Chapter 1 – Hammett

Captain Richard Hammett sat in a booth in the darkest, furthest corner of the Blazing Rocket, the least-popular of the three bars on Port Kodiak. The music was terrible, but there were no screens showing his face as “Earth’s hero”, and not many people to recognize and pester him. His implants were still fried, which meant anyone wanting to bother him would have to track him down in person. The shadowy booth was providing him with almost the first quiet time he’d had since returning to Earth eight days earlier.

At least he was off-planet. Earth was 36,000 kilometers below him. The endless reporters, camera bots, and legions of morons wanting autographs were mercifully out of reach. He had a glorious few hours of solitude before he’d have to step into a pressure cooker of a different kind.

A beer sat by his elbow, slowly growing warm as he sipped it. He would have loved to knock it back and chase it with another, but he needed a clear head. This was wartime. The call of duty could come at any time.

A strident voice caught his attention, and he turned, giving an annoyed glance at a group of sailors a few tables away. A news feed flickered above their table, and Hammett could see the familiar profile of Jeff Acton, a bombastic politician quickly rising into prominence in the aftermath of First Contact.

Hammett turned away, trying to tune out the man’s voice, but a different voice began to speak, and he felt himself smile. He tapped the controls on his table, scrolled through the menu, and found the same feed.

A woman of thirty or so stared into the camera, her face serious and a bit stern. Hammett grinned into her unseeing eyes. He’d seen her cheerful, playful side, but he knew she could be every bit as tough as her current demeanor suggested. If he was seeing her on a major feed like this, she had to be doing well. He was glad.

“… Rhetoric of anger and fear.” Janice Ling scowled, a hand coming up to chop the air for emphasis. “Critics say that Jeff Acton is playing to our lowest impulses. He’s taking a crisis and using it to gain personal power, and he’s doing it by turning human beings against each other, just when humanity most needs to be united.”

“You tell ‘em, Janice,” Hammett murmured, lifting his glass to her projected image. He took a sip.

“While centrist leaders like Statsminister Saretsky call for international cooperation to meet this alien threat, Acton continues to speak of blame. He paints Saretsky and her followers as enemies of humankind, in a heavy-handed attempt to rally angry, frightened people behind his banner.” Janice leaned forward, her face suddenly filling the projection. “But make no mistake. Jeff Acton doesn’t care about responding to the Hive threat. Jeff Acton cares about gathering power for Jeff Acton.”

The feed switched to market analysis, and the rise of military contracting in the face of war. Hammett killed the projection and leaned back in his chair. He stared at the space where Janice’s face had been and shook his head. “Not exactly clinging to your journalistic impartiality, are you, Janice?” Well, she hadn’t been impartial on the Alexander, either. She’d stepped up and organized the civilian passengers into a volunteer corps that had helped keep the ship alive. She did what needed to be done.

Now, it seemed, she’d decided that Acton needed to be stopped.

Not my problem, Hammett decided. He’d never paid attention to politics, and he wasn’t going to start now. He glanced down at his Captain’s uniform. The Navy had been the compass guiding his entire adult life. He was an officer. It was how he defined himself. A secret part of him was even glad for the war, because it kept him in the uniform that meant so much to him. Part and parcel of it was acceptance of the chain of command.

Power and responsibility flowed downward. Hammett was responsible for the people under his command, and that was enough for any man. Jeff Acton was someone else’s problem.

A young woman in a commander’s uniform came into the bar, pausing just inside the doorway and peering into the gloom. She had pale brown skin and hair as black as space itself. Her hair might have been the tiniest bit longer than regulations allowed. Even more unusual, she wore a plain silver bracelet around her right wrist, and a very small knife at her waist. She spotted Hammett and started toward him.

Hammett looked at his beer, wondering if he should finish it quickly while he had the chance. He decided, reluctantly, not to.

The commander stopped in front of Hammett’s table, standing very erect. “Captain Hammett?”

For a moment Hammett thought about denying it, just for the hell of it. Instead he said, “Yes. What can I do for you, Commander?”

“I hope you’ll accompany me to the Tomahawk, Sir. She’s almost ready to launch.”

I wanted to sit here and enjoy my beer. I’ve barely had a moment’s peace since I got back to Earth, and now you want me to …. His heart wasn’t in the complaint, he realized. The meetings are over. The endless debriefing, the planning, the thousand and one petty administrative details. It’s all over. I’ve got a ship again.

He stood. “Lead the way.”

They left the bar, heading into the crowded corridors of Spacecom’s biggest station. Military personnel and civilians filled the place in equal numbers. Hammett had never seen the station so full. There was more security than he was used to, as well. Sailors with sidearms guarded doorways, or patrolled the corridors in pairs, eyes scanning the crowd. What are they watching for? Hammett wondered. We’re at war with aliens, for God’s sake. It’s not as if there could be infiltrators.

“You’re Commander Kaur?” he said.

“Yes, Sir.” Kaur spoke stiffly, not looking at Hammett.

“You were captain of the Tomahawk until the Battle of Earth.”

Kaur’s head turned for just an instant, her dark eyes flashing. “Yes, Sir.” The Tomahawk, along with the rest of the fleet, had flown bravely into battle and been almost instantly disabled by an alien EMP weapon. Kaur would have spent the whole fight staring at the walls of the bridge, unable to do anything but wait, unable even to watch.

“It wasn’t my idea to take her away from you.”

That earned him another glance, this one a bit less fierce. “I don’t blame you, Sir.”

“Of course you do,” said Hammett. “But I need you to get over it. We’ll be working together for months, and I’ll need your knowledge of the Tomahawk. I’ll need your help.”

When she looked at him again the stiffness was gone from her face. “You’ll have it, Sir.”

“Good.”

They passed through a security checkpoint, unsmiling sentries watching as they pressed their hands to scanners. Beyond the checkpoint there were no more civilians, and the crowds were noticeably thinner. They climbed a staircase toward the docking level, Hammett puffing a bit by the second flight of stairs. I really need some exercise. Kaur, he was irritated to note, wasn’t out of breath at all.

“How’d you find me?” Hammett said.

She raised a sooty eyebrow. “Commander Carruthers suggested I try the station bars. He said to start with the Blazing Rocket and work my way up.”

Hammett grinned. He and Carruthers had served together for a long time, and knew each other entirely too well. After fifteen years as a lieutenant, Carruthers had finally made Commander. Plenty of Navy men held the rank of Lieutenant for their entire careers, but the Hive invasion had brought promotions along with a tsunami of other changes.

“Scuttlebutt says he’ll command a corvette in the relief fleet,” Kaur said.

Hammett nodded. It made sense. Spacecom was refitting ships with admirable speed, but only three corvettes were ready for action. Those three ships would leave immediately. They were officially a task force with a numerical designation. Unofficially, they were known as the attack fleet.

The relief fleet was the next batch of ships to finish refitting. There would be anywhere from five to twenty ships in the relief fleet, depending on when the fleet launched. Carruthers, as one of only a handful of officers with experience successfully fighting the Hive, was a logical choice to command a ship in the relief fleet. The only better use for his talents might be to send him along with the attack fleet, but Spacecom had decided to keep him Earthside for a while longer.

In case we all die five minutes after we arrive at Naxos, Hammett thought sourly. They want to keep at least a little bit of expertise at home.

Clear signs in the corridor pointed the way to Docking Bay Nine, but the two officers, acting on a common impulse, turned off and walked into a shadowy viewing lounge. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave a view of the arm of the station stretching out beside them, with the Tomahawk stuck on the end like a marshmallow on a stick. Other ships hovered in the void beyond the station, and the cloudy curve of the Earth filled one side of the sky, but Hammett only had eyes for one thing.

His new ship.

The Tomahawk was fifty-five meters from stem to stern but only ten meters across, with two decks. Her standard crew complement was fourteen, but she would have nineteen on board after the refit, to allow for manual operation of her guns and thrusters. It would be crowded in there, Hammett thought. It was going to be a claustrophobic voyage.

She was a corvette, designed originally for border patrols and customs duties. She was small and quick and maneuverable, built for police work, not war. Hammett looked her over and tried not to frown. She seemed insubstantial, fragile, and he longed for the reassuring bulk of the Alexander and the other cruisers and battleships he’d served on. Proper warships, that could take a pounding and keep on flying.

Of course, a corvette might offer some strategic options other than plodding into range and getting pounded. In a ship like the Tomahawk he might actually be able to avoid some incoming fire.

“I’d still rather have a cruiser,” he grumbled.

“She’s a good ship,” Kaur said tartly.

“Of course.” Hammett felt himself redden. I’m taking her command and now I’m disparaging the ship I’m taking away from her. Brilliant leadership there, Richard. He gave Kaur a sheepish grin. “Old dogs, new tricks.”

Kaur raised an eyebrow, managing to imbue that simple act with volumes of haughty displeasure.

Hammett turned back to the window. “This is the first time I’ve seen her,” he said, desperate to change the subject. “I can’t believe how busy they’ve kept me. I’ve seen every detail of the refit, and her original specs. But I haven’t actually laid eyes on her until now.”

“It’s been quite a week,” Kaur admitted.

Eight days had passed since the Hive fleet had reached the skies over Earth and been driven back – barely – by the Alexander and the EMP-blasted remains of Spacecom’s defensive fleet. During those eight hectic days an astonishing amount of work had been done. The Alexander was orbiting scrap now, but she provided the template for a feverish fleet-wide refit.

No amount of EMP shielding had protected humanity’s ships from the Hive’s mysterious weapon. The only reliable response was manual control of weapons and navigation. The Tomahawk and her sister ships, Bayonet and Achilles, had modern navigation and targeting systems, but they also had telephone handsets with copper wire connecting them. Every weapon could be aimed and fired manually. There were manual controls for navigation thrusters, and redundant firmware for wormhole jumps.

Kaur said morosely, “I still can’t believe what they did to her hull.”

The bridge was on the second deck, close to the aft end of the ship. A wide section of hull plating was gone from either side of the hull, replaced by steelglass. The bridge crew would be able to see out on either side. Other, smaller windows gleamed here and there around the corvette.

“You don’t know what it’s like in a bridge with no working screens,” Hammett said. “You just sit there, wondering what’s happening outside.”

“Actually, I do know what it’s like.”

Hammett winced. “Sorry. You were there, last week.”

“I can see the logic of it,” Kaur said. “But there’s something about several inches of steel plates that’s deeply comforting when someone is shooting at you.”

Hammett chuckled. “I take your point.”

“The new guns are spoiling her lines,” Kaur continued. “Oh, I know I’ll be glad to have them when we’re in the thick of things. But she was so beautiful before.”

The Tomahawk’s original laser turrets remained, one on the tip of the ship’s nose and two more on the underside of the hull. Now matched rail guns bristled on either side of the hull just forward of the engines at the back. Fresh welds showed as silver streaks against the ship’s gray paint. Hammett thought the stubby gun barrels had their own lethal elegance, but he didn’t comment.

Kaur sighed. “I’d like to stay out here and just look at her, but they’ll be waiting for us.” She led the way back to the main corridor and followed the signs to Docking Bay Nine.

“Hammett. There you are.” A blocky, sharp-featured man with black hair going silver stood before the docking ring connecting the Tomahawk to the station.

“Admiral Castille.” Hammett drew himself up. Kaur, beside him, did the same.

Castille gave Hammett a sharp look. “The Bayonet and the Achilles are ready to launch. We’re just waiting on the Tomahawk. And the Tomahawk is waiting on you.”

And in the last two days the refit team has given me estimates ranging from 72 hours to three weeks before the ship would be ready to launch. Hammett didn’t voice the thought. Arguing with admirals rarely ended well. He said, “I’m here now, Sir.”

“I expect you to launch within the hour.”

Hammett thought briefly of the beer sitting unfinished on the table in the Blazing Rocket. He wouldn’t be seeing another beer for a long time. Well, when the war ended they’d no doubt usher him into a quick retirement. He’d have all the time he wanted to loaf in bars getting drunk and talking about the glory days.

Today, he had work to do.

“I’ll launch as soon as we’re ready,” he said.

“Good.” Castille’s expression softened. “A lot of people are counting on you, Richard. I wish I could tell you to be careful, but this is war, and you’re the tip of the spear. You understand that as well as just about anyone.”

Hammett nodded.

“I’m putting you in harm’s way. I don’t like it, but it needs to be done, and you’re the man for the job.” His eyes searched Hammett’s face. “Good luck, Captain. Keep yourself safe.”

“I will, Sir.”

“Commander,” said Castille, and Kaur, already rigid, stiffened more. “She’s still your ship. I know I can count on you to keep her in one piece.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Castille nodded and turned away. Hammett watched him go, then turned, ducked through the hatch, and stepped onto the Tomahawk.

Chapter 2 – Kaur

Meena Kaur entered the bridge of the Tomahawk, feeling a blend of conflicting emotions that was becoming familiar. She loved the Tomahawk, with the fierce pride of an officer aboard her first command. She’d been her captain for nine glorious months, and the knowledge that the Tomahawk was no longer hers was like a hot knife in her guts. She badly wanted to resent Hammett, to hate him even, but she knew full well the Tomahawk wouldn’t even exist anymore if not for Hammett and the Alexander.

So she swallowed her resentment, took a single step toward the captain’s chair, then remembered and moved instead to the tactical station. She gave the bridge crew a hard look, daring anyone to show they’d noticed. Everyone seemed intent on their own screens, though. Sailors sat at the communication, navigation, and operations stations.

Port Kodiak loomed through the starboard window. Kaur eyed the steelglass pane distrustfully, then turned her gaze the other way. A starscape filled the other window, interrupted by the gleaming bulk of a handful of ships. She could see a couple of corvettes with repair ships tethered to them, men and robots swarming over the hulls, installing weapons pods and windows. Those ships would become part of the relief fleet, or they’d stay behind to defend Earth.

She wondered if the Tomahawk’s tiny bridge felt claustrophobic to her new captain. The whole room was a scant ten meters from window to window, and the same distance from forward bulkhead to aft bulkhead. With only five duty stations it had always felt roomy to Kaur. Now there were two more stations, freshly installed, unmanned at the moment. Each console held a couple of telephone handsets and a bank of manual switches, for internal communications once the aliens fried the electronics.

Running the ship with such archaic technology was going to be … interesting. Kaur knew her people were up to the challenge, though. She looked at his bridge crew one by one.

She saw only one familiar face, Benson at Navigation. Most of the crew had rotated out during the refit, making her reduction in status less awkward. Ramirez at Communications was an old hand, a man with a dozen years of experience on corvettes. Sanjari was the only woman on the bridge. She sat at the Operations station.

Tolstoy was brand new. He’d been a cadet a week before, serving on the Alexander under Hammett. Strictly speaking he hadn’t finished his training, but the admiralty had decided a couple of months of combat experience counted for more than the few weeks of classroom time he was missing.

Tolstoy was impossibly young, barely out of his teens, but he had the eyes of a seasoned veteran. If he lacked experience, well, no one had much experience with manual systems. If half the stories about the Alexander’s last voyage were true, Tolstoy was going to do just fine.

Benson looked up. “What’s the word, Ma’am? Did you find the new captain?”

Kaur nodded. “He’s on board. He’s giving himself a bit of a tour.”

Benson nodded, then lowered his voice. “What’s he like?”

Kaur glanced at the entrance to the bridge. “I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. You’ll be meeting him soon enough.”

Footsteps echoed on deck plates, and Hammett appeared in the hatchway. He walked to the front of the bridge, stood for a moment looking at the bridge crew, then spoke. “Hello. My name is Hammett.”

As if anyone doesn’t know, Kaur thought.

“We’ll be getting underway almost immediately,” Hammett continued, “so I’ll be getting to know each of you during the voyage. We’re nine days from Naxos, so we’ll have plenty of time to get familiar with each other and with the ship’s new systems.”

He looked at each of them in turn, and Kaur found herself envying his casual confidence. He was comfortable with command in a way Kaur could only aspire to. They made the right choice when they put him in command. The thought tasted bitter in her mind, but she couldn’t deny the truth of it.

Hammett looked at Ramirez. “Specialist Ramirez?”

Ramirez nodded.

“Benson?”

Benson inclined his head.

“Tolstoy. Congratulations on your promotion.”

Tolstoy turned pink. “Thank you, Sir.”

“You must be Sanjari. You served on the Falstaff, didn’t you?”

Sanjari said, “Yes, Sir.”

“I’ve already met Commander Kaur, of course.” Hammett stepped past Kaur and took the captain’s chair. He gave Kaur a single sympathetic glance, then said, “What’s our status?”

“All departments report ready, Sir,” Sanjari said.

Hammett nodded. “Last chance to run ashore if anyone forgot their toothbrush.” When no one spoke he said, “Ms. Kaur. Take us out, if you please.”

“Aye, Sir.” Kaur felt a thrill of excitement run through her, along with not a small amount of fear. The Hive held Naxos, and help would be nine long days away. She touched icons on her console, heard a warning chime as the hatch to the station slid shut, then a friendly ping as the computer verified the ship was sealed and airtight. We won’t have that after our first encounter with the Hive. What else won’t work? What have the refit teams overlooked?

“Undocking,” she said, and instructed the station to release its clamps. There was no sense of motion, but Port Kodiak trembled ever so slightly through the starboard window. “Mr. Benson, bring us around. Mr. Ramirez, please inform Bayonet and Achilles we’re leaving and invite them to join us.”

Ramirez smiled at her phrasing. The three ships would be travelling in convoy. His hands moved in the air before him, and he tilted his head. “Bayonet is uncoupling from the station,” he said. “Achilles says she’ll need five more minutes. They’re doing a last-minute supply check.”

“Take us spinward, please, Benson. Not too fast. We’ll let the others form up behind us.”

The ship badly needed a shakedown cruise. They needed time to find problems with the new systems, time for the crew to get familiar with the ship. The little fleet needed practice working together, too. But the Hive was out there somewhere, regrouping. And twenty thousand colonists lived in the Naxos system. It was six weeks since the Gate to Naxos had gone offline. Six weeks since the Hive had overrun the system.

Two corvettes had gone to Naxos since that time. Neither ship had come back. The fate of Naxos was unknown. For all Spacecom knew, they could all be dead.

But if they lived, they had to be in desperate need of aid. The fleet couldn’t wait.

Kaur checked her screens, uncomfortably aware that she likely wouldn’t have them once the ship encountered the Hive. The Bayonet was a kilometer astern. Achilles was catching up quickly.

Hammett seemed busy familiarizing himself with the screens and controls around the captain’s chair, and Kaur was grateful for the implied vote of confidence. “Maintain this course,” she told Benson. The area of a sphere quadrupled when the radius doubled, which meant that every kilometer of distance from the Earth vastly increased the area of a theoretical sphere where another ship might pop out of a wormhole and cause a collision. She wouldn’t open a wormhole until the chance of a collision was vanishingly small.

Thirty minutes later she glanced at Hammett and said, “Shall we jump, Sir?”

“By all means.”

Kaur turned to Sanjari. “Shut down the computer. Let’s make sure we can jump without it.”

Sanjari gave her an uncertain glance, then nodded. Her fingers moved across her console, and screens went blank all around the bridge.

“Opening a wormhole,” Benson said.

A buzzer sounded on the console in front of Kaur, and a light glowed above a label that read, “Forward Lookout”. She picked up the phone handset added during the refit and said, “Bridge.”

“Wormhole forming directly ahead.”

“Copy,” Kaur said, and hung up. “The wormhole is there. Take us through.”

Internal force fields kept her from feeling acceleration, but she knew the Tomahawk was surging forward. For just an instant she saw the wormhole through the windows on either side of the bridge. It was just a quick impression of swirling black and gray, and then the stars were back in their familiar places. A bulky supply ship had been floating just below the buckle of Orion’s belt. The supply ship was now gone. Other than that, there was no way to tell they’d jumped.

Benson twisted around in his seat. “Shall I start a manual check of our position?” It was possible, though far from easy, to calculate exact position by checking the angle of several stars relative to Sol, which would now look like nothing more than a bright star in the sky behind them.

“That would be silly,” Kaur said. “Restart the computer, Ms. Sanjari. Let’s see if we popped out where we expected.”

Her screens flickered to life, and Benson said, “On the button, Ma’am.”

“Good.” She thought for a moment. The wormhole generator needed fifteen minutes to cycle before they could jump again. It was enough time for a quick drill. “I’m launching the fighter.” She hit a newly-installed button on the side of her chair, a physical button guaranteed to work without electronics. She could just make out the distant echo of a buzzer that would be ringing in the mess hall, aft lounge, and in Juanita Baca’s bunk. Somewhere Baca would be cursing, dropping whatever she was doing, and running for the hatch on the top of the Tomahawk’s hull.

Kaur activated her implants and broadcast to the entire crew. The only two people on the ship without working implants were Hammett and Tolstoy, and they were both on the bridge with her, within earshot. “Weapons drill,” she said. “All hands to battle stations.” That was mainly to let Baca know she didn’t have to break her neck getting to her fighter.

Footsteps echoed outside the bridge as crew scrambled to weapons stations. An icon on the panel in front of her turned red, indicating the launch of the fighter. She opened a link to Baca. “Take a couple of loops around the ship. Then dock again.”

“Aye, Ma’am.”

She turned to watch as the sleek shape of the fighter plunged past the starboard window, then rose again a moment later on the port side. Corvettes didn’t normally carry fighters or even drones. The Tomahawk, Bayonet, and Achilles had one fighter each, training craft refitted in the feverish week since the war had reached Earth. Each fighter was controlled by a control stick, some dash buttons, and foot pedals. All three pilots were green as hell. There wasn’t anyone with actual experience flying such a bizarre blend of modern and archaic technology. They would need every minute of practice they could get.

Too late she wondered if he should have cleared the drill with Hammett first. She’d been the commander of Tomahawk for too long. Old habits had taken over. Hammett was gazing out the port window, though, looking entirely unconcerned.

Kaur said, “We should coordinate some drills with the other ships. Get the fighters dogfighting, that sort of thing. Practice some manual targeting of the weapons.”

Hammett nodded. “Good idea.” They discussed the particulars while the timer spooled down and the ship prepared for the next jump.

What are we doing? The thought, unwanted, crept into Kaur’s brain like a thief coming in through an unlocked window. We’re three tiny ships launching an insane attack on an enemy that nearly overran the entire fleet. Running drills to prepare makes as much sense as practicing your spitting technique before you plunge into the sun. This is insane.

But the job had to be done, and it was Kaur’s privilege and burden, her honor and her punishment, to be one of those who tried to move a mountain. It was not in her power to change the odds. She couldn’t conjure up another hundred ships for the little fleet. She couldn’t wish the Hive out of existence. All she could do was prepare for the coming war to the best of her abilities.

She nodded to herself and set her despair aside. It wouldn’t help, so she let it go. She turned her attention to things that would help. She would practice, she would drill, and she would pray that somehow it would be enough.

Chapter 3 – Hammett

A klaxon woke Hammett from a deep sleep, and he sat upright, banging his head on the low ceiling of his sleeping shelf. Muttering a curse, he waved a hand to bring up the lights as he swung his feet to the floor. It was a drill, he knew – he’d scheduled it, after all – but it wouldn’t do for the crew to see the captain not taking the drill seriously. And besides, there was always the tiny chance the ship had encountered real trouble.

So he pulled his uniform on quickly, jammed his feet into his shoes, and stepped into the corridor. Hurrying sailors rushed past in both directions. He was on the same deck as the bridge, no more than twenty running paces away, one of the advantages of serving on a small ship. He didn’t run. Good captains never ran. But he didn’t dawdle, either.

Kaur looked up as Hammett stepped onto the bridge. The two of them were standing opposite watches, and hardly saw each other except at shift change. “What’s our status?”

“Attack drill,” Kaur reported. “The computer shows a dozen enemy ships lying in ambush where we came out of the wormhole.” She rose from the captain’s seat and took the Tactical station, displacing a sailor named Touhami who moved to Navigation.

There were no simulations of Hive vessels. No one had quite found the time to program any in the week since the battle for Earth. Instead, Hammett’s screen showed a fleet of wireframe corvettes, glowing blue to show they were simulated, and a wireframe destroyer.

The three corvettes were already in combat formation, he saw, grouped close together with their noses toward the enemy fleet. All three fighters launched as he watched, and he tilted his head, trying to check the time on his implants. It hadn’t worked in a couple of months, but the habit was still with him.

“All departments report ready,” Kaur announced, sounding pleased. “Total time, less than two minutes.”

“That’s good,” Hammett admitted. “Simulate an EMP hit, please.”

Every single person on the bridge except Hammett reacted the same way, a tiny head tilt as their implants went dead. Every screen went blank.

“We’re making an attack run on the last known position of that destroyer,” Hammett announced. “Signal the fleet.”

Ramirez was at Communications, and he said, “Aye aye, Sir.” His fingers moved on his console, pressing buttons that would illuminate signal lights on several places on the Tomahawk’s hull. A buzzer sounded, and he snatched up a telephone handset. “Both ships acknowledge,” he said.

We need a more efficient system. Like a few colored lights that the spotters can illuminate from their stations. Then Ramirez won’t need to grab a handset. He made a mental note to suggest the idea to Spacecom.

Benson spoke into a handset and the stars shifted as the Tomahawk moved forward. Hammett caught a glimpse of the nose of the Bayonet through the starboard window, keeping pace.

“Tell Hansen to prepare for missile launch.” Each of the corvettes carried a solitary nuke, nearly the entire nuclear arsenal of Spacecom. In a few months the fleet would be bristling with brand-new nuclear weapons. For now they had a tiny handful of dusty relics, taken from storage and hastily refurbished for this mission.

“Hansen reports ready,” Sanjari announced from the Operations console.

“Good. Tell her to stand down.” There was no practical way to drill missile launches. Corvettes didn’t have missile bays, a gross oversight in Hammett’s opinion. The solitary nuke in its cradle under the hull was the only missile each ship had, and he sure wasn’t going to fire one for practice. “Turn the computer back on, and pass the word to the fleet.”

Screens came to life all around the bridge, and he saw shoulders slump in relief as implants started working again.

“Have fighters One and Two pay the role of bogeys. Fighter Three can play defense.”

“Aye aye,” Kaur said, and murmured into her implants.

