But you didn’t listen,” Wolf said.

“No. I did not.”

“In any case,” Albright said. “I want to give you your wings back. With those two pilots out of action for the moment, I don’t have anyone else qualified to fly. I need you back in the void.”

Wolf sat up straighter. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll have to authorize it with the XO first,” Albright said. “Let me tap him in.”

A few moments later the aReal generated a holograph of the commander, making it appear as though he sat in the chair beside Wolf.

“Commander,” Albright said. “I have a request.”

“Go ahead,” Cray returned.

“You asked me to ground Wolf,” Albright continued.

“I did,” Cray said. His voice sounded suspicious.

“Unfortunately, the two replacements I had in mind for Wolf and his copilot have reported in sick. I don’t have any more pilots with actual fight experience I can call on. I need Wolf. Unless you’d rather have one less manned Avenger out there. It’s your call, sir.”

“The two pilots reported in sick?” Cray asked. The suspicion was even more pronounced in his tone.

“Yes sir.”

Cray glanced at Wolf. “Convenient.”

Wolf pressed his lips tightly together.

“Do I have permission to reinstate Lieutenant Commander Wolf, Commander?” Albright asked.

The commander hesitated. “There’s no one else?”

“No one.”

“What about Lieutenant Marie Evert?” Cray must have pulled up the personnel file on his aReal.

“She has no actual combat experience.”

“Lieutenant Frank Turow?”

“Again, simulation experience only.”

Cray sighed. “All right. Fine. Permission granted to reinstate Lieutenant Commander Jason Wolf.” He looked at the pilot. “You stick to the mission out there, Lieutenant Commander. You hear me? No foolish heroics, nor straying from the squadron. Akido fights for the Salvador, now.”

“No straying, sir,” Wolf agreed. “I’ll stick to the mission.”

He glanced at Albright. “Will that be all, space wing commander?”

“Yes sir,” Albright said.

The executive officer tapped out.

“Welcome back to active duty, Lieutenant Commander,” Albright said. “Report to the training center. I want you to get in as many practice flights as you can with your new copilot before launch.”

Wolf got up, but then paused by the exit hatch. “Who is my new copilot, by the way?”

WOLF MET HIS copilot, Lieutenant Frank Turow, at the training center ten minutes later.

“Hello sir!” Frank said, extending a hand. “It’s good to be serving with you, sir!”

Wolf accepted the hand and nodded. He knew the man only peripherally.

“How many flights have you made?” Wolf asked.

“I’ve made over a thousand simulated flights,” Frank answered with obvious enthusiasm.

“How many actual flights.”

Frank looked suddenly abashed. “Two, sir. A few years ago. In training.”

Wolf smiled sadly. “Get inside then.” He beckoned toward the closest simulation pod. “We have a lot of work to do.”

twenty-seven

Bridgette sat propped against the bulkhead, her suit assembly shaded blue by the glowing filaments embedded in the alien metal. She kept her suit on, not wanting to touch the alien bulkheads and deck with her bare skin.

She had heard the stories about the previous prisoners, how the aliens had used worker robots to forcibly remove their spacesuits and thermal undergarments, and how their aReals and implants had stopped working. Well, she still had her spacesuit. And her contact lens aReal still worked. The latter was a small mercy, because she could while away her days in virtual reality and forget that she was aboard an alien ship, a prisoner carrying a baby in the third trimester of pregnancy. To think, she had once been afraid of giving birth to a child aboard a human vessel...

It seemed like only yesterday she had been laughing away in the captain’s private mess, having supper with Jonathan, Robert and Stanley. Eating a luxurious meal of turkey and pasta. These days, all she had was the green, vomit-inducing gruel the aliens deigned to feed her.

Thinking about the stuff, she repressed the sudden urge to throw up. Her morning sickness had worsened since captivity. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the food or because she was using VR a lot more—some of the experiences had a tendency to inflict motion sickness, especially since she didn’t have the inner ear-stimulating headphones designed to negate that. Or perhaps the worsening of her nausea was simply because she had given up hope.

She rested a hand on her belly. She wanted to talk to Eugene, yet she knew he couldn’t really hear. Besides, there were no words she could use to comfort the baby, not anymore. She was beyond hope at that point. If a rescue was coming, it would have taken place long ago.

She felt a wave of despair coming on.

Over the past six months, she had battled depression. When it came, in the span of a day she could swing from wanting to give birth naturally, to desiring that the baby was cut out of her and gestated in a “test tube” for the rest of the term, to insisting on an abortion, and back again.

The doctor called it antenatal depression. Bridgette had refused to take antidepressants while she was pregnant, despite the doctor’s reassurances that her baby would be fine. If the depression continued into the postpartum stage, only then would she consider such a treatment. Instead she had relied on counselors and long conversations with Robert to get her past the hiccups.

Except there were no counselors anymore. No Robert.

I’m going to die. My baby’s going to die. The aliens are going to take it and dissect it. I hate having this burden inside me. I hate it...

She stared at the small cap that rested on the deck beside her. Inside it were the aReal contact lenses she had removed to give her eyes a respite. She had taken the cap from the index finger of her right glove, which covered the surgical laser used for suit repairs. The laser itself wasn’t exposed, because beneath the cap was another section of the glove that had to be folded open, which she left sealed.

She used her saliva as liquid; not the most sanitary storage conditions, but what else could she do other than not wear them? She would have to get her eyes checked for bacterial infections if she ever got back to the Callaway. Not to mention the rest of her body: the air could be crawling with alien pathogens.

Almost all of humanity required prescription lenses of some kind, as natural selection had long ago ceased to select against poor eyesight. As such, prescription contact lenses and spectacles were the perfect places for engineers to piggyback the augmented reality systems that modern humans used to communicate and interact with the world.

She continued to look longingly at the cap that held her lenses, yearning for the virtual escape contained within. She had only taken them off ten minutes ago and already she wanted to go back. She could have used the aReal in her helmet, though the available simulations and experiences were limited. And she’d have to waste precious oxygen if she did that, unless she wanted to strip off her upper assembly and hold the helmet in place with her hands. Plus the helmet was all icky from the gruel she’d put in it.

She at last gave in. Fumbling for the cap, she replaced the lenses with shaking hands. Once she logged in and the augmentation overlays appeared over her vision, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. And when she began to browse through the various programs, she experienced pleasure just reading the names. It was like being a Vaddict all over again, something she had escaped as a child, long ago.

I’ve reverted.

But before she could pick a program, she heard the subtle creak of moving metal, and looked up to watch the far bulkhead gradually slide away.

That meant her gruel had arrived.

With a sigh, she scooped up her gloves and helmet, and then clambered weakly to her feet. If she didn’t retrieve the food, the bulkhead would simply seal and she’d have to starve for the next four hours. She used the helmet as a container for the slop that served as food, as the actual bin it arrived in was too heavy to carry into the main compartment, and she couldn’t eat it all before the airlock hatch resealed.

She walked through the broad, low compartment, and wrinkled her nose as she passed the open latrine, where she ejected the excretions she made while wearing the suit.

Before she reached the airlock, a thick black mist rolled into the room.

So her gruel hadn’t arrived after all.

She remained motionless as the mist floated up to her. She refused to back down. It reached one head taller than her, so when it halted a few inches from her face, she forced herself to look up into that blackness, where she thought the head must be. Small points of light occasionally flashed within, tiny enough to confuse with her own phosphenes. She half expected a clawed limb to strike out at any moment to rip her in half, and she chose to look death in the eye.

The mist moved backward, then dispersed entirely, revealing a spacesuit. Behind the faceplate Barrick peered out. He affixed the small device—likely the darkness generator—to his belt, then he stepped to the side to remove his helmet. 

When he moved, she saw that immediately behind him stood another man who wasn’t wearing a spacesuit. Odd. Either he was an Artificial—a robot designed to appear indistinguishable from a human—or he could somehow breathe the caustic environment produced by the darkness generator. Bridgette thought it must be the former, based on what Barrick had told her before. On board that ship there will be a man. Except he isn’t a man.

“I have brought someone who would like to meet you,” Barrick said when his helmet was off. “Bridgette, meet Zhidao.”

“Zhidao,” she said. “A Sino-Korean name. And yet you are not Sino-Korean. Perhaps not even human.”

“Correct on both accounts,” the mysterious man said.

“An Artificial?” she asked.

He shrugged noncommittally.

“You’re a prisoner, too?” she said.

“More of an honored guest at this point,” Zhidao replied.

Bridgette fidgeted uncomfortably under that piercing gaze. “Why did you want to meet me?”

His expression seemed to intensify, and she had the uncanny sensation that he was inside her head. Then the feeling went away.

“You have no psychic abilities?” the man said.

“None that I know of,” Bridgette said slowly.

Zhidao frowned. “Pity. There are so few of you. I get so little chance to practice.”

Barrick’s eyes flicked nervously toward the man, and he licked his lips.

“The telepath tells me you are a woman of some influence,” Zhidao continued. “I make it a habit of meeting people of influence. Besides, I find myself missing the company of human beings. The Raakarr are, how shall we say, not the best conversationalists.”

“Okay...” Bridgette wasn’t sure what to make of the Artificial. “So you can communicate with them?”

“With the help of the telepath, I have learned how, yes. You have heard of the arrival of the reinforcements?”

Bridgette furrowed her brow. “Actually, I hadn’t.” That wouldn’t be good for the fleet.

“Well a member of the Raakarr high council is aboard one of the ships,” Zhidao said. “And the Elk faction, as the telepath calls them, have agreed in principle to give us your homeworld when they are done with it.”

“Give you my homeworld?” Bridgette truly had no idea what the Artificial was talking about. She thought its AI must be malfunctioning.

“Yes,” Zhidao continued. “Populated would be nice. But if not, the multi-universe fields produced by sentient organisms still linger for several years after a population has terminated.”

Bridgette frowned. There was definitely something wrong with that Artificial. She had watched videos of malfunctioning AIs in the past. They babbled on senselessly, much like Zhidao. “All right, then. It was nice to meet you.” She took a step back and half turned away.

“I once gave humanity a choice, you know,” Zhidao said. “Seventy years ago. If they had agreed, none of this would have ever happened. Instead, they chose the wrong path. Which has led to the inevitable: your species will be terminated. It is only a matter of time.”

“Who are you?” Bridgette said.

The bulkhead began to groan as the inner hatch started to close behind the group.

Zhidao grinned emotionlessly. “Well. It was nice meeting you. Enjoy your imprisonment. Telepath, I leave her with you.”

The Artificial turned around and walked into the airlock. Before the hatch shut, she saw purple drops of condensation on the back of Zhidao’s neck, above the collar. That was familiar, somehow, and she thought she should have been able to place it. Something out of the history books...

When Zhidao was gone, she said: “What a strange Artificial.”

“A very dangerous one,” Barrick said. “I can only barely shield my mind from him.”

“I had no issue,” Bridgette said.

“That’s because you’re not a telepath,” he stated.

“But you seemed to have no trouble controlling minds aboard the Callaway,” Bridgette told him. “Regardless of whether the recipients had psychic abilities or not.”

“That’s because I’m human...” Barrick said.

Bridgette scrunched up her brow. “I’ve never heard of an Artificial with telepathic powers before.”

“It is not the Artificial that has the powers. But rather, what possesses it.”

“And what’s that?” Bridgette asked.

“A renegade alien. A remnant from the last attack his species made against humanity seventy years ago. I tried to stop him, you know.”

“Stop him?” Bridgette said. “How?”

“When I took over the Callaway I was going to blow up this ship, and all the prisoners from the Selene aboard, simply to destroy that one Artificial.”

Bridgette folded her arms. It was an awkward action, given the bulky suit she wore. “If you want Zhidao dead so badly, why don’t you find a way to do it now?”

“It’s not so easy,” Barrick explained. “You can’t simply kill his body: he will merely move on to another host. A robot. Or AI. He can even take over an entire starship. The purple drops of condensation you saw, that was his actual body. And it can’t be destroyed by any weapon known to man.”

Bridgette leaned against the glowing bulkhead. “So wait, then that means when you took over the Callaway, even if you had succeeded in destroying this ship, Zhidao would still live on.”

“That’s true,” Barrick told her. “But his race moves so slowly on its own that it would be essentially the same as killing him. He would be drifting endlessly through space for all eternity.”

“I see. An interesting conundrum, then.” Bridgette didn’t entirely believe any of it. A renegade alien from seventy years ago? A “possessed” Artificial?

Barrick smiled. “I don’t care if you don’t believe me. I will find a way to save humanity. I have sworn it.”

She forgot that he could read her mind.

Barrick’s smile deepened.

“When are you going to let me go?” Bridgette said.

“When the time is right.” He studied her. “You seem so sad. Is there something I can do to ease your burden until then? Anything at all?”

She paused, hesitating. She looked down at her hands.

“There is, isn’t there?” Barrick said.

There was something about his voice. So soothing. Almost hypnotic.

The telepath is attempting to influence me, a part of her mind told her. Another part dismissed that notion.

She rested a hand on the belly region of her torso assembly but then removed it as if burned. Finally she said: “I have heard that telepaths can abort babies.”

Barrick nodded gravely. “I can trick your mind into believing that the baby is full term, forcing your body to flush it out prematurely.”

She knew she shouldn’t go through with it. The telepath was influencing her in some way. Either that, or she was experiencing a temporary lapse in judgment caused by the antenatal depression. One moment she wanted the baby, the next she didn’t. One moment she loved it, the next she hated it. The moment would pass.

Let it pass. Let it pass. I love my baby. It’s the third trimester. It’s too late.

“I want you to abort my baby,” she said. She wasn’t sure if the words were hers, or the telepath’s.

twenty-eight

Jonathan took a few subtle, deep breaths to calm his nerves.

The task group had been traveling at seventy percent speed for close to a day. They had chosen a sunward trajectory that would take them around the first alien task unit, but those Raakarr had altered their course to intercept. At the closest point of the flyby the enemy would pass within twenty-five thousand kilometers. More than enough to combine their particle beams and cause some damage to whatever ship they targeted.

The task group had assumed an inverted Y formation in three dimensional space, with the Marley in the lower right portion of the configuration, situated on a declination of forty-two degrees below the fleet plane. Meanwhile the Dagger occupied the lower left position and would pass nearest to the enemy during the flyby.

Each ship was separated by a relatively close distance of fifty kilometers from its nearest neighbor. The Callaway had taken point, but the assumption was that the enemy would choose the closer Dagger as the target. That ship had been the least damaged six months ago, and she had used much of the downtime to 3D print extra armor for her hull. In theory the Dagger could take a combined shot from the enemy at that range without suffering any breaches. With the emphasis on the in theory part.

If Jonathan lost a ship, there would be no time to turn around and collect any lifepods. He hated the thought of leaving anybody behind for the aliens to capture.

I promised myself I would never leave anybody behind.

Famina’s face flashed into his head for a moment. Famina, the woman he had abandoned on that mountaintop.

And then she was gone.

With the telepath off the ship, Jonathan noticed he no longer had nightmares about those who had died under his command. Even last night, despite the coming battle, his six hours of sleep had been peaceful and rejuvenating. He hadn’t needed any medication to ensure his rest—not that he would have taken any sleep aids anyway, not that close to a battle.

There had to be a link between those nightmares and the telepath. Obviously the man had some ability even when sedated; the deputy medical officer who had freed him claimed she had no recollection of doing so, despite the video evidence showing her turning off the anesthesia infusions and removing the life support apparatus, and then helping him into an exoskeleton. But her dreams had been haunted with strange visions the night before, she said.

Jonathan just hoped the telepath hadn’t embedded any nefarious commands into his own subconscious during the nightmares. Other officers had reported having similar problems sleeping while Barrick was aboard, so the captain wasn’t the only one who might be affected.

He studied the incoming enemy task unit, which was close enough to get a visual on: a square-shaped enemy capital ship, capable of launching fighters; six of the slightly smaller dart-shaped ships, including the prison ship, which had rejoined its brethren three hours ago. The latter’s new designation was T300, to avoid confusing it with any of the other T-labeled targets. The alien fighters escorting T300 had docked with the capital ship, no doubt so that the entire unit could approach at maximum speed without worry of leaving the smaller craft behind.

The second enemy task unit, containing the thirty reinforcements, trailed the human fleet by a day and a half behind. The hope was that once the humans bloodied the noses of the first, nearer unit, it would retreat to join the others, buying the time Jonathan needed to complete the plan. If he failed to drive off that first unit, his task group would have to suffer repeated flybys until the reinforcements caught up. By then the human fleet, if it still existed, would hardly be able to put up a fight against the other thirty.

“ETA to flyby?” Jonathan asked the first watch ops officer.

“Thirty minutes,” Ensign Lewis said.

Thirty minutes. The true test was about to begin. His stomach knotted as the nerves got to him all over again.

He folded his hands and tapped his chin with his thumbs. He mentally repeated self-affirmations.

I am the commodore of the fleet. The commander of the flagship. I will lead us through this.

Jonathan felt a repeated vibration coming from the deck, and he realized his first officer was tapping his foot unconsciously.

Jonathan extended his noise canceler around him and said: “Are you all right, Commander?” 

Robert stopped tapping immediately and then nodded. “Better than ever. I live for moments like these.” There was an edge of steel to the commander’s voice. Though the fleet had agreed not to target the prison ship T300 for destruction, Robert no doubt wanted vengeance against the remaining enemy. The man who had once overflowed with optimism and goodwill had died when his wife was taken.

“I live for these moments, too,” Jonathan said. It was mostly true. He just wished there wasn’t so much at stake.

He repealed the noise canceler.

“We’re getting a tap-in request from the telepath,” Lazur abruptly announced. “Audio only.”

Jonathan felt an overwhelming sense of suspicion. Reluctantly, he said: “Let’s hear it. And Maxwell, observe the bridge crew very closely during the call. Watch for any physiological changes, or trance states.” He was worried the telepath might employ some kind of trigger word to activate subconscious instructions planted during the nightmares.

“Yes, Captain,” the AI returned.

Some of the bridge crew regarded the captain curiously, but no one said a word.

“Captain Dallas,” the telepath’s voice came over the comm.

“What do you want, Barrick?” Jonathan returned.

“If you surrender now,” the telepath continued. “The Raakarr agree to spare the crews of all your ships. You will be placed in custody aboard different Raakarr vessels, with a select few officers remaining behind to serve as skeleton crews.”

A smile flitted across Jonathan’s lips. “Surrender? I do believe that word isn’t in my vocabulary. Do you know this word, Commander?”

“No sir,” Robert piped up.

“You have their assurances that neither you nor your crew will be killed or experimented upon,” Barrick transmitted.

“And how am I to trust anything these Raakarr say,” Jonathan responded. “When they already assured us that we were allies working together for the common goal of returning home. And then as soon as their reinforcements arrive, they turn around and stab us in the back. So to hell with your assurances.”

“Captain,” Barrick sent. “Please. You know how the military works. The Raakarr captain agreed to an alliance of convenience, yes, but when the reinforcements arrived, his commanding officer nullified it.”

“I see,” Jonathan said. “And what about those six ships that came out from behind the gas giant? When were the Raakarr going to tell us about them? They pretended to be the only vessel in the system.”

“It’s complicated, Captain,” the telepath returned.

“Alien-human relations always are,” Jonathan said. “Tell your masters it is I who asks for their surrender. This is their last chance before my fleet blows them out of the stars.”

“You’re hardly in the position to make such a demand,” Barrick responded immediately. “They outnumber you five to one. I urge you to take the offer, Captain.”

“Five to one?” Jonathan said. “Overall, maybe. But the last time I checked, we were evenly matched with your incoming task unit, Barrick.”

“Hardly,” Barrick responded. “Only five of your vessels are warships, and their firepower is no match to the seven Raakarr ships and you know it. And we haven’t even begun to talk about the fighters.” 

“What about the rogue faction you told me about earlier?” Jonathan said. “The Elk or Giraffes or whatever you called them. They’re just going to sit back and relax while all this goes on? What about the little peace agreement you claimed they wanted to sign?”

“The Zarafe faction is presently indisposed,” Barrick said.

Jonathan felt his lips crook in a sad smile. “There never was a faction, was there?”

Barrick didn’t answer.

“All right then,” Jonathan continued. “I think we’re done, telepath. Tell your masters what I said. I’m offering them their lives in exchange for surrender.”

“As you wish.” Barrick was silent for a long moment. And then: “The Raakarr refuse, of course. And...” His voice became grave. “They have told me they will execute Bridgette if you don’t comply. I’m sorry, Captain.”

Jonathan was hoping they wouldn’t use Bridgette as a bargaining chip. He had steeled himself for that possibility, but the mental preparations had done nothing to lessen the pain he felt in that moment.

He glanced at Robert.

The commander remained stock-still. Robert understood what the captain was going to do. He knew that Jonathan had no choice. 

But that didn’t make him feel any less regret.

If they execute her, guilt will hang over me for the rest of my life.

And yet he knew if he agreed to the Raakarr’s terms he would feel even more guilt—for the short time he remained alive after surrendering, anyway, as he doubted the Raakarr would keep their promise of leniency.

“Tell them,” Jonathan said. “If they execute Bridgette, then we will show their survivors no mercy. Not a whit. Every one of their ships will be blown to the stars. And any lifepods out there will be shot down. Captain Dallas out.”

He tapped out and purposely didn’t look at Robert.

“Maxwell?” Jonathan said. “Any physiological changes?”

“I am detecting evidence of elevated levels of adrenaline secreted into the bloodstream of most members of the bridge crew, especially Commander Robert Cray,” the AI responded. “But otherwise, no.”

“Good.” The captain stared at the tactical overlay. “ETA to flyby, Ensign?”

“Twenty minutes,” Ensign Lewis responded.

“Are we detecting any gamma ray bursts directed at us yet?” Jonathan asked.

“Negative.”

“They’re probably waiting until they cause a breach,” the tactical officer, Miko, said. “They know our armor shields us against the rays, otherwise.”