Hammett swivelled his chair and watched a fighter streak past the window. A stream of rail gun rounds sparkled behind the ship, a good five seconds too late to score a hit. The rail guns would be firing empty canisters, too light to cause damage, and the laser turrets would be on low power. The computers on all three corvettes would keep track of hits, but they wouldn’t aid in targeting or maneuvers.

For five minutes the mock battle raged. Hammett winced as a barrage from the rail gun on the Achilles rattled against the window in front of him, then winced again as a laser from Fighter Two painted a red bar across the roof of the bridge. That was one significant disadvantage to windows, he realized. It made the ship terribly vulnerable to laser fire. The Hive hadn’t used lasers so far, but the risk of a friendly-fire incident, especially without computer targeting, was high.

“Bogey Two destroyed by laser fire,” Kaur reported. A moment later she said, “Bogey One destroyed as well. A combination of rail gun rounds and lasers.”

“Good,” said Hammett. “Bring them in. How’s the formation looking?”

Kaur waggled her hand in a so-so gesture. “Achilles is a bit wide. She went after Bogey One pretty aggressively. Tagged it pretty good, though.”

“That’s fine,” said Hammett. “I don’t mind a bit of chaos so long as it’s deliberate.” It was five days since they’d left Port Kodiak, and the crews of all three ships were getting competent at maneuvering with manual thrusters and spotters on telephones. “How’s the jump clock?”

“We can jump as soon as the fighters dock.”

“Do it,” said Hammett. “I’m going back to bed.”

Chapter 4 – Janice

The crowd outside the Parliament Building in Nova Roma was loud and boisterous. The building itself was sober and imposing, a faux-marble edifice with all the grave dignity appropriate to the seat of the United Worlds government. The gardens around the building stood nearly empty. Just outside the wrought-iron fence, though, thousands of people thronged in a raucous mob, some chanting slogans, some waving placards. A few people had brought holo projectors, and stylized images of Acton and his opponent, Charlene Saretsky, loomed above the crowd.

Janice Ling stood on the edge of the crowd, a trio of camera bots hovering around her. The little robots, each the size of her two fists, took vid footage of the crowd. If Janice moved or began to speak, two of the bots would switch their cameras to her. For now she was content to watch, however.

Other reporters moved around the fringe of the crowd, along with amateur historians and vid enthusiasts. The election results would be announced any minute now. Janice, contracted to a wire service called Pan Galactic, was here to put a dramatic scene in the background while she gave a talking-head recap of the breaking election results.

Closing her eyes, she used her implants to instruct a bot to swoop into position in front of her. She turned her back on the Parliament Building, then checked the framing of the shot. She nudged the bot up and over until she filled most of the projection, with the crowd and the gleaming golden dome of the Rotunda in the background.

She didn’t try to include the holo projections in the shot. They were dramatic, but the angle was all wrong. Besides, she didn’t want her viewers distracted.

Satisfied with her camera setup, she turned back to the crowd, careful not to stray from her spot on the grass. She surveyed the seething mass of people, then looked up at the giant politicians floating above.

Acton looked magnificent in the projection, broad-shouldered and heroic, and Janice felt her lip curl. The man was a fear-monger of the worst sort, the kind who needed a massive crisis to have any chance of power. While Saretsky, the freshly-deposed Statsminister, was pleading with the population to set aside their differences and unite, Acton was doing his best to whip his followers into a frenzy of hate.

He seemed less concerned with the Hive than with assigning blame here on Earth. The heart of his message seemed to be that he was angry, and his anger would somehow make everyone safe. He was promising to strike at the aliens, and to strike with equal zeal at anyone who failed to rally behind the flag. He spoke of taking back control of Earth’s colonies so all of humanity’s wealth and resources could be united against the alien threat. He talked of putting troops in major industrial centers all over the Earth, to make sure everyone really was doing their share. The aliens were his excuse to seize humanity in an iron fist, and billions of voters were eating it up.

Janice had started out amused by his bombast, his ridiculous rages, his diatribes against colonists and United World nations he said weren’t pulling their weight. It was thinly-veiled racism and xenophobia, and it struck an unfortunate chord with terrified people who just wanted someone to do something – anything – about this terrible alien threat.

Some Saretsky supporter was using a holo projector to paint the word “FASCIST” just under Acton’s face. A mix of cheers and angry yells greeted this witticism, and Janice saw a ripple in the crowd as Acton supporters tried to reach the offending projector. She felt her pulse quicken, but the crowd was simply too dense to allow the angry Acton supporters to push through. The person controlling Acton’s holo projector jerked the man’s image sharply to one side, leaving the offending word hanging in empty air. This made Acton’s image lean absurdly to one side, which triggered a round of ironic applause from Saretsky supporters.

Saretsky had put up a spirited defense over the past two weeks, pointing out the impossibility of predicting an alien invasion and presenting the public with a solid plan for refitting the fleet and launching a new line of cruisers. Janice could only pray it was enough.

The word “FASCIST” began to creep through the air, edging closer and closer to the image of Acton, who leaned away like a housewife terrified of a spider. The text became stretched and distorted by the angle, until it was barely readable as it finally reached Acton’s image. A moment later, though, Acton’s image vanished.

A fresh image appeared, a woman in a business suit. Janice recognized the Parliamentary spokesperson, Shannon Gallant. The whole attitude of the crowd changed as thousands of people activated their implants, searching for the feed.

“Hello, citizens of Earth and citizens of the united colonies.” Gallant’s voice, muffled by the crowd, boomed from speakers set in a holo projector somewhere in the press of bodies. “Votes are still being tallied, but enough delegates have reported in that I can make a definitive statement about the results of this historic election.”

Janice held her breath, and a strange silence fell as thousands of people stopped chanting, shouting, arguing, and talking.

“Jeff Acton now has 50.4% of the delegate votes in the United Worlds Parliament.”

Gallant kept talking, but Janice didn’t hear a word of it. No one did. Pandemonium swept the crowd, cheers and jeers, angry shouts, whoops of delight. Janice shook her head, then took a deep breath and activated the camera.

“This is Janice Ling, reporting live from Moot Point, where Jeff Acton has just claimed a majority of delegate votes in today’s Statsminister election.” She suppressed the urge to add, And may God help us all. “The crowd behind me is equal parts jubilant and outraged. Emotions are running high here, as they are across the world and throughout United Worlds space. However you may feel personally about the election results, I hope you can find the strength to set aside any frustration and resentment and join the rest of humanity as we present a united front in the face of the Hive threat.”

She let a bit of a gallows grin touch her features. She knew her viewers, and they didn’t want a strictly impartial report. They appreciated a bit of a human touch, and it simply wasn’t in her nature to pull her punches. “Unity,” she said, “may be the very last thing Jeff Acton wants from the electorate. Let’s give it to him anyway, shall we?” She smoothed her features into a professional mask and said, “This is Janice Ling with Pan Galactic News. Watch this feed for more updates.”

A red light on the nearest bot went dim, telling her she was no longer broadcasting to Pan Galactic. She let her shoulders slump and turned to survey the crowd one more time.

By the sound of things a riot might break out at any moment. Well, if it did, there was plenty of press on hand to cover it. The whole world was a powder keg. If she wanted anything remotely exclusive, she would have to get away from her fellow reporters.

She moved down the hill, passing knots of people chattering excitedly about the announcement. Some wore blue to show they were Saretsky supporters. They tended to be either angry or quietly worried. Acton’s supporters wore red, and they gathered in jubilant clusters, clapping each other on the back. It was difficult to make generalizations about such a mix of people, but she had the impression that Acton’s supporters were older, more conservative, less thoughtful. Saretsky had always appealed to intellectuals and professionals. Acton was presenting himself as the voice of the common man.

“Voice of the common thug is more like it,” she muttered, and one of her bot cameras came to life. She turned it off with an impatient flap of her hand.

The sound of distant singing caught her attention, and she turned in that direction. The ground levelled out as she left the hill known as Moot Point behind her. The dome of the Rotunda disappeared from sight as she moved behind a row of buildings. The sound of singing grew louder, until at last she could make out the words. She felt her eyebrows climb her forehead in disbelief.

All we are saying is give peace a chance.

She rounded a corner and saw a procession coming toward her, a dozen or so men and women all in a line, each one holding a candle and singing. In their free hands most of them held placards with slogans like “Talk First, Shoot Later”, “Enemies Are Friends We Don’t Know Yet”, or “We Are The Monsters”.

“Unbelievable,” she murmured. She’d heard of these groups, people who believed humanity should somehow be trying to make peace with the Hive. The peace protesters believed people like Hammett – and Janice herself – were lying about what had happened when humanity first met the aliens. They accused Spacecom of starting the war, and claimed the poor misunderstood aliens were only defending themselves.

The least idiotic of the protesters accepted that the Hive had started an unprovoked war, but claimed it wasn’t too late to negotiate, communicate, and find common ground. They were damned fools, and she started to turn away. Acton loved to lump the peace protesters together with Saretsky and her supporters and tar them all with the same brush. Janice didn’t want to fuel his rhetoric by catching more footage of morons with candles.

The tramp of footsteps stopped her. It was a strangely ominous sound, like an army on the march. It sounded like hundreds of people coming toward her, and she had a vision of faceless cops behind plastic shields heading toward Moot Point to stop a riot.

But it wasn’t cops who came down the centre of the street, advancing grimly on the peace protesters. It was men and women, mostly men, all of them dressed in red. They marched in perfect lockstep, booted feet coming down in unison with an ominous thump-thump-thump. They sounded like an army, but there were only about thirty of them, marching three abreast in a perfect column.

It wasn’t a uniform they wore. Not quite. They wore dark trousers and red shirts, but none of it quite matched. Each person wore a black armband, though, with “EDF” stenciled on it in stark white letters.

Janice quickly activated her cameras and pointed them toward the marchers. The Earth Defence Force was one of Acton’s worst ideas. He had promised to create a militia of sorts, dedicated to protecting the people of Earth. Of course, to Acton, protecting the people meant intimidating and controlling anyone who seemed to lack zeal.

His most rabid supporters had jumped the gun, organizing themselves into local paramilitary groups. Janice had dismissed it as a handful of fanatics playing dress-up, but apparently she’d underestimated the movement.

The gap between the peace protesters and the EDF column closed rapidly. Janice pressed her back against a storefront as the column marched past her. One face after another went by, and she shivered. She saw fanaticism and battle lust in every face.

This was not going to end well.

She followed the column, keeping to one side so she could see past them. She expected the peace protesters to shrink back, but they just kept walking down the sidewalk, fear mixed with determination on their faces.

One man in the front rank of the EDF column wore a black sash across his chest. He seemed to be an officer of some sort, and he raised an arm, gesturing toward the sidewalk. The column changed direction, marching straight toward the peace protesters.

Janice found herself trying to do several things at once. She called the police. That seemed like the best choice for a first priority. Then she sent her cameras forward to capture the action. The sight of a camera bot could have a calming effect on violence, she knew. Breaking the law lost its appeal when you had a camera recording your every move. So she instructed the bots to move in close, and had them dart around a bit, attracting plenty of attention.

She parked one bot in front of the officer at a range of two or three meters. If anyone had the power to stop things before someone got hurt, it was him. The view from that bot appeared in a small window in the corner of her eye, and she saw the officer give the bot a single, snarling glance.

After that he ignored all three cameras, chopping at the air as he directed his followers forward. The EDF column exploded against the line of peace protesters, and Janice screamed. Her voice was drowned out, though, by bellows and shrieks and screams of pain.

She’d expected a confrontation, harsh language, perhaps some pushing and shoving. What she saw was a vicious attack. EDF thugs in red shirts tore into the line of protesters, fists swinging. Candles dropped to the pavement as protesters fell back, hands coming up in a hopeless attempt to protect themselves.

A woman in pale lavender fell before the onslaught, and a plump man bent over her, trying to protect her. EDF goons yanked him back and knocked him sprawling, and boots flashed as the goons started to kick.

“No!” Janice squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, blotting out the horror a dozen paces away. The bots had an emergency setting that would transmits footage of a crime in progress directly to the police, and she activated it. Then she started forward, knowing it was foolish and hopeless, but filled with a desperate need to do something.

Strangely enough, the violence seemed less awful up close. She found herself behind a wall of red-clad backs, unable to see the victims, able to hear only groans and stomach-wrenching sounds of impact as boots met flesh. A very large man loomed in front of her, his back to her. She stretched up until she could reach his shoulder with both hands, and she tugged. “You’re on camera. You have to stop. The police are coming!”

He turned, carelessly, and his elbow hit her chest. His upper arm hit her jaw and she staggered backward, then fell to a sitting position.

He stood over her, and for a moment she thought he would apologize. His face was hard and emotionless, though. “If you’re not with us, you’re against us.”

She scrambled to her feet, frightened and furious. “This is wrong! They’re pacifists.”

“We’re at war. Pacifists serve the enemy.” He turned away, leaving her staring open-mouth at his back.

Sirens wailed in the distance, but she doubted anyone else heard. The redshirts were stepping back from the scene of the beating, re-forming in a triple rank. She watched as one of her bots, guided by a simple AI, drifted along just above the column. She would have a record of every face. Justice would be done, though it would be cold comfort to the victims.

The officer with the black sash made a gesture with his arm and the column resumed marching. Janice stared after them, wishing she could find a brick to throw at their retreating backs, wishing she had the courage to throw the brick if she had one. Then she turned her attention to the peace protesters.

Blood speckled the sidewalk and the street. Not a single protester was standing. Some lay curled in a fetal position. Others sat huddled, arms curled protectively around their heads. The plump man who had tried to protect a woman lay sprawled on his back, arms wide. She knelt beside him.

He still breathed, and she murmured, “Thank God.” His face was a bloody mess, one eye swollen shut. Blood bubbled from his mouth every time he exhaled. She slid a hand under his neck, checking for spinal damage, then turned his head to the side to let blood drain more easily from his mouth.

Emergency vehicles began to touch down all around her. A uniformed paramedic knelt across from her. “It’s all right, ma’am. I’ve got it from here.”

Janice stood and backed away. She wanted to scream or burst into tears, or just sink down on her haunches, close her eyes, and push the whole awful scene out of her mind.

Instead, she checked the bots. All three of them were doing a good job of collecting background shots, following motion or pointing their cameras at anything shaped like a human being. She left them to their work and called Pan Galactic.

“J-Doll,” drawled a bored voice in her ear. “Whatcha got for me?”

“Calvin. It’s-” she spent an awful moment looking for a combination of words that wouldn’t reduce her to tears. Finally she said, “Check my cameras.”

“One sec.” When he spoke again the boredom was gone from his voice. “What the hell happened?”

She told him, retreating into professional detachment like she was putting on armor. “Run it now,” she said. “I’ll get ready for a live recap.”

“Right. Stand by.”

She took several deep breaths, steadying herself, and thought about what she would say. She turned her back to the carnage and got a bot positioned ahead of her, just above eye line, so the paramedics and injured victims would be visible behind her. She was superficially calm, but she knew some raw emotion would show through.

That was just fine with her. The situation was awful and outrageous, and she wouldn’t pretend otherwise. Bloody gang of bullies. Beating on pacifists? It must have seemed pretty safe. But you made a mistake. You’re going to pay. I’m going to see to it.

A long minute crawled past, and then another. She glanced over her shoulder and saw paramedics lifting a stretcher into an ambulance. A couple of protesters climbed in as well, one woman holding a bandage to her face. Janice frowned. She was losing her dramatic backdrop.

“Calvin? I’m ready.”

Silence.

“Calvin? We need to strike while the iron is hot.”

Calvin said, “Um …”

“What you mean, um?”

There was a long pause, and then Calvin spoke, every word pained and reluctant. “Janice? We’re not going to run the story.”

“What?”

“Criticizing the EDF isn’t exactly the most … prudent thing we can do right now.”

“What the hell? They just beat the crap out of a bunch of hippies with candles! We can’t NOT report this!”

When Calvin spoke again he sounded embarrassed. “We have a lot of staff at the head office. I’ve got their well-being to think of. And my own. And yours.”

Something squirmed in her guts, a worm of fear that told her things were much, much worse than she’d ever imagined. She remembered the sound of boots hitting flesh. The goons had ignored her this time. Next time, they might not. Maybe I should listen to him. Maybe I should keep my mouth shut.

“No bloody way, Calvin. We have to run this story. We have to.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Then Calvin said, “Sorry.”

She cut the connection, spent a moment glaring at the bot in front of her, then told it to record. “This is Janice Ling, freelance journalist. I’m just down the hill from Moot Point, at the scene of a vicious attack on a group of innocent peace protesters …”

Chapter 5 – Hammett

Hammett held his breath as a wormhole opened and his tiny fleet dropped into normal space. He didn’t exhale until Kaur said, “We seem to be alone.”

They were on the edge of the Naxos star system, four light hours from the star. Ariadne, the planet containing the colony, was much too distant to see in any detail. With any luck it meant the three corvettes could also not be seen.

Hammett kept his back straight and his face expressionless, but he wanted to sag in relief. He had imagined popping out into the middle of an enemy fleet, with twenty long minutes before he could jump out again. Now he found himself strangely with nothing to do. He had given his orders before the last jump. The ship was focusing its scanners even now on the distant colony. There was nothing for Hammett to do but wait.

“There’s something in orbit,” said Sanjari. She tapped an icon, and a blurry image appeared on Hammett’s screen. The planet was nothing more than a fuzzy blob. The object in orbit was a speck on the near side of the planet, ringed in white to keep it from being lost in the image of the planet.

The urge to ask foolish questions was strong, and Hammett suppressed it with difficulty. There was no point in asking if Sanjari could see anything else. It wasn’t as if she would keep the information to herself.

Ramirez twisted around in his seat, an odd expression on his face. “Captain.”

“What is it?”

Ramirez touched a finger to his ear. I’m picking up a … radio broadcast.”

“And?”

Ramirez shook his head, as if an explanation was beyond him. His fingers moved, and music, faint and scratchy, came from the bridge speakers. It was something classical, a full orchestra by the sound of it, a lot of strings with woodwinds rising in the background.

Hammett raised an eyebrow.

“The broadcast is coming from the planet, Sir.” Ramirez looked flustered, as if he’d said something foolish. “It’s very faint. I don’t know what-”

The music faded and a woman began to speak. “That was Wheaton’s second Symphony, performed by the Mars Symphony Orchestra. You’re listening to Radio Free Naxos, the voice of stubborn humanity in the colony that just wouldn’t die. It’s a long dark night, but the sun will rise again, and in the meantime you’re not alone. Now I’m going to play a classic of a different sort. This is Mathew West with Coal Mining Blues.”

More music began, and Ramirez gestured in the air, reducing the volume. Hammett looked around at his bridge crew.

Kaur said, “Apparently there are survivors.”

Sanjari said, “With a radio station?”

Kaur shrugged. “It seems so.”

“Monitor the broadcast,” Hammett said to Ramirez. “Record it too, but I want you to listen. One EMP hit and the recording’s gone.” He leaned back in the captain’s chair, thinking. Survivors were a complication. He was ashamed by the thought, but the simple fact was, his already difficult mission was made vastly more complicated by humans on Ariadne. If the Hive had wiped them out, Hammett’s life would have been easier.

“Obviously we need to take a closer look,” he said. “In the meantime, let’s recap what we know about Ariadne and the colony. Ms. Kaur?”

Kaur nodded and tapped a console. A map of the planet appeared in the air above her console. “Naxos,” she said. “The third system ever reached by human explorers, and the second system connected to Earth by Gates. Gate One goes from Earth to Alpha Centauri, and Gate Two takes you back to Earth. Gate Three connects Earth to Naxos.” She frowned. “Connected.” The Gate was offline now.

“Naxos had two Gates,” she continued. “Gate Four led back to Earth. Gate Five continued on to Deirdre. From there it linked to four more systems, so quite a lot of traffic went through Naxos before the Hive showed up.”

Hammett nodded, fighting impatience. It would do no harm for Kaur to take them through the basics.

“There has been a human presence on Ariadne for a hundred and nine years,” Kaur said. “Terraforming began in earnest about eighty years ago. Ariadne is well within the Goldilocks zone, and it has a gravity of about point nine eight, so it was an excellent candidate for colonization.” She moved her fingers in the air and the holo projection zoomed in on the northern hemisphere.

“The planet has an atmosphere mostly composed of hydrogen and helium. Terraforming efforts have focused on generating oxygen at low elevations, where it can dislodge the lighter local gases.” She zoomed in further. “This is the Green Crater. The floor of the crater is almost eight kilometers lower than most of the planet, with quite steep walls.” The projection showed a circular gash in the planet’s crust, the bottom darkened by a combination of vegetation and shadow.

“The crater is just over five hundred kilometers wide. The earliest settlers built walls in key places to minimize wind, then set to work making air. They used-”

“Let’s skip the details on air generation,” Hammett interrupted. “The bottom of the crater is full of air. Let’s move on.”

Kaur frowned, then nodded. She had an engineering background, Hammett remembered from his personnel file. She would be fascinated by the technical details.

“It’s been about fifty years since the crater floor has been able to support plant life beyond genetically modified grasses and shrubs. The air quality has been stable enough to allow people to live there without artificial air supplies for just over thirty years. The original settlement has grown substantially in that time.” Kaur’s hands moved and the projection of the crater disappeared, replaced by a flat image of a small city. The picture changed every few seconds, showing different views of the settlement. “Spacecom’s best estimate is that the Naxos system contained eighteen thousand, five hundred and twelve people at the time of the invasion. Nearly everyone lived in Harlequin. It’s the only city in the system.”

Hammett watched pictures appear and vanish in the projected display. The city seemed to have no buildings taller than two stories. The sky was never visible. Instead, he saw the looming wall of the crater in the background, a cliff of ochre stone. Most of the buildings were made of stone blocks the same color as the crater walls. It gave the place a rustic, friendly feel that was missing in most Earthly cities.

Pumpkin-colored stone dominated the city, but lush green vegetation offered strong competition. Harlequin had the look of a town carved from the jungle. Trees flourished everywhere, mostly palms with a variety of fruit trees mixed in. Every building had a lawn in front, and planters lined sidewalks or marked property lines. Flowers erupted from the planters, while vines climbed walls and spread across tiled roofs.

Some of the pictures showed the outskirts of the little city stretching away in the background. The floor of the crater looked like jungle at first glance. Hammett saw broadleaf trees twice or even three times the height of the tallest buildings in Harlequin.

A closer look revealed that much of the crater was under cultivation. Wide swathes of greenery had telltale lines showing that they were crops, not wild growth. The picture changed, and he saw a house and outbuildings nestled in what appeared to be a forest, until he noted the trees stood in perfectly straight lines. It was an orchard.

Kaur continued her lecture. “One thousand and fourteen people would have been off-planet in nine different settlements and stations orbiting either the planet or the star. In addition, there was a science outpost on Dryad with a staff of several hundred.” The picture changed to a series of domes set on a crater-pocked plain. The sun was a fiery giant that dominated the sky.

“Our intelligence is now 42 days old,” Kaur said. “That’s how long it’s been since Gate Three went offline.”

“What about this radio station?” Hammett asked. “Do we have any record of it?” He had heard of public radio broadcasts. They were a phenomenon of the distant past. Still, colonies often employed primitive technology side by side with cutting-edge modern tech. He’d seen waterwheels and saddle horses on some worlds. Why not a radio station?

“I can’t find anything specific about it,” said Kaur.

“All right. We’ll track it down.” He looked at Sanjari. “Anything interesting on the long-range scans?”

“That orbiting object is about to move past the visible disc of the planet,” she said. “That will make it a lot easier to pick out details.”

“Show me,” he said.

A projection appeared above her console, showing the mystery object in its white circle almost at the edge of the planet. Resolution was already much better than before, Hammett noted. The ship’s AI would have been fine-tuning the focus and finding ways to enhance the image.

Sanjari zoomed in until the edge of the planet was a vertical black wall and the orbiting object was a palm-sized blob. The blob moved past the wall, and details began to appear. The object became a crisp silhouette.

“It doesn’t match any ships or stations that should be in the system,” Sanjari said.

Hammett didn’t need the clarification. He knew what he was seeing. It was an amalgamated vessel, a collection of Hive ships.

Kaur said, “Well, that’s disappointing, but hardly surprising.”

Hammett nodded. “We need to figure out its period of rotation. We’ll jump to the far side of Ariadne from the colony. We need to keep the planet between us and that ship.”

“Calculating,” said Benson.

“The Bayonet will stay here and deploy the Gate,” Hammett said. “Tomahawk and Achilles will jump in.”

He saw Kaur and Touhami exchange glances, though neither of them spoke. The Bayonet carried a replacement Gate ready to connect to Earth. It would allow instant transport between the two systems. Deploying the Gate would bring them reinforcements, but it would involve risk, as well. Powering up the gate would require a fantastic amount of energy. The gate would glow like a beacon as it formed a connection to the matching Gate in the Sol system, twelve long light-years away. In the vastness of space it might go unnoticed by the Hive. Or it might draw in every Hive ship in the system.

And the Gate would have to blaze away for more than three hours before it could make a connection.

“We can jump in twenty-six minutes,” Bennett announced.

Hammett nodded and steepled his fingers, doing his best to appear calm. The next jump would take them very close to the planet. In all likelihood they would be spotted immediately, no matter what precautions they took. Even if they arrived undetected, they couldn’t stay hidden for long.

In a very short time – probably just over twenty-six minutes – they would be fighting for their lives.

Chapter 6 – Janice

Early afternoon sunshine slanted through the trees in Veterans Memorial Park. Janice Ling sat on a bench under an oak tree, soaking in the serene beauty of the scene. Lush grass surrounded her. Like the oak, it could never have survived in the parched Baja Peninsula without human intervention. The whole park, with its flower beds and shade trees and shrubs, existed on artificially enriched soil and had to be extensively irrigated.

The park, she reflected, was as artificial and fragile as the sense of tranquility she stubbornly clung to. There was nothing tranquil about her life these days. She lived in a maelstrom, and her mini-vacation was about to end. She had to step back into the storm.

Her gaze strayed from the dappled pattern of leaf shadows on the grass, rising in spite of her. She looked across the Boulevard of Heroes at the long fused-sand wall of a block of row houses on the far side. Her apartment was in that block, and it had been her haven in a bustling city, her oasis of peace in a chaotic world.

Not any longer. Now the apartment felt like a prison, a dangerous trap. Too many people knew where she lived. It had never bothered her, before.

But she’d never been infamous before.