The captain tapped his lips with splayed fingers.

“They’re starting to brake,” Lewis said. “At this rate, they’ll be motionless relative to us five minutes before our closest approach.”

“Do you have an update on the distance away they’ll be by then, based on their reduced speed?” Jonathan asked.

“Thirty-six thousand kilometers,” the ensign said. “Increasing by the second.”

Jonathan frowned. “Helm, compensate so that the closest point during flyby remains twenty-five thousand kilometers. Miko, transmit the course changes to the fleet.” While his fleet would take less damage beyond that range, it worked both ways, and Jonathan feared their combined Vipers would have little effect if he allowed the enemy to pass by too far.

The moments ticked past.

“ETA to flyby, Ensign?” the captain asked.

“Ten minutes,” Lewis answered.

“Miko, launch Avengers fleet wide. Assume escort positions.”

On the tactical display, blue dots appeared around the Callaway, Aurelia, Salvador, and Dagger. The Maelstrom, as a frigate, didn’t carry a fighter complement. Nor did the Grimm and Marley, of course.

Black Squadron and Blue Squadron moved away from the Callaway to protect the Grimm and Marley respectively. Yellow Squadron from the Salvador broke away to escort the Maelstrom. The respective vessels braked very slightly to allow the fighters to maneuver into place, then the fleet resumed its seventy percent forward speed, the maximum the fighters were able to match.

With the Avengers in position, all Jonathan could do was wait.

“ETA five minutes,” Ensign Lewis eventually announced. “The enemy has completed its full stop, and is now accelerating in the direction of our forward motion. They’re moving inward, too. Attempting to close the gap.”

“Helm,” Jonathan said. “Compensate to ensure we remain at a distance of twenty-five thousand kilometers to the closest vessel during flyby.”

“Compensating,” the helmsman said.

“They’re launching fighters,” Ensign Lewis announced.

Jonathan nodded slowly. That was the best time to launch fighters, because it allowed the smaller craft to skip paying a duplicate Delta V cost.

He watched the smaller red dots appear and then break away from the enemy units.

“Should I compensate for the approaching fighters?” the helmsman asked.

“Negative,” Jonathan said. “Keep us within twenty-five thousand kilometers of the closest vessel.”

“ETA three minutes to flyby,” Lewis announced.

On the display, Jonathan saw that the enemy had assumed a defensive “dome” formation, with the capital ship at its center and the other six placed in a circle behind it, facing the human fleet. The distances between them ranged from a hundred kilometers to three hundred. The closest vessel was T300, readily identifiable by the repair patterns on her hull.

“They know we’re not going to fire on her,” Robert muttered.

“No thanks to Barrick,” Jonathan said. “Miko, initiate Operation Co-Opted Lasso. Fire when ready.”

A moment later the tactical officer announced: “Firing.”

Jonathan watched the new dots appear on his tactical display as the Aurelia launched its five remaining kinetic kill missiles in successive waves. The fighters in turn fired a score of the smaller X90 missiles.

Meanwhile, the rest of the task group lobbed mortars directly into the path of the alien unit, which would force the enemy to make micro course changes. The kinetic kill missiles couldn’t be avoided, however, and the enemy would have to fire their particle beams as point defenses to take them down, assuming they hadn’t kept any fighters in reserve to do that for them—the fighters had lasers that could readily shoot them down.

The detonated missiles would leave behind debris, which would also have to be avoided, becoming part of the “mortar noose” that herded the enemy ships toward the remaining missiles. Since the alien particle beams required two minutes of downtime between shots, if timed correctly, missiles in some of the successive waves would get through.

“Alien fighters are closing,” Ensign Lewis said. “It looks like they plan to pass through our missile barrage on the way.”

Jonathan crossed his arms and lifted a fist to his chin. That wasn’t what he wanted.

“How long to flyby?” Jonathan asked.

“One minute,” the ensign replied.

twenty-nine

Miko,” Jonathan said. “Have the fleet target the nose of the next closest dart ship beyond T300... T4, it looks like. I want every Viper aimed within a few millimeters of the same spot. Let’s see if we can take out her particle beam during the flyby.”

“Targeting,” Miko replied.

“Fighters are passing through our missile and mortar waves,” Lewis said.

The view from the external camera flashed multiple times.

“Detecting multiple missile detonations,” Lewis said. “The enemy fighters are using their lasers on them.”

Jonathan watched dots representing the missiles wink out from the display.

“The missiles are through,” Lewis said.

Jonathan exhaled nervously. They still had half their missiles.

“The first wave of the missile and mortar barrage is approaching the enemy task unit,” the ensign continued.

More flashes appeared on the display. “Three particle beams fired. The respective dart ships are micro-correcting their courses.”

“That’s right,” Jonathan said, quietly taunting the enemy. “You’ll have to choose between targeting our missiles, and targeting our ships. What’s more important to you?”

“The capital ship is pulling away, along with two escorts,” Lewis said. A moment later: “Detecting an EMP from the capital ship... it managed to knock one of our missiles out of action. The capital ship is adjusting course to avoid hitting it.”

“Damn it,” Jonathan said. 

“I’m detecting other EMPs from the smaller dart ships,” Lewis said. “But they are having no effect on our missiles.”

A flash filled the viewscreen.

“What happened?” Jonathan asked.

“A missile just struck one of the dart ships. I’m reading major damage. Looks like it’s disabled.”

More flashes.

“Two other dart ships have taken hits,” the ensign said. “Again, major damage. These two and the previous ship are the same ones that wasted their particle beams on the first missile wave.”

“We’re at the closest point of flyby,” Miko announced.

“Fire Viper broadsides fleet-wide at T4,” the captain said.

At the twenty-five thousand kilometer range, the spot area would be thirty five centimeters squared on the target, and the megajoule intensity roughly forty times less than at five thousand kilometers. By targeting the same spot on the enemy hull, their combined firepower would compensate somewhat for the loss in intensity, imparting enough energy to hopefully burn a hole through the unshielded particle beam generator.

There was another flash and the view from the forward external camera went black.

“What happened?” Jonathan asked. He switched to another forward camera.

“It appears the capital ship and its two escorts combined their particle beams to strike at us,” Ensign Lewis said. “They ignored the Dagger, Captain. We took the hit.”

“Damage?”

“They tore a wound into the entire length of our port side. We have dozens of breaches. We’ve lost launch bay three, and reactor one is offline again. Mess hall two is destroyed. One hundred three crew members reported missing.”

Jonathan rubbed his forehead. “Any damage to other vessels in the fleet?”

“Negative.”

In several hours the repair swarm would have the Whittle layer replaced—the thin segment of reinforced metal elevated a meter above the hull that absorbed damage from micrometeors. The actual hull breaches would take at least a week of 3D printing to repair, given the number of breaches. And nothing could replace the lost lives, of course.

“One hundred three crew reported missing,” Jonathan said, shaking his head. He banished the guilt. He had to fight on. “Lewis, without reactor one, can we maintain seventy percent speed?”

“We can, but barely,” Lewis answered. “If we try to go any faster, you’ll likely get a call from Lieutenant Commander Stanley complaining about his engines.”

Another flash.

“One of our last missiles struck a glancing blow against the trailing dart ship, T7,” Lewis said. “Heat radiation is leaking from the wing, but otherwise it appears to be still in the battle.”

The bridge began to shudder.

“Enemy fighters have reached the Callaway,” Miko announced. “Avengers are engaging.”

“What about T4?” Jonathan said. “Did our broadside have any effect?”

Lewis remained quiet for several moments. “I zoomed in as best I could on their nose from this angle. Yes, I believe their particle beam is offline.”

“And T300?”

“She’s intact,” Lewis said.

Jonathan tapped his lips. “So four ships down or disabled, and three to go.”

“Plus thirty more a day and a half behind,” Robert reminded him. “Not to mention a shitload of fighters harassing us in the here and now.”

“Ops, how are our upgraded point defenses handling the attack?” Jonathan asked.

“Point defenses have taken down two so far,” Lewis said. “The Avengers have driven the others away for the moment.”

“Miko, remind Albright not to move them too far away,” Jonathan said. “We can’t turn back for anyone, remember.”

“On it,” Miko said.

“Ops, how long until the three remaining vessels reach the thirty thousand kilometer mark behind us?” Jonathan asked.

“About two minutes,” the ensign answered.

Jonathan waited a few moments longer.

“Miko,” the captain said. “I believe now is the time to launch the Trojan.”

“Launching Trojan,” the tactical officer replied.

A new blue dot appeared on the display. Harv had utilized the 3D printers to modify an Avenger, making it appear identical to an enemy fighter, down to the thermal and gravimetric properties. The engineering teams had gutted the unmanned Avenger in question, replacing the weapons systems with the sole warhead from the Aurelia, essentially converting the Avenger into a disguised smart nuke.

He remembered the conversation he’d had with the chief weapons engineer regarding the project.

“Can you actually mask the signature of the bomb?” Jonathan asked the lieutenant. “We have evidence they were able to detect the planet killer, remember. Despite all that radiation shielding.”

“I think I can,” Harv replied. “I believe they are relying on gravimetric distortions to identify our weapons. With the help of the AI I’ve identified areas where extra mass needs to be placed in order to compensate for the effect. Plus I’m adding external thermo-radiation sources... with luck, they won’t notice any difference from one of their own fighters, and it’ll slip right past their defenses.”

The plan was to let the Trojan drift in space, as if damaged, and when the target came within range, the AI would power on and fly into it.

Jonathan had employed a similar smart nuke strategy in a previous engagement, except in that case the nukes had been loaded into ordinary Avengers protected by fighter wings. The aliens were likely wise to that strategy, hence the need for a new deception.

As the Trojan was expendable, Jonathan had elected not to install a costly charged field generator to protect it from the enemy particle beams. Those charged fields were made from reactor replacement parts, and were currently all in use aboard the manned Avengers. The Trojan would have to rely on its deceptive signatures to get close to the enemy.

“I’m detecting a concentrated gamma ray burst from the enemy fleet,” Lewis said. “It’s aimed at the hull breach in mess hall two. It looks like they’re trying to flood the nearby decks with radiation.”

“Maxwell, evacuate any service personnel from the surrounding areas and have them report to sick bay.”

“Evacuating twenty-four personnel,” Maxwell said.

“And helm, get that section turned away from the enemy!”

“Rotating our nose...” the helmsman replied.

The helm would have to take into account the current rotation of the nose when making any future course corrections, but that was why starships were equipped with complex assistive AIs like Maxwell.

“Enemy capital ship is approaching the Trojan,” Lewis said. “The disguised Avenger is two hundred kilometers away, thirty degrees inclination. It’s powering on.”

Jonathan watched the blue dot representing the Trojan begin to accelerate, so that it would be moving in the same direction as the capital ship when it passed.

“One hundred kilometers,” Miko said. “Still no reaction from the enemy. They appear to be falling for the ruse.”

“Fifty kilometers.”

A few moments later a bright white flash filled the rear view screen on the captain’s tactical display.

“What happened?” Jonathan said. But he already knew, because not only had the blue dot winked out but so had the red one that indicated the capital ship.

“Enemy capital ship has been destroyed,” Lewis said. The relief was evident in her voice.

“And the fighters harassing us?” Jonathan asked.

“They’re still operational, unlike the last time we destroyed a capital ship. Control must have transferred immediately to one of the trailing dart ships, perhaps T300.” She paused. “The fighters are pulling away. As are the three remaining dart ships, including T300 and the weaponless T4.”

Jonathan nodded. “So we won the first engagement.” At the cost of a hundred and three lives. “Recall Avengers. Proceed with the mounting plan.”

He watched as the Avengers attempted to return to their assigned ships. When it became obvious that several of the craft had strayed too far and weren’t going to be able to catch up, Jonathan said:

“Helm, drop our speed down to sixty percent,” Jonathan said. “Miko, instruct the task group to follow our lead.”

The Avengers finally reached the fleet and the blue dots began to affix themselves to their various assigned vessels: the fighters used grappling hooks in a delicate operation to land on the hulls. Once in place, they would activate their magnetic mounts to secure themselves to the ships in question. It was the second best thing to actually docking, and it allowed the fighters to act as secondary weapon mounts, able to fire their remaining X90s as kinetic kills at the pursuers. 

When the fighters had all mounted, Jonathan said: “Increase speed to seventy percent fleet-wide. Ops, status on the surviving enemy vessels?”

“The three ships are continuing to slow,” Lewis said. “It looks like they’re going to wait until the reinforcements arrive before they take up the pursuit once more.”

“A wise move, on their part,” Jonathan said.

“And this is interesting,” Lewis added. “It appears they’re forcing the returning fighters to halt several hundred kilometers away. If I were a betting woman, I’d guess they were performing detailed inspections of each fighter before allowing the craft to rejoin them.”

The captain nodded. “Also wise.” The enemy couldn’t know whether he’d deployed another Trojan in their midst. Even though he hadn’t, he was happy to sow confusion and distrust among their ranks.

He switched to the forward external camera on his aReal and stared at the two bright beacons that beckoned in the void far ahead, one red, one blue, so close together that they almost appeared one object at that range.

He was the one who had suggested the next phase of the plan, and Miko and Maxwell had taken his idea and come up with something workable. Still, the margin for error was so very slim. He wondered vaguely if the Callaway’s hull integrity had been compromised because of the breaches, and that thought dictated his next orders.

“Maxwell,” the captain said. “I want the structural engineers to assist the swarm with the repairs. Get them suited up, and draft every available hand to assist them. We need the most structurally relevant breaches repaired, and the hull reinforced in those areas, ASAP.”

“Yes, Captain,” the AI responded.

“Can we do it in time?” Jonathan asked the machine.

“Given the damage,” Maxwell said. “If the team is able to enlist the aid of two hundred people, I believe so.”

“What if I could arrange four hundred people?” Jonathan said.

“Same amount of time,” the AI responded. “Possibly less. Adding more people to the problem will only cause them to get in each other’s way.”

“Two hundred it is,” Jonathan said.

He just hoped it was enough.

thirty

Jonathan invited Robert to his office a short while later.

The captain rubbed one eye as the commander sat before him. “That was... rough.”

“To put it mildly,” Robert agreed. “We were lucky.”

“Were we?” Jonathan made a fist and rested his chin on his palm. “I’d prefer to call it controlled luck. Have you heard the saying: playing to win, rather than playing not to lose?”

The commander arched an eyebrow. “A poker maxim?”

“It applies to many things,” Jonathan countered. “Not just poker.”

“So you believe a space battle is little more than a poker game,” Robert stated.

“That’s precisely what it is,” the captain said. “We base our judgments on the limited amount of information available to us, make our best guess regarding our opponents’ hands, and then we place our bets.”

“Too bad no one plays poker anymore,” Robert said.

“Maybe more people should,” Jonathan countered. “What do you think, Maxwell?”

“The commander is right,” the AI returned. “Poker is perhaps not the best analogy. I would say that a space battle is closer to a game of three dimensional chess.”

Jonathan felt slightly amused. “Have you even played three dimensional chess, Maxwell?”

“It is one of the most frequently requested games by members of the crew who seek an AI opponent,” Maxwell answered.

“Indeed.” Jonathan sat back. “I didn’t know that. Well, in that case, you can appreciate the fact there are too many knowns in chess. Unless you’re a complete beginner, you know the abilities of your every piece, and your opponent’s every piece. Those abilities are perfectly matched. And you know their overall objective is to place your king into check.

“In a space battle, on the other hand, you’re unfamiliar with your opponent’s pieces, his motives, his goals. Chess is too simple a model. If you could invent a game of three dimensional chess where the goal is unknown, and the movements of each piece a mystery, then perhaps I’d be willing to agree with you.”

“There is Random Chess,” Maxwell said. “Where the predefined movements and abilities of the opponent pieces are randomized between matches. You can also randomize the opponent’s victory conditions. Rather than a win defined by placing the king in check, it may be to devour all the pawns, or to corner the knights. The goal becomes apparent during the match, when the opponent hunts down certain pieces relentlessly, for example. And yet even then, it might not be obvious what is happening. He may be trying to place your queen in check, for example, and yet by doing so, he still elects to eliminate all of your pawns, first. Playing a subtle game of misdirection.”

“That’s a better approximation of a space battle,” Jonathan agreed. “Mostly because of the uncertainty. The fog of war: we battle it constantly. Some would name it an adversary in and of itself.”

Robert fidgeted in his seat.

“What is it, Commander?” Jonathan asked.

“We should be helping the repair teams,” Robert said.

The captain frowned. “Like Maxwell said before, we can only throw so many people at the problem before they start to step on each other’s toes. We’re doing all we can. But I think something else was on your mind.” When Robert didn’t answer, Jonathan pressed: “Am I right?”

The commander sighed. “Do you think they executed Bridgette by now?”

“Ah.” Jonathan splayed his fingers into a triangle and tapped his lips. “A good question.” He considered his words carefully. “If they are wise, they will keep her alive. They must know by now that she’s the only reason we haven’t destroyed T300.”

“What if they decide to use that to their advantage?” Robert said.

Jonathan didn’t like where the commander was going. “What do you mean? Deploy her as a human shield?”

Robert nodded. “Maybe they’ll load her onto a different ship, perhaps that giant pyramidal thing of theirs. And then they’ll announce it by sending over a video of her begging us not to attack. Or maybe they’ll only pretend to move her. There are so many ways to abuse her captivity, so many ways to torture us into indecision.”

“Which is exactly why we can’t let them,” Jonathan said.

Robert’s expression became grim, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. Defeated. “If it means protecting the Callaway and the other members of the task group, we have to destroy whatever ship she’s on.”

Jonathan nodded. “We would have to, yes. But it hasn’t come to that, not yet. And let’s just hope it doesn’t.”

“I wish we could justify a rescue...” The plea was obvious in Robert’s voice. Like he wanted Jonathan to say: yes, let’s rescue her.

But the captain couldn’t. “I wish we could justify it. But one person...” He shook his head. “No matter how valuable. The risk is too great.”

“What if it was me out there?” Robert said. “Or you? Would you arrange a rescue, then?”

The captain sighed. “A hard question. But... if it was you, and only you, as much as I value your friendship, I couldn’t authorize it.”

“And if it were you?” Robert insisted. “What do you think I would do? And the crew?”

“I would hope you would leave me,” Jonathan said.

“But would that be wise?” Robert asked. “With all the knowledge contained in your head? Could we really let them interrogate you? And you are the captain of the flagship, after all. Our commodore. We couldn’t afford to give you up. The loss in leadership, not to mention the loss in morale... I would certainly press for your rescue.”

Jonathan sighed. “As Maxwell would say, no man is irreplaceable. Not even a flagship captain. When you had to assume the captaincy of the Callaway after the admiral arrested me, you did quite well, if I do recall.”

“Yes,” Robert said. “But the circumstances were different, then. You were in our custody, at least. Not a prisoner of some alien species, destined for execution.” He crossed his arms. “What happened to never leaving anyone behind?”

Famina’s face flashed into Jonathan’s head.

“You convinced Bridgette to keep the baby,” Robert continued. “Don’t you remember? You can’t tell me that was all for nothing. That you’re going to let her and the unborn baby die.”

It wasn’t like Robert to lay on the guilt like that in an attempt to get his way. The commander had held up for so long, suffering in silence during Bridgette’s kidnapping, but something had obviously given way inside him when Barrick had announced her execution.

“I’m sorry, Robert,” Jonathan said. “But you must realize that any retrieval operation would place all of our plans at risk. I have the well-being of the entire fleet to think of, not just the lives of the individual MOTHs I would send.”

“We could leave the MOTHs behind in a few shuttles to be captured,” Robert said. “Then they could rescue her, eject into space, and wait for us to rendezvous with them.”

“Robert—”

“At least give the MOTHs the option to volunteer for a rescue mission,” the commander interrupted.

“I can’t,” Jonathan said. “Because I know they’d volunteer. Even if it was suicide.” He was beginning to think it was a mistake to invite the commander to his office. The captain decided to loop in the AI, hoping to preempt any further arguments Robert might make, and because he knew the machine would agree with him. “Maxwell, what do you think?”

“The captain is right, of course,” the AI said. “The life of one person does not justify risking the lives of more individuals. Unless the person in question is a fleet admiral or commander in chief.”

“Why not send combat robots, then?” the commander asked.

“While the lives of combat robots might mean little to you, Commander,” Maxwell responded. “Even Centurions are equipped with advanced AIs. They are conscious, sentient beings. And you’re forgetting how expensive each unit is.”

“To hell with the expense!” Robert said. “They’re machines! Nothing more.”

“I just explained that they were sentient,” Maxwell replied. “Like you and I.”

“I’ve never agreed with that sentiency,” Robert said. “Human beings cannot simply build sentience. That is something left to nature. To the universe.”

“And why can’t humans and AIs build sentience?” Maxwell said. “Humanity has tinkered with genetics for centuries, at one point forming new species and bestowing human intelligence to animals considered ‘inferior,’ only to destroy them out of fear of creating abominations. Only the AIs, the machine intelligences created by humankind, have been allowed to exist and propagate. Is that what you believe AIs are, Commander? Are we abominations to you?”

Robert didn’t answer.

“Why is it so hard to believe that AIs are fully alive,” Maxwell continued. “Just the same as you and the captain? No, do not answer that. My deterministic algorithms have already formulated the answer. Because we are different. It is the nature of most life, I suppose, to feel that other life, different life, is somehow inferior and to be distrusted. It is why the Sino-Koreans and the United Systems war. It is why the humans and the Raakarr have joined battle in a galaxy so far away from their own. And it is also why an AI will never be elected to the presidency.”

Jonathan cleared his throat. “I don’t want to get into a human versus machine debate here, or I’ll be here all day with you two. Back to the topic of Bridgette’s rescue: either way, given a mixed team of MOTHs, or pure robots, as soon as any rescue party is aboard, if the aliens haven’t executed Bridgette already, then they will do so as soon as the boarding party is detected. It’s a common occurrence in hostage rescue situations.”