With a reluctant sigh she tilted her head and brought up a menu on her implants. Getting her implanted electronics restored had been painful and tedious, but completely worth it. She already couldn’t remember how she’d coped without functioning implants for all those long weeks on the Alexander.

A flashing light in the corner of her eye told her she had messages waiting – dozens of them. The temptation to ignore it all and go back to enjoying the park was strong. She suppressed it.

Most of it was from strangers. She was tempted to filter out everything that wasn’t from someone she knew, but that would eventually cost her priceless story leads. She sighed again and resigned herself to slogging through the whole stinking mess.

In most cases the headlines made triage simple. Lying Bitch. Die Traitor. YORE NOT HUMAN. She ached to delete those ones. Instead she dumped them into a separate folder, in case she ever wanted to write an article about the backlash to her exposé.

For every death threat and message of hate there was a message thanking her, blessing her, or calling her a saint. She glanced at some of the headlines, smiling, then deleted the whole works. The messages came in a torrent. She didn’t have time to read them all, never mind reply.

There was a message from Pan Galactic, trying to schedule an exit interview. She deleted it unread. The cowards had fired her. She wasn’t going to trek across town to sit in a meeting room and explain herself.

There were job offers from a handful of media outlets, most of them fringe organizations who wouldn’t actually pay a salary. She saved those, just in case. The future was nothing if not uncertain.

Near the bottom of the list she found a message from her mother. She opened it without enthusiasm. Mom was pretty conservative. She believed in supporting the status quo and the establishment. The message would undoubtedly be a lecture about endangering her career, with perhaps a few words about how every citizen owed the government support during a time of crisis. She braced herself and started to read.

Janice, I’m so proud of you. I always knew you had courage and integrity, but in the last few days you managed to exceed even my very high expectations. I know a lot of people are criticizing you. Don’t you listen to them! I’ll tell you what I tell every single person who has the nerve to bring up the subject with me. You did the right thing!

When I look at those poor peace protesters I just want to scream in fury. Those awful EDF people scare me. I know they must have scared you, too. But you didn’t back down. You exposed them for the bullies and monsters they are, and you make me so proud I feel like my heart is going to burst.

Tears filled Janice’s eyes, distorting the text, and she stopped reading, wiping her eyes. I must look pretty funny, sitting here crying and smiling like a fool. She glanced around. The park was almost empty, and no one was paying her the slightest attention. She finished drying her eyes and kept reading.

The rest of the message continued in the same vein. She’d lost her job, but any company that wouldn’t support her decision was a company not worth working for. More opportunities would come along, from employers who valued integrity and courage. She would catch some flak, but everyone knew that bullies were cowards. She would come through it just fine.

“Thanks, Mom,” she murmured when she came to the end. She closed the message list and leaned back on the bench, smiling and shaking her head. “I should have known you’d be on my side.”

She sat there smiling until the rumble of tires on asphalt caught her attention. She looked up.

A couple of large vehicles came rolling down the Avenue of Heroes. The electric engines were silent, but the vehicles, some sort of car-truck hybrid, were massive enough that their tires made a distinct racket. Both vehicles were black, with large tires and elevated suspension that gave them a vaguely military look. Tinted windows added to an overall sinister impression. She somehow wasn’t surprised when they rolled to a stop in front of her apartment.

Doors flew open and men and women spilled out. Black and red uniforms made her think of exotic beetles, something dangerous and unpleasant. Sunlight glinted on gun belts and put a silvery sheen on black armbands. They were too far away for Janice to read the white letters stenciled on each armband, but she knew what the letters said.

The EDF had grown up rapidly in the scant few days since the election. Acton was gaining quite a reputation as a man who could get things done, and done quickly. Within hours of his inauguration he had given official status – and a considerable budget – to the EDF groups that had grown like mold in cities all over the world. They had proper uniforms now. They had handcuffs, and badges, and guns.

She watched, numb, as a battering ram smashed open the front door to her building. Then she stood, turned, and walked as calmly as she could across the park and away from her home.

She didn’t look back.

Chapter 7 – Hammett

The Tomahawk dropped through a wormhole, and suddenly the bulk of Ariadne filled the port window. Before Hammett could speak the planet dropped away in a blur of red and brown and he saw stars above a curving horizon as the corvette leveled out. Then the ship plunged toward the planet, and the stars faded as the Tomahawk entered atmosphere.

“Achilles is with us,” Kaur announced, and Hammett felt a tiny bit of the pressure he was under bleed away. Plenty remained, of course. Jumping this close to a planet was dangerous to the point of being foolhardy. He certainly wouldn’t try it without a functioning AI. That would take things beyond mere stupidity and into the realm of the suicidal.

“No contacts so far,” Touhami said. He leaned over his console like a vulture, eyes fixed on the display like his life depended on it.

The windows now showed blue sky with a green tint. It was pretty, and Hammett wished he could take a moment to enjoy the sight. Instead he watched their descent on his own screen. The ground rose quickly. The ship’s belly cameras showed a beige plain with blotches of green where swathes of genetically modified grass clung stubbornly to life. In a couple of centuries the whole planet might have breathable air.

I wonder if any human beings will be alive to breathe it? He pushed the thought away. Focus on winning the war. You’re doing well so far. Okay, you’re skulking and hiding and avoiding the enemy. The point is, it’s working.

So far.

Benson said, “Touchdown in thirty seconds or so. I don’t see anything that looks like cover.”

The land below seemed to be a mix of rolling plains and naked rock. “Any place will do,” Hammett said. “Just get us on the ground.”

“Right.” Benson’s left hand tapped at the helm controls while his right hand moved in the air, manipulating more controls through his implants. “Touching down now.”

The Tomahawk landed with a thud that made Hammett’s teeth click together. Clouds of dust rose on either side of the bridge. A moment later he saw a silvery gleam as the other corvette landed a couple of dozen meters to starboard.

“Sorry about that,” said Benson.

Hammett shook his head. “I wanted us down quick, and that’s what you did. No apologies necessary.” He turned to Kaur. “What do you see?”

“Nothing so far,” she replied. “If they saw us, they haven’t come after us yet.”

They could be gathering their forces. Or waiting for that behemoth in orbit to get around to this side of the planet. Or maybe the big ship will spot us as soon as it finishes its orbit. Or—

He squashed the line of thought. You’ll deal with them when they come. In the meantime, knock it off with the frightened granny routine. This isn’t your first dance.

Kaur said, “What now, Sir?”

“Now we wait.” He glanced at Sanjari. “That alien ship takes ninety minutes to orbit?”

“Ninety-three minutes and a few seconds,” she said.

“We’ll wait ninety minutes,” Hammett said. “If they aren’t swarming us by then, they don’t know we’re here.”

“What then?” Kaur said.

How should I know? I never dreamed we’d make it to the surface undetected. “Then the Achilles will land in the crater and try to make contact with the colonists. The Tomahawk will remain here. Then we’ll wait for word from the Achilles, or from the Bayonet, whichever comes first.”

Chapter 8 – Carruthers

“Excuse me, Captain.”

James Carruthers straightened, barely managing not to touch the captain’s bars on the collar of his uniform. He was still not used to the rank. He turned to face Specialist Kuzyk. “What is it, specialist?”

Kuzyk’s hand went to his sleeve, unconsciously touching his rank bar, and Carruthers smiled. Kuzyk had been promoted from the rank of cadet at the same time Carruthers was made captain. He was no more used to his rank than Carruthers was. “There’s a lady here to see you.”

No rank. So it has to be a civilian. “Another bloody reporter?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tell her to go away.” When Kuzyk didn’t move, Carruthers said, “Well? What’s the problem?”

“It’s Janice, Sir!” Kuzyk reddened. “That is, it’s Ms. Ling. From the Alexander.”

Carruthers scowled. Did she think to presume on their history together? Remind him they’d been shipmates, and pressure him for an interview? It was completely inappropriate, and he felt a rising annoyance.

Even worse, he realized her ploy was going to work. They had been shipmates, and she’d gone far beyond what any civilian passenger could be expected to do. She’d helped keep the Alexander flying, and that meant something in Carruthers’ book. He wasn’t going to do an interview. It was inappropriate, and he didn’t have the time. But he would tell her so to her face, and he’d do it politely. “Bring her in,” he said. “Don’t let her touch anything.”

Kuzyk nodded and hurried away through the crowded hangar. Carruthers pushed the former cadet from his mind and turned to look up at his new ship.

The corvette Indefatigable was done her refit and ready to fly. She didn’t look good. Ugly welds showed where weapons turrets and a missile cradle had been added, and the fighter on the top of her hull looked like a tick sucking blood from an unsuspecting host.

Still, beauty was not her purpose. Fighting was. She looked, as Richard Hammett would have said, like a “proper warship”. Carruthers stepped aside as a pair of sailors pushed a hover cart full of supplies past him and up a ramp into the ship. “You’re ugly,” he murmured, “but you’ll do.”

“You’re kind of ugly yourself, you know.”

He turned, smiling, and found Janice Ling smirking up at him. “Janice! It’s good to see you.”

The smirk changed. Her chin wobbled, and he had the strangest sensation she was about to burst into tears. Then she shocked him by stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his waist. She squeezed him hard enough that the air left his lungs and he couldn’t quite manage to inhale.

Above her head he saw Kuzyk staring at him, wide-eyed. Carruthers gave the boy a fierce look, and Kuzyk whirled and set off across the hangar, looking for something to do.

Janice let go and stepped back, dabbing at her eyes. “Sorry. I just – Oh, Jim, I really needed to see a friendly face.”

“All right,” he said, mystified. “I’m glad I could help.” She’d been a rock all through the long weeks of unrelenting strain on the Alexander. In one crisis after another he’d never seen her crumble. To see her this upset was unnerving.

Janice took a deep breath, then looked around as if checking who was in earshot. “Listen,” she said, suddenly businesslike. “I need a favor. It’s a big one, too. I’m sorry to ask, but believe me, it’s important.”

“All right,” he said uneasily. “What do you need?”

“You’re launching soon, right?” Before he could answer she waved a hand to stop him. “I know, there’s things you can tell a reporter, and things you can’t. I understand.”

Carruthers nodded.

“I need to go with you. As an embedded journalist, just like on the Alexander.”

He gaped at her. “No,” he said at last. “No, it’s out of the question. It’s not something I can approve anyway. The brass would decide something like that. They’ll say no, and if they ask me what I think, I’ll tell them it’s a really bad idea.” She opened her mouth and he held a hand up. “Janice. Believe me, if I had to take a journalist along I wouldn’t want it to be anyone but you. But we’re a tiny ship.” He waved a hand at the Indefatigable. “A corvette. It’s too small for passengers. And we’re going into a war zone.” He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, but no.”

He expected disappointment. Possibly an argument. He wasn’t prepared for the expression of naked fear on her face. She said, “You have to get me off Earth, Jim.”

He was staring at her, trying to figure out how to respond, when Kuzyk stepped into his peripheral vision. The boy had a hand up, and he stepped in close, almost touching Carruthers’ sleeve.

“I’m busy, Kuzyk.”

“Captain, you have more visitors. These ones aren’t waiting for permission to come in.”

Boots thumped on the concrete floor of the hangar, strangely loud, and Janice slid behind Carruthers. He could feel her hands on his elbows. She was using him for cover, hiding from whoever was coming across the hangar.

Carruthers realized his mouth was hanging open, and he closed it. The new arrivals came into view, three men and a woman rounding the bulk of another corvette maybe fifty paces away. They wore red shirts and black trousers, and he recognized their black armbands. They wore pistols on their hips, too. They paused momentarily. Then one man pointed up at the Indefatigable and they headed straight for the ship.

Carruthers, without turning his head, said, “Kuzyk. Stand beside me. Right beside me. Eyes forward.”

Kuzyk, wide-eyed, complied.

“Janice, you get behind him.” Her hands vanished from his elbows, and Kuzyk started to turn his head. “Eyes front, damn you!” Kuzyk’s head snapped around. “Wait until you hear me start talking. Then get onboard the ship. Kuzyk, you stay between her and our guests.”

Not waiting for an answer, Carruthers marched forward. He angled well to the left, putting plenty of distance between himself and Kuzyk. He circled around the ship’s forward landing gear, staring at the newcomers, and folded his arms across his chest. He lifted a hand, raked fingers through his hair, then re-crossed his arms. Any kind of motion to draw the eyes of the approaching redshirts. Kuzyk was lousy cover. Janice’s only hope was if the EDF group was distracted.

It seemed to be working. All three of them stared at Carruthers as he advanced. When the woman’s eyes strayed toward Kuzyk, Carruthers barked, “What the hell do you want?”

That brought all three sets of eyes back to him. He stomped up, then took a couple of side-steps to draw their attention even farther to the left. “This is a military facility,” he said. “You can’t just barge in.”

Confrontation. That’s the key to holding their attention. “I should probably have you arrested. Ordering you shot might be excessive. Arrest is pretty reasonable, though.” He took a step forward.

“Now, hold on!” The spokesman was the man in the middle. He wore a black sash across his chest and a sour, angry expression. “We’re not civilians. Don’t you recognize EDF uniforms?”

“You’re not in the military. That makes you civilians.” She must be on the ship by now. I can dial it down. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I’m Colonel O’Hare with the Earth Defense Force.”

You’re a colonel? In an organization that was only dreamed up three weeks ago? He didn’t try too hard to hide his amused contempt. The man was a swaggering, self-important little bully, and Carruthers loathed him instinctively.

“We’re looking for this woman.” O’Hare drew out a palm-sized holo projector and touched it. Janice’s head and shoulders appeared in the air, with her name underneath. “Have you seen her?”

A cold wave washed through Carruthers. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew he was in the middle of it, and he knew which side he was on. “Sure. That’s Janice Ling. She was on the Alexander. I’ve probably seen her on the feeds since then.”

O’Hare’s lips thinned. “Have you seen her today?”

Carruthers could feel his alarm fading, replaced by annoyance. “Maybe you can watch the feeds when you’re at work,” he said. “I’m busy.”

O’Hare didn’t like that much. “She was seen heading in this direction.”

“This is a secure military facility,” Carruthers said. “At least, it’s supposed to be. Reporters are about as welcome here as civilians in funny costumes.”

O’Hare’s face took on a reddish tinge. “I’m going to search this hangar, and I’m going to search your ship.”

“Like hell you are.”

O’Hare ignored him, gesturing to his underlings. They started moving, one going to either side. O’Hare took a single step toward the Indefatigable.

“Kuzyk!” Carruthers spoke without turning, his eyes on O’Hare. He used his command voice, and all three EDF agents froze.

“Sir?” The voice came from behind Carruthers. Kuzyk sounded unsure, but he’d run the Hive gauntlet with Carruthers, and survived a bloody mutiny. He wouldn’t falter.

“Go to the weapons locker. Get yourself a sidearm. Keep the ship secure.”

“Aye aye, Sir.” The boy still sounded uncertain.

“Kuzyk? When I say to keep the ship secure, what I mean is, shoot any civilian stupid enough to put a foot on the ramp.”

“Aye aye, Sir.” Now he sounded almost indecently cheerful. Carruthers heard a metallic clatter as he ran up the ramp into the ship.

O’Hare put a hand on the butt of his pistol.

Carruthers stepped close to him, close enough to grab the man’s arm if it became necessary. “I don’t know how you talked your way past the sentries at the door, but it won’t work again. You’re leaving. You can walk out, or I can give you a good hard toss.” He smiled, the special smile he used to discourage bar fights. It still worked, he saw. O’Hare shrank back a tiny bit. “Guess which one I’d prefer.”

The EDF man gathered himself. “You’re interfering with the EDF. We’re the defenders of the Earth. You’re committing treason.”

Carruthers laughed, an astonished burst of sound that made O’Hare flinch. “You little piss-ant.” He gestured at the Indefatigable behind him. “I’m outfitting a warship that’s about to go battle the Hive in Naxos. You’re getting in the way. And you’re accusing me of interfering with the defense of Earth?” He planted his hands on his hips. “Let me get this straight. You’re interrupting the Navy’s efforts to prepare for interstellar war. And you’re doing it so you can chase a reporter? One who helped us fight the Hive on board the Alexander?”

O’Hare didn’t speak, just turned a darker shade of red.

“What did she do? Tell the world what you morons are actually like?” Carruthers snorted. “Get out of my hangar, you pompous little shit.”

O’Hare’s right arm moved, ever so slightly, and Carruthers leaned forward, turning the smile back on. “Go ahead. Draw that gun.” He leaned in even farther, and O’Hare leaned back. “I dare you.”

The EDF man’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. Then he whirled and stomped off toward the exit. The other two followed, and Carruthers walked along behind them. They reached the security station at the hangar entrance, and the trio stalked outside.

Carruthers rounded on the sentries, a pair of sailors, one in a glass booth, the other standing beside the door. “If you two clowns let in one more unescorted civilian I’m going to come down here and kick you in the balls so hard you’ll taste semen every time you clear your throats.”

The one in the booth said, “But they were ED-”

Carruthers lifted his foot and the man, despite being behind bullet-proof glass, flinched. “Yes, Sir.”

“Yes, Sir,” said the other sailor, his voice meek.

Carruthers gave them each a disgusted look, then returned to the Indefatigable. When he stepped onto the ramp he found Kuzyk at the top with a blast pistol levelled. Kuzyk lowered the gun quickly. “Sorry, Sir.”

“You’re doing what I told you. You can stand down now, though.” He climbed the ramp and lowered his voice. “How many people saw Janice?”

“I’m not sure. Not many, I think.” He gestured aft. “There’s a couple of quartermasters in Storage Bay Two and an electrician on the bridge. I don’t think they saw anything.” He looked past Carruthers at the hangar. “Everyone else was busy looking at you and the redshirts.”

“She was never here,” Carruthers said. “Understand? Get her a set of coveralls and stick her in a cabin.” He thought for a moment. “Stick her in your cabin. Bring her food. Nobody knows she’s here but you and me. Nobody finds out. Understand?”

Kuzyk nodded hesitantly.

“Where is she?”

“I’m here,” said a small voice. Janice peeked around a corner behind Kuzyk. “Thank you, Jim.”

He waved that away. “Where’s your cabin, Kuzyk?”

They hurried to the cabin without meeting anyone along the way. It was a tiny room, the floor not quite as wide as the sleeping pod. All three of them crowded in, leaning against the wall because it was almost impossible not to.

“We take off in about fourteen hours,” Carruthers said. “You’ll have to stay here until then. Kuzyk will bring you coveralls and a cap. Wear them if you have to use the head.” He jerked a thumb to the left. “It’s that way.”

Janice nodded, wide-eyed.

“Once you’re off-planet you’ll be …” He let his voice taper off. “Actually, ‘safe’ isn’t the word. You’ll be on a warship headed for Naxos. Maybe you’d be better off staying here and facing-”

“No,” Janice interrupted, her face going pale. “No, you can’t leave me here.”

“All right.” He frowned. “They backed down,” he said. He was piecing together his thoughts as he spoke. “I’m a captain, and it’s a military facility. Plus I’m one of the heroes of the Alexander. I fought the aliens. So they can’t accuse me of treason.” He snorted. “Well, they can accuse me. They did. But they can’t make it stick.”

Kuzyk and Janice watched him, silent.

“What’s it like for everyone else?” he said. “With over half the Gate network down, most people can’t even leave Earth.”

“The EDF has chapters in the colonies,” Janice said. “They’re worst on Earth, though.”

There was a moment of gloomy silence.

“I’m suddenly pretty glad we get to leave,” Carruthers said. “I wonder what kind of world we’ll come back to.”

Chapter 9 – Nicholson

Lieutenant Derek Nicholson checked the magazine in his blast rifle, tugged at the bottom of his light body armor, took a deep breath, and nodded to the sailor at the ramp controls. The ramp dropped, and a wave of humid air swept in, scented by vegetation. It was a strange smell to Nicholson, who had lived his entire life in large cities, and he wanted to stop while he got used to it. Instead he made a “come along” gesture to his team and headed down the ramp at a trot.

The Achilles sat in a forest. Trees stretched away in every direction, and Nicholson felt his heart speed up until he thought it might hammer its way out of his chest. He couldn’t see very far in any direction. Anything could be hiding in these trees, and his imagination wasted no time in conjuring up a buffet of dangers. He broke into a run, curving around the side of the ship, the others hurrying behind him.

He headed into the trees, then changed his mind and jogged back toward the ship. With the bulk of the corvette behind him and a thick wing stretched overhead he felt slightly safer. He dropped to one knee, lifted his rifle, and scanned the trees.

A blonde woman dropped to one knee beside him. She scanned the trees like he did, and spoke without taking her eyes from the forest. “What is it, Sir? Did you see something?”

Nicholson glanced around. There were four in the party. The other two, Hudson and Parrish, stood slightly behind him and Adria Gillett. “No,” he said. “It’s just this forest. It puts me on edge.” He glanced at her, expecting to see the same stress on her face.

Instead, she stared at him, her face perplexed. She lowered her rifle. “Forest, Sir?”

He gestured at the trees that surrounded the ship on all sides. “This forest here.” He felt himself flush. “Or is it more of a jungle?” He wasn’t sure what the difference was.

Gillett spoke hesitantly, almost as if she thought he might be kidding. “It’s an orchard, Sir.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

She stared at him for a long moment, blinked, then said, “It’s an orchard. Not a forest. All these trees were planted here. They aren’t growing wild.”

“How can you tell?”

Again she stared at him before speaking. “There’s a tree every, what, fifteen meters? They’re all the same size. All the same kind. They’re in perfectly straight lines. And there’s nothing else growing here but grass. No underbrush.” She pointed at the top of the nearest tree. “Plus, they’re apple trees.”

How do you know what kind of trees they are? A tree is a tree, isn’t it? You can’t know what kind it is. He didn’t ask the question out loud. He could feel a hot flush spreading up his neck and creeping toward his face. He examined the treetop. Sure enough, he could make out little yellow orbs among the leaves. “It could still be dangerous,” he said.

Gillett didn’t speak, just raised a pale eyebrow.

“What if there are animals?”

“Animals, Sir?” She sounded like a parent trying very hard to be patient with a small child.

He shrugged irritably. “You know. Dangerous animals.” The idea that he was making a fool of himself was rapidly becoming a conviction. He didn’t know what else to do, so he said, “Bears?”

Her eyebrows rose a tiny bit higher. “I’m sure there are no bears on Ariadne, Lieutenant.”

Nicholson lowered his rifle. After a moment he stood. “I grew up in Toronto,” he muttered. “We have a few parks.” He started walking. “No forests. And no orchards.”

Feet rustled on grass as the others followed. No one spoke, but he could imagine their amused glances. His face, already warm, grew downright hot, and he walked faster, not wanting them to see his scarlet cheeks. I sure hope somebody starts shooting at us soon. I need the distraction.

The trees, he discovered, were laid out in a perfect grid. He could see now that they were in straight lines, like the intersections on a sheet of graph paper. His embarrassment increased. Never mind that. The Hive is on this planet. Focus. Lives are at stake.

The near wall of the crater loomed behind him. His assignment was to make his way across the crater floor, keeping out of sight, and gather intelligence. Above all he was to look for human survivors. They would be the best source of information.

The ground became rough, and the perfect grid of trees gave way to a jumble of rock with apple trees sprouting here and there wherever there was a pocket of soil. The ground rose, the trees ended, and Nicholson found himself climbing through a tangle of shrubs. He used both feet and one hand for as long as he could, then reluctantly slung the rifle across his back and used both hands to climb.

The ridge was no more than ten meters high, and the crest too choked with vegetation to offer much of a view. He unslung the rifle and kept watch as the others clambered up to join him. Then he slung the rifle again and clambered down the other side.

Some kind of crop grew on the far side of the ridge. Even Nicholson could see that the knee-high plants formed straight lines with dark furrows on either side. He had no idea what the crop was. The orchard was on flat ground, but this part of the crater was filled with low, rolling hills.

Gillett stepped up beside him, unslinging her rifle. “Is that a building?” She pointed.

Nicholson squinted into the distance. He could make out a dark shape poking above the corner of a hill a couple of hundred meters away. He took a binoc from his backpack and lifted it to his eyes. He zoomed in, watching the image jump and wobble despite electronic correction. He could see a flat rectangle, covered in green siding.

“It’s a building, all right. I can’t tell what kind. We’ll check it out.”

She nodded, and they waited while Hudson and Parrish clambered down the slope. Then Nicholson led them off in a curve that would put the bulk of a hill between them and the distant building. They paused in a sheltered hollow.

“Hudson,” Nicholson said softly. “You go around the hill that way.” He gestured to the right. “Parrish, you go the other way.” He pointed left. “Gillett, you and I are going over the top. Stop and hold your position when you can see something.”

They nodded. The other men moved out, and Nicholson started up the hill, Gillette a few steps behind him and off to one side.

She dropped to a crouch as they neared the crest, and Nicholson copied her. By the time they reached the top they were wriggling on their stomachs, leaving a trail of mangled plants behind them. Nicholson rose up on his elbows so he could see over the crop.

A cluster of buildings nestled at the base of the hill. There was a small house, a long Quonset hut, and a couple of rectangular structures that seemed to be made from logs. One log building had a door that hung ajar. As Nicholson watched, a puff of wind caught the door. It banged against the wall, and the sound reached him a moment later.

Aside from the door, nothing moved.

“Looks abandoned,” Gillett murmured.

Nicholson said, “Hudson. Parrish. What do you see?”

“Just an empty farmyard,” Hudson said.

Parrish said, “I can hear something banging, but I can’t see where it’s coming from. There’s a covered pad on the side of the house. It looks like they parked a vehicle there. The vehicle’s gone, though.” After a moment he added, “I can see an open window. They must’ve left in a hurry, if they’re gone.”

“Let’s take a look,” Nicholson said. “Stay sharp.” He rose to his hands and knees, crawling forward until he was below the crest of the hill. When he was low enough not to be skylined he stood and trotted down the hill, Gillette beside him. He could see Parrish and Hudson coming in from either side.

They spread out as they reached the yard. Nicholson headed for the log building with the swinging door. He poked the barrel of his rifle through the doorway, then quickly stepped through and moved to one side.

The inside was shadowy and smelled of dust. A couple of windows high on one wall let in shafts of sunlight. He could see motes of dust glittering and dancing in the light. The building was small, maybe half a dozen paces from wall to wall, and filled with crude wooden bins. Bushel baskets filled one bin. The baskets looked as if they might have been woven from palm leaves. The baskets were empty, and so were the other bins.

He stepped outside. Gillett came out of the other log building and shrugged.

“There’s some farm equipment in the Quonset.” It was Hudson, speaking over his implants. “No sign of life, though.”

Parrish said, “The house is clear too.”

They met at the front door of the house. “Stay out here and keep watch,” Nicholson said to Hudson. Then he entered the house, Gillette on his heels.

He found himself in a kitchen, small by the standard of houses on Earth, downright palatial to a man who served on corvettes. There was a wood-burning stove, and a counter with a couple of electric burners. A large pot sat on one burner, the top spattered with tomato sauce.

There was a table, crudely made from wooden planks. The plates were plastic, and they were heaped with moldy food.

Gillett sniffed. “I can’t smell it,” she said, gesturing at the table. “This house has been abandoned for quite a while.”

A floorboard creaked, and Nicholson’s fingers tensed on his rifle. It was just Parrish, though, appearing in the kitchen doorway. “Looks like a husband and wife and two kids lived here,” he said. “Gone now, though.”

“I’m going outside,” said Gillett. “This place gives me the creeps.”

Nicholson looked around the kitchen. If the house held any more clues, he couldn’t see them. He followed Gillett into the yard.

A dirt road led from the yard, through more rolling farmland, and off toward the middle of the crater. Trees lined both sides of the road. It made for easy walking and decent cover, and they set off down the middle of the road.

Fifteen minutes of walking brought them to another farmyard. They stood at the end of a long driveway looking at a house and a single large outbuilding. A trailer sat in front of the house, stacked with half a dozen crates. A couple more crates sat on the ground beside it. Quite a bit of wind-blown debris, mostly dried leaves by the look of it, had accumulated on the upwind side of the crates. The yard was long abandoned.

“They started to pack up their stuff,” Hudson said. “Then they changed their minds. Left it here and ran.”

“Looks that way,” said Nicholson.

“You want us to check out the house?”

“No. Let’s keep going.”

He paused, though. The driveway was the first break they’d seen in the double line of trees. The house was on a low hill, and he could see for several kilometers in every direction. He didn’t like it at first. The crater walls, not too far apart this close to the side of the crater, made a comforting visual barrier. They made it seem more like a proper city, where you could never see too far.

When he looked the other way, he felt goosebumps rise on his arms. More hills rose, not far off, hiding the ground from view. But he could see the crater walls curving away and fading in the distance with majestic grandeur. What was it like to live here, he thought. To see this view every day?

A plastic tricycle lay on its side near the front of the house, by a little wagon, meticulously hand crafted from wood. What would it be like to grow up in a place like this, to walk out your front door and run around in real grass, to see kilometer after kilometer of trees and plants and growing things?

Gillett said, “Lieutenant?”

“This must have been a nice place to live,” he said. “Before the Hive.”

She nodded. “I don’t suppose humans will ever live here again.”

“No. Probably not.” Not unless the war goes far better than we have any right to expect. “Come on.” He turned away from the yard. “Let’s go find the people who lived here.”

Man, I just love that guitar solo at the end. Gives me goosebumps every time. You’re listening to Sharon Crowfoot on Radio Free Naxos, the voice of free men and women across the entire star system. You might be hiding at the base of the crater wall listening to a Rover radio with the last bit of juice left in the battery. You might be back in your house, jumping at every noise, wondering when the aliens are going to come through the door, or through your wall. It might be weeks since you’ve seen anyone except the people you’re hiding out with, if you’re lucky enough to be part of a group. But I’m here to remind you that you’re not alone. We are the free people of Naxos. We are scattered, but we are united, and we will prevail.

Now settle back and enjoy a modern masterpiece. This is the Trash Can Trio with Back Alley Jam.

Chapter 10 – Nicholson

Ariadne had a period of rotation of less than eighteen hours, which made for a very short day. The floor of the crater was in shadow, indirectly lit by a blaze of sunlight reflected from the east wall of the crater, when Nicholson heard music coming from somewhere down the road.

He and Gillett took to the ditch on the left, while Hudson and Parrish moved to the opposite ditch. They advanced slowly, staying close to the trunks of the trees that continued to line the road on either side, climbing a gentle slope. They slowed even more as they neared the crest, scanning the ground ahead before slipping from the bole of one tree to another.

At the top of a low ridge they stopped. Gillett stood behind a tree while Nicholson knelt in a patch of brush. As he peered through the branches he saw small red berries decorating the bush in front of him, and he wondered idly if they were edible. There was something marvellous about the idea of eating wild food. Sure, he understood on an intellectual level that people had done such things for millennia before the rise of modern civilization. He’d just never encountered it in person.

Tilting his head to one side let him see past the bush and into a broad pocket of land surrounded by hills to the front and right, and rising ridges of stone on the left that went up and up, growing steeper until they merged with the vertical east wall of the crater.

The trees that had lined the road for the past several kilometers ended just below the crest of the ridge. The road ended too, fading into a pair of ruts in a waving expanse of grass. In the middle of the grassy pocket, almost a kilometer from Nicholson and his team, stood a cubical structure maybe five meters on a side. It was made of metal, covered in ducts and pipes and tubes, and it made Nicholson think of electrical substations. A revolving light on the top of the cube flashed and blinked. He had no idea what it signified.

A light breeze ruffled the hair on the back of Nicholson’s neck, and sent waves rippling through the grass. The music faded away, then came back as the wind changed direction. It sounded like a dance tune, highly synthesized, the kind of thing teens loved and their parents hated. It seemed to be coming from the cubical structure.

He took out his binoc and zoomed in on the cube. The image wobbled and shook, and he lowered the binoc, shuffling over until his shoulder was against the trunk of a tree. He braced an elbow on his knee and lifted the binoc again.

With his arms stabilized the image finally became clear. The structure was human-made. He could read safety warnings stenciled on the side. He scanned the structure carefully. A large pipe near the base had a logo painted on it, and he could make out some text. It said, “Ariadne Water Services”.

“I think it’s for pumping fresh water,” he said, and handed the binoc up to Gillett. “Have a look.”

She stared for a long time, then lowered the binoc. She didn’t speak.

“Well?” he said at last. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s Soul of Love. Not the original, though. Somebody did a crap electro-pop remix.”

Nicholson turned to stare up at her.

“Why do people do that?” she said plaintively. “The song is a classic. We don’t need a horrible new version.”

The distant music faded. Someone spoke for thirty seconds or so, the words an indistinct mumble. Then a sprightly jazz tune started.

“That’s better,” said Gillett.

“You know, you’re really no help at all.” She gave him a hurt look, which he ignored. He reclaimed the binoc and scanned the horizon. The only movement was the waving grass. He stood. “Let’s go check it out.”

The four of them walked to the end of the road, spreading out to make a poorer target. It was a pointless precaution, Nicholson was sure. This side of the crater was abandoned.

He passed the last tree and took a step onto the grass. Red light flashed in a copse of trees on the far side of the bowl, the side of his face felt briefly warm, and wood crackled behind him. He hit the ground, not sure why but obeying his instincts. The others copied him.

He looked back, and felt a chill run down his spine. A large branch just above head height on the closest tree was broken close to the trunk. The branch hung straight down now, and he saw a wisp of smoke rising from a blackened area on the stump of the branch. It took a moment for his brain to catch up.

“Laser fire,” he said. “Take cover.”

The four of them rose together, scrambling behind the closest tree trunks, then darting over the crest of the slope. Nicholson threw himself down on his stomach in the middle of the road. Gillett hit the ground in one ditch, Hudson and Parrish in the other.

“Gillett. Inform the Achilles.” He twisted his head the other way. “Hudson. Crawl forward and take a look. For pity’s sake keep your head down.”

Hudson nodded and wriggled forward.

For a moment Nicholson just laid there, listening to the urgent thump of his heart. He could smell dust from the road, and his own sweat. There was also a vague greenish smell, the smell of rich soil and living things on all sides. The evening air was cool, and he found himself savoring the moment. Nature. Fresh air. Open spaces. I never knew I was missing it …

Finally, gritting his teeth, he started worming his way down the middle of the road. He timed it so he reached the top of the crest at the same time as Hudson. The two of them lay still, gazing across the bowl, waiting for the distant laser to strike again.

Nothing moved, and no weapon fired.

“I think I see something,” Hudson murmured. “Bottom of that hill on the left.”

Nicholson was reaching for the binoc when the damaged branch fell from the laser-scorched tree. He flinched, barely managing to suppress an undignified shriek. When his breathing was under control he brought the binoc to his eyes.

A vehicle came rolling around the base of the hill. It was an electric Rover, and he could see two people in the front, perfectly ordinary human beings. One of them was actually steering, something you hardly ever saw on Earth these days. The Rover took a meandering course, zigging and zagging across the grass, making it challenging for him to zoom in.

He managed it, though, and found himself staring at the magnified face of a young woman. She had a scab on her cheek surrounded by a dark bruise. She wore a light jacket, and he saw her smile as she spoke to the person beside her. Then the Rover swerved and she disappeared.

Nicholson lowered the binoc in time to see Hudson bringing up his rifle. “Stand down,” he said. “It’s a couple of colonists.”

Hudson gave him a dubious look. “They’re coming right at us. What if they’re collaborators?”

He thought of the woman’s smile. “They’re a little too relaxed to have murder on their minds.”

Hudson nodded. He kept a hand on the rifle, though.

Nicholson rose to one knee when the Rover was almost to the end of the road. The front of his armor was covered with dust, and he gave it a couple of ineffectual pats before turning his attention to the Rover.

The vehicle slowed as it moved onto the end of the road, and he heard gravel crunch under the tires. The others stood up as the Rover rolled to a stop. The woman was at the controls. A lean middle-aged man sat beside her, grinning as he looked at each of the sailors in turn.

“Sorry about the shot,” the woman said, gesturing behind her at the fallen branch. “It was the quickest way to stop you.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “The whole area is full of booby-traps.”

Nicholson stood. “In that case, I guess you’re forgiven. I’m Lieutenant Nicholson.” He indicated the others. “This is Gillett, Hudson, and Parrish.”

“I’m Tanya,” the woman. “This is Ron. Welcome to the Naxos resistance.”

Chapter 11 – Nicholson

“Quiet! I think it’s finally working.”

Nicholson broke off a quiet conversation with Gillett and crawled over to join Ron at the edge of the trees. There were eight colonists with the four navy personnel at the ambush site, and six more at a secondary firing position in the rocks along the crater wall. Ron was the only one Nicholson could actually see. Two of Ariadne’s moons were in the night sky, but they did little to dispel the darkness.

The water pumping station was a kilometer distant, still blasting music from its speakers. The revolving light continued to spin but was mostly drowned out by a bonfire that blazed beside the big metal cube. The idea was to draw in the aliens. The resistance had been manning the ambush site for two days, doing everything they could think of to draw the attention of the aliens. Now, it seemed they had finally succeeded.

A flying machine swooped in, hovering low over the pumping station. It was an ugly craft, covered in lumps and protrusions, so unfamiliar in construction – so alien – that Nicholson couldn’t get any sense of size until it was quite close to the cube. The ship was three or four meters long and about half as wide. A white beam like a spotlight shone down on the cube and the fire, then swept around in a lazy circle.

Nicholson murmured, “Shoot now, while it’s not moving.”

Ron shook his head. “Sometimes there’s ground troops. I’m waiting for one of them to step on a mine.”

“Look,” someone said, and Nicholson saw movement at the edge of the fire’s glow. A line of creatures came into view, ugly, insect-like things with four curving needle-like legs, a strange hinged torso, and a couple of needle-like arms. They were roughly human-sized, but built nothing like a human. The first creature probed at the ground ahead, then advanced a couple of steps. The rest followed carefully, directly behind him.

“Dammit,” Ron said, “the buggers are learning.” He made an urgent gesture with his arm, and a pale glow appeared as the control panels lit up on a couple of bulky machines on tripods. “They can’t learn not to panic, though. Everybody got a target?”

A couple of colonists murmured assent.

“Fire when ready.”

Ariadne had no weapons. There was no military outpost, and there were no animals to hunt. The local police force had carried stunners. There were, however, some industrial lasers used for cutting rock to level the crater floor or cut brick for construction. Some talented engineers among the colonists had removed several lasers from their bulky mounts and attached tripods and portable power packs. They fell far short of military lasers, but they packed a remarkable punch.

The first laser fired. The air had enough dust to make the beam visible, a crimson flash that lashed past the nose of the alien ship. The second laser fired an instant later, and Nicholson saw the point of impact in the ground a dozen meters from the line of enemy foot soldiers. He quickly realized these were ranging shots. There was no easy way to aim the bulky lasers in the dark.

The first laser tracked to the right and traced a red line across the hull of the enemy ship. The second laser burned a ragged line through the grass and sliced an alien in half.

Pandemonium erupted among the foot soldiers. They fled in every direction, and Nicholson saw a flash of light, followed momentarily by a thunderclap of sound. Soil erupted into the air, and he thought he saw a chunk of an enemy soldier tumbling to the ground near the bonfire.

The ship jerked away and rose, momentarily evading the laser. More red light flashed from the far side of the bowl of grass as the other group of colonists opened fire. They put several shots into the troops on the ground, then switched their fire to the rising ship.

The rest of the ground troops fled into darkness. With no more visible targets on the ground, all three lasers focused on the alien ship. Points of red appeared on the hull, then vanished as the ship jerked and twisted. Someone on the alien ship finally thought to turn off the spotlight, but Nicholson could still see a red glow where something on the ship burned. Higher and higher it rose, until he was sure it must be out of range. Laser beams would go practically forever in the vacuum of space, but they dissipated quickly in atmosphere.

Just when he thought the ship would escape, it started to fall. Faster and faster it plunged, until it slammed into the ground halfway between the pumping station and the end of the road.

A cheer went up from the colonists. A flash of light came from the middle of the bowl as another alien stumbled into a booby-trap. The sound of the explosion echoed around them, and the colonists cheered again.

“They always come up with good plans,” Ron said. “Better each time, in fact. But they have no discipline. Next time we’ll-”

A voice cried out, a wordless scream of alarm. Nicholson felt heat, and he threw himself flat, dragging Ron down with him. The trees around him erupted into flame, and someone else screamed, a ragged shriek of agony.

Nicholson heard a staccato clicking sound, like metal hitting wood, and he rose to his knees with his rifle in his hands. A shape came at him through the flames, a nightmare spider made of steel, and he sprayed it with blast shots. Sparks erupted from the steel casing that protected the creature’s limbs, but several shots got through and slammed into the body behind. The thing flew back, thrashing, and Nicholson turned as more aliens swarmed out of the darkness. He fired until the magazine was empty, and reloaded without thinking, letting his training take over.

Flickers of light on either side told him two other rifles were firing. I must have lost someone. He was much too busy to pursue the thought. A pair of aliens converged on him, and he fired at the one on the left. He wounded it, saw the front limbs digs spasmodically into the dirt, and swung the rifle to the right. This alien was practically on top of him, and he blasted away, screaming as he fired.

A steel-clad limb swept the barrel of the rifle sideways, then slammed into Nicholson’s chest. He felt a burst of pain and fell backward. It reared over him, a couple of steel spikes lifted high, and then Ron lunged in from the side, burying the blade of a spear in the creature’s side.

Nicholson wasted a moment staring up in disbelief. Did I really just see someone use a spear on an alien? What next? Bows and arrows? Then he sat up, wincing as pain lashed through his chest, tucked the stock of the rifle under his arm, and opened fire.

The alien reached for Ron, but the spear had been designed with some care. The shaft was quite long, long enough that Ron was out of reach of those terrible arms. An arm slashed sideways, shattering the spear, and the creature lunged at the colonist. By that time, though, Nicholson was pouring shot after shot into the creature’s unprotected body. It fell, one steel leg thrashed sideways and knocked Nicholson sprawling, and he saw his last shot plow into the dirt a handspan from Ron’s foot.

A moment later, the alien on the left, the one Nicholson had injured but not killed, rose up behind Ron. Ron was smiling triumphantly at Nicholson, oblivious. His eyes widened when Nicholson took aim on the center of his chest. Ron was blocking Nicholson’s shot, and both of them flinched at the sudden crack of a blast gun firing.

It was Gillett, putting four careful rounds into the creature’s torso. She turned to scan the rest of the ambush site, and Nicholson let himself sag. A flashing red light on his rifle told him it was empty, and he changed magazines automatically. The pain in his chest was spreading, until even his fingers hurt as he slid the fresh magazine home. The attack seemed to be over, so he laid his rifle on the ground, stretched out beside it, folded his hands over his chest, and stared up at the sky.

The light of the burning trees around him drowned out the stars. He could see one of the moons, and he gazed up at it, enjoying the quiet tranquility of the image. He was having more and more trouble seeing it, though. Was the fire spreading? He turned his head, and found he couldn’t see the flames, either. That’s odd. He tried to say Gillett’s name, but he couldn’t figure out if his lips were moving or not.

Everything was dark now, and he was cold. It puzzled him, and he tried to look around. Moving his head seemed like an impossible effort, though, so he shrugged to himself and let the darkness carry him away.

Chapter 12 – Nicholson

Nicholson sat at a picnic table, eating a plate of scrambled eggs. His chest ached. He had a hole in his armor, a shallow puncture wound in his chest, and a furrow carved into one rib. He also had a bruise that extended from his neck to his navel and from one armpit to the other, but he wasn’t going to complain. He knew how lucky he was.

The alien counter-attack had been a disaster. Hudson was dead, along with half the colonists. The team on the far side of the bowl had been wiped out.

The morning sun put a bar of light on the west wall of the crater, and it crept downward as he ate. It was early morning, not that Nicholson’s internal clock had adjusted. Stress, pain, and endless demands on his time had kept him awake for … he’d lost track of how many hours.

Gillett dropped onto the bench beside him. She had her own plate of eggs, and a mango. She cut a fat slice of the fruit, set it on his plate, and said, “How are you feeling, Sir?”

He lifted his left arm experimentally and grunted as a band of pain tightened around his chest. “Good enough under the circumstances. I’ll have trouble using my rifle, though.”

She nodded, then took a bite of mango. “Oh, this is good.”

Nicholson had to agree. Navy personnel didn’t get a lot of fresh food. “I’ve never really eaten like this before.” He waved a hand around him. “Outside.”

Gillett closed her eyes for a moment, and he had the distinct impression it was to hide the fact she was rolling them. “I’ve been on picnics before. It’s not like this on Earth, though.” She paused to take another bite of mango. “There’s no ants. No chance of rain. No mosquitoes, no flies.” She held up a slice of mango. “No wasps, attracted by the sugar.”

Nicholson shuddered. Picnics on Earth sounded horrible.

The picnic site was on a high ridge with a view across a mix of forest and orchards for several kilometers in every direction. Scattered all around them was an improvised city, home to more than a thousand refugees. There were no shelters as such. On a planet without rain, animals, or insects other than bees, it wasn’t needed. The nights could be chilly, and those without blankets would bundle up in coats and extra shirts to sleep.

An irrigation station provided fresh water and a place to plug in the dozen or so electric vehicles the colonists had collected. It wasn’t ideal, but they’d been able to survive for weeks.

They were by no means the only survivors on the planet. The need to forage for food meant that only small groups could be sustained. No one knew how many other groups cowered and scavenged along the length of the crater.

The only buildings in sight belonged to a small farm at the base of the ridge. The farm’s owners had decided to stay put when the aliens arrived. They had continued to care for their hundreds of laying hens, and had fed a steadily growing stream of refugees fleeing the city.

Harlequin, apparently, was largely intact. The Hive had killed hundreds of people at least, but they hadn’t tried too hard to annihilate the fleeing citizens. They apparently hadn’t seen the colonists as a threat. Now they knew better, and killed every human they could find.

A debate raged among the survivors over whether resistance was a good idea. Nicholson had found himself in the middle of a bitter argument the night before. People like Ron insisted fighting back was their only chance. Tanya, the young woman who had ridden beside him in the Rover, had died in the battle at the pumping station. Ron was making her a martyr, insisting they had to fight on in her memory.

The Live and Let Live group, as they called themselves, insisted that Ron and his followers were going to get everyone killed. The aliens, once content to ignore the humans infesting the countryside, were now exterminating every refugee camp they could find.

“They were going to kill us anyway!” Ron had shouted. “Believe me, they would have gotten around to it.”

The debate had gone on and on, but ultimately it didn’t matter. There was no stopping the resistance, and it was too late anyway. The aliens already saw the scattered colonists as a threat.

In the middle of the camp a speaker played soft music, interrupted periodically by a woman with messages of hope and defiance. None of the colonists in the camp knew the woman, but they said she had to be hiding in the city. The colony had broadcasting equipment designed for sending radio messages to the science station on Dryad. It had long since been repurposed for public radio broadcasts.

No one knew the fate of the Dryad team.

“Have you met the mad scientist?” Gillett said.

Nicholson lifted an eyebrow. “Mad scientist?”

Gillett grinned. “Her name’s Goldfarb. She’s brilliant, but -” Gillett tapped her temple -“a little out there, if you know what I mean.”

“I work with you, don’t I?”

She made a face at him. “She worked in mining on Dryad. They deal with incredible heat problems there. Her job was making better heat shields for the mining equipment and habitats.”

Nicholson said, “I see.”

Gillett shook her head. “No you don’t.” Her arms started to move as she spoke. Nicholson had never seen her so animated. “The alien weapons are heat-based. Anti-laser mesh doesn’t work, because it’s too much heat and it’s not focused.”

“What are you saying?”

She looked at him like he was an obtuse child. “Right now she’s trying to make body armor that would protect a person against a heat ray like they used on us last night.” She shivered ever so slightly at the memory. “It won’t work. You’d have to completely encase the person in metal, and you’d need a place to put the cooling vanes.”

“I still don’t see-”

“Ships, Sir!” Her hands flew up like excited birds erupting from the grass. “She can design heat shields for ships. Really good shields, better than anything we’ve got. Shields that could make their ship-to-ship weapons useless.”

Nicholson stared at her, thinking about the ramifications.

“I think she might be the most important person on the planet,” Gillett said. “We need to protect her. She needs to be on the first ship back to Earth when the Gate opens.”

Nicholson ate his eggs in a thoughtful silence. “Mad scientist, eh?”

“You must be talking about Goldfarb,” said a familiar voice.

Ron came over to the table, plopped himself down across from Nicholson and Gillett, and reached for the last slice of mango. “May I?”

“Help yourself.”

He took a bite, chewed for a moment, then said, “We have a plan.”

Nicholson felt his stomach tighten in a mix of dread and excitement. “Okay …”

“A new arrival came in yesterday. I just met him. He was in Harlequin four days ago.”

Nicholson’s eyebrows rose. “He’s been in the city all this time?”

“Yeah. Hiding out in an attic until his food ran out. Turns out he was only a block over from Garibaldi Plaza.”

Gillett leaned forward, her eyes alight. “What did he see?”

“He says they’re building something. We knew that. But he says they finished a couple of days before he left.” Ron shrugged. “He says the level of activity dropped way off. Says he never would have made it out of the city, otherwise.”

“So, what is it?” Gillett said impatiently. “What did they build?”

Ron shook his head. “He says it looks like a tower. Sort of. It’s all lumpy and weird-looking, like their ships. But it stands about three stories high, and there are cables all over the ground. It looks like they’ve got six or seven power boxes hooked up to the thing.”

“Wait,” Nicholson said. “Power boxes?”

“Oh, right. You don’t know about those.” Ron paused for a moment, thinking. “We call them power boxes. They’re about this big.” He gestured in the air, outlining a rounded shape almost two meters high. “They’ve always got big cables coming out of them. We think the aliens use them for a power source.”

Nicholson said, “Well, the tower sounds like a nice big target. I wonder what it is.”

Ron shrugged. “Does it matter? They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to build it. If it’s important to them, I want to smash it.”

Nicholson grinned. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

“There’s a lot of bugs in the city,” Ron said. ‘Bugs’ was what the colonists called the alien ground troops. “Too many for a ground assault. Except we know they panic when things get too hot for them.” He rested his elbows on the table. “That’s where you come in.”

“Okay …”

“They’re ready for an infantry attack,” said Ron. “They can handle industrial lasers and hand weapons. But they aren’t ready for an attack from the sky. They’re not ready for the kinds of weapons you’ve got on that corvette.” He made a fist, and his eyes glittered with a fierce hunger. “We’ll put the fear of God into them when your ship comes in and puts a couple of dozen rail gun rounds into that tower. We’ll put two hundred troops in the streets, and we’ll cut them to pieces while they’re running around in a panic.”

For a moment he was wild-eyed, like a lunatic or a holy crusader. Then his fist lowered, and he gave Nicholson a sheepish grin. “Anyway, that’s the plan. We know the city. We’ll coordinate the ground attack. We’ll lead your people, and fight alongside them. We’ll time it so we’re close to Garibaldi Plaza when your ship comes in.” He lifted his hands and waggled his fingers, miming an explosion. “Total chaos! For them, at least.” He grinned. “What do you think?”

Nicholson pondered. Taking civilians into a battle would be irresponsible and stupid. Poorly armed civilians, at that. The alien counter-attack the night before had shown how vulnerable the resistance fighters were.

On the other hand, the locals knew the city. Nicholson would be a fool not to bring at least a guide. And then there was the matter of numbers. How many more personnel could the Bayonet spare? Maybe another half dozen at the most. Probably fewer, to be honest.

The colonists could muster hundreds.

They’ll be slaughtered. I can’t let that happen.

On the other hand … This is a war for all of humanity. The Hive is trying to exterminate these people. This could be their chance to fight back when the odds are in their favor. The aliens will be in disarray. Maybe it’s better if they fight today, when they have a chance of victory, instead of some other day, when the Hive launches a surprise attack. On that day, they’ll have no chance at all.

He looked at Ron. “It’s not my decision,” he said, “a fact for which I’m deeply grateful. I’ll pass your recommendation along to my captain.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “He’ll ask for your recommendation, though.”

Nicholson nodded reluctantly.

“And what will you tell him?”

“Her,” Nicholson corrected absently. “The captain is a ‘her’.”

“What will you tell her?” Ron said patiently.

Nicholson looked him in the eye. “I have no idea.”

That was Frank Sinatra, with My Way. All my life, I did it my way. Next time I’m doing it Frank’s way.