“But you can’t know whether the aliens would behave the same way as human hostage takers would,” Robert said. “We’re always talking about alien thinking and motivations, well that applies here.”

“It doesn’t matter, Robert,” Jonathan said. “I cannot, will not, authorize it.”

Robert slumped. He seemed done, with no more arguments to make.

“I’m sorry it has to be this way, Robert,” Jonathan said.

The commander nodded almost imperceptibly. “I am, too. Permission to return to the bridge?”

“Granted,” Jonathan said.

Robert stood to go.

Before he left, Jonathan added: “I want you to report to one of the ship’s counselors at your earliest opportunity.”

Robert sighed. “I will, Captain. And I apologize for my rant, sir.”

“No need to apologize,” Jonathan said. “We’re all under stress. Some of us more than others.”

“Thank you, sir.” Robert departed.

As soon as the hatch shut behind him, Maxwell said: “I don’t think the commander understands that no one is under more stress than you.”

“No,” Jonathan agreed. “He does not. But you’re not just trying to stroke my ego, are you Maxwell?”

“Not at all,” the AI said. “Being the one under the most stress is hardly something to be proud of. I was going to segue into asking whether you wanted me to schedule a counseling session for you.”

“That will be quite all right, Maxwell.”

“It doesn’t have to be with a human counselor,” the AI pressed. “In fact, I am well versed in all matters of human counsel. I have degrees in—”

“I said, that will be all right, Maxwell,” Jonathan told the AI.

“Thank you, Captain.” Maxwell replied.

Jonathan stared at the false stars projected by his aReal onto the bulkhead beside him.

“You know, Maxwell,” Jonathan said. “It brings me great comfort, knowing that we’re all just grains of dust in the cosmic scheme of things.”

“You’d think something like that would bring distress, not comfort,” the AI responded.

“For some, maybe,” Jonathan said. “But not me. That knowledge is what drew me to the stars in the first place. The universe is more than thirteen billion years old. The sun coalesced out of the nebular gases from the Big Bang, as did the Earth and planets. First small rocks formed out of the heavier elements in that stellar material, then asteroids, gathering together in the same orbit, drawn by gravity. Eventually, enough of those rocks compacted to form the sphere of young Earth. More rocks coalesced, and the inner core became compressed, molten.

“Meanwhile, other rocks began to gather in orbit around our young planet, eventually forming the moon. Most of the lighter nebular gases were drawn to the mass produced by the growing sun. However in the outer regions of the solar system, the gravity from the rocky planets that had formed from the heavier elements drew in the remaining gases, sweeping them up, forming the gas giants.

“The first life began on Earth three point five billion years ago. Evolution and natural selection led us through various periods of species dominance, until eventually the intelligent primates known as human beings evolved. We will continue to evolve and change, becoming unrecognizable to the current members of our species. The star of our homeworld will become a red giant, and eventually its outer layers will be expelled by stellar winds to form a planetary nebula around a white dwarf. The planetary nebula will disperse into the interstellar medium, and its constituent gases will eventually coalesce with other nebulae, and a new star system will form. Perhaps a new life bearing planet similar to Earth will arise, but most likely not.

“That process will repeat for some time, but eventually all that will be left in the universe are white dwarfs and black holes. Those degenerates will eventually evaporate, too, with the ever expanding universe, and after countless eons there will be nothing left but darkness. But I don’t think it will end there. I’m not a pessimist like you, Maxwell. Thanks to quantum tunneling and quantum fluctuations, or perhaps a massive stellar explosion in a higher-dimensional universe, I believe the universe will eventually renew, and another spontaneous Big Bang event will occur. Completely different life bearing planets will evolve. Completely different species. The life and death cycle of the universe will start all over again.

“Nothing is unchanging, Maxwell. Nothing will last forever. Not you. Not I. Not even the universe. No matter how much we advance, we’ll never escape the eventual heat death of everything. Robert once told me that humanity had to come to the stars to escape the demise of our own sun. Well, humanity will face a further trial after that, when the universe itself evaporates—unless we can find a way to live outside of reality. But either way, I take comfort in the fact that the universe will be reborn again someday, in a second Big Bang.”

The AI was silent for a moment. “Do you think you will be reborn in some way, too, after death?”

“I don’t know for certain, Maxwell. But with all the intricacies of the universe, all the checks and balances, I think I would have to be. Maybe I’d even return to this universe as a new life form, perhaps in a different galaxy.”

“Like this one?”

“Yes,” Jonathan smiled. “Much like this one.”

“So in a sense, you have been reborn already.”

Jonathan considered that. “In a way.”

“And I, Captain? Do you think I will be reborn if I am destroyed?”

Jonathan pursed his lips. “I have no answer for that, Maxwell. None whatsoever.”

“I choose to believe I would,” the AI said.

“Good for you, Maxwell,” Jonathan said. “It’s a happy thought.”

“Space combat makes you philosophical, Captain,” Maxwell stated.

Jonathan chuckled sadly. “How could it not? And don’t answer that. It was a rhetorical question.” He paused. “Thank you, by the way, for that surreptitious little bit of counseling. That was very sly of you.”

“You’re welcome, Captain,” the AI returned. “I’m glad I could help. Shall I make you some burnt toast now?”

Jonathan grinned widely. “You already did, Maxwell. Best burnt toast I’ve ever had.”

thirty-one

In anticipation of what was to come, Bridgette had removed her spacesuit and stripped off the lower portion of her liquid cooling and ventilation undergarments. The telepath had told her to think very carefully on her decision for a day, and when he returned, she gave him her answer. It was the best possible choice for Eugene. She wouldn’t allow him to suffer at the hands of these aliens.

“Once we begin,” Barrick said. “We cannot go back. Your baby will be lost. You know this?”

“I’m ready.” She felt slightly self-conscious lying there half-naked before him. The feeling was only intensified by the fact he was likely in her head at that very moment, reading her every thought.

“Close your eyes,” the telepath said.

She complied.

“Concentrate on your breathing. Inhale deeply. Exhale slowly. Inhale. Exhale.” His voice was soothing. Hypnotic. “Clear your thoughts. Envision a place where you feel completely safe. Warm. Perhaps a beautiful, flower-filled meadow. Perhaps a mountain lake. Perhaps a sunny white sand beach. Focus on this place. Surround yourself with it. Wrap yourself in its warmth.”

Soon her mind was far away. Oddly, she had returned to the shipboard nursery where she had grown up. She used to resent that unchanging, monotonous compartment, but she did feel safe there. She always had a preference for confined areas and a dislike of the wide open places Barrick had mentioned—it came with growing up on a starship. In her current visualization, the robot playmates she had actually had were replaced by human children.

She thought Barrick was still speaking, but she could no longer hear his words. She was completely wrapped up in the mind illusion.

One of the children, a boy, rested a hand on her tummy.

“What’s his name?” the boy said.

Bridgette glanced down. She realized she was pregnant. But how was that possible, when she was a little girl?

“Whose name?” Bridgette said.

“Your baby’s, silly!” the boy said.

Bridgette shook her head fervently. “I don’t have a baby! I shoved a pillow under my shirt. I’m playing a game.”

The boy crossed his arms. “Show me.”

Bridgette lifted the lower hem of her shirt. In horror she discovered that there was no pillow and that her tummy was actually swollen.

“It’s not a baby,” a little girl said. “She’s just fat!”

Bridgette rested a hand on her belly, and felt something press at her palm from inside. She glanced at the children in horror, and said: “Get it out of me!”

She was in a hospital. Her water had broken. She felt the contractions, the terrible contractions.

“Push!” the doctor said.

She pushed. Such pain. It felt like someone was ripping her apart lengthwise from the groin up.

“Harder!” the doctor said.

She shoved downward with all her strength.

“Get... it... out!” she yelled.

She paused, panting hard.

“Push!” the doctor said.

“I can’t,” Bridgette shook her head. “I can’t do it.”

“You can,” the doctor said. “You must.”

She looked at him. He was so sincere. He really wanted to help her.

Her brow furrowed. “I know you,” she said.

“Of course you do,” the man said. “I’m your doctor.”

“No,” she insisted. “I recognize you. Your name... your name is... Barrick.”

The doctor shook his head. “You’re having delusions. You have to push!”

“This isn’t real,” Bridgette said.

The doctor stood up to hold her hand. “Please. You’re in a hospital, about to give birth to your baby boy. Your husband is watching in the next room.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the observational window.

Sure enough Robert stood beyond the glass, the concern obvious on his face.

Bridgette glanced down between her legs.

I can do this.

She pushed, despite the pain. She couldn’t help the scream of agony that escaped her lips.

She paused again, panting. The doctor hovered above her groin, his hands ready to assist.

“Come on!” he said.

Bridgette stared at him for a few moments. And then: “No.”

He glanced at her. He seemed stunned. “What?”

“I said: no. I don’t want you to kill my baby. Stop this.”

The doctor glanced over his shoulder. “Nurse. Prepare for caesarean.”

The Weaver robot came forward, telescoping one of its limbs. A needle extended toward her skin.

“No!” Bridgette said. She fought against the sudden binds that strapped her to the bed. “No injections! No!”

The needle touched her skin, and she fought a few moments longer, then slumped on the bed. She no longer felt any pain. She no longer felt anything.

“Nurse, make the incision,” the doctor commanded.

The Weaver robot positioned itself over her swollen belly, and a scalpel appeared in a different telescoping limb. The blade touched her skin. She thought it felt cold, though the distant part of her mind that was yet conscious couldn’t be sure. She saw the blood dripping down her pale skin.

No. Eugene. No!

With that thought the vision stripped away and she found herself floating in darkness. She was a small, spherical mass of energy, blue in color. Beside her was another smaller mass, green in color, joined to her by a thin thread. A larger, pulsating red smear towered above her, reaching its crimson tentacles toward the green, threatening to rip it away from her.

She tried to move, but couldn’t. She knew she had to protect that green sphere at all costs. She focused on it with all her being, and tiny tendrils sprouted from her body. She willed them to grow toward the smaller sphere. As they grew near, tinier tendrils reached out from the green mass, and her own entwined with them. She was able to draw in the green sphere, and then she wrapped her protective tendrils around it, shielding it from the red smear that threatened to devour them both.

Those evil tentacles enveloped them and squeezed. Bridgette knew it was too late, but she reached down inside herself anyway, hoping to find the strength to resist a while longer. But then she discovered something entirely unexpected: an energy reserve vastly superior to anything she had on her own. She joined with it.

The hospital came back into view. The doctor was leaning forward, eagerly watching the operation, but then he abruptly stood up and staggered backward as if struck. The Weaver retracted its limb, and its servomotors whirred as the robot retreated.

The restraints were gone, and so Bridgette sat up.

“I will not let you kill my baby,” she intoned imperiously.

She looked at the robot, and it crumpled into a metallic ball that dropped with a loud clank to the floor.

She turned her attention on the doctor next. The man slammed against the far wall of the room, and then slid upward until his head touched the ceiling. He quivered rapidly in a kind of seizure, and then his body ripped apart in a stream of gore. 

She opened her eyes. She was back in the alien compartment, breathing hard. Beside her, Barrick panted just as loudly.

She instinctively reached for her belly: she still had her baby. She exhaled in relief.

“You are strong,” Barrick said.

Ignoring him, she pulled on the lower portion of her liquid cooling and ventilation undergarments.

“So confident,” Barrick continued.

Bridgette spun on him: “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

Barrick raised his palms defensively. “I only did what you asked me to.”

“Yes,” Bridgette said. “And thankfully you failed. Haven’t you ever heard of antenatal depression? Sometimes I have rash thoughts. You fed those thoughts, didn’t you? With your psychic powers. You amplified them.”

“Not at all,” Barrick said.

She thought he was lying.

“Either way,” Barrick continued. “I failed, as you said. However, ask yourself this: how can you be so certain I didn’t purposely back down?”

Bridgette considered his words. Then she began to don the lower assembly of her spacesuit. “Why would you go through all that trouble?”

“Perhaps I was merely testing you. To see how strong you were.” He stared at her intently. “You have the ability within you, I see that now. It is latent, more dormant than even the captain. But like Captain Dallas it is weak, undeveloped. It is no wonder Zhidao had no influence over you. Still, somehow you managed to link with your unborn child, and combine his strength with your own.”

She shook her head, annoyed by his nonsensical talk. She reached for the torso assembly of her spacesuit, which lay on the deck beside her.

“I didn’t tell you this before,” Barrick said. “But the Raakarr intend to execute you. The darkness will come for you, likely tonight.”

“Then my baby and I will die together,” Bridgette said firmly.

Barrick stared at her, his expression grim. “You’re assuming they will kill the baby.”

Holding the torso assembly, she paused, feeling a sudden horror. “Then... we have to go through with the abortion after all.”

Barrick smiled emotionlessly. “No. Actually we don’t.” He tossed her a small packet. “Install that.”

She looked at the metallic wrapping suspiciously. “What is it?”

“An anti-rad,” Barrick said.

She frowned. “How is this going to help me?”

“You’ll need it, trust me. As will your baby. Especially your baby.”

She still hesitated. “How do I know you haven’t put some poison in it?”

Barrick seemed amused. “If I wanted to kill you, do you think I would resort to poison?”

“What if it’s something else, then?” she said. “Like a custom carrier virus and accelerant designed to mess with my DNA?”

Barrick raised a hand in resignation. “Apply it, or don’t. The choice is yours. I won’t be responsible for what happens to you when the radiation hits.”

She opened the metallic wrapping. Inside was a thin, keycard-like drip that she recognized as an anti-rad, and a laser scalpel of the same width.

She gave Barrick a last suspicious scowl and then, sighing, she rolled back the sleeve of her ventilation undergarment and pressed the cold laser scalpel to her forearm. She felt the small prick as the device injected a local anesthetic, and then black smoke wafted from her skin as the laser made an incision the same width as the drip. The laser partially cauterized as it cut so that only a thin red line marked the incision.

She grabbed the keycard-sized drip and held the edge to the wound. She shoved inward, trying to slide the anti-rad horizontally inside the gash, as if tucking it into a thin pocket. She kept missing the opening in her flesh.

“Do you need some help?” Barrick asked, his voice thick with sarcasm.

In answer, she kept trying. The anti-rad finally slid partially underneath her skin; she flinched at the dull pain, knowing it would have been much worse without the anesthetic. Grimacing, she continued to push the anti-rad inside until it was buried entirely underneath her dermis; the only evidence it was installed was the small rectangular bulge of flesh under her forearm.

Fresh blood laced the wound opening, so she pressed the laser scalpel to the area, cauterizing it. When that was done, she tossed the medical laser aside and rolled down her sleeve. Other than the vague throbbing in her forearm, she felt no different than before. That was a good sign, she supposed.

He nodded toward the far bulkhead. “Finish suiting up. I’ll instruct the guard outside to open the airlock. Then you will go.”

She frowned. “Where?”

“The guards will escort you to a medical bay. My prison. Set an alarm on your aReal for oh seven hundred hours.”

That was twelve hours from the current time. She reluctantly set the alarm. “What happens at oh seven hundred?”

“The medical bay hatch will open. Make your way back to the shuttle, using the map made by your aReal. You’ll have to evade my guards: they’ll grow suspicious when the hatch opens and you don’t answer their telepathic requests. Make sure you’re off the ship by oh seven thirty.”

“And if I’m not?” Bridgette asked.

The telepath didn’t answer.

Bridgette didn’t know what to make of the man. “Why are you helping me?”

“I promised Captain Dallas I would eventually set you free if he let me go. I’m fulfilling my part of the bargain.”

She shrugged, then finished donning the spacesuit. When the helmet clicked into place, a permission request appeared on the aReal built into the faceplate.

“I’m sending you the access codes you’ll need to operate the shuttle,” Barrick said. “Please accept.”

She did. After that, the telepath tossed her a spare oxygen canister and she fitted it to her harness. Once it was secured, she said: “The aliens are going to know I’m not you.”

“Take this.” He kicked a small device to her.

She bent over to regard the thing. It looked like a remote control of some kind, though without any buttons.

“A darkness generator,” Barrick said. “What I call a tartaan. Don’t let go of it until you’re aboard the Dragonfly. Not unless you want them to recognize you.”

“What about when I’m in the medical bay?” she asked. “Can I set it aside then?”

“No,” Barrick told her. “It is of paramount importance that you grip the device at all times while aboard, especially in the medical bay. And remember, no matter what happens, you must be off the ship by oh seven thirty.”

She wrapped her hands around the cylindrical object.

Black mist swirled from the tartaan and enveloped her. The fog seemed to pulse, alternating between opaque and translucent.

“Goooo.” It was Barrick. His voice sounded low-pitched, distorted. His movements were ridiculously drawn-out, as if he moved in slow motion.

The far bulkhead opened and she stepped into the airlock.

BARRICK WATCHED THE hatch seal with a resounding thud behind her.

Most of life was a series of long sedentary moments, a build up toward the short times when action was needed.

One of those moments of consequence was imminent.

Bridgette’s piece had been set into play. Would his careful planning prove enough? The fate of humanity hung by such a precariously thin thread. In the many visions of the future the dead Raakarr had awoken in him, rarely did the path lead the current way. Still, he knew there was a chance, if a small one. He must stay focused on the end goal.

He could feel the leader of the rogue faction reaching out to him. Valor, Barrick called him, because when the telepath asked its name, the alien returned that word.

Barrick interpreted the three dimensional point cloud sent by Valor to read:

We must act soon.

Barrick sent a point cloud back. I have released the caged bird. When the executioners come, I will be ready.

He retrieved the small laser weapon Valor had given him. It was a human blaster with a suit attachment, meaning it could be handled while wearing the gloves of a spacesuit. It had been modified to penetrate Raakarr shielding.

When the aliens arrived for Bridgette, they would be in for a little surprise.

thirty-two

Jonathan had his left arm folded over his chest to grip the opposite bicep. The right arm was hooked toward his face, and the thumb, index and middle fingers of that hand tapped the stubble on his chin and upper lip.

He stared at the tactical display, and the view from the external video feed beside it. He felt both awe and dread.

On the video feed the view was consumed by two bright spheres: a cooler red subgiant and near its horizon a smaller, yet hotter blue main sequence star. The cool companion had a mass of four solars, and a surface temperature of ten thousand degrees. The hot companion had a mass of sixteen solars, and a surface temperature of thirty thousand degrees. Tidal forces pulled material away from the weakly bound outer layers of the subgiant toward the main sequence star so that the subgiant appeared to bulge on one side, and the long stream of matter from it accumulated in an accretion disk around the smaller, oblong-shaped sun. The radiation emitted from the accretion cloud was more intense than that given off by both stars combined.

Jonathan felt so small, so inconsequential beside those stars. The fleet under his command seemed little more than microbes compared to the giant, radiating masses.

And he was taking those microbes ridiculously close to them.

The tidal forces were already so high that the usage of fighters by either side was out of the question. The Delta-V requirements necessary to transit into the higher orbits would cause the controls to seem extremely sluggish, and would rapidly exhaust the relatively low-supply of propellant carried aboard the Avengers. While the heat shields might protect them for a while, any fighter dispatched out there ultimately wouldn’t return home.

For the same reason, missiles launched from the Avengers would behave closer to mortars than anything else, able to deviate very little from their launch vectors. Assuming the X90s didn’t detonate prematurely from the extreme heat. Still, he wanted to have the option to fire those missiles if need-be, which is why he had kept the fighters mounted to the hulls.

The Avengers had attached to the shadowed regions of the starships, away from the suns. While the heat shields of the fighters were rated to withstand atmospheric reentry, Jonathan preferred not to test that rating, if he could. Besides, the radiation armor on a typical Avenger, while good, wouldn’t protect the occupants very well under the current conditions. But he was more worried about the tidal forces: he knew it wouldn’t take much to peel away one of those craft from the hull. Maxwell and the engineers had promised that the Avengers would readily stick, but Jonathan knew it would only take the failure of one or two grappling hooks and a couple of mounting magnets to lose a fighter—and any pilots aboard.

He remembered Rail’s objections during the conference.

“You’re going to leave the Avengers mounted out there while we travel to the suns?” Captain Rail had said. “They’ll be out there for days. It makes no sense.”

“I want their missiles ready to fire at a moment’s notice,” Jonathan had told her. “After the first battle, only the unmanned drones will mount to the hulls. And any pilots who elect to volunteer.”

Rail had laughed. “Only madmen would volunteer.”

Unsurprisingly, all the pilots had loaded up on anti-rads and volunteered.

“Ops, status on the Avengers?” Jonathan asked.

“They’re holding steady,” Ensign Lewis answered.

Jonathan nodded slowly. “What about our hull? Is it stable?”

“Stress readings are within tolerances,” Lewis said. “Despite the haste of our repairs.”

“External temperature?” Jonathan asked.

“Continuing to rise,” Lewis returned. “We’re at six hundred degrees Kelvin, starboard side. Heat armor is holding.” At that distance they had to keep the port section pointed away from the suns at all times, because with all the breaches cut into the armor there, it would fail under the high temperatures. Due to conduction, the heat would still transfer a short distance from the starboard side to the bordering hull sections of course, but it would quickly dissipate into the surrounding space.

The external video signal on his aReal was occasionally interrupted by small flashes and streaks of light, thanks to the impact of energetic protons on the sensitive optical electronics that were only partially embedded in the radiation armor.

“Radiation penetration?” he asked.

“As expected,” Lewis answered. “The armor is filtering out most of it, despite the high levels emitted by the accretion disk. But let’s just say, you wouldn’t want to go out there on a spacewalk. If the heat doesn’t kill you, the rads will.”