This is Sharon Crowfoot, and you’re listening to Radio Free Naxos, the little colony that took a licking and kept on kicking. The Navy has arrived, and it’s about time, too. No doubt they’ll offer to evacuate us all to Earth. I don’t know about you, but I’ll be leaving when they load the mingled remains of my carcass into a body bag and load it onto a ship. Naxos is my home, and I’ll be staying. On that theme, here’s Mystic O’Reilly with her classic ballad, Home is Where the Heart Is.

Chapter 13 – Hammett

I sure hope I know what I’m doing.

It wasn’t the first time in a long career as an officer that Hammett had entertained that particular thought, and he suppressed it with the ease of long practice. This was what people meant when they talked about the burden of command: sitting on the bridge of a ship with inadequate resources, far too little information, and brutally high stakes, with the sure and certain knowledge that no matter what he did, good people would die this day.

He checked the status windows on his display screen one last time. The Bayonet still hung all alone in the void, unnoticed by the enemy. The Gate crew would be powering up the new Gate within the hour.

Meanwhile, teams of colonists led by personnel from the Achilles were creeping through the outskirts of Harlequin. They would take advantage of the chaos Hammett was about to unleash to destroy the mystery structure the aliens were building in the heart of the city.

It’s too late to dither, Richard. That Gate is going to light up the sky. Those commandos are going to encounter the enemy and start a shit storm. You couldn’t stop things now if your life depended on it. There’s nowhere to go but forward.

“Thirty seconds,” said Touhami.

Hammett nodded. The plan was to launch the Tomahawk in the last few seconds before the orbiting cluster of alien ships came over the horizon. In some ways this was the worst part of any battle, the last few seconds when every decision was made and there was nothing to do but sit, nerves stretched tight, and wait.

“Time,” said Touhami.

Benson’s hands moved and the ship surged upward. The acceleration pressed Hammett hard into his seat, catching him by surprise. He was accustomed to cruisers, with stronger internal force fields and slower acceleration. He still missed the Alexander, but there was something exhilarating about the Tomahawk.

The ground disappeared in the blink of an eye. Wisps of cloud flashed past the windows on either side, and then he saw stars. The bridge had no forward-facing windows, but his display screen showed the Hive cluster, dead ahead. “Bring us in close,” he said. “Stand by lasers.”

His seat pressed against him as the Tomahawk accelerated forward. He watched the alien ship grow in the display screen. He wanted to slice it up before it could separate into component pieces. He wanted to get as close as possible first, though.

“Fire when we reach a thousand kilometers,” he said, and Kaur nodded. In past encounters the alien EMP weapon had disabled their electronics at a range of 800 kilometers. Hammett wanted the full benefit of the ship’s targeting systems for his opening salvo.

“Lasers firing,” Kaur announced, and Hammett watched his display screen. If there was damage to the alien cluster he couldn’t see it. The Tomahawk continued to close with the enemy, and he waited for his screen to flare and die. After a moment he said, “What’s our range?”

“Five hundred kilometers and closing.

They haven’t fried our computers yet. Why not? He had a moment of queasy fear, wondering what nasty surprise the aliens were cooking up instead. He squashed the line of thought before he could work himself into a panic. They’ve abandoned the EMP weapon because we fought through it last time. Or they’re panicking and they forgot to pull the trigger. Or the weapon needs ammunition, and they’ve run out. Or it’s a logistics problem. You’ll probably never know why they dropped the ball. Forget about it, and capitalize on their mistake.

“Match velocities,” Hammett said, then braced himself as the ship tried to fling him out of his chair. “Fire at targets of opportunity.”

From this point on the gunners and the ship’s computer could fire faster without Hammett’s direct supervision. He watched the cluster break apart into a cloud of individual ships, and saw a handful of ships shred in a withering storm of rail gun fire. Alien ships flashed past the windows on either side, and he saw one glow as a laser caught it. A metallic clatter told him the fighter was disengaging from the hull. A moment later he had to grab the arms of his chair as the Tomahawk twisted and spun, dodging enemy fire and bringing her rail guns to bear on targets on every side.

Chunks of a shattered ship thumped against the port window, making Hammett flinch. He was in the middle of a wild brawl, and all he could do was hang on and wait to see how it ended.

Chapter 14 – Baca

Juanita Baca watched her display flash green, telling her the Stinger was safely separated from the Tomahawk. She goosed the engine and surged away from the corvette, steering into the swarm of aliens surrounding her like a cloud of lethal mosquitoes. The controls were light and responsive, which was strangely disconcerting. She had barely practised flying with computer assistance. They’d assumed the alien EMP weapon would fry the Stinger’s electronics before she even launched.

She swung to starboard, went too far, and nearly collided with an enemy ship. She overcorrected, went looping out into empty space, cursed, and steered back in. A ship came at her, she squeezed off a burst of laser fire, the ship twisted away, and she winced as her shot missed the Tomahawk by a hair.

Alien ships darted back and forth, quick as lightning, and she hesitated, afraid to plunge into that maelstrom. They were so fast! I can’t cope with this. I can’t!

Habits and training were already taking over, though. She watched a small ship race past and swung in behind it, her hands becoming more delicate on the controls, her feet barely touching the control pedals. Terror still filled her, but she drew on some deep reservoir of calm, the part of her that had learned to keep on thinking, keep on solving problems, no matter what the universe threw at her.

She came in behind the little alien, holding her fire until she was murderously close. She fired, watched her lasers splash a red glow across some kind of energy shield, and kept firing. After a moment the shield failed and her lasers sliced deeply into the craft.

An alarm blared, she felt heat against her right arm and leg, and she jerked the Stinger sideways, pulling into a tight corkscrew. She caught a quick glimpse of the ship that had been toasting her. It was a big one, three ships joined together to increase their firepower. She tapped her nose thruster to brake, watched the big alien fly past, and fired a quick burst from her rail gun. Three ships together would boost each other’s shields, making her lasers close to useless. They made a nice big target for kinetic weapons, though.

One ship broke away in time to survive. The other two absorbed a short, devastating volley. Her rounds punched through the skin of the ships and exploded inside, destroying one ship completely and sending the other spinning away, trailing smoke.

Baca went after the third ship, sliced the nose away with her lasers, then forgot all about it as ships closed in from every side. She fled for the Tomahawk, racing close along the hull and letting the corvette’s lasers tear into her pursuers.

For a moment there was clear space around her, and she braked, then looped around the corvette, looking for close targets. Manoeuvring thrusters glowed and the Tomahawk twisted and spun, changing directions with astonishing dexterity. Rail gun rounds sprayed from her nose in a glittering stream, and an alien ship drifted away, dead in space.

She didn’t see the cluster forming. Six or eight ships came together in a clump, looming suddenly huge in front of her as the Stinger arced once more around the Tomahawk. For an awful moment she thought the Stinger was the target. When the cluster rushed the Tomahawk she felt a flash of relief, followed quickly by shame. You’re supposed to be protecting the corvette, Nita. Do your job.

The Stinger raced forward, and she wasted precious seconds firing her lasers. Her fire had no effect on the cluster except to make a pretty light show. She could see hull plates on the Tomahawk glowing and peeling away, and she fired a quick burst from her rail gun. She didn’t have much ammunition – the rounds were massive enough to hamper the Stinger’s manoeuvrability – but she had a few good squirts.

Explosions tore apart a couple of ships on the near side of the cluster, and the Tomahawk spun in place, pointing its nose at the attacker. The cluster promptly broke apart, an instant before solid rail gun rounds shredded one ship in the middle. The survivors fled in different directions, and Baca scorched one with a laser before returning to the corvette.

After that she spent a couple of frustrating minutes chasing ships that wouldn’t engage her. They would dart in and zip away unscathed, encouraging Baca and the Tomahawk to waste fuel and ammunition trying to react. She managed a couple of glancing laser shots that lit up the alien shields but did no damage. Well, maybe we have them scared. We made them bleed, and they’re afraid to come together in clumps. We can’t hurt them, but they can’t hurt us, and that’s good enough for me.

Are they close to breaking? Maybe if we can do just a little more damage … Her thumb moved to the trigger for the rail gun. I’ve got a couple of hundred kilos of explosive rounds. I’ll be more manoeuvrable when they’re gone. If there’s nothing left to save them for …

She hesitated, and a moment later she was glad she had. Another clump was forming, more than a dozen ships coming together directly aft of the Tomahawk, and she licked her lips. I’ll empty the magazine into them, and finish off the survivors with lasers. They won’t even get close to the corvette.

“You’ve got bogeys coming together on your tail, Tomahawk,” she said. “I’m on it, though.” She pulled in close to the corvette and raced aft. The clump made a beautiful target, and she dove straight at it, firing.

But the clump seemed to disintegrate as she swept in. There were fewer ships than she’d thought, maybe nine at the most, and they popped apart into three smaller clumps. Her first salvo passed harmlessly through empty space as the three ships separated.

They didn’t flee. They rushed forward to meet the Stinger.

They were never all joined together. They were faking me out. What are they up to?

She had her answer a moment later as all three amalgamated ships converged on her. She fired another burst and thought she might have grazed one ship in the last instant before they reached her. Then she had ships all around her, three clusters of three, and the entire cockpit glowed red. She smelled burning protein, saw bits of singed hair drift past her eyes, and she twisted frantically on the controls, jerking the ship sideways in a desperate attempt to escape.

Alarms blared in her ears, mingling with the sound of her own voice screaming. Alarm messages filled her displays. She could see the planet directly ahead, and she jerked back on the control stick.

Nothing happened.

“Tomahawk. I’m in trouble.”

If anyone responded she didn’t hear it over the blare of the alarms. She silenced them one by one, then went to work testing her controls.

“I’ve lost all the manoeuvring thrusters in the nose,” she said, just in case someone was listening. The Tomahawk couldn’t do anything for her, but speaking to her friends eased the sense of terrified isolation that suddenly gripped her. “I’ve got at least one thruster left in the tail. I’m going to try to get the nose up, and then I’ll see if I can grab some altitude.”

Her displays flickered and flashed. Several screens died, and the control stick was suddenly stiff in her hands. Full manual. Finally, what I trained for. She pushed the stick left, which would have fired the thruster on the right side of the ship’s nose if it had still been working. It did fire the left-side tail thruster, and the ship rotated lazily to port.

“Okay, that’s one thruster working. So far, so good.” She shoved the stick to the right. There was nowhere near enough resistance, and she wasn’t surprised when the ship didn’t respond. “Tomahawk, it feels like most of my controls have torn loose.” She pushed forward on the stick. “I’m going to try a forward roll. With a bit of luck I’ll go all the way around and end up pointing straight up.”

The Stinger began to vibrate, and she thought for a moment it was the aft ventral thruster firing. The nose wasn’t going down, though. It rose instead, and she realized she was plunging into Naxos’s upper atmosphere.

Which was toxic, she recalled. She would have to find a way to either crash in the Green Crater or get back up to the Tomahawk. “Come on, baby. Come on, give me something.”

She could see the horizon straight ahead. If she could just get the nose to lift a bit, she could try the main engine. “Come on,” she repeated, and jiggled the control stick. Her fear was growing, threatening to overwhelm her. “Tomahawk, can you hear me?” She leaned forward and peered up through the cockpit window, hoping for a glimpse of the ship.

Instead she saw a cluster of three alien craft, directly above her and dropping fast. It grew until it filled her vision. She could see a black circle on the hull above her, staring down like a cold mechanical eye. Except it wasn’t cold. The last thing she saw was a red glow that enveloped the black circle in the instant before it fired.

Chapter 15 – Hammett

Combat was a whole different experience with a working computer.

Holographic projections hovered all around Hammett’s chair, showing him the entire field of battle. Kaur had a similar display at Operations. Enemy ships appeared in red, each with a tiny red number beside it. When ships merged the computer would select one number to display and hide the rest until the cluster broke apart again.

The Stinger had appeared in green. It was gone from the display now, a fact which Hammett ruthlessly pushed from his thoughts. There would be time for mourning later.

God willing, there would be time.

He wore a vac suit and helmet with the faceplate retracted. They all did. The helmet interfered with his peripheral vision, but to fly into combat without it, especially in a ship this small, would be foolhardy. The suits and helmets turned the bridge crew into anonymous, featureless shapes. He glanced at the back of Kaur’s helmet.

“Target Seven,” Hammett said. “Port side aft.”

The ship swung around, and he braced a foot against the deck, fighting the pull of centrifugal force. For a moment he glimpsed the ship in question as it flashed past the port window. It was a cluster of three or four ships, and it broke apart as the nose of the Tomahawk came around. A stream of rail gun rounds destroyed one ship and damaged another, but two more escaped. The aliens were learning, adapting, faster than he liked.

“Forward,” he said. “Into the midst of them.”

He felt the Tomahawk move, and an alien ship suddenly loomed huge in the starboard window. One of the Tomahawk’s powerful laser batteries sliced the alien neatly in two, and the haves tumbled away, then vanished as the Tomahawk twisted to meet a fresh threat.

“Forward port side,” Kaur said, and Hammett checked the holo display. A cluster of ships was forming, a big one this time. Enough to do the Tomahawk serious harm if they had time to come together and move in.

Enough to make an irresistible target.

He thought of the last moments of the Stinger. Was this a trap like the one that had killed his fighter pilot? He realized it didn’t matter. He had to stay aggressive, face every threat. He had to damage the Hive fleet while he had the chance.

“Let’s go get them.”

Kaur nodded, and the Tomahawk advanced.

The aliens retreated. Individual ships were much slower than the corvette, but twenty ships together, sharing power, generated enough thrust to stay ahead of the Tomahawk.

Hammett leaned forward in his chair, a fierce joy rising in him. We’ve got them! They’re running scared, and making mistakes. “Pursue,” he said. “Let’s not save ammunition.”

Kaur nodded, and a yellow circle appeared in both tactical displays, showing where rail gun rounds would strike. Hammett heard a muted hum as the guns opened up.

The bridge went dark, Hammett’s ears popped, and the faceplate on his helmet snapped down. The ship shivered around him, the arms of his chair vibrating under his fingers. A red warning light inside his helmet changed to green, indicating pressure on the bridge was restored, and he retracted the faceplate.

He smelled smoke, and an oily stink that told him one of the ship’s hydraulic systems had been breached. The holo display around him flickered, disappeared, then came back. He closed it and brought up a damage display instead. A projection of the Tomahawk appeared, with damaged areas outlined in red. Half a dozen dots represented minor damage they’d taken in the course of the fight. A wide red swath near the nose showed where an alien cluster had cut deeply into the hull several minutes before.

A fresh line of damage glowed on the starboard side just aft of the bridge. There was a scarlet trench burned into the side of the ship, running all the way from top to bottom. The main starboard engine was ruined, and the starboard rail gun was disabled. The port engine showed a flashing amber “DISABLED” label.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Hammett said.

Touhami, his voice shaking, said, “It came from the surface, Sir.” He worked his controls, and the projection of the Green Crater appeared. “It came from the middle of the city.”

“Let’s get over the horizon,” Hammett said. “Bring us about.” He brought up a tactical display. The Hive ships were keeping their distance, he saw. Are they giving the gun a clear field of fire? Or just waiting for us to be destroyed with no further risk to their ships?

A thruster fired in the nose of the Tomahawk and the ship began to swing, much slower than before. “We’ve got a lot of damage,” said Benson. “We might not be as manoeuvrable as we were.”

Well, there’s an understatement. Hammett waited impatiently as the ship swung ponderously around. He called the engine room. “Mr. Geibelhaus. What’s the status of the port engine?”

There was a long pause before the man’s voice, hoarse with strain, sounded in Hammett’s ears. “We’ve got casualties down here, Captain.”

Hammett winced, but he said, “Answer my question.”

Geibelhaus, sounding offended, said, “The starboard engine’s completely ruined, Sir.”

Don’t yell at him. He’s having the worst day of his life right now. Be gentle. “What about the port engine?”

“Let me see.” There was a long moment of silence. Then Geibelhaus said, “It’ll go, but I’ll have to fire it up from here.”

Relief washed over Hammett. We still have a chance, then. “Stand by, Geibelhaus. I’ll need thrust in a moment.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Hammett checked the navigation display. The ship was barely halfway through its rotation. It would be another fifteen seconds before they could retreat from the gun below. Why hasn’t it fired again? What are they waiting for? Do they need time to reload? If that gun could fire faster we’d be dead.

It might fire again at any second, he realized. A quick scan of the damage report showed him that the lateral thrusters were still functional. Useless for turning the ship, the twin thrusters, one on each side amidships, were used to shove the corvette sideways. “Give me a squirt on the starboard lateral thruster,” he said.

The ship trembled, he rocked in his chair, and a line of white light appeared through the starboard window. For an instant the bridge was bathed in a stark glow. Hammett blinked and saw a white line superimposed on his retina.

“Merciful Allah,” Touhami said. He swivelled around to stare at Hammett, his eyes huge. “How did you know?”

Hammett stared back at him. We dodged that shot. If I’d waited another second …

Kaur said, “Might I suggest a bit of thrust, Captain?”

Hammett glanced at the nav display. The nose of the ship was pointed due east, toward the closest horizon. He called the engine room. “Geibelhaus. Get us out of here.”

Hard acceleration pressed him back in his chair. Back and sideways, he realized. The ship, unbalanced by a crippled engine and without half its maneuvering thrusters, was flying in a ragged curve. “Cut thrust, Mr. Geibelhaus.”

The sound of coughing filled Hammett’s ears, and he looked around the bridge. No one seemed to be coughing. A moment later the mystery was solved when Geibelhaus, between coughs, said, “The bloody engine room is on fire.” He coughed some more. “We’re pulling out. We’ll go back in with fire-fighting equipment. I’ll try to get your engine back online as soon as I can, but it’ll take a while.” Geibelhaus cut the connection in mid-cough.

Hammett checked the nav display. The Green Crater was safely over the horizon. The ship was safe from that threat, unless the aliens had another gun. He switched to a tactical display and felt his stomach sink. The swarm of Hive ships was in motion. “They’re closing in,” he said. “Here we go again.”

“That’s not the only bad news,” Kaur said. “We’re in a roughly equatorial orbit. And guess which way we’re moving.”

Hammett looked at him, suddenly cold.

Kaur gave him a gallows grin. “In about ten minutes we’ll be in range of that gun again.”

Chapter 16 – Brennan

Captain Jean Brennan sat on the bridge of the corvette Achilles, quietly fretting. The screen to the left of her chair showed a 3D tactical view of the battle raging in orbit. The projection was pieced together from many sources, including passive scans from the Achilles and transmissions of live scan data from the Tomahawk. It showed the fury of the battle in a cold silence, as a collection of simple pixels which nevertheless stretched her nerves tight and made her stomach clench.

It showed her the Tomahawk’s fighter tumbling from the sky in pieces.

Every second she remained on the surface felt like a colossal mistake, a travesty, a grotesque act of cowardice. She yearned to launch the ship into the void and join the battle. She burned to give the order.

But she couldn’t do it, and the reason was on her right-hand screen. Six of her people were on the surface, and she had a grainy transmission from each of them laid out in a grid on her screen. They were well inside the city now, surrounded by courageous, determined colonists. They were depending on her to sweep in and rout the Hive troops holding the city.

She just wished they would get on with it.

One more image showed on the right-hand screen. A young man stared out at her. By the expression on his face he was trying to look solemn, but the corners of his mouth were curved up the tiniest bit. As they should be. It was his graduation photograph. He wore a specialist’s dress uniform for the first time. He’d just finished the most gruelling year of his life, and he was about to be sent into space.

His name was Hudson, and he was dead.

Every time she looked at him something seemed to tear inside her chest. She’d served with him for almost a year, and you couldn’t help being close to your crewmates on a ship as small as the Achilles. She’d never lost someone under her command before. Now six more members of her unofficial family were in mortal danger, and all she could do was sit here, four hundred kilometers away, and fret.

On her left-hand screen a swarm of pixelated blobs rushed toward the Tomahawk, coalesced at the last moment, and seemed to almost merge with the corvette. The Hive weapons would be doing terrible damage to the Tomahawk, she knew, and she cringed as she watched.

The alien ship broke apart, and her heart surged as she imagined it exploding. It was just separating into component ships, though, making a poorer target as it retreated. Brennan’s hands clenched into fists as she watched, powerless to help.

“Celeste,” she said, and the sailor at the navigation station turned. “When the time comes, I want to sweep in fast, blast that tower, put a few shots into any enemy troops we see, and then get us upstairs as quickly as possible. That’s our battle.” She jerked a thumb at the ceiling of the bridge. “Not down here.”

Celeste nodded. “I’ll be ready, Ma’am.”

The icon that represented the Tomahawk suddenly tilted, and a red circle appeared around it. Brennan leaned forward in her chair, her throat constricting. “What just happened?”

“They took a major hit,” said Samson at Tactical. “I don’t know where it came from, though.”

None of the blips marking alien ships were close enough to use their heat weapon. They were moving in now, though. Brennan stared, horrified, at her readout. The Tomahawk had just taken a crippling hit. Her engines were dead, and the Hive ships were swarming in.

Her eyes flicked to the other display. She saw walls, streets, rooftops, crouching colonists with disassembled laser drills. The ground team was still infiltrating the city.

They didn’t need her. Not quite yet. The Tomahawk, though …

“Celeste. Get us upstairs. Now!”

Brennan’s seat pressed against her as the ship accelerated straight up.

“We’re helping the Tomahawk. Take us into the middle of that cluster of alien ships.” She turned to the Communications station. “Hopkins. Tell Nicholson to abort. We can’t help him.”

Hopkins gulped, then turned to his console.

Brennan watched the sky turn black and fill with stars. “Hang on, Hammett. We’re coming.” She kept her gaze away from her right-hand screen. She couldn’t think about Nicholson and his team, and all those courageous colonists fighting alongside him. Would they be able to exfiltrate safely?

It’s out of my hands now. Good luck, Derek.

I hope I’m doing the right thing.

Chapter 17 – Nicholson

Nicholson crept through a narrow gap between buildings, his hands sweaty on his rifle. A colonist named Betty, a girl who didn’t look a day over fifteen, was pressed up behind him with a hand against his back. She was his guide, but she was happy to let him go first.

A dozen more colonists crowded the alley behind him. They were armed with a bizarre collection of weapons, mostly spears but also some kitchen knives, pruning tools, and an axe. A couple of burly men lugged an industrial laser, and a woman followed them with a tripod slung across her back.

Four other teams were converging on the square near the centre of Harlequin, each one coming in from a different direction. So far, none of them had been spotted. As far as Nicholson knew, no one had seen a single alien, either.

Harlequin was deserted. It felt strange to be surrounded by buildings on all sides and to hear nothing but the wind and the footsteps of his companions. He wasn’t sure why the aliens had bothered to occupy the city. Surely they could have built their mystery tower anywhere, and the human structures all around had to be as irrelevant to the aliens as anthills were to a man.

He shrugged mentally and added it to the list of puzzles he had no answer to.

The sky was a strip of soft blue above him, closer to lavender than the skies of Earth. He glanced upward, wondering how the space battle was going. It doesn’t matter. It’s a distraction for the aliens, and that’s all. Focus.

A soft scraping sound reached his ears, as intrusive as a siren in this quiet place. Nicholson froze, then made himself creep forward. He reached the corner of the building and peeked out, just in time to see an alien round the corner of another building and vanish.

He blinked, trying to piece together what he’s seen. The Achilles’s computers would have a record, of course, taken by his implants and broadcast to the ship. Digital records were fragile, though, when you faced an enemy that used EMP weapons.

He’d seen pictures of the alien boarding party killed on the Alexander, and he’d seen them live during the battle at the pumping station. This alien had been superficially similar, with the same hinged torso and six limbs. There’d been something different, though, and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember.

There was no glint of metal. He opened his eyes, smiling. This alien, unlike the others, was not encased in steel. Those had been commandos. This was a worker, a drone, a random citizen, or something so strange he didn’t have a word for it.

But whatever it was, it would be vulnerable to weapons fire. Hell, the guy with the axe might even be able to kill it.

Nothing moved in the street. He counted slowly to a hundred, eyes and ears straining. Then he gestured to the people behind him and hurried across the street, heading for another gap between buildings.

Betty tugged on his sleeve, however, and he changed direction. She pushed him toward a broad wooden door in a tall stone structure. The door swung open when he pushed on it, and he stepped inside, scanning the shadowy room inside. He saw no movement, and he stepped aside to let the others in.

Betty closed the door, then whispered, “The church is never locked.”

“Church?” He looked around, examining the space with something other than tactics in mind. It was a long room with a double row of wooden benches facing the far end. Pews? Was that what they were called? He saw a lectern at the front and an altar with a massive wooden cross above it.

The room was dim but not completely dark, and he lifted his gaze to look for the source of light. And gasped. Sunlight shone through eight exquisitely crafted panels of stained glass. He saw angels and lambs and bearded men in bright robes, all of them lit with an unworldly glow.

“Come on,” said Betty. “There’s a back door.”

Something about this quiet space made him want to linger. It seemed like a good place to think about the ramifications of what he was doing, the people he’d lost, the people he might yet lose. But there was simply no time for anything so abstract. He nodded and hurried after the girl.

They spilled into a broad alley. Betty led them past several buildings, then up a broad staircase. They passed a second-floor restaurant of some sort with an open-air patio. A few chairs were overturned, and Nicholson saw plates of rotten food.

She stopped beside a wall at the back of the patio and looked at Nicholson. “I need a boost.”

He looked up. A ladder was mounted to the wall, just out of reach. A fire escape, he supposed. He laced his fingers together, she stepped into his hands and put a hand on his shoulder, and he lifted her up. Metal creaked and rattled, the weight on his hands decreased, and he lowered her to the floor.

She brought the ladder down with her. “Come on. We’ll have a view of the plaza from up top.”

She climbed, and Nicholson followed. He crawled across the rooftop, hearing the scrape of his armor on aluminum roof tiles and the creak of metal as the others climbed up behind him. The roof was flat and featureless, a metal surface that sagged a bit under his weight. When he was close to the edge he lowered himself to his stomach and wriggled forward.

The first thing he saw was the alien structure. To him it looked nothing like a tower. It looked more like a pile of junk, the top not much lower than his third-story vantage point. There were almost no flat surfaces on the building, if building it was. It was more like a vast collection of unmatched components, all stuck together in a heap about twice as high as it was wide. A chimney of some sort poked straight up from the top of the structure, reminding him uncomfortably of a gun barrel.

He could see three of the power boxes Ron had described. They were lumpy heaps, dwarfed by the structure they surrounded. Only the fat cables snaking across the ground gave a hint as to their purpose.

He thought the plaza might have been quite a nice place before it was taken over. In the center was a fountain surrounded by stone benches. Half the fountain was destroyed, filled by the alien structure. Several shade trees had been cut down, the scorched trunks dragged off to one side. He analysed them as potential cover, then continued his survey.

He saw no aliens. There were other signs of alien technology here and there, car-sized objects that might have been ships or ground vehicles or shelters or just about anything. Everything the aliens built seemed to be lumpy, strange, inconsistent. Well, I don’t have to understand it. I just have to burn it down.

He spotted movement on the far side of the plaza, and reached for his binoc. He zoomed in and saw a couple of human faces in the window of a bar across the street. It was Specialist Karen Stark and a bearded colonist.

Nicholson keyed his implants and whispered, “Alpha Team is in position.”

“Beta Team is ready,” Stark said.

“This is Gamma,” said Parrish. “We’re about a block away. We’re just jimmying a door.”

Before the last team could check in, another voice interrupted. It sounded like Hopkins from the bridge crew. “Nicholson. Pull out. We’re heading upstairs to support the Tomahawk.”

Nicholson bit back a curse. “We’re about to start the attack!”

“Sorry,” said Hopkins, and broke the connection.

Nicholson turned to Betty, stretched on the roof beside him. “I need you to guide us back out,” he said wearily. “The fight is cancelled.”

She looked at him, her face strangely pale. She opened her mouth, but she didn’t speak. Wider and wider her mouth opened, and then blood poured over her chin. Someone screamed, metal crackled, and then a hole opened in the roof beneath the girl. Nicholson could smell burning metal, burning flesh, and he scrambled backward, reaching for his rifle, as Betty dropped from sight.

Aliens boiled up from the hole, and he screamed, “Hopkins! We need you down here!”

There was no answer. Nicholson forgot about the ship as he swung his rifle up and opened fire.

Chapter 18 – Nicholson

The rooftop battle was brief, bloody, and one-sided. In moments half the colonists were gone, torn apart by the aliens or dragged down through the hole in the roof. The rest retreated to the edge by the ladder. Some scrambled or slid down the ladder. Others jumped to the patio level below. Nicholson went last, spraying blast shots, covering the retreat as best he could.

The attackers seemed to be a mix of what he called commandos, aliens with steel-clad limbs who deflected most of the shots that came at them, and those he called regular citizens. The regular citizens had some kind of black shell on their limbs, still hard enough to let them pierce human bodies and tear them apart. The shells were vulnerable to blast fire, though, and blew apart in a satisfying way as he hosed them with blast shots.

When the magazine clicked empty he stepped backward, letting go of the rifle with one hand and catching the edge of the rooftop as he fell past it. He felt a yank against his fingers and a moment of pain in his wrist, elbow and shoulder. He’d forgotten his chest injury. He remembered it now as the muscles of his chest sent him a pulse of white-hot pain. His body swung forward, his knees banged into the wall, and he let go. He landed, feeling fresh jabs of pain in his ankles, and reloaded as he scrambled back through the tables and chairs.

The aliens on the roof above him retreated. They apparently weren’t good jumpers, a fact he filed away for future reference. More aliens were swarming out through the restaurant doors, though.

He fired a burst, watched sparks fly as a couple of commandos deflected his shots, and swore as he turned and ran. He’d killed most of the regular citizens, he realized. Only the commandos remained, which meant he had a problem.

Steel-clad legs clattered on the tiles behind him as he fled for the stairs to the street. He paused halfway down, bringing the rifle to his shoulder.

“For Christ’s sake, get out of the way!”

He reacted without thought, diving over the railing beside him. He landed hard on one shoulder, rolled, and came up on one knee.

Beckett and Jackson, a burly pair of colonists who’d been lugging the industrial laser, had the weapon pointed up the staircase. They fired, roasting the flood of alien commandos pouring down the steps. The big laser was absolutely devastating at close range, and Nicholson flinched as a couple of legs tumbled onto his shoulders and bounced away. Hot metal touched the back of his hand and left a crescent-shaped burn that made him yelp.

The woman with the tripod was nowhere to be seen. Beckett worked the controls of the laser. Jackson stood in front of him, the barrel of the laser on his shoulder, one arm up to keep the weapon from falling. He aimed the laser by shifting left and right, bending and straightening his legs to move the beam up and down.

It was over in moments, the aliens sliced apart before they had time to retreat, or even slow down. Nicholson wasn’t sure how many of them died, but the steps were wet with gore and blocked by a jumble of body parts by the time Beckett lifted his finger from the trigger. There was a moment of silence as they all looked at one another. There were five of them, Nicholson and the two men with the laser, a thick-shouldered woman without a weapon, and a man named Enright who carried an axe. Nicholson was pretty sure several more colonists had fled. The rest were dead.

“Thanks,” Nicholson said at last. “Good job.”

Jackson looked at Nicholson, his eyes too wide in a bloodless face. “What now?”

Nicholson hesitated. The truth was, retreat was as dangerous as any other option. “We came all this way,” he said. “Let’s take a shot at that tower.”

Four sets of eyes bored into him, and he was sure they would refuse. But Beckett nodded and lifted his end of the laser onto his shoulder. Enright hefted the axe and said, “All right. Let’s do it.”

Nicholson led them around the building. He was no longer getting a signal from the other teams. He didn’t know if they were dead, silenced by an EMP strike, or blocked by some alien technology. If any of them lived, he might take some pressure off them by striking at the tower.

He reached the front of the building and scanned the street, then the plaza. He could hear the distant pop of blast shots from across the park, and a scream that sounded more angry than pained. “Give ‘em hell, Stark,” he muttered, then moved to one side to give the laser team room to work.

The two men resumed their earlier positions, Beckett at the trigger, Jackson with a shoulder under the barrel. The laser fired, and a bright spot appeared on the side of the alien machine.

Except the point of light seemed to sparkle a handspan from the lumpy metal of the structure. Nicholson cursed. “There’s some kind of shield.” He looked at Beckett. “Keep firing. Maybe we can overwhelm it.”

“Something’s happening,” said the woman, and pointed toward the plaza.

Nicholson turned to look, swinging his rifle up. He fully expected to see a squad of alien commandos coming toward them, but nothing moved around the base of the structure.

His gaze rose. A red glow bathed the chimney at the top of the structure. Then, abruptly, a flash of white light appeared at the top of the chimney, arcing up into the sky. It was gone in an instant, like a bolt of lightning. He could see the line burned into his retinas, slowly fading, when he blinked.

“That’s not good,” the woman said. “I think they’re shooting at your ships up in space.”

Chapter 19 – Carruthers

The relief fleet floated in space, a couple of hundred kilometers from Gate Three. Strictly speaking the ships were in orbit around the distant sun, but Carruthers would be a very old man before they made a full circumnavigation. For all practical purposes, the little fleet was motionless.

Carruthers could see the Indefatigable in front of him, along with several other ships. He was in a meeting room on the Marlborough, a freshly refitted troopship. The ship carried medical personnel, a handful of scientists, several Gate technicians, and a hundred marines from the newly reinstated Marine Corps. The big ship was less than half full. The extra space would be used to evacuate civilians from Naxos, if it was possible.

There were nine ships in total. The Indefatigable was one of six corvettes. Along with the Marlborough there was a supply and hospital ship and a Jumper, a ship designed to generate wormholes. A Jumper could travel fifty percent farther than a corvette with each jump, and the wormhole would last long enough for the entire fleet to go through. It would speed up the journey substantially.

Reflected in the window he could see eight other captains gathered around a table behind him. They had been discussing training options, trying to figure out what manoeuvres they could do without straying too far from the Gate. They wanted to be ready to dart through at a moment’s notice if the Gate went live.

Now, though, the formal part of the meeting was over. It was a social gathering, and Carruthers, a captain for less than three weeks, was distinctly uncomfortable. The rest of them were experienced ship’s commanders, and he didn’t feel as if he belonged.

A chime sounded behind him, and Captain Jamison, commander of the Marlborough, said, “Robert. We were just talking about you. Nothing especially bad, I promise.”

A voice spoke from the speaker in the holo-projector embedded in the table. “I’ve just been in an interesting meeting.”

Something in the tone of his voice made Carruthers turn. The head and shoulders of a man in his fifties hovered above the table. Carruthers had met Robert Molson several times. The man had always been smiling. Even interstellar war hadn’t dampened his innate cheerfulness.

Now, however, his face was bleak.

Carruthers walked over to join the others around the table. Molson was back at Spacecom headquarters. He commanded the Hannibal, a cruiser even older than the Alexander. The Hannibal was just finishing its refit. It would be the gem of the relief fleet.

“I no longer command the Hannibal.” Molson’s voice was flat, emotionless. “I’ll still be onboard. I’ll be the First Officer.”

Jamison said, “What the hell? Who are they putting in command?”

“Her name is Erin Laycraft.”

The captains looked at each other, mystified. Jamison said, “I don’t recognize the name.”

“She’s a colonel in the EDF.”

Carruthers felt his jaw drop.

“The EDF?” Jamison’s voice rose with every letter. “Does she have any military experience?”

For just a moment a ghost of Molson’s smile returned. “She’s never actually been in space.”

Carruthers could see his own shock mirrored in the faces around him. No one spoke.

Molson said carefully, “The new civilian government has decided that the fleet need supervision by an organization they can trust.” He paused for a moment, then added, “I’m sure they’re making the right decision.”

That was so obviously a lie that shock started to give way to alarm on the faces of the captains. Finally Jamison said, “I’m … sure you’re right.” Only his voice was being transmitted, not his face, so he didn’t hide an expression of disgust.

“I’m glad you agree,” Molson said. “Each of you is going to have an EDF officer commanding your ship.” He cleared his throat. “I just thought you should know.”

After several seconds of strangled silence Jamison managed to say, “That’s good news. Thanks for telling us.”

Molson gave a single curt nod and broke the connection.

Carruthers watched as Jamison tilted his head and made several gestures in the air, accessing his implants. He was probably double-checking the connection was closed. Then he said, “Well, shit.”

There was a babble of voices as all the captains tried to speak at once.

Carruthers stood silent, letting the torrent of words wash over him. They were outraged, and they were disturbed that Molson obviously believed the EDF was eavesdropping. Ultimately, though, their ire spent itself and their decades of experience in a military hierarchy began to reassert itself. All of them had sworn oaths. They respected the chain of command. However much they didn’t like it, they knew what they had to do.

“Well, it stinks,” Jamison said. “But I guess we’ll just have to accept it.”

“Like hell.”

Eight pairs of eyes swivelled to look at Carruthers, and he gulped. Oh, to hell with it. I’ve faced worse than this. “Forget it,” he said. “I’ll destroy the Indefatigable before I’ll turn it over to the EDF.” The words shocked him as he spoke them, but he realized he meant it. Every word.

“Now, Jim,” said Jamison.

“No,” said Carruthers. A lot of half-formed thoughts were solidifying in his mind. He didn’t think about politics much. The big picture was for people far above his station. He’d always served under officers he could trust. He’d left the tough decisions to them.

Not today.

“We can’t do it,” he said. “We can’t hand over an entire fleet to a legion of morons and thugs.”

Reynolds of the corvette Epée said, “Carruthers, the chain of command is-”

“The chain of command is broken,” Carruthers said. “We have deadly weapons on those ships. We have nuclear missiles, for God’s sake. You don’t just give control of that sort of thing to …” He fell silent, searching for the right word.

The others started talking over one another, and at first he let them. Then he raised his hand. The other captains fell silent and he said, “You don’t give a loaded gun to the schoolyard bully. Even if he demands it. And you don’t give warships to fascists.”

Jamison said, “That’s not a decision we’re allowed to make.”

“Doing as we’re told is making a decision,” Carruthers snapped. “I’ve got a reporter hiding on my ship.” He hadn’t meant to admit it, not until they were through the Gate. “She’s hiding from the EDF. Because she reported EDF brutality. They want to arrest her for it. For speaking the truth.” He let that sink in. Freedom of the press was one of the most fundamental principles of the interplanetary republic. “A reporter, for God’s sake.”

They stared at him, then looked at one another. Nobody spoke.

“What will the EDF do with armed warships?” he said. “Suppose France declares they’re giving sanctuary to journalists. Suppose Mexico announces the EDF is no longer welcome within its borders. Suppose the BBC starts broadcasting exposés of the EDF, and the British government refuses to let the EDF shut it down. What do you think will happen then?” He looked from one captain to another. “If someone is going to launch nuclear missiles at Earth’s cities, it’s not going to be from the Indefatigable.”

“You’re overreacting,” said Reynolds. “They’d never do that. It’s-”

“What?” said Carruthers. “Unthinkable? Ten minutes ago, you would have said putting a cruiser under the command of a civilian who’s never been in space was unthinkable.” He shook his head. “We’re at war, the entire human race is at risk, and they’re replacing our best captains with civilians whose only qualification is that they support the President. What do you call that, if not unthinkable?”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally Jean Harrington, captain of the Jumper, said, “Did they really try to arrest a reporter?”

“Yes,” Carruthers snapped. “Janice Ling, the lady who was on the Alexander.”

That set off an angry muttering. Many of the captains had heard of Janice and how she had organized the civilian passengers into an auxiliary corps.

“I understand how you feel,” Jamison said. “I think I even agree. But what can we do?” He shrugged. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to destroy the Marlborough. They’re going to need her in Naxos.”

The others nodded, frowning. “He’s right,” Harrington said. “What can we do?”

“We can leave now,” Carruthers said.

There was a shocked silence.

Jamison said, “The Gate’s not online.”

“We won’t wait for the Gate. We’ll jump. We can reach Naxos in a week.”

They stared at him. He could see them analyzing the idea, weighing the consequences. Jamison said, “What happens when the Gate opens? The attack fleet is counting on us coming through.”

“They’ll get the Hannibal, and any other ships that are ready in time. And a week from now, they’ll get our nine ships. By which time they might desperately need a bunch of warships that don’t answer to the EDF.”

More silence. Then someone said, “They’ll hang us.”

Carruthers gave them a gallows grin. “We’re tackling the Hive in a system where they’ve had time to dig in. If we live long enough to hang, it’ll be a bloody miracle.”

They looked at one another, doubt plain on their faces. I’m losing them, Carruthers thought. They won’t go for it. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe we—

Eight people simultaneously tilted their heads, clearly reacting to a message from their implants. At the same instant, the data pad in Carruthers’ pocket gave a low chime. He took out the pad and read the message it displayed.

Return immediately to Port Kodiak to take on essential personnel.

Reynolds said, “We can’t all go. It’s almost thirty minutes at top speed. We’ll be off-station for an hour. What if the Gate opens?”

Jamison said, “I guess Hammett will just have to wait.” He shook his head. “I guess this is what leadership will be like under the EDF.” He looked at the other captains, his gaze going from face to face, pausing a moment to stare into each set of eyes. “I’m convinced,” he said at last. “Carruthers is right. We need to go, and we need to go right now.”

“We can’t,” said Reynolds. “It’s treason.”

“My vow was to defend the republic,” Carruthers said. “I can best do that by flying to Naxos and fighting the Hive. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

Several captains nodded.

“I can’t make you go,” Jamison said. “I’m going, though.” He turned to Harrington. “You’re the only one whose cooperation we really need. Will you open us a wormhole?”

“I’m on it,” she said, and headed for the exit. “See you on the other side, whoever decides to come.”

“We’re fresh out of time for debate,” Jamison said. “Return to your ships. Then follow your orders, or follow me through the wormhole. I’ll see some of you on the other side.”

Carruthers nodded and hurried after Harrington. He heard footsteps behind him, the rest of the captains heading for the shuttle bay. He didn’t bother looking back. He’d thrown the dice, and all he could do was follow through. What happened next was out of his hands.

As the Indefatigable’s shuttle left the bay he glanced at the Gate, a speck of light off to his left through the shuttle’s front window. “Hang in there, Richard,” he murmured. “I’m coming.” He glanced back in the direction of Earth, the Hannibal, and the growing power of the EDF. “You might not want to fix that Gate in too much of a hurry, though.”

Chapter 20 – Nicholson

The next attack came from behind.

One moment Nicholson was staring up at the structure in the middle of the plaza, watching in frustration as the laser drill did nothing but stir up pretty sparks on the shield. The next moment the laser jerked sideways, slicing a couple of shade trees in half and burning into the side of a building on the far side of the park. Beckett screamed, and Nicholson turned, battle fury throwing a red haze over his vision.

There were six aliens, two of them mounted with some kind of hardware, a collection of tubes and blobby canisters strapped to their torsos with metal rods extending along their forward limbs. Nicholson understood instinctively that these were weapons, and he focused his fire on those two aliens. One alien blew apart in a spray of untidy chunks. The other took a bullet and jerked sideways, and the wall beside it glowed red, then smoldered.

The woman beside Nicholson died screaming, pierced and pulled apart by an alien that fell under a barrage of Nicholson’s shots a moment later. The laser lay on the ground, Beckett curled in a ball beside it. Jackson was at the trigger now. The laser was too heavy to lift, so he twisted the weapon from side to side as he fired, laying a scorching line of fire through the air at ankle height. Aliens fell, the tips of their legs sliced away, then scrambled back on bleeding stumps, frantic to escape.

When Jackson let go of the trigger Enright darted in, burying the head of his axe in the torso of a retreating alien. Nicholson circled around the laser, careful not to move in front of the muzzle, and put a finishing shot into the wounded alien with the weapon rig. Then he said, “They know where we are.”

Jackson nodded, then moved to Beckett. “Help me with him.”

Together they hoisted Beckett to his feet. He had a bad burn all down his left side, and he moaned as they straightened him. He was able to shuffle along with the others supporting him, Enright bringing up the rear. They abandoned the laser on the sidewalk.

They crossed the street and moved into the plaza. It felt foolhardy to move into the heart of the alien occupation, but there were no actual aliens in the little park, and Nicholson nursed a faint hope of linking up with Stark and combining forces. He needed help with Beckett. He needed help getting away.

Beckett was moaning with every breath by the time they finished crossing the street. Nicholson headed for the nearest fountain, empty now, and the three of them clambered over the side. They laid the injured man down on the tiles inside, and the rest of them crouched down beside him. The fountain’s knee-high stone walls made a comforting barrier around them, and they paused, catching their breath.

There were no more sounds of battle from the direction of Stark’s team, no sounds at all except the pained rasp of four men breathing. Nicholson felt exhausted, spent, wrung out by stress and horror. He wanted to abandon the shattered remains of his team. He wanted to throw down his rifle and run for his life, but he didn’t have the strength.

“There it goes again,” Enright said, and pointed.

Nicholson turned in time to see another white flash burst from the top of the alien structure. Oh, God, they’re destroying my ship. It’s my last hope of rescue and they’re shooting it out of the sky. This is a disaster. I’m going to die here. Why doesn’t somebody do something?

Because there’s only one soldier anywhere close to that weapon, and it’s me.

His terror didn’t exactly fade, but it shifted into the background of his thoughts, like sitting in a room that was chilly but not quite cold enough to make you shiver. You could ignore it, if you concentrated. He checked the clip in his rifle, counted his remaining magazines, and took a deep breath. “Wait for your chance,” he said, “and sneak out of here. You’re on your own, I’m afraid.” He looked at each of them in turn. “You fought well today. All you can do now is try to escape.”

Beckett said, “Where are you going?”

“I’m going after that tower.”

“The shield! If the laser couldn’t touch it, what can you do with that little pop-gun?”

Nicholson shrugged. “I have to try.”

Beckett lapsed into silence, his strength apparently exhausted. Jackson, face haggard, said, “Good luck.”

Nicholson nodded, took a moment to psyche himself up, then hopped over the side of the fountain and started to run.

He reached the nearest power box, dropped to one knee beside it, and fired a burst at the side of the big structure.

Nothing.

He switched his aim to the power box and fired a burst into the box at point-blank range. He made three scorch marks in the casing. At least it wasn’t shielded, but he’d done no actual harm. He examined the box, looking for a vulnerable spot. A blue blob near the top pulsed as he looked at it. He thought it might be made of glass. “Worth a shot,” he muttered, and brought up the rifle.

He never had a chance to fire. A pair of aliens came around the tower, one from each side, skittering toward him on their too-thin legs. Sunlight glittered on the steel encasing their limbs. They moved with terrifying speed, and he held the trigger down, spraying shots at the one on the left. Sparks flew as it brought up its arms, still running at him. Then a lucky shot made it through and the creature fell sprawling.

Nicholson swung the rifle right. The second commando was almost on top of him. He fired one frantic burst, saw two limbs spasm, and then the magazine hit empty. He lunged to his feet, bringing the rifle up, and lashed out with the stock of the gun as the alien reached him.

A limb slammed into his chest, close enough to his earlier wound that he felt agony lash through him. The steel point tore a furrow in his body armor, and he screamed, hammering with the butt of his rifle. He couldn’t reach the thing’s torso, so he bashed at the steel arms. The arm on the left wasn’t working properly, twitching against the ground as the alien tried to raise it. The arm on the right worked fine, though, and the point came up to touch his chest again. The creature pressed, and Nicholson fell back, losing his grip on the rifle.

He grabbed the point at the end of the arm in both hands. It was like grabbing a cargo mover. The alien was incredibly strong, more than strong enough to impale him. He heaved on the limb, tried to push it away from his chest, tried to shove it sideways.

Nothing.

The limb pushed down, pressing him back until his shoulders were against the ground. Then the alien shifted, putting its whole body above him, and started to press down in earnest.

Nicholson looked past the limb to the creature’s torso, a faceless lump of brown flesh. He couldn’t even look into its eyes as it killed him. If it had eyes he couldn’t see them.

Something moved above the torso. Sunlight glittered for an instant on steel, and then Nicholson heard a wet thump. It made him think of a watermelon falling on concrete, and the effect on the alien was instantaneous. The creature thrashed, the arm on Nicholson’s chest scraping sideways across his armor, tearing a shallow gash in his right bicep, and then burying itself in the grass beside him.

He squirmed sideways, wriggling between a couple of steel legs, then reached back and snagged his rifle. He wormed his way out from under the creature, grunting as a flailing leg battered him, then stumbled to his feet. He changed magazines with trembling fingers, lifted the rifle, and put three careful rounds into that ugly brown body. Then he stood and stared at the creature until it stopped moving.

The handle of an axe protruded from the back of the alien’s torso. The axe head was invisible, completely buried in alien flesh. Enright gave Nicholson a weak grin and said, “I don’t think I want my axe back.”

“I do,” said Nicholson. “I’ve got an idea.” He walked around the alien and shoved his rifle into Enright’s hands. “Hold this.”

He had to brace a foot against the creature’s body and wiggle the axe handle back and forth several times before he was able to pull it free. The axe head was covered in purplish blood, thick and ropy. Nicholson gave the axe a shake in a hopeless attempt to clean it, then walked back to the power box. He stood in front of the cable that led to the tower, lifted the axe high, and brought it slashing down.

There was a spark so bright it left a white smear across his vision. The axe handle jerked once against his hands. He smelled ozone and burned flesh, and he looked himself over for fresh burns. The smell was coming from the axe head, though. The alien blood was gone, replaced by black flakes that broke away as he pulled the axe free.

“It’s happening again,” Enright said, and pointed upward.

Nicholson didn’t bother looking. He just jumped over the damaged cable and ran for the next power box.

This time he closed his eyes in the last instant before the axe struck. The spark was plainly visible through his eyelids, and smaller sparks kept jumping in the cut after he pulled the axe free. He gave it another chop, just in case.

“I think that did the trick,” Enright said, and Nicholson glanced up. Instead of a white flash, streams of sparks were erupting from the gun barrel at the top of the tower.

“Let’s make sure,” he said, and continued around the tower.

Enright said, “Do you hear that?”

Nicholson paused. He heard clicking noises, lots of them, distant but coming closer. “Aw, hell.” He glanced at Enright. “Get out of here. I’m going to keep cutting.” He ran to the next cable, planted his feet, and swung.

As he pulled the axe free he saw the first of the aliens swarming across a side street and entering the park. There had to be at least a dozen, and he felt a cold chill wash across his skin. Well, no one lives forever. This will be a pretty good death.

A different clicking sound made him turn. Enright stood beside him, rifle at his shoulder, helplessly pulling the trigger.

“It’s locked to my handprint,” Nicholson said. “Here.” He traded weapons with Enright. “Now run.”

Enright didn’t answer, just hefted the axe and waited.

Nicholson lifted the rifle and took aim at the lead alien.

The alien was running on all six limbs. As Nicholson raised the rifle it brought up its front two limbs protectively. He touched the trigger and the arms came apart, the tips falling away to bounce on the grass. A moment later the alien’s body broke into chunks, sliced in half horizontally. Three more aliens flew to pieces before the rest of them saw the danger. They stopped, and one more alien fell, front limbs severed.

A moment later full-blown panic took the survivors. They fled, scrambling over each other in their haste. Nicholson watched them go, his finger still on the trigger. He hadn’t fired a shot.

Enright cackled, slapped Nicholson on the shoulder, and pointed.

The industrial laser lay on the wall of the fountain where Nicholson had left Jackson and Bennett. Jackson sat on the ground behind the laser, hands on the controls. He gave them a jaunty wave.

Nicholson waved back, then trotted quickly around the tower, putting a few shots into each of the remaining cables. Then he walked to the fountain.

“If you two can help Beckett,” Jackson said, “I’m going to bring the laser. It’s handy.”

“It is,” Nicholson said, and slung his rifle across his back. “Let’s go.”

For those of you who are still listening, thank you for your stubborn persistence, and I promise not to play any more electro-funk for at least a couple of days. Maybe longer. This is Sharon Crowfoot, bringing you some of the worst music ever recorded, to help you realize that the deprivations of invasion aren’t really all that bad.

I have it on good authority that the city of Harlequin has been liberated. I repeat, Spacecom troops have landed and recaptured the city. If any aliens remain they’re running for the hills, so those of you who are hiding in the hills had better keep your eyes open.

It remains to be seen if we’ll need someone to liberate us from all these soldiers, but that’s a conversation for another day.