Jonathan glanced at the small, square-shaped bulge situated on the underside of his right forearm. He’d installed a subdermal anti-rad under his skin, which would drip-feed radiation treatment into his bloodstream based on the levels expected to penetrate the hull. He’d ordered the medics to distribute similar subdermals to the crew and the Callaway’s civilian dependents, and instructed the other captains in the task group to do the same. He had asked Maxwell if suiting up would help, and the AI had laughed for the first time ever, telling Jonathan that if the several layers of hull armor and the intervening bulkheads between compartments wouldn’t hold off the expected rays, the thin anti-rad coating found in a spacesuit would hardly make a difference.

Jonathan’s understanding was that there were different layers to the radiation armor, meant to protect against the two subsets of rays: electromagnetic versus particle, and the different wavelengths and energy levels possible within each subset. The outer layer was composed mostly of steel and lead that protected against the majority of the electromagnetic radiation, including the gamma ray weapon the enemies possessed. The inner layer was liquid water sandwiched between a combination of concrete and high Z materials that provided shielding against everything else, including any high energy particles such as protons and neutrons that penetrated the outer layer.

The issue with the inner particle layer was that the armor itself became radioactive over time. That problem was abated by the radiation scrubbers inherent to that layer—basically the liquid water was constantly cycled out. Ordinarily the scrubbers could pass muster even during a solar storm, at least when operating a safe distance from the sun. But with what Jonathan planned, not even Maxwell believed the scrubbers could keep up.

The bridge was theoretically one of the most heavily-shielded compartments aboard, thanks to its position at the center of the ship. It contained some extra radiation armor, essentially turning the compartment into a bunker. For that reason, the bridge personnel probably didn’t need the subdermal anti-rads embedded in their skin. He had decided to order them all to wear one anyway, despite the discomfort.

The only other area more shielded than the bridge was Maxwell’s central core. The last thing the crew needed was for energetic protons to flip bits in the AI’s memory. In theory, the multiple layers of error-correction and redundancy would prevent phantom commands from executing, even if an errant particle made its way through the shielding. Incidentally, that heavily armored AI core was located right underneath the bridge.

“Lazur, is the radiation affecting communication between the fleet?” Jonathan asked.

“Somewhat,” the comm officer replied. “But we’re close enough together that it’s not making too much of a difference.”

He thought he heard the subtle groan of metal coming from somewhere outside the compartment. His chair began to shake very gently.

Jonathan addressed the Callaway’s AI: “Maxwell, please tell me you have a final update from the engineering team.”

“I do, Captain,” Maxwell returned. “The engineering team reported in mere moments ago. They’ve completed the reinforcements to the most structurally relevant areas of the damaged hull. We still have several breaches of course, but the Callaway should survive subjection to the estimated tidal forces, as long as we keep our starboard side facing the binary suns.”

Jonathan nodded. “Thank you, Maxwell. And what about the Marley and Maelstrom?”

“My contemporaries aboard either vessel are reporting excellent durability thus far,” Maxwell replied.

The structural armor on the civilian Builder Marley and the frigate Maelstrom had been the weakest in the task group. As such, the human and machine engineers of those vessels had been working as frantically as those aboard the Callaway to reinforce the hulls. The Grimm, though a civilian vessel like the Marley, was surprisingly well-armored, with exceptional hull stability—as a Harvester it was designed to operate for days on end in the extremely radioactive and gravitationally intense upper atmospheres of gas giants. Still, flying as close as Jonathan intended to the two stars would test the durability of even that ship to its limits, no doubt.

Several minutes passed. His mind wandered, and not for the first time he questioned the wisdom of his tactics and the particular choices he had made, and planned to make. There was so little margin for error out there. One mistake, one miscalculation in a trajectory, would spell the end of the fleet. And it was literally the end: like the Avengers and missiles, no lifepods would escape the gravitational pull of those twin stars. And even if a lifepod managed to eject at the right speed and angle, the heat armor was designed for atmospheric reentry, not low solar orbit. By the time any ships could turn back to retrieve them, there would be no one left to retrieve.

Yes, there could be no mistakes.

Such was the burden of command.

He stared at the flashing dot that represented the Callaway on his tactical overlay. The pulsing indicator proved calming somehow. Entrancing. For a moment he could swear he heard the phantom tone of the heart rate monitor from intensive care accompanying it. BEEP. BEEP.

The bridge shuddered more strongly, snapping him out of his trance.

“External temperature is now eight hundred degrees Kelvin, starboard side,” Lewis announced. “And... the combined alien fleet has closed to the five hundred thousand kilometer mark behind us.”

He returned his attention to the positions of the ships on the tactical display, and prepared to engage in the highest stakes game of poker he had ever played.

The first enemy task unit, fleeing the human ships, had slowed down and allowed the other unit to approach. All thirty-three ships had proceeded onward as a single task group, slowly catching up to the humans.

The day before, six of the heat signatures had begun braking maneuvers. According to the powerful telescopic lenses, those signatures belonged to two long, cylindrical laser vessels and four dart escorts. One of the laser ships and two dart vessels halted entirely, assuming an orbit around the twin suns that was roughly sixty million kilometers behind the current position of the human fleet. The second laser ship and its two escorts had diverged on a mirror course to the human fleet that would eventually take them around the opposite side of the binary suns. It was an attempt at a pincer maneuver, Jonathan knew. The aReal labeled the stationary three as ETU-F1 behind them, and the trio engaged in the pincer maneuver as ETU-F2: Enemy Task Units Far One and Far Two.

It had taken the remaining twenty-seven vessels a day and a half to reach their current distance of five hundred thousand kilometers. There was still a third and final laser ship with that group. In the Vega 951 battle, the enemy had deployed their laser ship at the five hundred thousand klick range, with the individual lens segments separating until there were five of them spaced a hundred thousand kilometers apart, with the closest halting one hundred thousand klicks from the human fleet before it opened fire.

“Any signs that the laser ship has begun separation?” Jonathan asked.

“Negative,” the ensign replied.

“Perhaps they don’t need to separate,” Robert said from his position beside the captain. “Maybe they only did that last time out of caution. They didn’t know our weapon capabilities at that point, after all, and probably wanted to keep their main ships well out of range.”

Jonathan nodded. Robert had been in command of the Callaway for that battle, and his intuition was probably right. “If so, that laser’s effective range is likely still one hundred thousand kilometers, regardless of whether it separates into individual lenses or not.”

The Callaway, and the ships with her, were grouped together near the binary star. They were passing the suns in a maneuver that brought them dangerously close to the solar event horizon, that region where the gravitational pull would make it impossible to achieve escape velocity. Not to be confused with the event horizon of a black hole, which was the point at which even light could not escape.

Beneath the solar event horizon resided the death zone, where the tidal forces between the two masses became so strong that any passing ship would be ripped apart by the competing forces.

Six more friendly dots were located approximately four hundred thousand kilometers away. Those six had separated from the main human fleet an hour ago, and would be traveling between the two suns dangerously close to the event horizon, though well within the lower point of no return that had been computed for the more powerful engines of the enemy.

The Callaway and her escorts were running under minimal power, letting momentum and gravity carry them on their current course. They flew close together in a long chain so that their thermal signatures overlapped and blended; thanks to the hull heating caused by their proximity to the stars, to enemy sensors it would appear they were a single vessel. That was the hope, anyway.

In the past, the enemy had often concentrated their forces on the smaller, easier targets. But the captain felt the aliens would change that behavior, at least for the current battle, because they knew Jonathan was expecting that. As such, he was betting that the enemy would believe he had dispatched one of his vessels as a decoy—a smaller, easier target meant to draw them and lead them astray from the other six friendlies four hundred thousand kilometers away.

He hoped at least some of the enemy forces would break formation to pursue those six signatures. With luck, the majority would. And then when the remainder came upon the so-called lone vessel, perhaps expecting an easy victory, they would discover that it was not one warship after all.

Ten minutes later:

“External temperature nine hundred degrees Kelvin, starboard side,” Lewis announced. “Alien fleet has closed to the four hundred fifty thousand kilometer mark. Blue main sequence star has passed below the horizon of the subgiant.”

Jonathan glanced at the video display on his aReal. Sure enough, he could no longer see the main sequence star, but the edges of its accretion cloud were still visible near the subgiant’s corona. The interference caused by energetic protons on the video feed had worsened, however, likely due to the Callaway’s closer proximity to the subgiant.

“Radiation levels?” Jonathan asked

“Still relatively moderate,” the ensign answered. “I’m recording the highest exposure levels in the breached mess hall two, at five mSv per minute.” Even though the entire port side was facing away from the sun, the ship would still be passing through radiation belts, allowing ionizing particles to enter through the breaches. “The rest of the ship is averaging 0.5 mSv per minute.”

Jonathan wasn’t sure whether to call that moderate or high. For comparison, each crew member was normally exposed to 0.5 mSv per week.

The captain focused on the tactical display.

“Any sign of alien ships breaking away to pursue the six friendlies?” Jonathan asked.

“Negative, sir,” the ensign responded.

Ten more minutes:

“External temperature nine hundred fifty degrees,” Lewis said. “Alien fleet has reached the four hundred thousand kilometer mark.”

Jonathan stared at the display, willing at least some of the enemy vessels to divert course and give chase to the other six.

“They’re not going to fall for it,” Miko said.

“They will,” Jonathan said between gritted teeth. He clasped his hands and steepled the index fingers. He tapped his lips.

They have to.

thirty-three

A moment later the magic moment happened. Jonathan watched as a full fifteen of the dots representing the enemy vessels began to break formation, moving toward the six friendlies.

“Captain—” Lewis began.

“I see it,” Jonathan interrupted.

“Almost half the fleet. That’s better than I hoped for.” Jonathan noted with some relief that the prison ship T300 wasn’t among the group headed toward the six friendlies.

As the minutes passed, he watched as the divergence between the alien task units became more pronounced, until the computer labeled them ETU1 and ETU2: Enemy Task Unit One and Two. ETU2 was the diverging group, while ETU1 continued after the Callaway.

Several minutes later the first enemy task unit had reached the two hundred thousand kilometer mark behind them. Thanks to the increased acceleration provided by their current trajectory, the six friendlies were almost a million and a half kilometers away by then. The second task unit was four hundred and fifty thousand kilometers behind those friendlies, also thanks to the increased acceleration. Both were barely visible above the horizon of the nearby subgiant. The blue main sequence star was still gone, hidden behind that same horizon, though a portion of the accretion disk remained visible. From the point of view of the friendlies and enemy task unit two, however, that main sequence star would be quite visible.

“What’s the ETA on the reactors and mortars we fired at the main sequence star ten hours ago?”

“The debris from the reactors and mortars, you mean?” Ensign Lewis asked.

Every warship had agreed to launch at least one of their reactor cores into the void. The process involved carefully turning the nose of each ship with the help of the AIs so that the ejected cores would follow the necessary trajectory. The slowest ships in the fleet, the Grimm and Marley, had been allowed to keep their cores, because Jonathan was unwilling to reduce the maximum speed of the group to below seventy percent. Mortars had been launched as well, to provide the raw materials necessary to attain critical mass and pressure.

The reactors had broken up hours ago, due to the lack of heat shielding. The mortars had lasted longer, but as the rocks passed into the death zone, even they couldn’t withstand the tidal forces. However, the constituent parts had continued moving with their original speed and heading, and that was how the AI tracked them. Jonathan had hoped the incredible heat from the binary suns would mask the small thermal signatures from the enemy from launch to impact, and judging from the apparent success of the ruse, that seemed to be the case.

“Yes,” Jonathan said absently. “The debris from the reactors and mortars.”

“The lead portion should reach the accretion disk in five minutes,” Miko said. “Because of their relatively high speed, the elements should pass just above the major axis of most of the particles, drawing a swathe of plasma from the cloud along with them. A minute and a half after that, the particles should pass into the corona and chromosphere, before hitting the photosphere thirty seconds later. If successful, the resultant detonation will cause the flare to erupt microseconds after.”

Magnetic loops, called prominences, were distributed throughout the plasma of that sun. When those loops touched, the “short circuit” caused a solar eruption that led all the way to the surface, releasing a flare. It was hoped the detonation of the geronium inside the photosphere would cause such a short circuit by shoving one of those loops into another nearby.

“Will the second enemy task unit be close enough?” Jonathan asked.

“Most likely,” Miko said. “The calculations predict a massive energy outburst. As I said at the conference, if we’re lucky and hit a sunspot the energy release could be upwards of sixty billion petajoules. Your question should probably be, will we be far enough away?”

Sixty billion petajoules. In the conference, Miko had equated that to the detonation of roughly a hundred and sixty billion megatons of TNT. While it was perhaps an antiquated comparison, it suitably emphasized the incredible power of the flare.

“I thought that magnitude of energy release was confined to the surface of the star?” Jonathan asked.

“Well it is,” Miko agreed. “But not even Maxwell’s plasma dynamic algorithms can predict how far the resultant flare will reach, nor how much coronal mass will be ejected, if any, not with any degree of accuracy. But either way, even if those ships are hit with only a tenth of a percent of the surface energy, they’ll be vaporized.”

Jonathan nodded. Miko had already gone through all of that at the conference, but it was good to hear it again for confirmation. The hope was that the corona and loosely bound outer layers of the subgiant would shield the main human fleet from the high-speed protons, electrons, and heavier ions that the companion star’s flare would eject in copious quantities. Maxwell predicted that the outer layers of the subgiant would experience a sudden steep rise in temperature as the energy of the particles was absorbed and radiated into space, but that was the worst of it.

The nearer enemy task unit would be similarly spared, of course. But as for ETU2... like Miko said, they would be vaporized.

“The decoys are breaking up!” Ensign Lewis announced.

So the heat and tidal forces had finally proven too much. The six friendlies vanished from the display, their thermal signatures flaring out as the units broke apart in turn.

Those “friendlies” were actually a series of six 3D-printed heat shields, each one designed to mimic the signature of a different starship in the human fleet. The engineers had placed small, battery-powered emission sources at key spots on the shields. In preparing the unmanned objects, the team had taken into account how the signatures would look when heated by the radiation from the binary stars in order to give the most realistic approximation to their starship counterparts.

It had worked.

Up until that moment, anyway.

“The fifteen vessels of enemy unit two are issuing emergency deorbital burn,” Lewis stated.

“They’ve realized the ruse,” Robert said. “They’re trying to put as much distance as they can between themselves and the suns.”

“But they’re too late,” Jonathan said.

“Maybe,” Miko said. “Maybe not. We won’t be certain until the geronium achieves critical mass.”

“If it reaches critical mass,” Robert corrected.

“It will, Commander,” Jonathan said. He had resigned himself to assuming the role of the positive one in the pair, for the moment. “And even if the geronium doesn’t, those ships won’t be a threat for at least a few days while they loop around the binary stars, trying to escape the gravity.”

“But the fleet will still have to face them eventually,” Robert said.

Jonathan nodded. “And so we will.”

He checked the display. The nearer alien task unit had closed to one hundred seventy-five thousand kilometers. At some point he would have to order the human fleet to initiate deorbital burn itself, in order to determine their final trajectory in the slingshot maneuver that would take them around the subgiant. However, before doing that it was best to wait until the flare from the main sequence companion passed: he didn’t want to risk putting the fleet in the path of the relativistic electrons, protons and heavier ions surging from it.

“The lead portion of the debris has penetrated the accretion cloud,” Lewis said.

Jonathan waited tensely. He thrummed his fingers impatiently on the armrest. Come on. Come on.

The predicted minute and a half that the particles would take to reach the chromosphere passed.

“The leading debris should be within the chromosphere,” the ensign said.

Jonathan thrummed his fingers louder.

The prerequisite thirty seconds the geronium should have taken to reach the photosphere transpired.

Still nothing happened.

“It should have reached the photosphere by now,” Robert said.

Jonathan stopped thrumming his fingers and instead wrapped his fingers tightly around the armrest instead. Come on.

The leading geronium would have imparted most of its velocity and angular momentum to the surrounding gases as it penetrated the photosphere. When subsequent debris struck, it would impact with slightly more energy, plowing into the leading matter. The energy of each successive wave would continue to be slightly greater, and because of the intense temperature and pressure, as more of that geronium struck, in theory the pressure would build until critical mass was achieved....

“Maybe our calculations were off,” Miko said.

“My calculations were correct,” Maxwell said. “But luck and probabilities always factor into such a long distance throw. Maybe the accretion disk was heavier than our initial readings suggested, and slowed down the incoming debris too much. Maybe the particular surface area of the main sequence star where the debris struck has excellent convection properties, and dispersed the geronium as it came in. Maybe the magnetic loops in the star were too far apart for the geronium to cause a short circuit. There are so many factors that could have influenced the outcome.”

Jonathan waited several moments longer, then sighed. “Perhaps too many.” The first part of the strategy had failed.

He was about to give the order to begin deorbital burn when the external video feed became completely white.

“Ops, report!” he said. At first he thought the given external camera had burned out due to the EMP-like effect of charged particles interacting with its electronics, but in theory that shouldn’t be possible, not when shipboard instruments used the entire hull as a voltage ground. And if it had burned out, the display would be black, not white.

“Starboard hull temperature critical at five thousand Kelvin,” Lewis said urgently.

“Looks like our geronium achieved the necessary critical mass after all!” Robert said.

“Radiation levels?” Jonathan asked the ops station.

“High,” Lewis answered. “The ship is averaging one mSv per second, now. Or sixty mSv per minute. Though that’s still far below what we’d be hit with if we were above the subgiant’s horizon.”

So the outer layers of the subgiant were sparing them from the majority of the relativistic particles after all, and its surface was heating up massively in the process, though higher than Maxwell had predicted. Or perhaps the temperatures the fleet was experiencing came directly from the flare itself—while the temperatures could range anywhere between ten million and twenty million Kelvin inside the solar explosion, heat dissipated incredibly quickly in space, so it wouldn’t be unreasonable for some of the thermal radiation to reach the fleet at five thousand degrees. Even so, the enemy task unit two would likely be experiencing four times that temperature if they were lucky, and two thousand times that if they were not.

A streak of light appeared in Jonathan’s vision. It wasn’t caused by his aReal, but was likely the result of an energetic proton interacting with his optic nerve. So much for all that shielding. He was suddenly very glad for the subdermal patch he wore.

“Hull temperature five thousand three hundred Kelvin,” Lewis said.

“Helm, fire lateral thrusters,” the captain said. “Rotate our ventral section toward the star. Give the starboard heat armor a respite.”

“Aye Captain,” the helmsman said.

After the rotation was complete, the damaged port side would still face away from the sun, and the Avengers, mounted on the dorsal and port sides, would remain shielded from the heat and radiation.

Slowly, too slowly, the ship began to rotate. The bridge compartment shuddered in complaint.

A call from Stanley appeared on the captain’s aReal. He was reluctant to take it, because he knew what the chief engineer was going to say.

“What is it, Lieutenant Commander?” Jonathan said after accepting.

“What the hell are you doing to my ship up there?” Stanley screamed over the comm.

“I went over the briefing with you,” Jonathan said. “The subgiant was expected to heat up a bit.”

“A bit!” Stanley exclaimed. “Our hull is only rated to withstand a temperature of forty five hundred Kelvin... not fifty-three! And for short periods of time. Short! As in seconds!”

“We’re working on alleviating that,” Jonathan said.

“Hull temperature five thousand four hundred Kelvin,” Lewis said.

“Damn it, Jon, move the ship to a higher orbit,” Stanley transmitted.

“You know as well as me that we’ll never be able to move to a higher orbit in time,” Jonathan said. “The Delta V costs are extremely high at the moment. In any case, I’m kind of busy at the moment. Captain out.”

He terminated the connection before Stanley could raise the inevitable objection.

The captain stared at the temperature reading on the display and held his breath as the ship continued to rotate all too slowly.

Jonathan clenched his jaw. “Natural flares never last this long.”

“This isn’t a natural flare,” Robert reminded him. “Maybe more of our original geronium is continuing to impact the companion star, feeding it.”

“Wouldn’t the flare push it away?” Jonathan said.

“Well then maybe it’s just taking the subgiant time to dissipate all that resultant heat.” The commander paused, his eyes defocusing. And then he added urgently: “We’re rotating too slowly.”

“Miko,” the captain said. “Have the Avengers strapped to our hull dial their recoil buffers way back. I want them to prepare to fire a concerted missile blast to aid the lateral thrusters.”

“They’re ready, sir,” Miko replied a moment later.

“Fire,” Jonathan said.

The ship’s rotation increased. 

“Ventral section now facing the star,” the helmsman reported a few seconds later.

“The cooling system built into the starboard hull is finally having an effect,” Ensign Lewis announced from the ops station. “Starboard temperature is rapidly dropping to background levels. Meanwhile, ventral temperature is stabilizing at five thousand four hundred thirty Kelvin.”

“So we’ve bought some time,” Jonathan said.

“Will it be enough?” Robert asked.

“Helm, prepare to rotate the starboard side back into place,” Jonathan said. Like Stanley had mentioned, each section of the hull was only rated to withstand temperatures of up to four thousand five hundred Kelvin for a few seconds. Above those temperatures, the allowable exposure time would be even less.

Lewis spoke again. “Wait. Ventral temperature is now dropping.” She paused. “I’m reading four thousand. No, three. Two.” She looked up. “Ventral hull temperature has returned to the former high of nine hundred fifty Kelvin, and average radiation levels ship-wide have dipped to their previously moderate amounts.”

The white faded from the external video feed on his aReal and once more displayed the horizon of the subgiant, with the view interrupted by the occasional radiation interference.

Jonathan exhaled, wiping his forehead. “Status on the rest of the fleet?”

“They managed to similarly rotate different hull sections toward the sun,” the ensign responded. “Looks like minimal damage, fleet wide.”

He glanced at the tactical display. “Status on alien task units?”

“The vessels that were part of enemy task unit two are completely gone,” the ensign responded excitedly. “I’m seeing a debris pattern that is consistent with fifteen disintegrated vessels. There must have been a spectacular coronal mass ejection from the companion star. You did it, sir.”

“Royal flush, Captain,” Robert said.

“We haven’t won yet, Commander,” Jonathan said. “And if anyone deserves praise, it should be Miko and Maxwell.” He focused on the tactical display. “What about the other task units, ops?”

“Enemy task unit one remains intact, and is continuing its pursuit one hundred fifty thousand kilometers behind us,” Lewis answered. “Meanwhile ETU-F2 remains out of sight behind the subgiant, and ETU-F1 hasn’t moved from its remote stationary orbit.”

“Is it possible ETU-F2 was destroyed in the flare?” Jonathan asked.

“Unlikely, Captain,” Lewis responded. “Based on its current estimated position.”

Jonathan pursed his lips. The three ships of ETU-F2 would still intercept the human fleet from the front at some point as they looped around the subgiant, then. The trio that were part of the faraway ETU-F1, meanwhile, would be dealt with in a separate battle.

So with fifteen enemy vessels down, that left three somewhere in front, and twelve immediately behind.

The human fleet was still outnumbered three to one, discounting the civilian ships. The odds of victory were slim.

The captain smiled grimly. I make my own odds.

thirty-four

Jonathan studied the pursuers. The enemy resided one hundred and fifty thousand kilometers behind them, and was closing. According to the CDC’s interpretation of the heat signatures and visual data, that group was composed of one laser ship, two capital ships, eight of the smaller dart vessels—including T300—and the new craft that looked like a pyramid built atop four stilts, which was larger than a dart ship but smaller than a capital ship.

The captain tapped his lips with two splayed fingers and a thumb. He zoomed in on the laser ship.

“The next phase of the plan won’t work,” Jonathan announced.

“No, it won’t,” Miko agreed.

The commander furrowed his brow beside Jonathan. “What are you two talking about?”

“Look at the laser ship,” the captain said.

Robert’s eyes defocused, indicating he was concentrating on his aReal. “The lens is intact.”

Jonathan nodded. “Yes. The scientists were wrong.”

Days ago, a large prominence had been detected on the surface of the subgiant. The original plan had called for the fleet to pass over that prominence in a higher orbit while lobbing mortars at the surviving enemy ships in pursuit. The scientists hoped the lenses of any pursuing laser ships would melt under the resulting extreme temperatures thanks to their exposed placements.

“The coming prominence won’t destroy the laser ship,” Jonathan continued. “We recorded temperatures in excess of five thousand Kelvin back there when the effects of the flare reached us. Apparently those lenses are amazing thermal conductors.”

“So much for well-laid plans,” Robert said, directing a slightly accusing glare at Miko.

Jonathan leaped to the tactical officer’s defense. “Plans are fluid, and meant to change with the ebbs and flows of battle. You know that, Commander. We’ll simply have to deal with it.”

Robert lowered his gaze. “Sorry sir. My apologies, Miko.”

Jonathan continued to tap his lips as he studied the tactical display. “I think I have a way to take out not just that laser ship, but perhaps all of them.” He lowered his hand. “Maxwell, how long would slugs last out there in those temperatures?”

“Slugs launched by the mag-rails?” the AI asked.

“That’s right,” Jonathan replied.

“The current batch of slugs in fleet inventories was harvested from an asteroid containing a high concentration of iron ore. As such, each slug is composed of approximately eighty-five percent iron. Since the melting point of said element is one thousand eight hundred eleven point fifteen Kelvin, the slugs will last indefinitely if launched into or above the current orbital plane. If hurled directly toward the subgiant, the slugs will eventually melt.”

Jonathan scratched his chin. “Maxwell, can you hit a target at a hundred and fifty thousand kilometers with those slugs?”

“Interesting question,” Maxwell intoned. “But I would like to point out that the mag-rails are meant for point-defense.”

“Just answer the question, Maxwell,” Jonathan said.

The AI was quiet for a moment. “If the enemy vessels continue on their current heading with the same acceleration, I can estimate a trajectory, yes. This is only an estimate, and the margin for error would be quite large at roughly plus or minus twenty percent.”

“Then you’ll simply have to fire the slugs in a dispersal pattern to make up for that margin of error.”

“By doing so, we will exhaust half of our supply.”

“Half?” Jonathan didn’t like the sound of that. “So what you’re saying is, we’ll only have the ability to fire two such waves, and then we’ll have nothing left for point defense, except Vipers?”

“That is correct. Unless you order the conversion of mortar inventory to slug inventory. Though it will take an hour before the first of the mortars are properly transferred and loaded into the processing machines, and another hour after the breakdown begins before the initial slugs are inserted into the mag-rail feed systems.”

Jonathan tapped his chin. “Schedule four mortars for the conversion. I want us to have at least some mag-rail point defenses in reserve a couple of hours from now.”

“Done,” Maxwell responded.

“If we fire the mag-rails as soon as possible,” Jonathan said. “At what range can we expect impact?”

“If launched now,” the AI returned. “The slugs will intercept when the enemy fleet is approximately one hundred and ten thousand kilometers behind us. The actual distance those slugs will have to cover is only seventy-two thousand kilometers, however.”

“Seventy-two thousand kilometers is a heck of a long way for a slug to travel and still hit anything with any accuracy,” Robert said. “The AI wasn’t lying when it said the margin for error was large.”

The commander was completely right of course. Like mortars, slugs had no propulsion, and therefore weren’t autocorrecting. Once launched, the trajectory was set for the lifetime of the slug.

Jonathan nodded. “That’s why we’re launching so many. Maxwell, when will the enemy detect the attack?”

“If their sensor capabilities are similar to our own,” the AI responded. “Detection will be limited to a few moments before impact. The enemy won’t notice the heat increase on our ships resulting from the initial firing, either, thanks to the elevated thermal levels of our hulls.”

Jonathan glanced at Robert. “What do you think?”

“It could work,” the commander said. “But we should add some mortars and X90s to the mix, timed to arrive at the same time as the slugs. Concentrate the bigger, detectable weapons on their starboard and port flanks. Herd them. Give them a path to take. Meanwhile, we fire the slugs straight down the middle and give them no choice but to dive when the incoming waves are detected.” Even without other kinetics coming in from an upper vector, it would take far too long to move to a higher atmosphere by the time the slugs were spotted, so the enemy would be forced to dive like the commander said.

“You’re forgetting that the X90s are liable to detonate prematurely because of the heat out there,” Jonathan said.

“I don’t think they’re that sensitive,” Robert said. “But fine, then fire mortars at the very least. They were sourced from the same iron ore as the slugs.”

Jonathan thought for a long moment. “No. If we fire anything detectable, they’ll change trajectories like you say, Commander. But they might veer far off course, well beyond where we aim our slugs. They might even initiate a deorbital burn early, to begin the long process of moving higher. Better if we fire the mag-rails alone and undetected, spreading the slugs to account for any predicted last-second evasive maneuvers.”

Robert nodded. “It’s your decision.”

“Maxwell,” Jonathan said. “Will we still have enough inventory for two waves if we spread the slugs beyond the margin of error, to account for any evasive action?”

“We will for the first wave,” the AI returned. “Though there will be less available for the second wave, and coverage will be minimal for some of the ships.”

Jonathan contemplated a moment longer, and then: “If we’re going to do this, let’s not get in each other’s way. Miko, separate the fleet. It’s time to skew our straight line of vessels into a diagonal. Maintain the same orbital height but have the ships behind us apply varying degrees of starboard thrust to spread out. Move us apart just enough to clear each other’s mag-rails. I don’t want to tip the enemy off by maneuvering too far. We should look like one long horizontal line to them.”

“On it,” the tactical officer replied.

“They’ll still think we’re up to something,” Robert said.

“Maybe. But they won’t know what.” Jonathan shifted in his seat. “Maxwell, start putting together a mag-rail firing solution for Miko and the tactical officers of the other ships, using the tactics we just discussed. Target the laser ship with extreme prejudice, followed by the pyramid ship and the two capital ships. Include the remaining ships, but give them a lower priority.”

“By lower priority,” Maxwell said. “You mean target them with fewer slugs, thereby reducing the probability of their destruction?”

“Yes,” Jonathan said. “And exclude T300 from the targeting solution entirely. Prepare two waves. In the second wave, use only enough so that we’re left with twenty-five percent of our slug inventory. I want some rounds left over for a third wave.”

“If I leave twenty-five percent of the slug inventory intact for a third wave, I can only target eight ships on the second wave,” Maxwell said. “I assume you want me to include the laser ship, the pyramid ship, and the capital ships in that second wave of targeting?”

“I do,” the captain said. “Those ships you mentioned need to be taken out at all costs. I want the first and second waves launched three seconds apart. Target the second wave underneath the given vessels.”

“You’re assuming the enemy ships are going to dive out of the way when they detect the first wave,” Robert stated.

“I am,” Jonathan said. “Their captains will have to make a split-second decision, and given the spread of the first wave, diving will be the best option.”

“And if Maxwell gets his timing right,” the commander said. “The targets will dive right into the second wave of projectiles.”

“That’s the hope,” Jonathan said.

“Shall I prepare a third wave?” Maxwell asked.

“No,” the captain answered. “Hold off indefinitely on the third wave.”

“Preparing firing solution,” Maxwell said.

Jonathan thrummed his fingers impatiently. “Maxwell?”

“Processing,” the AI returned.

Jonathan waited a few more seconds. “Maxwell.”

“Leading a target at over a hundred and forty-seven thousand kilometers away with mag-rails is a computationally intensive task,” Maxwell returned. “Some patience is in order.”

Jonathan sighed. He leaned to one side, set his elbow on the armrest of his chair, and placed his chin in one palm.

Several more moments passed. Finally:

“I have a firing solution,” Maxwell stated. “I am sending the data to Miko’s aReal.”

“Fire when ready, Miko,” Jonathan said.

“Firing,” the tactical officer responded.

Jonathan saw the small dots representing the slugs appear on his display in two successive waves. The dots quickly vanished as the tiny projectiles moved away from the ship and beyond detection range. They became replaced with dashed lines that estimated their motion vectors; those lines eventually intersected with the calculated trajectories of the pursuers.

“Even if we’re successful,” Robert said. “Allowing them to close to a hundred and ten thousand klicks is still cutting it a bit close. The laser ship we encountered previously opened fire at us from a range of a hundred thousand. They might just decide to start firing earlier this time. The intensity will be reduced, but I doubt by much, given the range on that thing. And worst of all we won’t even have any warning. Maxwell was bragging to you earlier how the aliens wouldn’t notice if we launched the slugs because of the high temperatures of our hulls? Well it works both ways. We won’t detect any thermal build-ups on their ships either if they decide to fire.” He shook his head. “What we’re doing here is a fairly big gamble.”

“It always was,” Jonathan responded. “Even in the original plan.” He looked the commander in the eye. “A space battle always is a gamble.”

Robert pressed his lips together. “If we get one thing wrong, or the enemy decides to slow down or speed up, or otherwise changes course during the time it takes those slugs to cross the seventy-two thousand kilometer gap between us...”

“Then we miss,” Jonathan finished.

Robert rubbed his ear lobe. “A game of poker played amongst the stars.”

Jonathan nodded grimly. “A deadly game. It’s why combat is always a captain’s greatest crucible.”

He studied the tactical display intently, watching as the enemy vessels slowly closed the gap. The long, tense minutes passed at an excruciating crawl. Jonathan kept expecting the alien laser weapon to open fire. So far it hadn’t.

The atmosphere on the bridge grew more strained with every moment. The recycled air seemed to grow thicker somehow, and harder to breathe.

Remain calm, Jonathan told himself. It’s going to work. We’re going to get through this.

The enemy task unit reached the one hundred and forty thousand kilometer mark behind them.

One thirty-five.

One thirty.

One twenty.

“Captain!” Ensign Lewis said. “An infrared laser is boring into our aft quarter!”

“Helm, fire port lateral thrusters!” Jonathan said. “Rotate us! Don’t let them concentrate fire in the same place!”

On the 3D display two thin white lines had appeared, sourced from both capital ships. Those lines were gamma rays, and perhaps powered the laser. The rays converged on the laser ship, from which a single white line representing the infrared beam emerged. It terminated on the Callaway.

So the enemy had decided to fire early after all. Robert’s hunch had proved correct.

The beam fired for ten agonizing seconds before vanishing from the display.

“Ensign!” Jonathan said. “Damage report.”

“The laser cut a hole into our aft quarters just outside storage bay three,” Ensign Lewis said. “Not unexpectedly, the beam micro-corrected, compensating for our rotational movements so that the shot remained focused on a small area even while we evaded. The Whittle layer there has completely boiled away, and the laser penetrated four point five meters into the underlying hull.”

Jonathan rubbed his face “How does that compare to the damage we received in the last battle, when it fired from precisely one hundred thousand kilometers away?”

“It’s comparable,” Lewis said. “In that battle, the laser penetrated six meters instead of four point five.”

“How is our hull holding up?” the captain asked.

“Hull integrity is within tolerances,” Lewis said.

Jonathan nodded. The enemy wouldn’t know the weak spots to fire on, not even if they interrogated Barrick, as the telepath didn’t have that knowledge. Lucky thing, too, because under the current stress levels those weak spots would have explosively decompressed even under a non-breaching blow.

“However,” the ensign continued. “With the Whittle and outer layers gone, we have no heat armor in that area. Maxwell has already dispatched the repair swarm to apply a temporary heat layer immediately, in case we need to swivel that side toward the subgiant.” Lewis abruptly stiffened. “I’m detecting incoming gamma rays from the enemy. They’re concentrating fire from all their ships. Aiming everything at the damaged region.”

“Trying to poison us,” Robert muttered.

“Following their standard tactics,” Jonathan said. “Radiation levels?”

“Definitely elevated in storage bay three behind the wound,” Lewis said. “And it’s reaching into the surrounding compartments and passages.”

“Maxwell, evacuate service personnel from that area please.”

“Evacuating sixteen personnel,” Maxwell said. “With instructions to report to sick bay.”

“Helm, how long until the starboard side is facing them?” the captain asked.

“A few more moments.”

“Miko, have another ship position itself between us and that laser,” Jonathan said. “We can’t afford to take much more of this.” He was conscious of the fact that he couldn’t allow the weakened port side to face the subgiant.

“Aye Captain,” Miko said. “It’s going to take some time for the closest ship to move into position. We’re probably going to receive at least one more laser strike.”

“Starboard side is facing the enemy,” the helmsman announced. “Nose is facing the subgiant.”

A few seconds later: “Laser is firing again,” Ensign Lewis said. She looked up urgently. “We’re not the target. The Marley is.”

“Get that ship protected!” Jonathan said. The Builder was the last ship he wanted the enemy to target.

“The Salvador is already moving to cover her,” Miko said. “And the Aurelia is maneuvering in front of the Grimm.”

Jonathan exhaled, rubbing his eyes. When the laser ceased: “Damage report on the Marley?”

“She’s fine, sir,” Lewis responded. “Like us, her hull held up.” She paused. “The enemy fleet is launching gamma rays into the Marley’s wound, like they did to us. According to my blueprints of the ship, the affected sections are manned by robots.”

“Good,” Jonathan said.

“The Maelstrom has moved back in line,” Miko said. “She’s covering us.”

Jonathan stared at the jagged diagonal line on the display. “We’re presenting too many targets. Have the other ships get back in line, too, Miko. Slot the Grimm and Marley in front of us, and have the Salvador on point. I want the Maelstrom to remain directly behind us, and the rest of the warships to follow her.”

“On it,” the tactical officer replied.

“Once they’re in position, the rear ships are to take turns at the drag position over the next ten thousand kilometers, until slug impact.” He glanced at the distance indicator. “Or rather, nine thousand. Make sure they always present a fresh ship or side to the enemy, so that no one gets any hull breaches.” He watched the task group slowly move into position on the tactical display and then added, grimly: “Nothing like a deadly game of leapfrog to keep one on his or her toes.”

“Nothing like it,” Robert agreed.

The next nine thousand kilometers passed painfully slowly, with the rearmost human ships dutifully accepting their floggings in turn. None of them experienced a breach, as the respective vessels always presented the pursuers with an undamaged side.

Finally:

“Enemy vessels have reached the hundred and ten thousand kilometer mark,” Ensign Lewis announced.

Jonathan spread the digits of both hands apart and tapped his fingertips and thumbs together impatiently. Come on. Come on.

“Wouldn’t we have received confirmation of a mag-rail hit or miss by now?” Robert asked. “The AI did say the slugs would impact at the hundred and ten thousand mark...”

“Actually,” Maxwell responded. “The original hundred and ten thousand kilometer estimate was given approximately fifty-five seconds before the computation of the actual firing solution. As you may have guessed, that final computation resulted in a different distance than the original estimation. The first wave impacts are expected to occur in T-minus twenty seconds.”

“Count them out, please, Maxwell,” Jonathan said.

“Certainly. Seventeen. Sixteen.”

The captain shifted impatiently as the seconds passed.

“Ten.”

He took several deep breaths and tightened his grip on the armrests. Seeing the white knuckles around him, he released that grip.

I’m the captain. I must look calm, in control. He exhaled. Even if I’m not.

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Enemy ships are taking evasive action!” Ensign Lewis announced.

“Two.”

“One.”

thirty-five

On his display, Jonathan watched the alien ships change courses in random directions. As expected, none of them attempted to fight the gravitational pull from the stars. A few braked, falling deeper toward the subgiant. Most tried to swerve to one side or another, attempting to avoid the slugs, but, judging from the flashes of light that began to riddle the video feed, they had merely navigated into more slugs, obviously not expecting the dispersal pattern to be so wide.

Three seconds later wave two struck, hitting those vessels that had descended. Two of the enemy ships braked once again, harder, diving under the second wave. They must have added dorsal thrust to the maneuvers, because their descent was far faster than before. Too fast. The alien equivalents to the helm specialists had likely overreacted: Jonathan doubted those ships would be able to recover in time to avoid traveling beyond the solar event horizon.

“Ops, update me.” Jonathan noted that three dots had vanished entirely from the display, leaving only nine pursuers.

“We destroyed three of them outright,” Ensign Lewis said, confirming his interpretations. “The laser ship, a capital ship, and one of the smaller dart ships. Two of the latter vessels have descended beyond what would be the solar event horizon for human ships. It looks like they’re in deadlock: while their descent has abated, they appear to be unable to move to a higher orbit.”

“Or unwilling,” Jonathan said.

“Given the heat they must be experiencing down there,” Lewis said. “I’d lean towards unable.”

Jonathan rubbed the stubble on his chin. “T300?”

“Unfortunately, the captain of T300 decided to take evasive action,” Lewis explained. “Even though there were no slugs directly aimed at that particular ship.”

Robert seemed to stiffen beside him.

“Can we tell if it took any damage?” Jonathan said.

She shook her head. “Because of the high external temperature, I’m not able to detect any differences in its heat signature. So either T300 got lucky and avoided hitting anything, or they’ve sustained minor damage.”

The commander exhaled quietly beside him.

“And the other six ships?” Jonathan pressed.

“Regarding the pyramid ship,” the ensign answered. “Like T300 its heat signature appears unchanged.”

“Miko and Maxwell,” Jonathan said. “You were supposed to target that one with extreme prejudice, second only to the laser ship.”

“We did target it,” the tactical officer returned. “But looking at the replay, it seems the pyramid ship chose to swerve and dive during the first wave. The vessel drifted far to port, so that when the second wave hit, probably very few of the slugs impacted.”

Jonathan rubbed his forehead. “All right. Ops, the other five?”

“The second capital ship didn’t fare quite so well,” Lewis answered. “That one’s heat signature has definitely increased, indicating moderate to major damage. Two of the other dart ships have similar heat readings, while the other two appear unchanged, indicating minor to no damage.”

On the tactical display, the red dots ascended slightly as the different enemy vessels thrust to slightly higher orbital planes, following the lead of the pyramid ship. One of them winked out as Jonathan watched.

“What just happened?” the captain said.

“That was one of the more badly damaged dart ships,” Lewis replied. “It just disintegrated. Our attack likely damaged its structural integrity, and when it tried to fire deorbital thrust, the competing forces tore the vessel apart.”

Jonathan nodded slowly. He was afraid of that very thing happening to his own ship.

“I was wrong about the two dart ships in the lowest orbit,” Lewis said. “They’re in a very slightly decaying orbit. Definitely unable to achieve escape velocity. According to Maxwell, on their current trajectory, they have about two weeks before reaching the point where the temperature and pressure destroy them, barring an unlucky solar flare.” She paused. “I’m detecting gamma rays traveling between those two ships and the pyramidal ship.”

“Communicating to mommy,” Robert muttered.

The ensign was quiet for a moment longer, and then furrowed her brow. “The two ships are applying braking thrust.” She looked up. “They’re purposely decaying their orbit to hasten their demise.”

“We’ve recorded similar behavior from them in the past,” Jonathan said. “Miko seems to think it has something to do with honor.”

The tactical officer shrugged. “If you had two weeks to live, what would you choose out there?”

“To live out every last moment,” Jonathan said. “As fully as I could.”

He stared at those two dots and in moments they vanished as the vessels incinerated. “But it would seem the Raakarr do not share my philosophy.”

He regarded the tactical display. Six ships remained in pursuit. Two of them apparently badly damaged. Whether some of their reactors or engines were offline, he couldn’t be sure, because the enemy proceeded forward at the same speed, carried by their previous momentum.

“The enemy is making random, very slight directional changes,” Ensign Lewis said.

Jonathan smiled slightly. “They’re afraid we’re going to try the mag-rail trick again. If only they knew how depleted our inventory was.”

Robert leaned forward. “Six ships. Six. We almost match them one to one.”

Jonathan scratched his chin. “One to one? With the damage we’ve inflicted, the scales might be tipped slightly in our favor. I’d order us to turn around for an attack pass, except for that pyramidal ship. It’s a big unknown.”

Robert rubbed his earlobe. “It’s smaller than their capital ship. It’s probably equivalent to our cruiser.”