You might not want to rush back to the city quite yet. Just keep tuning in, and I’ll tell you when the lights are on and the toilets are flushing properly. In the meantime, enjoy a nice vacation in the countryside.

Now, to celebrate this triumph of human achievement, I’m going to play one of the most glorious achievements in the history of the human race. It’s Beethoven’s Fifth, as performed by the Mars Symphony Orchestra. Sit back and enjoy, and let’s never speak of that unfortunate electro-funk incident again.

Chapter 21 – Hammett

The alien swarm, already badly shot up by the Tomahawk, quickly broke and fled when the Achilles arrived. A couple more small alien ships went tumbling planetward to burn up in the atmosphere of Ariadne as the rest raced away.

Hammett looked out through the starboard window at the comforting sight of the Achilles, without so much as a scratch, floating in the void a couple of dozen meters away. He could see into her bridge. The vac-suited figure in the captain’s chair turned toward him, and he heard Brennan’s voice over his suit radio. “Captain Hammett. What’s your status?”

“A good deal better than it was ten minutes ago,” he said. “Thanks for the save.” He closed the tactical display and brought up a damage report. “We have no engines. All the fires are out. Multiple hull breaches, but the force fields are holding. One dead and one injured in Engineering.” He closed his eyes for a moment. Losing people never got easier. “We’re crippled, but we’re in a stable orbit. Our biggest concern is that gun on the surface.”

“Hang on a moment,” she said. “Let me talk to my people groundside. I’ll patch you in.” She paused. “Never mind. You don’t have working implants, do you?”

“No.”

She muttered something under her breath. It might have been, “How do you cope?” Then she said “Hang on” again and broke the connection.

Brennan was back online in a couple of minutes. “One of my teams disabled the weapon,” she said. “Another team has moved in and is securing the area. Enemy ground forces seem to be retreating from the city center.”

Hammett said, “They might come back. I suspect I’ll be in orbit for quite a while.”

He saw her nod in the distance. “I’m going to have Parrish wire it with explosives. He won’t blow it unless he’s in danger of being overrun.” She grunted. “My science team wants some intact Hive tech to tinker with.” The Achilles was carrying a couple of scientists, a man and woman who called themselves ‘Xeno-technical Engineers’. Their brand-new specialty was analyzing and understanding Hive technology.

“Good enough,” said Hammett. “Just so long as it can’t fire at us.”

A buzzer sounded on his console. He looked down, and Brennan said, “Uh-oh.”

“I see what you mean,” Hammett said.

He had a priority message from the Achilles. The corvette’s scanners had detected the inevitable Hive reinforcements. They weren’t heading for Naxos, though.

They were heading for the Bayonet, and the brand-new Gate.

“I just see a blip,” Brennan said. “How do we know how big it is?”

“We don’t,” said Hammett. “And it doesn’t matter. The Gate needs time to connect to Earth. We need to give it to them.” He looked around at his ruined ship. “You need to give it to them,” he amended.

“You have no way to get to the surface,” Brennan said.

“Then you better come back and get me. As soon as the Gate opens.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Are you sure you’re okay for a few hours?”

“I’m fine.”

“All right.” She paused again. “I’m short-handed. If they hit us with an EMP I’ll need one more on the bridge.”

“I’ll go,” Kaur said, rising from her seat.

Hammett nodded, then waited as the two ships docked. They separated again a moment later, and Brennan said, “Good luck, Captain.”

“And to you, Captain.”

The faint hum of static in his ears disappeared and the Achilles moved away. He stood and walked to the window, then watched as she moved several kilometers off. The ship was a speck of light barely discernable among the stars when he saw the churning glow of a wormhole opening just in front of her.

A moment later, ship and wormhole disappeared.

He looked down at the planet. It’s a good thing we won the ground war. For now, at least. During the Outer Settlements War he’d seen what happened when one side held the planet and the other side controlled the skies. A rain of missiles from above was the best possible outcome. If missiles didn’t work, the next step was to drop very large rocks. Missiles could be shot down, but there was no way to stop several hundred tonnes of stone travelling at thousands of kilometers per hour.

He shook his head, pushing those old memories from his mind. That won’t happen here. I won’t let it. We’ll win, and then we’ll push on to the next system, and the next. It’s the only way to guarantee rocks never fall on Earth.

Hammett turned his back on the window. “Well, that’s that.” He looked around at the bridge crew. “Where are we at on repairs?”

Chapter 22 – Brennan

The wormhole spat the Achilles out into normal space quite close to the Gate by astronomical standards. The computer told Brennan she could reach the Bayonet and the Gate in as little as twenty minutes at maximum acceleration. Of course, they would go flying past at high velocity and need most of an hour to return.

The need to decelerate meant the trip would take more than twice as long. The enemy ship was closing rapidly on the Gate. There was nothing Brennan could do except order the Achilles to accelerate toward the Gate, and then sit back and fret while she waited for the distance to close.

They were ten minutes out and decelerating hard enough that the whole bridge seemed to be tilted backward when the Hive ship reached the Gate. Brennan brought up her tactical display and prepared to watch the opening moves of the battle.

The Bayonet moved a couple of kilometers from the Gate, advancing to meet the alien ship. The intruder was big, easily triple the size of the corvette, and it began to break apart, separating into its component ships.

And then the holo display flashed, flickered, and reset. The crisp outline of the Bayonet was gone, replaced by a fuzzy blob. The alien fleet looked even worse, a vague smear that might have been one ship or a hundred. Brennan looked up, dismayed.

Kaur at Tactical met her gaze. “Looks like they fixed their EMP weapon.”

That wasn’t good news. The corvettes were much more effective with computer assistance. Brennan squared her shoulders. “That’s fine. This is what we trained for, after all.” She pitched her voice for the whole bridge crew to hear. “We carved up the last batch and sent them running for their home planet. We’ll carve up this lot, too.”

Some of the tension in the bridge drained away. Brennan had served as a lieutenant for long enough to know that when a captain displayed absolute confidence, you couldn’t help being carried along.

Even when the Captain was obviously whistling in the dark.

I should turn the ship around. Keep my crew alive for a little bit longer. Because we’re going to lose this fight.

The tactical display grew crisper as the distance closed. Enjoy it while you can, Brennan thought. You’ll be in range of that EMP weapon soon. What little hope she clung to was rapidly fading. The Bayonet, fighting alone, was having a hard time of it. The aliens tore at her like a wolf pack bringing down a stag. The corvette twisted and turned and fired, but there were always more Hive ships to race in and burn away her hull plates.

Brennan looked for the Bayonet’s fighter and couldn’t see it. It must have been an early casualty. Dixon wouldn’t have lasted thirty seconds in that meat grinder. God rest his soul.

When the Achilles was a minute out, a dozen Hive ships broke away from the battle and headed for the Gate. Brennan stared for a moment in mute frustration, then made a snap decision. “Hopkins. Course correction. Take us to the Gate.” The Gate was ultimately all that mattered. She ached to run to the rescue of the Bayonet, but if she defended the Gate, she’d draw the Hive ships away from the other corvette.

When a fat clump of ships came to a halt against the side of the new Gate, she knew she was running out of time. “Kaur. Lasers.” She glanced at her tactical display. “Target Nine.” The range was extreme, but the target was stationary and the Achilles was moving in a perfectly straight line.

She watched as the ship’s lasers wavered and meandered over the enemy hull, the tiny vibrations of the Achilles magnified by vast distance. The effect was devastating, far better than she’d expected. Hive ships burned and broke apart, and the cluster began to scatter.

“Cease fire!” The last thing she needed was to destroy the Gate herself by accident.

“We won’t get another shot like that,” Kaur said. “They didn’t turn their shields on.”

The Hive, unfortunately, tended not to repeat its mistakes.

She watched, frustrated, as the little cluster of enemy ships moved to the far side of the Gate. She counted four ships still functioning, with two more that slunk away, damaged. The four ships converged into one, moving up to the metal ring that formed the Gate, keeping the Gate between them and the approaching Achilles.

The Gate was, technically, live. It was already generating a wormhole. The far end of the wormhole was surging through space at superluminal speeds, racing for the connecting Gate near Earth. It made the inside of the metal ring, in effect, an impenetrable shield. Anything that passed through that circle would come out light-years away. The amalgamated alien ship was using the Gate for cover, attempting to destroy it from behind.

Brennan magnified her display. She could see the side of one component ship jutting past the edge of the ring. The target computer designated it as “Eight”. “Target Eight and fire,” she said.

“I’ll hit the Gate,” said Kaur.

“I know. Just do your best.”

A red glow appeared on the exposed side of the enemy ship. The corvette was closing rapidly, making the laser more accurate every moment. The glow wobbled, then disappeared as the laser swung wide, burning into the depths of space. The glow reappeared, swung the other way, and briefly lit up the ring of the Gate. A moment later it swung back out and touched the ship.

The alien shield failed. The laser wobbled, slicing a ragged chunk from the ship, and then the ship disappeared.

A moment later Brennan felt a burst of pain, as if electricity was pouring through her entire body. Static screamed in her ears, then went silent. She saw Samson clutch briefly at his helmet. She shook her head, took a deep breath, and looked around.

The tactical display was gone. Every screen on the bridge was dead. “We’re on manual control,” she said. “Let’s do some damage.”

Pitts, her helmsman, tugged at a bank of levers that gave him direct manual control over the ship’s manoeuvring thrusters. He brought the Achilles around in a clumsy arc, sweeping behind the Gate. Brennan heard the thrum of rail guns firing. The gun crews wouldn’t be waiting for commands from the bridge, which was largely blind. They would be firing at every target they could see.

“One ship destroyed,” said a sailor with a phone pressed to her ear. “One fleeing.” The Achilles passed the edge of the ring and she said, “Enemy reinforcements approaching.”

Brennan looked out the port window and felt her pulse quicken. Hive ships were rushing in, too many to count. They made a lethal cloud, and they were coming for the Achilles. She could see the Bayonet floating behind them, dead in space, burning as she tumbled slowly through the void.

We won’t be getting any help from the Bayonet or the Tomahawk. It’s all up to us now.

A nightmare battle began. For much of it Brennan was a spectator, watching as the Achilles twisted and dodged, seeing metal scrap drift past the windows from alien ships destroyed by rail gun rounds and lasers. The Achilles launched its fighter, and it raced around the corvette like an angry wasp.

Again and again clusters of ships raced in close and fired their heat weapon. For a moment the starboard window was filled by an alien hull, dominated by a black circle that flashed red. The steelglass window melted and ran, the bridge lost its atmosphere in a rush, and Brennan’s faceplate snapped shut.

The corvette spun on its axis, the alien ship vanished, and when the Achilles finished a half rotation Brennan saw laser-scored fragments through the port window.

A cluster of aliens made a run for the Gate, and Brennan ordered the Achilles to pursue, rail gun rounds driving them off. Then the swarm around her renewed its attack and she forgot about everything but surviving for another moment.

“We lost the starboard rail gun.”

“A cluster forming aft! Bring her around!”

“Firefighting team to the engine room.”

Brennan wanted to move to the window and get a better view of the battle, but the ship was twisting and jerking so sharply she knew she would never keep her feet. She clung to the arms of her chair, watched her people fight, and wondered if there was something more she could do.

“Cluster forming!” Kaur snapped. “Bring the nose thirty degrees to starboard.” The rail gun hummed, then went silent. “We’ve lost the other rail gun. Bring the nose down. We have to bring a laser battery to bear.”

Brennan felt her fingers tighten, helpless and desperate, on the arms of her chair. We’ve lost the rail guns and at least one laser turret. The engine room is on fire, and half our manoeuvring thrusters are gone. God only knows how many of my people are dead. And the bastards keep coming.

We’re going to lose. And the Hive doesn’t take prisoners.

She stared through the melted remains of the starboard window and watched as a pair of alien ships came together, merging into one craft. A third ship joined them, then a fourth. And the cluster came toward her. It rotated, she saw a familiar black circle, and the circle began to glow red. This is it. We’re out of weapons, and we can’t dodge. I guess my war is over. I did my best, and it wasn’t enough. I wish …

The cluster of ships exploded. Shrapnel pelted the window, and a melted chunk of steelglass broke away. Brennan watched with fatalistic detachment as a glittering section of transparent metal size of a dinner plate came spinning toward her and sliced into her abdomen. Vapor puffed from the cut as her suit lost air, and she opened her mouth, wondering if she could come up with some memorable last words.

Her chair turned under the force of the impact, rotating lazily until she was staring through the port window. She saw the Gate, nearly filled by the bulk of a cruiser sliding majestically in from Earth. Well, it’s about time you got here. Without air in her lungs she couldn’t speak, but her last thought was, Those would have been good final words.

Chapter 23 – Kaur

The clatter of docking clamps told Kaur the cruiser Hannibal had docked with the Achilles, but it wasn’t until a figure in a Navy vac suit with a lieutenant’s stripes on the chest stepped onto the bridge that she properly realized she was in command.

She’d been helping ease Brennan into a body bag. Now she stood and faced the newcomer. It was a man of thirty or so, Asian from what Kaur could see through the faceplate of his helmet. The man’s cheeks moved as he spoke. Kaur, not hearing a thing, shrugged.

After a moment she heard a click in his helmet’s speakers and a voice said, “Can you hear me now, Ma’am?”

Kaur nodded. “Commander Kaur.” She glanced down at Brennan as a sailor sealed the body bag. “I guess I’m the commanding officer.”

“Lieutenant Ogawa.” He saluted briefly. “I brought a technical crew with me. Most of them are in the engine room.” He looked around the bridge. “It looks like you’ve had quite a scrap.”

“Yes.” Kaur suddenly felt so weary she could barely stand, and her eyes strayed to the captain’s chair. It’s mine again. For a few minutes. Captain of a demolished ship. My career’s on fire. It was a selfish thought, and she squashed it. “Thanks for the assistance.”

“You’re welcome.” There was something off in Ogawa’s voice, and Kaur felt some of her weariness slough away, replaced by a growing alertness.

“I have a few things to tell you,” Ogawa said. Body language, stifled at the best of times in career military personnel, was even more difficult to read through a vac suit. Ogawa, though, had an unmistakable stiffness in his posture and speech that told Kaur there was a subtext to his message, and a dangerous one at that.

Kaur glanced around the bridge, wondering who else was listening. After the EMP strike she’d lost the ability to change channels through her implants. Hell, she couldn’t even tell what channel he was on. Odds were, every vac suit on the Achilles was on the same channel now, which meant plenty of listening ears.

Displaying her best poker face, she said, “Go on, Lieutenant.”

“Colonel O’Hare will be taking command of your ship.” Ogawa gestured at the ravaged starboard window. “He’s just waiting for basic repairs. As soon as the ship is pressurized again he’ll come aboard.” Ogawa shrugged minutely. “The colonel doesn’t like vac suits.”

Kaur gaped at him, completely flabbergasted. “Colonel O’Hare? That’s not even a Navy rank. Who the hell is Colonel O’Hare?”

Ogawa frowned and touched a finger to the side of his helmet, about where his ear would be. “The colonel is with the Earth Defense Force. Spacecom has turned over command of the fleet to the EDF. Every Navy ship has an EDF officer in command now.”

“What?” Kaur realized she was staring like an idiot, mouth open, eyebrows practically on the top of her head. She couldn’t stop, though. “Some ground-based civilian organization is commanding Navy ships?” She shook her head, wondering if she was dreaming. Maybe I was injured during the battle. I’m anoxic, and hallucinating. This can’t be real. “Does this Colonel O’Hare have Naval experience?”

Ogawa, his eyes bleak, touched a finger to his helmet about where his lips would be. Then he cupped a hand behind his ear and jerked a thumb in the direction of the cruiser. “The colonel is an excellent officer in the EDF. The EDF is helping keep the Navy properly on track in these difficult times.” The expression on Ogawa’s face made it clear he didn’t believe a word he was saying.

I must be dreaming. It’s the stress of combat. Is there really a Navy lieutenant in front of me afraid to speak his mind because someone is eavesdropping? Kaur opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. This is a different kind of battle than the one you just fought, but it’s a battle nevertheless, and the stakes might not be any lower. Don’t blunder ahead until you’ve scouted the terrain.

“That’s great,” she said at last. “I look forward to meeting this Colonel O’Hare.”

Ogawa nodded, his face a mix of relief and shame. “They’re bringing over a window from the Bayonet. We’ll have your bridge sealed up in no time.”

“Terrific.” Kaur plodded over to the captain’s chair and plopped herself down. I might as well enjoy sitting in it while I have the chance. It won’t be mine for long. “Do you have anything else to tell me, Lieutenant?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll stay on board to liaise with the repair crew.” He tilted his head, listening to something over his implants. “Three of your crew are scheduled for transfer to the hospital bay on the Hannibal.”

Kaur nodded. The Hannibal would have better medical facilities than the Achilles.

“It’ll take some time, though,” Ogawa continued. “They’re treating casualties from the Bayonet first.” He lowered his head for a moment. “It’s pretty bad over there.”

“Commander Kaur,” Hopkins interrupted, and pointed through the starboard window.

Kaur rose and walked to the window. She was in time to see a couple of sailors in vac suits come drifting up, a large panel of steelglass between them. Kaur watched as they left the panel floating, removed the remains of the old window, and sent the chunks spinning off into the void. The two of them put the replacement window in place, then moved around the edges, tightening flaps that Kaur couldn’t see. They finished in a few minutes, gave her a thumbs-up through the window, and moved away along the hull. They would find plenty of damage to keep them busy, Kaur supposed.

“I’m opening an air feed,” a sailor announced. Frost formed on the steelglass, then quickly faded. The pane was marred by a scrape as long as Kaur’s arm, right in the middle. She examined it from the inside, wondering what impact could have left such a big mark. Well, it’s not perfect, but it’s a big improvement over the old window.

“Pressure’s holding at 25%,” the sailor said. “Should I bring it the rest of the way up, Ma’am?”

“Yes.”

As the pressure rose she turned to Ogawa. “It’ll be safe enough for us to open our faceplates in a moment,” he said. “If something fails, we’re all in vac suits. The faceplates will close again.”

Ogawa nodded. Kaur was telling him something any cadet knew. He seemed to realize the speech wasn’t really meant for his ears.

“It won’t really be safe in here without a vac suit, though,” Kaur continued. “That window seems solid, but we can’t be sure until it’s been checked over in a proper space dock. It could fail at any moment.”

“Yes.” Ogawa’s face showed disgust at the subterfuge, but his voice was cheerful enough. “You’re right.”

The pressure light inside Kaur’s helmet glowed green. She waited a moment, then opened her faceplate.

Ogawa surprised her by removing his helmet completely. He tucked the helmet under his arm, then stared pointedly at Kaur, waiting.

I can’t turn off my suit radio. Not with the electronics fried. It’s a permanent open channel. We can’t speak freely until-She removed her helmet.

The lieutenant looked smaller without his helmet. He looked haggard and old. For a long moment he just stared at Kaur, then looked around at the rest of the bridge crew. Everyone had their faceplates open. They were all staring at Ogawa.

Ogawa took a deep breath and said, “We fired a missile at downtown Montreal.”

“What?”

The exclamation came from more than one throat, and Ogawa made frantic shushing gestures. “You can’t speak freely over the radio anymore. In fact, I’ve stopped speaking freely on my own ship.” His face twisted. “I don’t know that the ship is bugged yet, but I have no doubt the EDF will get around to it.”

Kaur said, “You fired a missile at Montreal?”

“Yes.”

She hadn’t heard so much despair in one small word since the awful day her mother sat her down and said, “Cancer.”

“A lot’s happened back on Earth while you’ve been away,” Ogawa said. “Statsminister Acton has gone insane.” He shook his head. “No, he’s perfectly sane. He loves power, and he uses the EDF to get it, and to hold it.” He looked into Kaur’s face, his eyes haunted. “And now he’s got the Navy, too.”

Kaur said, “Yes, but Montreal?”

“There were demonstrations. People with signs that said ‘Democracy Now’ and ‘We Demand Free Speech’.” Ogawa’s lip curled. “Real troublemakers. They were camped out on the steps of the North East Parliament Hall. Thousands of people. Singing and chanting and holding candles. They blocked streets, but they never hurt anyone, and they never destroyed property.”

The sense of unreality was back, stronger now. Kaur did her best to ignore it. “What happened?”

Ogawa spread his hands in a helpless shrug. “Acton gave them an ultimatum. Then he went on the feeds with a long speech about how humanity needed to unite and anyone who wasn’t on board was a traitor to the human species.” His eyes slid away from Kaur’s face. “And then he called Colonel Laycraft. That’s the new CO of the Hannibal. And he ordered Lake to put an end to the demonstrations. Immediately. By any means necessary.” Ogawa looked at the deck plates, his voice small. “Laycraft gave her orders. And, God forgive us, we obeyed.”

“But – how could you do it?” The speaker was Hopkins, and Ogawa’s head whipped around. Hopkins had his helmet under his arm, though. Most of the bridge crew had followed suit.

Ogawa seemed to shrink inside his vac suit. “We were cowards,” he said.

“But what were you afraid of?” Hopkins persisted. “No court-martial would have convicted you of insubordination.”

Speaking of insubordination, Kaur thought, that’s no way to speak to a lieutenant. She didn’t interrupt, though.

“It’s not the same Navy,” Ogawa said. “There have been executions.”

Kaur gaped at him. “Executions?”

Ogawa lifted his hand to his ear. “I’m being summoned. I have to go.” He lifted his helmet, then lowered it again. “I wanted you to know what they’ll use your ship for. If you let O’Hare take command.” He looked around the bridge. “You’re more or less spaceworthy. Fly away. Make an excuse and leave now, before O’Hare can come on board.”

Kaur opened her mouth to scoff at the idea. Instead she said, “We should offload the wounded first.”

“They’ll be tried for mutiny if you do.”

“What?” Kaur blinked. “That’s insane.”

“Welcome to the new Navy,” Ogawa said. Then he put his helmet on, checked the seals, opened the bridge door, and stepped through the shimmering wall of a force field into the vacuum on the other side.

Hopkins said, “Is he for real?”

Kaur ignored him, looking down at the captain’s chair, suddenly hating the burden of command. This is not what I trained for. I’m supposed to be fighting aliens, not playing stupid political games.

I’m supposed to be following orders without question. After all, we’re at war, right?

Downtown Montreal. God help us.

She looked up. “Get the Hannibal on the radio. Tell them we’ve got a serious engine problem. We’re afraid of an explosion. We’re going to move away to a safe distance until we can be sure it’s under control.”

Hopkins stared at her, then nodded and reached for the crystal radio on his console, technology simple enough to survive the Hive EMP weapon.

Kaur picked up the telephone handset mounted on the arm of her chair. She hadn’t had to use the telephone on the Tomahawk except in drills. The captain’s station on the Achilles had an identical setup, she was relieved to note. She flipped the switch marked “Engine Room” and waited while a buzzer rang.

“Engine room.” The sailor on the other end coughed. They had air, then, but they hadn’t yet cleared the smoke.

“I’m going to need a wormhole pretty quickly,” Kaur said. “Same range as last time. We’re going back to Naxos. I’ll call you when we’re lined up.”

“Aye aye. We’ll be ready.”

Kaur hung up. Hopkins turned in his chair and said, “They’re not the least bit happy. They’re opening the docking clamps, though.” The hull clanged and echoed as if to illustrate his words. “I had to tell them we were going to gun the engine whether we were still clamped or not.” He gave Kaur a twisted grin. “I almost miss the aliens, Ma’am.”

“Bring us around. Point us at Ariadne.” Kaur stood up and paced, then made herself stand still. The Hannibal and half a dozen smaller ships swung past the starboard window in lazy majesty as the Achilles turned.

“Ready, Sir,” said Pitts.

Kaur returned to her chair and called the engine room. “We need that wormhole now.”

“It’s opening now, Ma’am.”

Kaur couldn’t see the wormhole ahead of the ship, but Pitts listened to his telephone, then said, “It’s open.”

“Take us through.”

The ship surged forward and the Gate, the ruined Bayonet, the Hannibal, and the rest of the fleet disappeared. Ariadne appeared instead, a brown orb the size of an apple in the distance.

We’ve lost them for the moment, but they’ll come after us. Kaur leaned back in his chair, wishing heartily someone else was in charge. What the hell do I do now?

Chapter 24 – Christine

Christine Goldfarb hiked through Founders Park, frowning at the fallen branches on the paths and other signs of neglect. She followed the hedge that marked the boundary of the park, then came to a gap and paused for her first glimpse in weeks of Harlequin.

Smoke rose in a grubby smear from somewhere in the heart of the little city, but for the most part Harlequin seemed intact. She’d been hiking for hours, but her weariness dropped away and she smiled to see her home once again in human hands. Harlequin was the heart of the colony. Sure, people worked throughout the crater, tending crops and orchards. Harlequin, though, was where they came to meet, to dance, to plan and to dream. Raucous public meetings took place in Harlequin, and live music, and art projects and impromptu gatherings. Harlequin was where they stopped being a bunch of farmers and became a community.

She didn’t think the off-worlders really understood that the people of Ariadne were a community. It was different on Earth. They had cities that were a thousand years old. They thought of places like Hawking, built in the interstellar age, as new and young. But there was no one left alive who could remember the construction of Hawking. It was a place you moved to, or you grew up there and then you bought a house.

Harlequin was different. The people who lived in Harlequin were the people who had built Harlequin. They had roots the people of Earth just couldn’t understand. You didn’t get roots like that from browsing real estate listings and making a down payment.

Lieutenant Nicholson seemed nice, but he spoke of evacuation as if it were a simple, obvious choice. As if the people of Ariadne could simply pack up their belongings and leave.

As if you could take your beating heart out of your chest and just ship it off to Earth where it could be safe.

“Like hell,” she muttered, left the park, and entered the city.

The tram wasn’t running, so she’d just have to keep walking. She passed one empty house after another, and a few where the residents had moved back in. She saw a man raking twigs and leaves from his lawn while a woman washed the front windows. They had their front door propped open, airing out the house, and she could hear children calling to one another inside.

Her own apartment was on the far side of Harlequin. She would get there eventually, but not right away. She waved to the man with the rake, got a cheery wave in return, and kept walking.

The infrastructure had to be in quite a mess. Still, things weren’t as bad as she’d expected. The city’s lawns and flowerbeds were brown, but the grass wasn’t dead. Rain didn’t fall on Ariadne. That meant the sprinkler system had kept on running through much of the occupation. It was off now, though.