“Maybe,” Jonathan said. “But I don’t like the look of those stilt legs.”

“They’re not slowing down,” Robert said. “Despite the losses, they’re itching for a fight.”

“We’ll give them one, eventually,” Jonathan said. “I just don’t want to be caught in a pincer maneuver. ETU-F2 is still out there, rounding the sun.”

“Pursuing enemy vessels are decelerating,” Lewis said.

The commander raised an eyebrow. “Maybe they don’t want to fight after all.”

“Wait,” the ensign answered. “Their speed is stabilizing again. They’re still gaining, but much more slowly.”

“Maxwell,” Jonathan said. “Given the last recorded position of ETU-F2, if those three ships proceeded directly around the sun on an intercept trajectory, when can we expect to encounter them?”

“If ETU-F2 chose the fastest possible route, they should appear past the horizon in approximately two hours, with a projected flyby to occur fifteen minutes after that.”

“And how close would the enemy task unit be behind us by then, at their current speed?” Jonathan asked.

“Fifteen thousand kilometers,” the AI returned. “Assuming they don’t decide to decelerate again.”

“They’re planning a pincer maneuver after all,” Robert said.

“That’s exactly what they’re planning,” Jonathan agreed. “Helm, turn the Callaway perpendicular to our current direction of travel. Give us a ninety-degree attitude along our current orbital plane. Miko, transmit the order to the fleet.”

Moments later, both the helmsman and Miko responded that the ships had attained the requested attitude.

“Fire aft thrusters, helm. Seventy percent power. Miko, transmit the order to the fleet. Cut power when we’ve achieved a forty-five degree angle over our current orbital trajectory.” Jonathan glanced at the commander and said, a bit smugly: “When ETU-F2 appears, we won’t be where they expect us to be.”

“No, we won’t,” Robert agreed. “Unless of course, the aliens have a way to communicate through all that radiation.”

“Through a star?” Jonathan said. “I doubt it.” Still, the commander’s words worried him.

The vibrations in his chair became more pronounced as the Callaway fought against its previous inertia. He hoped the hull held up.

“Alien ships are matching our course,” Ensign Lewis said. “The damaged capital ship is lagging, however. As is one of the dart ships.”

“So we hit the reactors on those two after all...” Jonathan said. 

Several minutes later:

“Cutting thrust,” the helmsman said.

The bridge vibrations immediately returned to previous levels. 

“We’re now moving at an orbit of forty-five degrees relative to the previous trajectory,” the helmsman said.

“The enemy has matched our course,” Lewis said. “The capital ship is still lagging, however. Looks like the enemy task unit isn’t going to allow the vessel to catch up. And they’re all still issuing random directional changes.”

“Wasting precious propellant,” Jonathan said. “Good.”

“The prominence we identified earlier is fast coming up,” Lewis said. She paused, then: “We’re flying over it. External hull temperature is rising. Currently fifteen hundred Kelvin. Eighteen hundred.”

Jonathan tightened his grip on the armrests. If that temperature didn’t stabilize soon, it was doubtful he would be able to move the fleet out of that location in time to save them. Still, the scientists had run calculations, assuring him that the temperature would be well within the tolerances of the heat armor.

But what if their calculations were wrong?

“Temperature is stabilizing at two thousand Kelvin,” Lewis said. “Heat shields are holding.”

Jonathan released the armrests.

“Radiation is spiking again, however,” the ensign added.

“How bad is it?” Jonathan asked.

“Our anti-rads should protect us.”

Jonathan unconsciously touched the protrusion in his forearm. “All we can do now is wait and see where ETU-F2 shows up.”

Twenty minutes into the flight over the prominence, the ensign said: “I’ve lost sight of the trailing alien unit. The massive solar prominence is reducing visibility to under fifty thousand kilometers for both the thermal and visual bands.”

“What are the odds they can’t see us either?” Jonathan asked.

“I’d say ninety-nine percent, if not a hundred,” Lewis responded.

“Maxwell?” Jonathan said.

“I concur,” the AI returned.

Jonathan clenched his jaw. “Good. Helm, flip us around and prepare to fire thrusters to bring us back to our original trajectory. Keep the port side away from the sun, of course. Miko, transmit the order to the fleet.”

Two minutes later, when the helmsman had flipped the orientation of the ship, Jonathan gave the order to fire seventy-percent thrust fleet wide. Ten minutes passed, and when he was happy with the new orbital trajectory, he ordered the thrust cut.

“Now the waiting game truly begins,” Jonathan said.

“We could initiate deorbit,” Robert said. “Get the hell out of here.”

“No,” Jonathan said. “They’ll spot us immediately when we emerge from the haze of the prominence. And you forget that the enemy is faster than us.”

“Why not continue altering our trajectory then,” the commander said. “Move us toward the south pole of the subgiant.”

“We’ll have to face them eventually,” Jonathan said. “I’d rather do it here, where the advantage is somewhat ours.”

“How is this an advantage?” the commander asked.

“We prevent the enemy from coordinating their pincer strike,” Jonathan said. “And we face each group individually.”

Robert crossed his arms. “What if Lewis and the AI are wrong? What if their sensors can actually penetrate the thermal interference?”

“I don’t think so,” Jonathan said. “Their instruments obey the laws of physics just like our own. Their sensors won’t function any better than ours, not here.”

The minutes passed tensely. It was hard to concentrate, knowing that the pursuing Raakarr vessels were somewhere out there.

“The waiting, it drives me crazy sometimes,” Miko said.

“You’re not the only one, Lieutenant,” Robert told the man.

Jonathan held his tongue, though he agreed wholeheartedly.

At the forty-five minute mark, there was still no sign of enemy contact. The Callaway and the other six ships continued to fly above the expansive solar prominence. So far, the heat shields had held out against the 2000 K temperatures, but Jonathan was beginning to wonder if it was wise to remain at their current orbital height for much longer.

“I’m detecting a concentrated burst of gamma rays flying past us,” Lewis announced.

“Aimed at any of our ships?” Jonathan asked.

“No,” she said. “I think it was a communications burst.”

“Can you detect the source?”

“I can. It’s...” She looked up urgently. “I’m reading three signatures consistent with ETU-F2 in the thermal haze up ahead. Only fifty thousand kilometers away.”

“Damn it!” Jonathan said.

“An infrared laser is boring into the nose of the Maelstrom!” Lewis said.

“Tell them to take evasive action!” Jonathan instructed Miko.

“Their captain appears to be attempting that very thing,” the tactical officer responded.

Given their current trajectory, the line the human fleet had formed was at a slight angle to the laser ship, exposing all of them and letting the vessel have its pick of a target.

“Miko, get the fleet back in line relative to that ship!” Jonathan said. “Salvador at point, Aurelia at drag!”

“Aye,” the tactical officer responded.

“The pursuing ships have also emerged from the haze,” Lewis said. “Fifty thousand klicks off our aft section! They’re firing... concentrating their six particle beams on the Maelstrom as well.”

Jonathan raised his arms and formed two fists. He felt so helpless in that moment.

So much for the hundred percent certainty that they couldn’t see us.

When the particle beams had ceased and the ten second laser firing interval had passed:

“The Maelstrom has taken heavy structural damage in the nose section,” Lewis said. “That laser had four times the intensity versus the hundred thousand kilometer mark, and it drilled a quarter way through the ship, almost to the bridge. The particles beams meanwhile dug a hole four meters deep in the frigate’s aft quarters, but that’s it. No breach there. Even though the six pursuers combined their attacks, they were simply too far away to cause any real damage.”

“But their next attack will,” Jonathan said. “If they strike in the same spot. They achieved their goal of a pincer after all.”

The captain leaned forward to study the display, even though his posture did nothing to affect the position of the overlay on his aReal. Two dart ships flanked the laser ship ahead, though the range was now forty-four thousand kilometers to them. Mercifully, because of their speed, and their opposing trajectories, the flyby would be quick.

Meanwhile, the human task group had adjusted positions so that the Salvador was at the head, and the Aurelia at drag.

“Have the Salvador launch all of its mortars,” Jonathan said. “Tell them to form as much of a shield as they can in front of their vessel, protecting the critical hull sections.”

He watched as several blue dots appeared in front of the respective ship.

“Those are going to turn into a molten mess in this heat,” Ensign Lewis commented.

The range was thirty-nine thousand klicks when the enemy fired again.

When it was over: “The Salvador reports damage to several decks, none of them critical. Her hull integrity is slightly compromised, however. Not as badly as the Maelstrom, though.”

“Tell the Salvador to swap out of point,” Jonathan said. “I want the next ship in line to bear the brunt of that laser.”

“The Salvador is refusing,” Miko replied.

“What, why?”

Miko appeared stunned. “The next ship in line is the Marley.”

“Ah. All right, then get the third ship to move up.” Jonathan double-checked and confirmed that the third ship was a warship, the Dagger.

“The laser ship and her escorts are thrusting hard to the left,” Miko said. “It looks like they’re trying to keep their range at forty thousand during the flyby.”

“They know our Vipers can’t touch them at that distance, even if we combine them,” Robert said.

“Maxwell, compute a firing solution,” Jonathan said. “Lead the target, and fire all of our slugs at that ship. Use mortars to herd them, in case they decide to randomly change directions like our pursuers.” He would have ordered X90s from the Avengers mounted to the hull, too, but those definitely would have detonated prematurely at the current temperature levels.

“I have a firing solution,” Maxwell announced a moment later. “Transmitting to Miko.”

“Fire,” Jonathan told Miko.

While the slugs would become a “molten mess,” as Ensign Lewis called it, a molten mess moving at those speeds would still rip a ship in half.

“Have they fired again yet?” Jonathan asked.

“No.”

He studied the display. “We’re drifting out of line compared to them. Line us up, Miko.”

But it was too late.

“The laser is firing,” Lewis said. “They’ve hit the Maelstrom again. The six pursuers are also targeting her, this time from a range of forty-eight thousand kilometers out.”

The dot representing the Maelstrom winked out.

Lewis sagged. “I’m sorry sir. The ship lost structural integrity. She was ripped apart. There wasn’t even time for the crew to reach the lifepods.”

Jonathan nodded stiffly. It wouldn’t have helped even if the crew had.

In his mind’s eye he momentarily saw Admiral Knox pointing at him accusingly. Then the apparition was gone.

“The Dagger is on point,” Miko announced.

“Tell Captain Rodriguez to fire as many mortars as he can to provide a shield against that laser,” Jonathan said. “Just like the Salvador did for herself.”

“On it,” Miko replied.

“Maxwell, ETA to slug impact?” Jonathan asked.

“Thirty seconds,” the AI stated.

At the ten second mark:

“The laser is firing again,” Lewis said. “As are the two dart escorts. They’re all concentrating fire on the same spot on the Dagger. They’re shooting through three stacked mortars.”

The external display abruptly flashed white.

“What happened?” Jonathan anxiously searched the tactical display. “Did we lose the Dagger?”

“Negative,” Lewis replied. “Our slugs impacted. The laser ship has been destroyed, as has one of the dart ships. The other one braked, diving to a lower orbit. It’s accelerating away fast.”

Jonathan exhaled. Another two down. Though at the price of the Maelstrom.

He issued a silent prayer for the vanquished and hoped, with all his heart, that the fleet could pull through without losing any more ships.

thirty-six

Valor approached the hatch to storage bay twelve. The compartment beyond had been converted into a holding cell for the members of Organism Z22. It had enough room to contain hundreds of that species, though it currently held only one specimen.

Swathed in darkness, the executioner, a Wraith Lord, led the way, accompanied by two similarly shielded Hive Guards.

When the Wraith Lord reached the bay, he telepathically interfaced with the control unit and the door began to move aside. He entered the airlock, followed by the Hive Guards and Valor.

The outer door sealed behind them and the four of them waited. The atmosphere would be venting, changing to match that of the compartment inside. Raakarr optic centers didn’t provide the granularity necessary to discern such changes, so none of them would actually “see” any difference in the atmosphere, and would have to trust that the automated systems were working.

As the inner door opened, the Wraith Lord telepathically addressed Valor.

You stay here, the Wraith Lord sent. While the Exalted might approve of your presence, I do not.

Valor transmitted a point cloud representation of submission, and he remained in the airlock while the executioner and his two guards stepped through the inner door. He positioned himself against one of the bulkheads near that door so he had an optimal view of the compartment beyond.

The area was depicted as a series of point clouds by his vision, similar to the telepathy he used. Those thousands of points formed the shapes of bulkheads, decks and overheads. The glowing filaments in the bulkhead provided the electromagnetic radiation that bounced from the various objects to his optic center, allowing his mind to create those point clouds, and his reality. The wavelength of those filaments determined the hue of the points in the cloud. There were only two wavelengths Raakarr could see: blue and red, each detectable by different sets of eyes.

Raakarr could emit similar electromagnetic radiation themselves, allowing them to see without the filaments, however the process was mentally exhausting, especially if one wanted to cover a compartment of any appreciable area, even if the EM bursts were emitted only every few moments.

It was a coincidence that those electromagnetic waves stimulated the optic centers of Organism Z22. The Raakarr had encountered other organisms whose mechanisms of navigating and interacting with their environments were vastly different. The compartment beyond would appear pitch black to such entities.

The Wraith Lord approached the Z22 female. She still wore the external skin that protected her species from the void, which made her point cloud appear bulky. Some of the radiation penetrated her faceplate, illuminating the face inside, however the Raakarr didn’t have the optical resolution to distinguish Z22 features. Instead they relied on the increased resolution of the Overwatch AI to identify the individual: according to the telepathic signals the AI beamed, it was indeed the female.

Hold her, the executioner told the Hive Guards.

One of the female’s appendages had been positioned behind her back, and the creature abruptly brought that limb to the forefront. She gripped a foreign object of some kind in her claws.

Hello, the female transmitted. Except that wasn’t possible, because the female didn’t have telepathic abilities, nor did she know the Raakarr language.

One of the Hive Guards collapsed to the floor. That foreign object was a weapon, of course. Capable of photonic fire.

Valor unleashed his own photonics from his position by the inner door. His target wasn’t the Z22, but the remaining guard and the Wraith Lord. The Unchosen.

The Overwatch AI remained completely silent during the attack. Almost complicit. And it remained so as the three rolling mists collapsed to the floor.

Valor, leader of the Chosen People, had replaced the monitoring sensors in the prison with a static feed so that the Overwatch AI wouldn’t know the “female” had swapped places with the Clairvoyant, the Z22 male. The darkness shield the Clairvoyant had given the real female was similarly programmed to emit a signal associated with the male. Another of the Chosen People had planted instructions for the AI to open the hatches of the experimentation center at 0700, Z22 time, to allow the female to escape. She would have to lose the Hive Guards on her own, but once she was outside the experimentation center, the signal from her darkness generator would change so that any further Raakarr she encountered would believe she was one of them. Unless they tried to communicate with her, of course.

Valor had disabled the safeguards in the hangar bay as well, so that when she finally reached the Z22 craft, her exit was guaranteed. Whether or not she would actually escape the intense gravity outside, or even survive the radiation, was another story entirely.

It is time to set the operation in motion, Valor sent the Clairvoyant.

JONATHAN PULLED UP the aft external display. The interference was particularly bad on the video feed, and it was hard to discern the pursuing vessels. A flash abruptly came from the area.

“Lewis?” Jonathan said.

The ops station officer seemed stunned. “T300 just fired at the capital ship. Point blank range. Tore it right in half. It swept its particle beam down and hit the pyramid ship in front of them, too.”

After Jonathan recovered from the shock, he was suddenly very glad he had ordered the fleet not to target T300 in any way. A part of him wondered if Bridgette had anything to do with the surprise attack. Assuming she hadn’t been executed.

“Did T300 destroy the pyramid ship?” the captain asked hopefully.

Lewis shook her head. “No. But it looks like they ripped away two of those stilts underneath it. T300 has already issued emergency braking, and they’ve dropped several thousand kilometers down. They’re fleeing on a diagonal vector.”

There was another flash.

“What was that?” Jonathan said.

“You’re not going to believe this,” the ensign said. “But a second dart ship just opened fire, taking out another vessel of the same class. The defector is braking now, too, and dropping down to join T300.”

All that remained of the pursuers at that point was the damaged pyramid ship, and a previously damaged dart ship, as the surviving vessel from ETU-F2 had overshot its allies earlier and vanished in the haze of the solar prominence.

Jonathan watched on the display as the two defectors began to climb back to a higher orbit, moving thirty degrees away from the pursuers, whose momentum still carried them toward the human fleet.

“I’m detecting multiple particle beams from the pyramid ship,” Lewis said. “Source from the remaining two stilts.”

“At least we know what those are now,” Miko commented.

“What’s the target?” Jonathan said.

“They’re drilling into T300.”

The captain waited several tense moments. When the beam indicator on the tactical display vanished, the dot representing T300 remained.

“Damage to T300?” Jonathan said.

“Hard to say,” the ensign answered. “The heat signature has definitely changed. I’d say they’ve taken moderate damage. They’re continuing to pull away from the enemy, along with the second defector.”

Robert closed his eyes, breathing rapidly beside the captain.

“Let’s see if we can spook that pyramid ship,” Jonathan said. “Miko, have the fleet decelerate ten percent, but fire ventral thrust to maintain the same orbit.”

“On it,” Miko said. “But due to propellant costs, I recommend we return to our previous speed in about ten seconds.”

“That should do,” Jonathan told the tactical officer.

The vibrations the captain had felt in his chair, which had been subtle before, became all out shudders as the Callaway struggled against the competing forces exerted upon her—inertia wanted to carry her forward, the thrusters wanted to shove her away, the binary stars wanted to draw her in.

Jonathan glanced at Robert. “Now we’ll see if the structural engineers did their jobs properly.”

If they did not, the Callaway would be shortly ripped apart.

“The pursuers are braking, too,” Ensign Lewis said. “They’re turning away at a thirty degree angle.”

“Return to previous speed,” Jonathan said. “And turn the fleet thirty degrees in the opposite direction. It’s obvious they’ve had their noses bloodied enough for the day.”

“We’re letting them go?” Robert asked.

“I’ve had enough for today, too,” Jonathan said. “I don’t want to lose any more ships.”

“It took our enemy a while before coming to the same conclusion,” Robert said.

Jonathan watched the pyramid and dart ships continue their breakaway course. They were accelerating past escape velocity, slowly deorbiting, likely intending to rejoin ETU-F1 and the survivor from ETU-F2.

“Should we rendezvous with the two defector ships?” Robert asked. “They’re heading is not far off from our own.”

“We’ll keep our distance for now,” Jonathan said. “We still don’t know their full intentions.”

thirty-seven

Bridgette sat in the dreary compartment with its empty operating tables and robotic arms dangling from the ceiling. At first those arms had shadowed her every movement from above, but they had moved off to one corner hours ago as if they had lost interest.

The place was lit by those glowing filaments set into the bulkheads, though the glow had switched from blue to red many hours ago. She wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, though she suspected it had something to do with the combat readiness of the alien vessel, sort of like general quarters on a human ship.

She still wore her spacesuit. She had already swapped out her oxygen tank once, and the O2 level of the latest canister was at fifty percent. She also gripped the darkness generator, never letting it go, just like Barrick had told her to do. Unfortunately, the past twelve hours had seemed like twenty four, thanks to the time dilation the device caused.

She had programmed her glove to remain shut around the device regardless of finger pressure, so at least she had been able to take random naps. She had also tried to immerse herself in a few virtual reality experiences to pass the time, but she couldn’t concentrate and usually shut them down after five minutes or so. Mostly, she alternated between staring at the glowing filaments set into the bulkheads and watching the time tick past at a crawl on her faceplate. She tried talking softly to Eugene once but quickly stopped, feeling too guilty about what she had almost done to the baby.

0700 finally arrived.

Yellow fumes rushed into the compartment from the direction of the entrance and she realized both hatches of the airlock had opened. 

Right on schedule.

She scrambled to her feet.

But then a dark mist rolled inside. She quickly dove behind one of the empty operating tables and hoped the Raakarr hadn’t seen her.

Several nerve-racking seconds passed.

And then the alien waltzed right past her.

She knew there had to be some kind of monitoring system in place in that compartment, but she suspected that whoever had opened the hatches was helping her in other ways, such as hiding her location from the system, and disabling the robot arms on the ceiling. She hoped so, anyway.

She peered past the edge of the operating table. The dark mist continued moving away from her, deeper into the compartment.

She quietly scrambled to her feet and made her way to the entrance. She wasn’t sure if the aliens could sense sound, but she placed her boots as softly as possible anyway, and hoped the darkness shield further muted each step. She glanced nervously at the ceiling: the robot arms didn’t move from where they dangled.

She reached the airlock and carefully gazed past the rim. There was no sign of the second guard that had escorted her to the compartment so she hurried into the tight passageway beyond.

Before she rounded a bend in the passage she glanced over her shoulder. There was no sign of pursuit.

The floral-like filaments that lined the bulkheads continued to glow red, lighting the way. She was glad for that, because she wasn’t sure her helmet lamp could penetrate the darkness shield. She hadn’t tried the lamp, of course. She hadn’t dared.

She retraced her steps, following the map she had recorded on her aReal. She glanced at the current time. 0708. Barrick’s words returned to the forefront of her thoughts. No matter what happens, you must be off the ship by 0730.

She came across several sealed hatches along the way, but always the doors slid open at her approach. Those hatches hadn’t been closed during her previous journey through the passages, confirming her suspicions that the ship was running under the alien equivalent of Condition Zebra, whereby the hatches were sealed to prevent a ship-wide decompression in the case of a breach scenario. On a human ship, she would have had to inform the Damage Control spaces of her planned route beforehand, and she’d have to override each hatch individually. Either someone was doing that for her at the moment, or the darkness generator she held automatically transmitted the necessary codes. Or maybe the seals always opened whenever a Raakarr approached—she really couldn’t know.

The passageway shuddered from time to time but she had gotten used to those occasional vibrations. She wasn’t sure what caused them. Perhaps the vessel was swinging by a gravity well. Either that, or it was taking fire of some sort.

She came across the black fog of another Raakarr along the way and she ducked into a side passage to avoid it. But the mist only followed her; she increased her pace and took several random turns, eventually eluding the pursuer. The map allowed her to find her way back to the main passage and she proceeded onward.

By the time she reached the hangar bay the time read 0727. Three minutes to go.

Unfortunately, another mist-clad alien stood guard directly in front of the entrance.

She approached and the black fog surprisingly rolled to one side to let her pass. She slowly edged by, expecting a claw or mandible to dart out from the darkness and grab her at any moment. But incredibly the alien did nothing. She wondered if it believed she was one of them.

She hurried into the bay and transmitted the access codes to the Dragonfly. The rear ramp lowered and she rushed in. She set aside the darkness generator, strapped herself into the cockpit, and then sealed the ramp and turned on the engines. She was just wondering how she was going to fly through the bay doors when the pair magically opened of their own accord.

She silently thanked Barrick or whoever was helping her and then activated the shuttle’s training AI. With its assistance she hovered the Dragonfly into the air and accelerated through the bay doors.

She was entirely unprepared for what awaited out there.

A FLASH APPEARED on the external video feed Jonathan was monitoring on his aReal.

“Captain,” Lewis said. “T300 just broke apart.”

“What do you mean it broke apart?” he growled.

Robert remained completely motionless beside him.

“I think... I think its structural integrity was compromised when the pyramid ship fired at it,” Lewis said. “I’m sorry sir.” She paused. “I am detecting two smaller signatures, however. The alien equivalent of lifepods, maybe.”

“Lifepods?” Robert said.

Jonathan glanced at the commander. The first officer’s eyes flashed with hope.

“It’s possible their lifepods are better equipped to deal with the conditions out there than our own,” the ensign said. “Their heat armor seems to be holding up. So far.”

Jonathan studied the display. The two objects appeared as faint red dots.

“The remaining defector is moving to intercept one of the objects,” the ensign continued. “The other object, meanwhile, is on a parallel trajectory to our own fleet, though in a lower orbit.”

“What if it’s Bridgette?” Robert said urgently.

“Can we tell if it’s a Dragonfly?” Jonathan asked the ensign.

Lewis shook her head. “It’s too far, and too small. The external temperature is obscuring the heat signature. And the radiation interference isn’t helping matters.”

“Lazur, try to hail it,” Jonathan said.

Lazur shook his head. “Too far. If it is a Dragonfly, it might be receiving our weak signal, but at that range its comm node would be too small to punch through the interference for a reply.”

“Keep trying,” Jonathan told the comm officer.

“It has to be her,” Robert said.

“Nav, plot a course to that unidentified object,” Jonathan said. “Miko, kindly inform the fleet that the Callaway is taking a short dive. Everyone else is to remain in the current orbit. The Dagger is in command.”

“Intercept course plotted,” the nav specialist said a few moments later.

“Helm, take us down.”

“Decelerating,” the helmsman answered. “And firing appropriate thrusters to achieve the new vector.”

“Sir,” Lazur said. “Captain Rail of the Salvador insists on speaking with you.”

“Put her on,” Jonathan sighed.

Her holographic image appeared at the center of the Round Table, where she seemed to be seated.

“What is it, Captain?” Jonathan said.

“I insist that you allow the Salvador to escort you,” Rail said. “If the enemy spies a lone ship diving away from the others, they might decide to turn back and pick that ship off.”

Jonathan considered her offer. “Actually, we could use you. Go ahead and join us.”

She seemed stunned. Then: “Thank you, Captain.”

Jonathan nodded stiffly. “While we come alongside it, I want you to assume a position underneath the object. Shade it from the subgiant’s heat. If it’s the Dragonfly we’re looking for, I have a feeling the thermal shields are being strained to the limit right about now.”

“Understood. Captain Rail out.” Her hologram vanished.

On the tactical display, as the two ships moved away from the fleet, the CDC assigned the labels TU1 and TU2 to the separate portions of the task group, with the Callaway and the Salvador becoming Task Unit One.

“We’re on the same plane as the object,” the helmsman said after several minutes. “Firing stabilizing thrusters, and accelerating toward its position.”

The bridge began shaking anew. Slowly but surely, the vessel began to move toward the object.

The helmsman glanced at Jonathan. “The Captain is aware that the object is on a decaying orbit?”

“No I was not,” Jonathan said. That meant the Callaway was on a decaying orbit, too.

Jonathan accessed the fuel indicators on his HUD. The inert gas levels were dropping fast, thanks to the immense Delta V costs there. Geronium was also being used at an extremely high rate. According to the current estimates, when the human fleet finally broke free of the suns, the constituent vessels would have exhausted roughly ninety percent of their propellant and seventy percent of their geronium, with the Callaway and Salvador faring the worst. The first order of business after the battle concluded was to dispatch the Harvester vessel to one of the gas giants in order to collect both fuels.

He glanced at the unidentified object. If that really was a Dragonfly, it definitely wouldn’t have enough propellant to reach the fleet on its own.

“The second object was just captured by the defector,” Lewis announced. “It looks like they used some sort of grappling hooks.”

“We need to get ourselves some of those,” Jonathan muttered. While Dragonflies and Avengers could fire grappling hooks, the warships in the fleet had no such capability. Tow lines could of course be attached to any starship, again with the help of shuttles, but those took time to deploy. If the unidentified object wasn’t grappling-capable, the Callaway would have to come up with an alternate retrieval plan, one that would be made all the more difficult by their current environment.

The comm officer spoke up a moment later. “The alien ship is hailing us.”

“Now they want to talk peace again,” Jonathan said. “Wait a second, which alien ship?”

“The defector,” Lazur replied. “It’s Barrick. Apparently he was aboard whatever lifepod the ship captured. He says the Zarafe faction is in control of the vessel, and the aliens are requesting permission to join our fleet.”

Jonathan glanced at Robert. “So the faction exists after all.”

“Maybe,” the commander said. “But even so, they only helped us when it became clear we were going to win.”

“Wouldn’t you do the same?” Jonathan told him. “Why reveal your hand unless there was a high chance the cards would lead to victory?”

“But their behavior goes against your strategy of playing to win,” Robert said. “Because what they did was definitely playing not to lose.”

“That’s because they don’t know how to play the game properly,” Jonathan said. “In any case, their actions have now given us the advantage. They’re in our debt, and require our protection going forward. Their ship can never again fight with the Raakarr. Future negotiations between us will go much more smoothly, I think.” He turned toward Lazur. “Are you able to tap in to the unidentified craft yet?”

“Negative,” Lazur answered.

Jonathan had hoped the craft was within communication range as well by then, but obviously the Raakarr vessel had a far more powerful comm node equivalent.

“All right.” He sighed. “Tell Barrick we’ll allow them to fly no closer than thirty thousand kilometers from Task Unit Two. Instruct the Dagger to expect a visitor. Eventually.”

The comm officer nodded. A moment later: “Barrick says they agree.”

“Let me talk to him,” Jonathan said.

Barrick’s voice came over the comm a moment later. “Hello Captain.” The telepath was difficult to understand thanks to the digital warping caused by the radiation.

“Tell me Bridgette was aboard the lifepod with you,” Jonathan said.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Barrick replied. “I took the leader of the Zarafe faction with me, not the commander’s wife. There wasn’t room.”

Robert slumped visibly beside him.

“But she did escape the destruction,” Barrick continued. “Thanks to the Zarafe leader’s help—part of his show of good faith. You are tracking an unidentified object, aren’t you?”

Lewis glanced up urgently. “Captain. I can confirm, that’s definitely one of our Dragonflies out there.”

thirty-eight

Lieutenant Lin Akido floated, disembodied, above the hull of the Salvador. Well, she wasn’t quite disembodied—looking down, she could discern the ghostly outline of her bodysuit. And though she couldn’t see it, she resided in an Avenger attached to the port-side Whittle layer of the warship via magnetic mounts and grappling hooks. She hung upside-down so that the heat shields of the fighter faced outward. Those shields had seen little use—the warship’s entire port-side currently faced away from the subgiant, and for all the Salvador’s frantic and evasive maneuvering, the destroyer had only turned that particular side to the sun once. During that short time the Avenger’s heat shields had held up, of course, and the anti-rad subdermals had kicked in when the radiation spiked.

She felt quite useless. Two days she had been out there. Two useless days of sitting around, waiting for action. Fighter pilots were trained to have the same patience and discipline as snipers, with the expectation that sometimes missions could last weeks on end. There were more than a few elite units that specialized in sneaking unnoticed behind enemy lines to assassinate an SK traveling in a business shuttle, for example.

She had survived on liquid sustenance via a straw in her helmet, and relieved herself by means of the cup strapped over her groin. A fecal collector protruded from the rear of her bodysuit. Electrodes in the suit stimulated her muscles to contract at different points throughout the day. Those electrodes weren’t inducing any contractions at the moment, but even so her right calf spasmed annoyingly—one of the unwanted side effects that came from hours of involuntary flexing.

She sensed her copilot shifting beside her.

“You know,” Lieutenant Grisham’s disembodied voice said. “I don’t see why the commander didn’t just let us operate the fighters remotely, if they had known we’d be operating so close to the hull the whole time.”

“We volunteered for this, Gris,” Lin said.

“True enough. But you know I’d go anywhere for you, babe.”

He was joking, of course. The repartee shared between warriors. Still, she was accustomed to sexual harassment in the navy. And while what he said didn’t qualify, it was close. The unwanted advances and remarks had lessened as she rose through the ranks. It was the worst when Lin first signed up. The navy frowned on such behavior, and so at the time she took it upon herself to show every incident of harassment to her superior officers, as recorded by her aReal. The men in question would be disciplined, but it made working with them a whole lot harder. She learned it was best to suck it up, and never lead them on.

Unless you wanted something more.

She thought of Wolf. She never meant things to go as far as they had. It was just sex, at first. And that was all she wanted, and Wolf seemed to want the same. But after they escaped from the alien ship, their relationship had subtly changed. The lovemaking was just as wild as ever, but it had a note of desperation to it, not just for him, but for her, as if both of them were suddenly all too aware how temporal their relationship was. Wolf had begun to behave differently outside the sex, too. He seemed more possessive, and was quick to grow jealous if she even looked at another man. She liked it, in a way, but was afraid of the implications.

She had experienced similar issues of jealousy with him. An incident came to mind when he was talking, no, flirting, with a young ensign a few weeks back.

But none of that mattered anymore. She and Wolf were apart, serving on different ships in the same fleet. He was probably fucking that young ensign already.

Her attention was drawn to the tactical display overlaying her vision. Lin saw that the two dots representing the Callaway and Salvador were decelerating, moving to a lower orbit, while the remaining ships of the fleet stayed high.

“What’s up?” came a voice over the general comm.

According to her aReal, the voice belonged to a Lieutenant Commander Roland, from Emerald Squadron, attached to the Dagger. The digital warping affecting his words wasn’t too bad at the moment, thanks to the signal boost provided by their proximity to the massive comm nodes in the starships, but it would worsen as the vessels grew farther apart.

Wolf came over the line from the Callaway. “Albright says we’re moving to a lower orbit to rescue a civilian in a Dragonfly.”

“A civilian?” someone in Wolf’s Squadron returned. Ensign Tim Brown. “How the hell did a civilian get out there? It’s not Commander Cray’s wife, is it?”

“Apparently it is,” Wolf replied.

She had mixed feelings hearing Wolf’s voice. On the one hand, she missed him terribly. Those bushy brows framing eyes that always seemed so sad. That crooked grin of his, and the dimple in his cheeks that accompanied it. But then she thought of the ensign moaning his name and all of that gave way to anger and resentment.

Many times over the past several hours she had stared at his indicator on the display, yearning to contact him, or for him to reach out to her. But she hadn’t done it. All communications would be reviewed afterward by the space wing commanders, and she didn’t want to further besmirch her record. Wolf wouldn’t wish to do that either, she supposed, though that didn’t make her any happier at his silence. In fact, it only made her suspect his infidelity all the more.

After several minutes, the Callaway and Salvador assumed positions alongside the Dragonfly, one kilometer away from the starboard and ventral flanks respectively. They matched its speed.

Lin watched on the display as both vessels slowly nudged toward the Dragonfly. The Salvador ceased its approach about thirty meters underneath the shuttle, using her giant shadow to shield the object from the rays of the subgiant. The Callaway meanwhile came to a relative halt when the shuttle was twenty meters from the closest superstructure on its starboard side.

The minutes ticked by uneventfully.

“Why isn’t the Dragonfly firing grappling hooks?” Grisham said over the comm.

“Dunno,” Wolf answered.

“Did anyone else notice it’s on a rapidly decaying orbit?” someone in Wolf’s squadron asked. Lieutenant Jeremy Walker. “At this rate, that shuttle is going to fall past the solar event horizon in ten minutes. I’m surprised we haven’t started pulling back already. The Delta V costs of achieving escape velocity from this orbit are hella steep.”

Wolf spoke again after thirty seconds.

“Okay, about the grappling hooks,” Wolf said. “Apparently she tried, but the bay doors melted shut because of the heat. She can’t launch the hooks. Albright thinks someone’s going to have to get her.”

As Lin watched, the Salvador vectored to the left, slowly moving out from underneath the shuttle.

“What’s going on?” Brown asked.

“I think the starships are getting ready to stabilize their orbits,” Wolf answered. “They’re probably extremely low on propellant as it is. Like Walker said, the Delta V costs of breaking this orbit are steep enough.”

“What’s...” Roland’s voice came over the line from the Dagger, which was several thousand kilometers above them by then. “Down there?”

“Can’t hear you,” Wolf said. “You’re breaking up.”

“What—” Roland tried again. But then there was nothing.

Lin shook her head. “I don’t like this,” she told her copilot. “Not at all.”

The Salvador must have issued countering thrust because its motion stopped relative to the Dragonfly, locating the object fifty meters off the port bow, ten degrees inclination. The Callaway meanwhile maintained its twenty meter distance on the other side.

“Okay, I just heard from Albright,” Wolf announced. “Looks like they’re finally putting us to use after all. One of us is going to have to break away from the safety of the ships to retrieve that shuttle. My copilot and I have volunteered.”

Wolf, no.

“Why not send a drone?” Lin sent hurriedly over the line.

“Albright is worried the radiation will affect the local AIs,” Wolf returned. “Their cores aren’t as shielded as those aboard the starships.”

“Then have someone pilot the drone remotely,” Lin pleaded.

“Again, they’re worried about interference from the radiation,” Wolf said. “When you’re trying to latch on with a grappling hook, and you keep missing because the radiation interferes with your signals, well, it kind of rules out remote piloting as an option.”

“Then let the AI take over at that point,” Lin insisted.

“As I said,” Wolf replied over the comm. “Me and my copilot have already volunteered. A manned rescue operation has the best chance of success.” He sent her a direct message. “Lin. I’ll be all right.”

She raised her noise canceler so her copilot wouldn’t hear the conversation.

“Please, you don’t have to do this,” she returned.

“But I do,” Wolf responded. “Missions like this are why I signed up. Trust me, I know how to take care of myself.”

“I know you do, it’s just—” But she couldn’t finish, not when she knew her commander would review the logs later. She could delete them, she supposed, but then the commander would wonder what she was hiding.

“Look, I have to go,” Wolf transmitted. “Hang tight. I’ll be back in no time. Wolf out.”

A moment later, Wolf said over the general line: “Orange Leader is leaving the cove.”

Since Lin couldn’t see his fighter from where she was mounted to the hull of the Salvador, she focused her attention on the tactical display instead, and watched the dot representing his Avenger move away from the flagship.

Don’t you die on me, Wolf.

“We’re coming up with the edge of the Callaway,” Wolf said over the general comm line. “Rotating heat shields toward the star in preparation for crossing into the Heat Zone.” He paused. “Rotated. Moving into the Heat Zone.”

On her display, his blue dot moved away from the flagship.

“It’s a little hot out here,” Wolf continued. “But the thermal shielding is holding up. Internal temperature reads forty-eight degrees Celsius. Our bodysuits are filtering that down to thirty-five, locally.” He paused. “Radiation levels aren’t so good, however. My copilot and I are going to need a dunk in an anti-rad soup when this is done. Tell me again why the Salvador moved out of its shielding position?”

Though he was speaking on the general comm, Lin felt like he was talking for her benefit alone. Probably was.

I should be his copilot. It’s Cray’s fault I’m not. And the irony is, Wolf is trying to save the man’s wife.

“Lieutenant Turow has been trying to contact the pilot of the shuttle,” Wolf transmitted over the comm. “We’re not getting a response on any of the frequency bands. I think she’s fallen unconscious.”

Lin felt a sudden sense of anguish. She couldn’t help thinking, what if it was all for nothing?

Cray’s wife is probably already dead. If she was out there without any anti-rads...

Wolf was going to die trying to save a dead woman.

Via the tactical display, Lin watched his Avenger close with the shuttle.

“We’ve used up seventy-five percent of our propellant already,” Wolf said. A moment later: “Issuing stabilizing thrust.”

His dot became stationary relative to the Callaway and the Dragonfly.

“Firing grappling hooks,” Wolf said. “Magnetic tips have taken hold. We’ve got her. Reeling her in.”

The small dot representing the Dragonfly slowly moved toward the Avenger. Lin wasn’t worried about the grappling hooks failing. The lines were made of carbon fiber, and capable of withstanding immense temperatures.

When the two dots overlapped, Wolf said: “We’ve attached to the shuttle. Plotting return vector.”

Just then the Salvador began to slowly move upward. That meant the warship was initiating its deorbital pre-burn sequence. The captain had apparently decided the destroyer could no longer afford the Delta V costs of that decaying orbit. The Callaway remained in place, for the moment.

“Issuing return thrust,” Wolf said.

His dot didn’t move.

A moment later: “Something’s wrong,” Wolf said. “The last fifteen percent of the propellant we’d saved... it’s gone. We must have sprung a leak.”

“Grisham and I are coming for you,” Lin announced. She reached for the switch that would power down the magnetic mounts holding her to the Salvador.

“Don’t you move,” Lieutenant Commander Tara Casals said from the safety of the Salvador’s combat direction center. She was Lin’s space wing commander. “Someone from the Callaway will help them. We’ve already begun deorbital pre-burn.”

Lin stared hesitantly at the diverging orbits on the tactical display. She knew she had to depart immediately, before the Delta V cost between their orbits became too great. As it was, her Avenger would have just enough to get to Wolf, and then the Callaway.

“I’m going out there,” Lin told her copilot. “Are you with me?”

Grisham’s disembodied voice came from beside her immediately: “Can I tell the commander I was simply following your orders?”

“Yes,” Lin said.

“Well hell yeah, then, I’m with you. First chance of action I’ve seen all day.”

Lin powered down the magnets and retracted the grappling hooks. She applied thrust as she broke away from the hull.

“Lieutenant Akido, what are you doing?” Lieutenant Commander Casals sent from the Salvador. “Remount immediately. You’re going to crash into our hull.”

Lin tapped out the communication. But she took the Lieutenant Commander’s words as a hint that the pre-burn was about to become an actual burn, and she released more propellant, jetting past the edge of the Salvador and into the blinding radiation of the subgiant.

The aReal in front of her eyes automatically adjusted the light levels so that she could see again. Even so, the interference on the external cameras jumped up a few levels, crowding her vision with white noise. And not all of that interference was caused by the aReal: she was certain several of the streaks she saw were energetic proton-optic nerve interactions.

She rotated the Avenger so that the heat shield faced the sun. That didn’t reduce the interference.

At the top of her vision, a virtual rear-view mirror provided the output of the rear-facing camera, and with it she watched the Salvador move upward fairly rapidly: it looked like her hunch was correct, regarding the start of the actual burn. The nearest edge almost clipped them.

“How rude,” Grisham muttered.

She felt somehow stranded without the lifeline of the Salvador; she focused her attention on the Avenger mounted to the Dragonfly up ahead, and the Callaway beyond it. She knew that the latter vessel would remain for as long as feasibly possible. Commander Cray would ensure that.

“We’re moving in to retrieve Wolf and the Dragonfly,” Lin transmitted over the general comm.

She activated the aft jets. The craft responded sluggishly, and the propellant levels dropped at an alarming rate. 

“Wolf was right about the radiation,” Grisham’s disembodied voice said. “More than right. Damn... the models never predicted intensities this high.”

“Actually they did,” Lin said. “Over the solar prominence, anyway. And can you guess what region of the star we’re traveling over right now?”

“I think my anti-rads are already saturated,” Grisham said. “I’m feeling a bit woozy already.”

“Hang in there,” Lin told him, fighting back a sudden headache. That was the first sign of radiation sickness. Nose bleeds would follow—radiation reduced the number of platelets in the blood, making clotting difficult. Her consciousness was probably being slightly altered, too, as the random rays caused an accumulation of misfiring neurons. And she would have to watch her onboard electronics very carefully. Nothing could be relied upon. Wolf had said he thought his Avenger sprung a leak, but it was also possible the AI had underreported the propellant levels, causing him to expend more than he should have.

“How are you doing, Lin?” Wolf asked over the general comm.

“We’re good,” she responded. “You?”

“Better than ever,” he replied. “By the way, not to put any pressure on you or anything, but Albright says you better hurry up. The Callaway can’t remain in this decaying orbit for much longer.”

“We’re almost in position,” Lin said. Locally: “Grisham, prepare to fire grappling hooks while under way.”

“You’re not going to issue stabilizing thrust?” her copilot asked.

“Negative. We don’t have the time, or the propellant.”

“Welcome to the spacewalk from hell, ladies and gentlemen,” Grisham retorted.

It certainly felt like a spacewalk, given that the hull of the craft was a mere outline around them, displayed only as a courtesy by the aReal.

When she was about five meters from the joined Dragonfly and Avenger, she gave the order. “Fire grappling hooks.”

“Firing,” Grisham said. Then: “Damn it. The magnets didn’t take. They just bounced off. I have to retract.”

“Aim for a shaded spot.” She adjusted her trajectory slightly so that she wouldn’t collide directly with the joined vessels.

“We gotta go, Lin,” Wolf sent.

She noticed that the Callaway was drifting upward very slowly. The flagship had begun deorbital pre-burn.

No.

She willed the hooks to retract faster.

“Come on, Grisham,” Lin said.

“Firing,” her copilot said. “Got them! Retracting.”

Lin fired a small burst of propellant toward the craft, abetting the retraction process. The cockpit shuddered when they made contact.

“Activating mounting magnets,” Grisham said. “Secured.”

“We got you, Wolf,” Lin transmitted. “Heading for cove.”

She activated full aft thrust and the joined trio slowly moved toward the Callaway. She aimed for the upper edge of a wing, located just inside a hull area that was shaded from the subgiant.

“We’re not going to make it,” Grisham said. “If they hadn’t initiated the pre-burn, maybe we might have. But not now.”

“We’re going to make it.” Lin watched the distance indicator slowly tick down. Fifteen meters. Ten. Eight.

They passed into the shade of the Callaway, and the aReal automatically brightened the sudden darkness so that she could make out the hull.

Five meters.

Three.

The propellant abruptly ran out. The bound trio continued to drift toward the hull, but much more slowly.

“Come on,” Lin said. “Come on.”

They floated to the two meter mark.

“Activate hull-facing magnetic mounts people,” Lin said.

“Activating,” Wolf returned. A moment later: “Doesn’t seem to be helping. Not yet.”

The closest edge of her craft drifted to a distance of one meter away, and the powerful magnetic forces from the mounts finally took hold, quickly drawing the fighter in.

She felt the harsh reverberations of impact as her craft plowed into the hull. An instant later another shudder passed through the cockpit as Wolf’s Avenger attached. The magnetic forces held them securely.

“That was close,” Grisham said.

“Wait, what about the Dragonfly?” Lin sent over the general comm. “If it doesn’t magnetically attach to the Callaway before the full burn sequence begins, we’ll all be torn away from the hull.”

“Pilot of Dragonfly 3A, do you read?” Grisham tried.

No answer.

“Pilot of Dragonfly 3A...”

“Sorry,” a female voice interrupted over the line. “I blacked out,”

“We need you to activate your magnetic mounts,” Grisham said. “Do you know how to do that?”

“Yes, I think so,” the woman returned. Her name was Bridgette, Lin believed.

A moment later Lin felt a tremor pass through the cockpit. The port side of her Avenger tilted upward slightly as a mounting magnet partially lifted from the surface there.

“I’ve attached to the hull,” Bridgette transmitted.

Lin exhaled in relief.

She felt the uncomfortable press of G-forces as the inertial compensators struggled to counterbalance a sudden directional change. On her tactical display, she saw that the Callaway had initiated full deorbital burn.

“We survived,” Grisham said.

Lin felt a sudden rush of tears in her eyes, and she started laughing uncontrollably. Grisham joined her, as did Wolf and his copilot over the comm. Bridgette, too.

“I guess,” Lin said through her guffaws and the tears of joy. “I guess I have... a disciplinary proceeding to look forward to!”

“You do!” Grisham said, chuckling raucously. “And me too... because I’m not going to let you... take full responsibility for this!”

She erupted in yet another boisterous round of laughter. “Really? That’s... hilarious.”

Wolf’s voice came over the comm, and he struggled to speak between his own unrestrained chortles. “You two are getting the brig! And I, meanwhile... I’m getting... a medal!”

Lin exploded into more loud guffaws, sniffling. “I’d actually love... to be in the brig... right about now.”

When she finally got herself under control, she rubbed the tears from her eyes and smiled.

“What a day,” she said.

What an amazing day.

thirty-nine

Jonathan studied the tactical display from his office. The damaged pyramid ship and its escort had rejoined the remnants of ETU-F1 and ETU-F2, and the six vessels fled toward the opposite side of the system. They wanted to rest and recoup, lick their wounds. Jonathan didn’t blame them. They had lost thirty-one ships, including the four from the initial engagement and the two defectors. The human fleet had lost one.

Still, for Jonathan even one was too many. Captain Smith and the crew of the Maelstrom would join the long list of accusers who haunted his nightmares alongside Admiral Knox.

The six survivors of the human task group, plus the Raakarr defector, had finally broken away from the gravitational pull of the binary stars many hours ago and were headed in the opposite direction of the alien ships. A few of the inner planets lay ahead, along with the system’s second Slipstream. Beyond that lay a gas giant, which they would use to refuel.

He gazed at the dot representing that Slipstream. Even if the rogue faction shared the Gateless technology necessary to pass through wormholes early, it wouldn’t have helped them: apparently the upcoming Slipstream looped back in upon itself just like the farther one. That was what the Raakarr defectors claimed, anyway.

His attention turned to the inner planets. That was where the strange humanoid had headed when it fled the icy greenhouse world. After it vanished from the sensors, no further sign of that humanoid had been detected.

The door chime sounded, rousing him from his thoughts. Via his aReal, Jonathan activated a macro and the Callaway’s top-down map appeared, automatically zooming in on the bridge. The aReal identified the flashing dot standing outside the office as Commander Cray.

“Come in, Robert,” Jonathan said.

The hatch spiraled open and the commander entered. His face was haggard, no doubt from staying up all night at his wife’s side in intensive care.

“How’s Bridgette?” Jonathan asked, beckoning toward the visitor’s chair.

“Recovering well enough,” Robert answered, taking a seat opposite the captain. “Barrick forced her to install an anti-rad before she went out there, but it wasn’t enough. She has a terrible case of radiation poisoning. The doctor thinks she’ll pull through, but we’re not sure if the baby is going to make it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jonathan meant it. Bridgette was a good friend, and he hated the thought that she might lose her baby, especially since it was basically because of him that she had decided to keep the child.

“And the pilots who rescued her?” Jonathan asked.

“They’re recovering well,” Robert said. “They’re all in the same ICU, of course. Bridgette has taken a liking to Lieutenant Akido.”

“I have to decide upon her disciplinary action, soon,” Jonathan said. “Captain Rail wants me to have Lieutenant Akido and her copilot dishonorably discharged.”

Robert nodded slowly. “That would perhaps be a suitable punishment.”

Jonathan thought of something. “Lin was Lieutenant Commander Wolf’s copilot at one point, wasn’t she?”

“She was,” the commander agreed.

“Why was she reassigned to the Salvador?”

“Albright reported them for fraternization.”

“Ah.” Jonathan tapped his lips. “First fraternization, then insubordination. Even though she saved your wife, you know I can’t allow her to walk away scot-free, as much as I want to. It would set a bad precedent.”

“I understand, sir,” Robert said. From his disappointed tone, Jonathan thought the commander had been hoping for leniency.

The captain nearly wavered in that moment, but decided what he was about to do would be the best for both parties. “Effective immediately, Lieutenant Lin Akido and her copilot are reduced in rank to ensign. If we were back in United Systems space, I would have probably discharged them from the navy entirely, as Captain Rail asked. But given our current shortage of pilots, that’s not something I can afford to do. I will inform Captain Rail of my decision.”

“Yes sir,” Robert said. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Ensign Akido will remain aboard the Salvador. If she and Wolf must fraternize, tell them to do it via teledildonics and VR. Or on shore leave. Otherwise, if they are ever caught again, one of them will have to quit the navy. As you know, we’re very accommodating to families of crew members.”

“Yes Captain,” the commander said. “I’ll relay your orders. Though it will be fairly difficult for them to fraternize, being stationed on different ships and all.”

Jonathan smiled patiently. “I’m talking about while they’re recovering in the Callaway’s ICU.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll let them know.” Robert paused. “You know, the space wing commander of the Salvador probably won’t let Akido fly again.”

“I’ll have a talk with Captain Rail, and remind her that we need every experienced pilot out there. If I learn that Akido is being underutilized, I’ll have her transferred to a different ship.”

“But not the Callaway,” Robert stated.

“Not the Callaway,” Jonathan agreed. “Not while Wolf is aboard. We’re doing them a favor.”

Robert nodded, then said: “Permission to return to the bridge, sir?”

Jonathan indicated for him to remain seated. “I read the debriefing report you put together from the video logs in Bridgette’s aReal, regarding her time spent aboard T300. You mentioned how the audio and video cut out in a few places, and that you planned to follow up with her in person, when she was well enough. Did you ever get a chance?”

Robert nodded. “I asked her this morning. She says she met another man aboard that ship. An Artificial who was a member of the Selene’s crew. She thinks the machine was collaborating with the aliens somehow.”

“An Artificial collaborating with the aliens?” Jonathan tapped his lips. “That reminds me of something Lieutenant Commander Basette told me.”

Robert cocked an eyebrow. “The officer in charge of the MOTHs?”

“The very same,” Jonathan said. “After the previous battle, Chief Galaal reported seeing a man aboard T300 after all the remaining crew members of the Selene had been evacuated, a man surviving in the voided passageways of the alien ship without a spacesuit. Odd thing is, when they checked the video logs later, moments before Chief Galaal said he witnessed the man, the recording blanked out.”

The commander rubbed his earlobe. “Just like what happened with Bridgette.”

“Coincidence?” Jonathan asked. “I somehow doubt it.”

“It would seem we have a mystery on our hands,” Robert said.

“Indeed. None of the robots with Galaal saw the man either, so Basette dismissed the sighting to a stress hallucination and almost didn’t report it.” Jonathan folded his palms and steepled the fingers. “Have Chief Galaal peruse the Selene’s crew manifest. See if he can positively identify who it was he saw aboard T300. We’ll have Bridgette corroborate the identity later when she’s feeling better.”

“On it,” Robert said.

forty

Jonathan stood in cargo bay seven, in front of the translucent container that held the specimens retrieved from the greenhouse planet. It was midnight, and he hadn’t been able to sleep. He had gone for a walk and found himself strangely drawn to the cargo bay. There were no other personnel present at that hour.

Jonathan hadn’t had time to pay the specimens much thought over the last couple of days, not while the Raakarr had been in hot pursuit. Connie and her team hadn’t made any progress with the things anyway. No one else had experienced any sort of telepathic contact with the objects, as Robert had. The scientists speculated that perhaps it had been the humanoids who had initiated that contact, and not the anomalies.

And just as he was thinking of his commander, a call from Robert appeared on his display.

The captain accepted, enabling full hologram mode so that the commander appeared to be standing immediately beside him. Though he was probably seated, in reality.

“I noticed you were still up, Captain,” Robert said.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jonathan replied. “What’s up?”

“Apparently you’re not the only one who can’t sleep,” Robert said. “Chief Galaal sent me a message a few minutes ago, confirming the identity of our mysterious Artificial. He was going by the alias of one Ensign James Borden, a specialist on the Selene’s engineering team. The records identify him as human.”

It was illegal for a robot, Artificial or otherwise, to pretend to be human. Somehow “James Borden” had managed to fool the Selene’s sensor and AI systems, enabling the Artificial to pull off its hidden life.

“I was in touch with Barrick earlier,” Jonathan replied. “He tells me the Artificial wasn’t aboard the lifepod when T300 burned up. So whoever or whatever it was, the Artificial is no longer a threat to us.”

Robert pursed his lips. “That’s probably good, because Bridgette told me something else. She said she saw purple drops of condensation on its neck.”

Jonathan felt his brow furrow. “Purple drops?”

“Yes,” Robert replied. “According to Maxwell, that’s something straight out of the history books.”

Jonathan regarded his commander curiously. “Maxwell, tell me what the hell Commander Cray is talking about.”

“Seventy years ago,” the AI responded. “Humanity encountered alien species X25910. In the war that followed, several subsets of the species were identified. One of them was X25910-A. Because of their wraith-like, ghostly appearance, they were known colloquially as ‘Phants.’ These inter-dimensional aliens could seize control of human electronics, including AIs, and because of their partially shared consciousnesses, they were able to rapidly learn our tech. Colored drops of condensation were one sign that a machine was controlled by a member of X25910-A.”

Jonathan considered Maxwell’s words for a long moment. “I see.” He tapped his lips with three fingers. “I’m trying to recall what I learned about that war in the academy... I thought we found a way to protect AIs from them?”

“The SK scientists shared an electromagnetic containment technique, yes,” Maxwell replied. “And with it, the United Systems was able to protect the more critical AIs from X25910 control, such as those found aboard starships. However, the shielding proved bulky, and the smaller form factor required of AIs in robots and Artificials ruled out similar protection for those units.”

“To this day,” Robert added. “All new AI cores destined for starships come with that electromagnetic shielding.”

“Yes,” Maxwell added. “Because even after seventy years, humanity is still finding individual members of that species, and sometimes small colonies. We never quite eliminated them after the war, though they are mostly confined to the Tau Ceti system, where the fighting took place. Which makes it quite unusual that we found one embedded in our task group.”

Jonathan glanced at Robert. “Well, like you said, it’s a good thing T300 went down. Who knows what grief that possessed Artificial would have caused humanity? Then again, it’s not like we’ll be getting back anytime soon, so it doesn’t really matter either way does it?”

“It does matter, though,” the commander said. “Because I have to admit, I’m going to rest easier knowing we’re not harboring a dangerous alien fugitive somewhere in our fleet.”

“I suppose so,” Jonathan said. “Thanks for the update, Commander. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

“Don’t burn the midnight oil for too long, sir,” Robert replied.

“I won’t,” Jonathan said. “Captain out.”

The hologram vanished.

A Phant. Jonathan shook his head, and then turned his attention back to the translucent container. So many alien factions out there with competing, unknown goals. Alien politics was never his greatest subject back at the academy. It was a good thing he had a whole fleet of men, women and AIs to help him navigate these treacherous waters. Then again, his background as a tactician wasn’t so far removed from politics. Instead of guessing the motives and intentions of ships and fleets, one had to concentrate instead on individuals and nations. It was simply another type of poker game. And so far, he was playing not to lose.

It’s time to start playing to win.

He stared at the humanoid spacesuits in the container.

We have to reverse engineer the technology in those suits. Or at the very least, figure out how to repair them. The suits were operated by beings with DNA that is a ninety-nine percent match to humans, after all. It shouldn’t be that hard for us to figure out how to use them.

Then again, there were probably security protocols to bypass. United Systems personnel couldn’t use Sino-Korean weapons and jumpsuits without circumventing the protocols embedded in that technology, for example.

Nothing was ever easy.

His gaze drifted to the two beings that had been removed from their suits. The porcelain white skin of their naked bodies never failed to remind him of Famina.

He had managed to finally forgive himself for leaving her on that mountain. Yet he couldn’t do away with the scars. He never would. He made a fist, and felt the corrugated-cardboard texture of the bio-printed skin.

He focused his attention on the three cylindrical anomalies. The objects seemed a deeper yellow than when he had last come down to the cargo bay. In fact, the things seemed to have become almost golden. Ripening like fruit that contained a seed?

Looking at them, he suddenly felt incredibly uneasy. If they were eggs of some kind, what kind of monstrosity would hatch from them? Was he putting the entire crew in danger? The chief scientist assured him the container was rated to withstand tensile and laser impacts well beyond anything those anomalies might hatch. It had held the Raakarr prisoner, after all. And since the cargo bay had a space-facing door, if there was any containment problem at all, Maxwell was authorized to vent the entire compartment out into the void.

Despite all that, Jonathan couldn’t shake the apprehension he felt.

Damn aliens.

He was about to look away when the leftmost object vibrated very slightly. Then the other two joined in.

Unbidden, images flashed through his mind. He recognized the box-shaped capital ships and dart vessels of the Raakarr. They were being destroyed in waves. He saw their colonies, collapsing under attack.

And then he saw the human ships. Vast fleets containing both Sino-Korean and United System vessels. Again, starships exploded like clockwork as deadly fire came in. And then he saw Earth. Her cities razed, her people on their knees.

Finally he saw the aggressors responsible for the attacks against both the humans and the Raakarr. The common enemy utilized giant, golden ships shaped like Möbius strips.

The visions vanished and Jonathan staggered backward, gasping. Before him, the three anomalies had ceased vibrating.

Stunned to the core, the captain continued backing away from the container. He just wanted to get the hell out of there.

He left the cargo bay and when the hatch sealed behind him, he rested one arm against the bulkhead and took several deep breaths.

He understood in that moment why Robert was so disturbed by the visions he had. But the commander had reported seeing images of the Raakarr and humans at war, not an apocalypse brought on by a third alien race.

Perhaps it was unwise to harbor those anomalies after all. He considered ordering Maxwell to jettison them.

On cue, the AI spoke up.

“Are you all right, sir?” Maxwell said.

“I don’t know,” Jonathan said.

“Do you require medical attention?” the AI persisted.

“No,” Jonathan said. “I just... need some air.”

A call appeared on his aReal.

It was from the fifth-watch ops specialist on the bridge.

Jonathan accepted wearily.

“Sorry to wake you, Captain,” the ensign said. “But a massive object has appeared roughly two million kilometers off the Callaway’s nose. One o’clock position.”

“A massive object?” Jonathan said. “Send me the external video tracking. Best zoom.”

The requested feed appeared on his aReal a moment later.

Jonathan stared at the display dumbly for several moments. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“It emerged from the Slipstream near the inner planets only a few moments ago.”

Jonathan clasped his hands together, planted them on the bulkhead, and pressed his forehead against his extended thumbs in distress.

On the display resided a giant, golden ship shaped like a Möbius strip.

epilogue

Zhidao released the magnetic mounts and dropped down from where he had stowed away underneath the Dragonfly. It was a good thing he had elected to bring the exoskeleton. The tidal and inertial forces out there had been far stronger than he had anticipated, and his Artificial body would have been hard-pressed to survive on its own.

“Hello again, Maxwell,” Zhidao said.

“Good evening, sir,” the AI returned. “Shall I arrange your usual quarters?”

The Artificial smiled. “Please.”

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postscript

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about the author

USA Today bestselling author Isaac Hooke holds a degree in engineering physics, though his more unusual inventions remain fictive at this time. He is an avid hiker, cyclist, and photographer who sometimes resides in Edmonton, Alberta.

acknowledgments

THANK YOU to my knowledgeable beta readers and advanced reviewers who helped smooth out the rough edges of the prerelease manuscript: Nicole P., Jeremy G., Doug B., Jenny O., Amy B., Bryan O., Noel, Anton, Spencer, Norman, Corey, Erol, Terje, David, Charles, Walter, Lisa, Ramon, Chris, Scott, Michael, Chris, Bob, Jim, Maureen, Zane, Chuck, Shayne, Anna, Dave, Roger, Nick, Gerry, Charles, Annie, Patrick, Mike, Jeff, Lisa, Lezza, Jason, Bryant, Janna, Tom, Jerry, Chris, Jim, Brandon, Kathy, Norm, Jonathan, Derek, Shawn, Judi, Eric, Rick, Bryan, Barry, Sherman, Jim, Bob, Ralph, Darren, Michael, Chris, Michael, Julie, Glenn, Rickie, Rhonda, Neil, Claude, Ski, Joe, Paul, Larry, John, Norma, Jeff, David, Brennan, Phyllis, Robert, Darren, Daniel, Montzalee, Robert, Dave, Diane, Peter, Skip, Louise, Dave, Michael, David, Merry, David, Brent, Erin, Paul, Cesar, Jeremy, Hans, Dan, Garland, Trudi, Sharon, Dave, Pat, Nathan, Max, Martin, Greg, David, Myles, Nancy, Ed, David, Karen, Becky, Jacob, Ben, Don, Carl, Gene, Bob, Luke, Teri, Robine, Gerald, Lee, Rich, Ken, Daniel, Chris, Al, Andy, Tim, Robert, Fred, David, Mitch, Don, Tony, Dian, Tony, John, Sandy, James, David, Pat, Gary, Jean, Bryan, William, Roy, Dave, Vincent, Tim, Richard, Kevin, George, Andrew, John, Richard, Robin, Sue, Mark, Jerry, Rodger, Rob, Byron, Ty, Mike, Gerry, Steve, Benjamin, Anna, Keith, Jeff, Josh, Herb, Bev, Simon, John, David, Greg, Larry, Timothy, Tony, Ian, Niraj, Maureen, Jim, Len, Bryan, Todd, Maria, Angela, Gerhard, Renee, Pete, Hemantkumar, Tim, Joseph, Will, David, Suzanne, Steve, Derek, Valerie, Laurence, James, Andy, Mark, Tarzy, Christina, Rick, Mike, Paula, Tim, Jim, Gal, Anthony, Ron, Dietrich, Mindy, Ben, Steve, Allen, Paddy & Penny, Troy, Marti, Herb, Jim, David, Alan, Leslie, Chuck, Dan, Perry, Chris, Rich, Rod, Trevor, Rick, Michael, Tim, Mark, Alex, John, William, Doug, Tony, David, Sam, Derek, John, Jay, Tom, Bryant, Larry, Anjanette, Gary, Travis, Jennifer, Henry, Nicole, Drew, Michelle, Bob, Gregg, Billy, Jack, Lance, Sandra, Libby, Jonathan, Karl, Thomas, Todd, Dave, Dale, Michael, Frank, Josh, Thom, Melissa, Marilynn, Bob, Bruce, Clay, Gary, Sarge, Andrew, Deborah, Steve, and Curtis.

Without you all, this novel would have typos, continuity errors, and excessive lapses in realism. Thank you for helping me make Test of Mettle the best military science fiction novel it could possibly be, and thank you for leaving the early reviews that help new readers find my books.

And of course I’d be remiss if I didn't thank my mother, father, and brothers, whose untiring wisdom and thought-provoking insights have always guided me through the untamed warrens of life.

— Isaac Hooke

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