How long will it take to get water running again? How far did the woman have to walk with the bucket she’s using to clean her windows? Christine shrugged. It’s a big job, but we’ll do it. That’s what life in the colonies is all about. You meet one challenge at a time, and you just keep going.

Harlequin would recover – until the aliens returned. She explored the thought as she walked. The Navy had driven them back, but she sensed the Hive would return in force.

They’d win, too. Spacecom’s agenda included the destruction of the aliens and the protection of Earth. The defence of Naxos wouldn’t be a priority, not when the civilian population could simply be evacuated. If most of them refused evacuation, well, that wasn’t Spacecom’s fault, now was it?

We’ve got a big fleet protecting us right now, but they won’t stay. There are other colonies, after all. And the alien home world, wherever that is. Most of these ships will leave.

And then the aliens will return, and then what?

She thought of the project she’d been working on before and after the invasion. Maybe – just maybe – I can do something about it.

Harlequin didn’t have much of an industrial district. Still, she was relieved when she came to several long stone buildings and found them intact. Rebuilding would be hard enough even with fabricators. Without them? She didn’t want to think about it.

The big doors to the main factory building stood open. That was the only name it had. It was the factory. The Naxos economy wasn’t built on competing industries. As she approached the open doors Christine heard voices inside, men and women engaged in a good-natured argument. She recognized several voices, people she hadn’t seen or heard from since before the invasion, and her heart lightened. George Thompson is still alive. And Katrina. And is that Luce?

She stepped through the doorway and felt dust tickle her nose. The place hadn’t been swept in weeks, after all. Sunlight shone through a series of skylights in the ceiling, making glowing bars in the dusty air. It illuminated bins of raw material, stacks of manufactured components, and a long row of fabricators of various sizes. It also illuminated a dozen or so people clustered in front of the biggest machine.

“We need excavating machinery. We’ll build tunnels all over the crater, and we can hide in them when the aliens return.” The speaker was a round-faced man who waved his arms excitedly for emphasis. He looked familiar, but Christine couldn’t place his name. He was clearly a fool, so she didn’t try very hard.

“In most places we’ve got less than a meter of topsoil sitting on top of solid rock. We won’t be building any tunnels.” That was George Thompson, a man in his seventies who’d been a community leader for as long as Christine could remember. “Is there anything else we need, anything for immediate short-term survival, before we look at making weapons?”

“We shouldn’t be fighting them,” said a woman’s strident voice. “It just provokes them. It gets people killed.”

“Be that as it may,” said George, “people are fighting. They won’t stop just because we tell them they’re foolish. We can’t make them quit. But we can arm them.”

Christine joined the fringe of the group. Luce Webster gave her a quick hug, and Jory Vaughn reached over to squeeze her arm.

George said, “I take it, then, that we’re agreed.” The round-faced man opened his mouth, and George silenced him with a stern look. “Weapons. We’ll start with hand weapons, and when those are distributed we’ll look at whether we can make something bigger.”

That set off a storm of discussion, nearly everyone speaking at once. George wisely stepped aside, edging around the group until he reached Christine. He hugged her, then held her at arm’s length and said, “Thank God you’re safe.”

“You too, George.”

He led her away from the arguing crowd. “They’ll work out the details among themselves. Leadership will just get in the way.”

“Can we even make weapons?” she said. “Aren’t templates like that controlled?”

“Well, we can’t make lasers.” He spread his hands. “They’re too complex, and anything portable will have a restricted template, yes.” He grinned at her, and for a moment she saw the eyes of a mischievous schoolboy peeking out from his weathered face. “Rail guns, now. Those are dead simple. You can find bootleg templates all over the network. Pistols, rifles, we’ll have our pick of designs. The ammunition’s easy, too. It’s just little steel balls.”

“I guess that’s good,” she said dubiously.

His grin faded. “We can’t rely on the Navy to defend us. Sure, they’re here right now. Tomorrow, though?” He spread his hands in an I-don’t-know gesture.

“I wish I could say I disagreed.”

“Well, the ball is rolling now. We’ll be armed to the teeth by this time tomorrow.”

“What’s the water situation?”

He sighed. “It’s not ideal, but it’s manageable. At the moment you have to walk to the nearest water substation and fill a bucket. We can’t really work on fixing it until more people trickle back into town. Everyone who knows how to run the system is out there somewhere.” He waved an arm to indicate the entire crater.

“Or dead.”

“Or dead,” he agreed.

“I’m going to the spaceport,” she said. “I want to see what’s left.”

“I’m pretty sure it got hit. I don’t know how bad, though.”

“I’ll go check it out.” She leaned past him to look at the crowd around the fabricator. The argument was dying down, and a few people were looking their way. “I’ll let you get back to your cat herding.”

He gave her a wry grin. “Thanks so much.”

The spaceport wasn’t far from the factory, which was a relief, because her knees were beginning to ache. Something at or near the spaceport was contributing to the smudge of smoke above Harlequin, and she felt a rising dread in the pit of her stomach as she walked. When she finally rounded a corner and got her first view of the spaceport, though, she smiled in relief.

The terminal was a mess, the roof torn and blackened. She didn’t know what could still be burning after all this time, but smoke trickled through the remains of the roof and rose into the sky. That was okay. She didn’t care a fig for the terminal. The colony could get by without customs offices and luggage storage.

She could see one ship, the passenger ferry Altea, designed to run fifty or so people at a time back and forth through the Gate to Earth. The Altea had been destroyed from above. It was a heap of scrap metal now, sitting in the middle of a blackened crater in the tarmac. Only the ends of the wings were intact, lying just outside the circle of devastation.

Beyond the Altea the hangar still seemed to be intact. It was hundreds of meters long and quite high, a much bigger target than the terminal, but the Hive had somehow overlooked it. Was the ship still inside, or had someone used it to flee?

There was only one way to find out.

She started toward the hangar, and a couple of men came around the corner of the building toward her. They wore uniforms, not the dark blue that Lieutenant Nicholson and his people wore, but black uniforms with a similar cut. They had body armor, heavier than she’d seen before, and carried bulky rifles. They moved to intercept her, and she slowed as she approached them.

“Do you have business here, Ma’am?” The man on the left had an offworld accent, a distinct drawl like a Texan in a cowboy movie, and Christine felt herself bristle.

“I live here. What’s your business here?”

He blinked, clearly taken aback. The tiniest twitch came from his companion’s face, like a hint of a grin quickly suppressed. “We’re with the Achilles, Ma’am.” He jerked his head to indicate something behind him. “We can’t allow you around the ship.”

She looked past him. There was indeed something large just on the other side of the hangar. A bit of hull showed above the roof. “Are you using the hangar?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Well, see that you don’t. My ship’s inside, and it’s off-limits to …” She looked him up and down. “Goons with guns.”

The second man’s lips twitched again. Christine circled around both of them and stomped off toward the hangar, almost hoping they would try to stop her. Tell me where I can and can’t go on my own damned planet? What a nerve!

No one interfered with her, and she soon reached a small door set in the hangar wall. No lights showed on the palm scanner, and she pressed her hand to it without much hope. The scanner was dead, all right. Sighing, she pressed a shoulder against the door. To her surprise, it swung inward.

Magnetic locks. They don’t work when the power’s out. She started to lift a hand to wave the lights to life, then stopped herself with a wry chuckle. The power’s out, dummy. The bulk of a large spaceship all but filled the hangar, an enormous shape sensed more than seen in the limited light from the doorway. She stood for a moment thinking, then followed the wall, heading for the north end of the building.

By the time she reached the north wall she could see almost nothing. She took cautious steps, wary of obstacles in the dark, until her outstretched fingers touched metal. She followed the wall until she felt the shape of the big hangar doors. Eventually she reached the seam where the two sliding doors met.

She was feeling around for something to grab when she found a couple of handles, one on each door. She hadn’t ever noticed them before. After all, who would try to open such an enormous door by hand? She wrapped both hands around one handle, braced her feet, and heaved.

The engineering of the door was truly impressive. Despite its enormous size it moved almost a centimeter, squealing and groaning and letting in a brilliant stripe of sunlight. She let go of the handle and leaned against the door, panting. Her plan was working better than she’d expected. Instead of impossible, the task was merely brutally difficult.

The nose of a battered freighter gleamed above her in the narrow bar of light. She spent a moment trying to persuade herself that it was light enough to work. It wasn’t, and she turned around, grabbed the handle, and gave it another heave.

When the gap between the doors was as wide as the palm of her hand, and she was starting to think the effort might cripple her, a shadow appeared on the floor by her feet. She looked through the gap and found the same armored man she’d spoken to earlier gazing solemnly back at her.

“Begging your pardon, Ma’am. I realize I’m not welcome in your hangar, but in the interests of being neighborly I could help you with the door.”

She peered at him suspiciously. For all his polite words he looked a bit smug, and she wanted to tell them to go march off a cliff. But he had to be twice her mass, and her screaming muscles told her not to be foolish. “That would be wonderful. I just need a gap of a couple meters or so.”

He turned away, and she heard a faint rattle as he laid his rifle on the tarmac. A moment later there was a man on each door, grunting with effort as they heaved the doors open. She noted with satisfaction that, even for such big men, it was not an easy task. She grabbed the handle on the inside, started to help, and felt her muscles protest. “Oh, to hell with it.” She stepped back and let the men do the work.

When each door had moved about a meter, both men stepped back, panting. More men moved in to take their place, these ones in blue Navy uniforms. A man and woman came into the hangar, grabbed the handles, and helped.

When the gap was four or five meters, Christine called, “That’s enough. That’s really all I need.” Everyone kept heaving, drowning out her voice in the squeal of protesting metal. She had to shout before everyone froze, staring at her.

“That’s wide enough,” she said. “I don’t need the doors open all the way.” They straightened up, brushing dust from their uniforms. “Thank you,” said Christine. “I really appreciate it.” After a moment she added, “Some of you risked your lives coming here.” Idiot. They flew into a system occupied by the Hive. “All of you risked your lives coming here. And you helped us liberate the planet. Thank you for that, too.” She stopped, feeling foolish.

“We’re all in this together,” said a man with a rank stripe across his chest. “You colonists fought like heroes.”

His voice was familiar, and she moved sideways to get a better look at him. Without sunlight behind him she could see his face. He was about thirty, with sandy hair and the dark blotch of an old bruise marring his cheek. “Nicholson, isn’t it?” She thought for a moment. “Captain?”

Someone behind him chuckled, and he grinned. “Lieutenant, actually. Are you Ms. Goldfarb?” They’d met during a planning session before the raid on the alien tower in Garibaldi Plaza. “I should have the marines sweep the building.”

It could use a good sweeping. It’s filthy in here. “Do you really imagine some Hive troops locked themselves inside?”

“Well, no.” He shrugged. “We should be thorough, though. They’re going through the entire city.”

“I’ll holler if any aliens come scuttling out of the shadows,” she promised.

“Good enough.” His head tilted back as he looked up at the freighter. “I didn’t know there was a ship in here.”

A voice inside her head told her to be cautious. She didn’t want the Navy confiscating the bloody thing, or some such foolishness. But it was a bit late to pretend there was no ship, so she gave in to her natural enthusiasm. “It’s the Theseus,” she said. “We called it that because it keeps visiting Ariadne and then suddenly leaving.” By the blank look on his face he didn’t know his Greek mythology, so she rolled her eyes and continued. “She’s a surplus freighter, purchased by the colony eight years ago. It’s the only ship in the system that’s all ours.”

The old freighter must have looked pretty humble to a Navy man, but it didn’t show in his face. He gazed up at the Theseus, smiling, and said, “Nice. It’s a Heron-class, right?”

She nodded, surprised by how pleased she was that he recognized it. “One of the last ones ever made.”

He gave an approving nod. “They don’t make ‘em this solid anymore. Which is dumb, considering how the cost of fuel has come down.” He took off his cap and raked fingers through his hair, wincing a bit as his arm rose above his shoulder. “This thing will outlast ships ten years newer. Twenty, maybe.”

“I know!” She couldn’t help warming to one of her favorite subjects. “The frame is solid titanium, and it’s thick. Thicker than most steel frames these days. You could drop this baby from fifty meters up and not do a lick of damage.”

Nicholson walked forward, still gazing up at the ship, then paused and looked at Christine. “Er, do you mind if I take a look at her?”

Well, that’s more courtesy than his marines showed. She smiled. “Go ahead.”

The crowd in the doorway dispersed as the two of them walked together, circling the ship, talking the entire time. “I wasn’t on the Alexander,” Nicholson said, “but I watched through a window on the Achilles while she took apart the Hive fleet during the battle for Earth. Gave me a whole new respect for older ship designs, let me tell you.” He nodded in the direction of the corvette. “Don’t get me wrong, the Achilles is a beautiful ship. But if I had to fly through a Hive swarm, I’d want to be in something from this era.” He pointed up at the Theseus.

“Especially if I can shield it,” she said, and he looked at her sharply. “I have some ideas,” she said, uncomfortable under his sudden scrutiny. “Is it true the aliens mostly use heat weapons?”

He nodded. “I haven’t been in a space battle yet, but I’ve seen all the reports.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, there’s one exception. Two exceptions. Their EMP weapon, whatever it is. It seems to be more effective than any EMP strike we’ve ever developed. I mean, we have EMP shielding. We’ve had it for decades. But this weapon of theirs, whatever it is, goes right through everything.”

The implications fascinated her, but she tried to look solemn instead of smiling in delight. “What’s the other exception?”

“That tower. The gun they built in Garibaldi Plaza.” He glanced at her. “Actually, I wanted to ask you if you would talk to the science team. They’re tinkering with the weapon, and they’re just about having kittens. Before this, all they’ve had to work with is shot-up scraps of ships from space battles. Rumor has it you’re a brilliant scientist. I thought you might be able to offer some insight.”

The compliment pleased her more than she would have expected, and she felt her cheeks grow warm. “It’s not really my area of expertise …”

“We’ve been studying Hive technology for less than two months,” he said. “It isn’t anyone’s area of expertise. Anyway, if you decide you’re interested, you’ll find them at Garibaldi Plaza. They know you by reputation already. They’ve heard about your work with heat shielding.”

Learning that strangers were talking about her was unsettling. Well, if my idea works out, plenty of people will be talking about me. I better get used to it. “I might do that,” she said.

Nicholson lifted a finger to his ear. “Whoops. Duty calls. It was nice meeting you, Ms. Goldfarb.” He hurried away.

Christine finished circling the ship, relieved to see that everything seemed intact. She looked up at the freighter’s ugly, blocky lines, not really seeing it. Instead she saw possibility. The Theseus had a lot of hull space, a lot of area where heat could dissipate. Her half-hearted attempts to adapt her heat-shielding technology to make personal armor had failed completely.

A spaceship, though …

The refrigerator in the corner of the hangar had long since stopped working, but the canned drinks inside were perfectly drinkable, if warm. She sat on a workbench sipping fruit juice and staring at the ship, thinking about heat and refrigeration and the stresses that acted on a spacecraft. She rested until weariness gave way to restlessness, and then she hopped down from the bench, tossed the can in the raw materials bin, and headed for the exit.

Her legs were stiff from sitting, but she knew the stiffness wouldn’t last. She’d be sore tomorrow, but tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about that. She’d be done walking soon. Done for the day, most likely. The odds of her reaching her apartment today seemed small. She’d spend the night in her workshop, as she had so many times before.

The door to her workshop stood open. She frowned, then noticed the track the door had left in the dust inside. It had been opened recently, then. Probably by Nicholson’s marines, checking for stray Hive troops. Unless an alien had opened the door, darting inside to evade the same marines.

Snorting at her own paranoia, she went into the workshop. The lights surprised her by coming on. They wouldn’t last. Her batteries had to be almost dead.

It was a large workshop, maybe a third the size of the hangar. She had five fabricators, smaller and much more sophisticated than the industrial units at the factory. She wouldn’t be able to run any of the machines until someone restored power. She would have to pester George Thompson and get him to make this district a priority.

A bin near the door held several dozen metal filaments, each one a rod no thicker than the lead in a pencil but longer than her arm. She called them Fourier filaments, and they were the crowning achievement in her career so far. You could hold one end of the filament in your hand, poke the other end into a candle, and feel the heat of the candle immediately. Fourier filaments had an incredibly high heat conductance.

A ship with a hull made of Fourier metal would always be the same temperature from stem to stern. The heat from the alien weapon would spread evenly across the entire ship. The hull would get hotter and hotter, taking no damage, until the entire hull reached its melting point.

At which time the entire hull would melt, all at once.

With the surface area of the Theseus, it was unlikely to be a concern. Still, there were steps she could take to make the heat shield even safer. Thicker hull plates, for example, would help. The problem was, she only had so much of the metal on hand. It was wretchedly difficult to make, requiring large amounts of silver and zinc. The biggest ingredients were copper and aluminum. She had plenty of those, but very little zinc.

No, the key was to take all that incoming heat and radiate it back into space. Vacuum was an excellent insulator for conduction and convection, but not for radiation. The key to heat loss by radiation was surface area.

Thick hull plates weren’t the answer, then. Filaments were. She would cover the Theseus in a thin layer of Fourier metal, and then add thickets of filaments like patches of hair. Each filament would poke out into the void, radiating heat and cooling the ship. If she could mount enough filaments on the hull, the ship would be effectively immune to Hive weapons.

Of course, any substance that conducted heat well would also conduct electricity. What would the EMP weapon do to Fourier filaments? She imagined the filaments lighting up as current flowed through them, with sparks leaping back and forth. I wonder if I could mount a couple of cameras on the hull. I would love to see what that looks like. Of course, if the EMP weapon is firing, the cameras will be fried …

She pictured the Theseus in deep space, surrounded by Hive ships, and an unexpected wave of fear crashed into her. This is the enemy that tore apart the toughest ships in Spacecom. They nearly conquered the Earth, and they’re smarter now. They’ve adapted, learned how to hurt us. The Theseus won’t last five seconds.

“Who am I kidding?” She dropped the filament back in the bin, wrapped her arms around her stomach, and moaned. “We’re doomed. We’re in deep space, surrounded by hostile aliens, and we’re going to die.” Her stomach muscles clenched involuntarily, and she dropped into a squat, curling forward until her face was against her knees. For weeks she’d been living under a tree in an orchard, tinkering in a farmer’s garage, and suppressing the fear that ground away at her day and night.

Now, it all hit her at once.

In a dim corner of her mind she realized she was lying on her side, curled into a ball. The floor was none too clean, but she didn’t care. She clutched her knees and sobbed as fear and loss washed over her, through her. On and on it went, until her habit of analysis, which was as much a part of her as breathing, began to assert itself. She began to wonder how long it would take to process this backlog of emotion, whether there was a formula that could measure duration and intensity.

Once the analytical part of her brain got started, there was no stopping it. She wanted to keep crying. She wanted catharsis. She wanted every last bit of suppressed horror to be experienced, exorcised, released. But her body uncurled, she shifted into a more comfortable position on the floor, and her mind, despite her intentions, wandered.

Finally she stood up, stretched to release some stiffness, and wiped her face. She brushed the worst of the dust from her face and crossed her workshop to where chalkboard paint covered a section of wall. She wiped away a diagram of the atomic composition of Fourier metal and went looking for a piece of chalk.

“Heat shielding,” she wrote. “Fourier metal hull plates and filaments for heat dissipation.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Shields aren’t enough,” she wrote. “The ship must be armed.”

Chapter 25 – Hammett

Hammett was the last to leave the Tomahawk.

He paused in front of the airlock, taking a last look down the length of the ship he’d commanded for a few short weeks. She had served him well. She’d destroyed her own weight in Hive ships, and he would miss her.

Most of all, she represented a phase of the war that, he was reluctantly beginning to realize, was now over. Things had been simple when he left Earth. Us versus them. Humans against the Hive, with all of humanity united against the alien threat. The alien threat remained, as strong as ever. Humanity still hung by a thread, waiting to be devoured by the inevitable Hive counter-attack.

But humanity was no longer united.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, then turned his back on the Tomahawk, ducked through the airlock hatch, and entered the battlefield of a different war.

He moved through the airlock in the nose of the Tomahawk and stepped through into the airlock in the nose of the corvette Tulwar. The two ships were locked together nose to nose, like strange dogs meeting.

A marine stood on sentry duty just inside the lock, the first of many unsettling changes. Hammett wasn’t displeased to learn the Corps had been reinstated, though he was alarmed by the speed of implementation. How much training did this hulking young man really have with the rifle slung over his shoulder?

He understood the value of the Marine Corps – a handful of marines might have saved a bunch of lives on the Alexander – but their presence on a tiny, crowded ship like the Tulwar was disturbing in its implications. He was pretty sure the marines weren’t on board to fight aliens.

They were there to control the crew.

Beyond the marine the narrow corridor was crammed with crew from the Tomahawk. There was simply nowhere else to put them. Hammett stood shoulder to shoulder beside Benson, who leaned into Geibelhaus to make room. It wasn’t comfortable, but the trip to the surface of Ariadne wouldn’t take long. Hammett frowned, wondering how long he’d be grounded.

The deck plates thumped against the soles of his feet as the ship touched down. After a minute the line of sailors began shuffling along, moving deeper into the ship, heading for the landing ramp. Hammett waited until Benson was a pace or two away, then followed.

A minute later he was on the surface of Ariadne for the first time, squinting in sunlight that had a bit more red than he was used to, taking in the scent of lush plants and a hint of flowers, overlaid by the steel and hydraulic fluid stink of the ship behind him. The rest of the crew milled around the landing gear, unsure of what to do next.

The Tulwar’s commanding officer followed Hammett down the landing ramp, a handful of her own crew behind her. It was easy to tell who was on which crew. The Navy’s uniform had changed while Hammett had been gone. Sailors wore black armbands now.

Major Potter was a blonde woman of about forty, her hair pulled back in a severe braid. Her face was compressed in a pinched expression that looked permanent. She reminded Hammett of teachers he’d known, the worst kind, the ones constantly scanning the room for any sign of rule-breaking.

Every few minutes she’d reach up and touch the sash across her chest, as if to remind herself of her position and authority. Everyone else got plenty of reminders too. She barked pointless orders at the sailors who followed her, telling them to stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder, beside the ramp. Then she stomped back and forth in front of the hapless sailors, eyeing them like she was inspecting an honor guard. She glared at one man, a seasoned specialist who stared back with the equanimity of a professional who knows his worth. “Stand up straight,” she said. “Hold your head up high.”

It made Hammett’s hackles rise. She wasn’t actually trying to destroy the morale of her crew. She was simply a foolish woman who knew she didn’t deserve the power she wielded. Everyone else knew it too, which drove her to assert herself. Without meaningful orders to give, she would give pointless orders. The crew would resent her for it. They would resist in subtle, petty ways, and she would just get worse.

“You there.” Potter made a gesture that encompassed most of Hammett’s crew. “Don’t just stand around like a bunch of lallygaggers. Form a proper line.” She flapped an arm, indicating a stretch of tarmac in front of the Tulwar where they might line up.

A dozen pairs of eyes swung toward Hammett. He sighed and said, “As you were.”

Potter turned to face him, her mouth tightening until her lips all but disappeared. “I’m a major in the EDF!”

“Come and see me when you get a Spacecom rank,” he said, and turned his back. A quick scan of the area showed him a ruined building that might have been a terminal, a large hangar, and a third corvette. He walked swiftly toward the third ship, needing to put distance between himself and the ridiculous EDF woman. If he stayed he was going to tell her off, if he managed not to deck her first. That would help nothing.

The ship was the Achilles. Half a dozen people stood under the port wing, gathered around the base of a rolling ladder. Atop the ladder a sailor was opening hatches and poking at exposed cables and tubes. Hammett headed toward the group.

A familiar figure turned as he approached. “Captain,” said Kaur. “I’m glad you made it down to the surface.” She smiled. “I wanted to pick you up, but it wasn’t … prudent.”

A quick scan of the group showed no marine uniforms and no black armbands. It was an uncomfortable precaution to take, and one Hammett already sensed was going to become a habit. He walked aft, out of easy earshot of the rest of the group, and Kaur followed. They stopped under the tail of the ship, and both of them looked around for eavesdroppers before they spoke.

“The Achilles is grounded,” Kaur said. “Totally incapable of flight.”

That was bad news. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Her crew have disconnected cables and couplings all over the ship,” Kaur said, poker-faced. “If you need her, she’ll be spaceworthy in about fifteen minutes. If her new commanding officer needs her, or the general in charge of the fleet, well …” She shrugged. “It could be weeks.” She looked at Hammett, her expression wary.

“Not liking the EDF is one thing,” Hammett said. “Disabling a ship, though?”

“Have you heard about Montreal?”

Hammett shook his head, then listened in growing shock as Kaur brought him up to speed.

“It’s two Navies now,” Kaur said. “The one that serves humanity, and the one that serves the EDF.”

“Good God.”

“Amen,” Kaur said, and flashed a bleak smile. “The Achilles will be spaceworthy when the Hive returns, and not a minute sooner.”

They stood for a moment in silence. Then Hammett said, “I need to billet my people.”

That brought a chuckle from Kaur. “You may find things are a tiny bit disorganized. Refugees are trickling into the city, no one knows how many. Some people are dead, some are staying in the countryside until things quiet down. There are marines still sweeping the outskirts for aliens. My crew’s still working out the details of their billets, and we don’t know yet how many personnel are coming down from the new fleet.”

“Well, who do I talk to? Please tell me it’s not Major Potter.”

Kaur chuckled again. “No, the man you need to see is Lieutenant Nicholson. He’s more or less become our groundside coordinator and liaison with the colonists.” Kaur paused for a moment, thinking. “Last I saw, he was heading for the sports fields.” She gestured north. “Something’s going on there, I’m not sure what. In the meantime, there’s sort of a canteen set up at the Roadrunner. It’s a good place to wait while people get organized.” She pointed west. “It’s a restaurant just across the street from the terminal. The terminal’s the building with the hole in it,” she added.

“All right, thanks, Commander.” Hammett glanced around and spotted a redshirted figure striding away from the Tulwar, heading for the terminal building.

“The EDF have their own hangout,” Kaur said. “There’s a bar in the terminal that’s mostly undamaged. They’ve figured out the Navy personnel don’t really enjoy their company.” She made a face. “I think it’s mutual. They don’t like being around people who don’t take them seriously. So they just hang around with each other.”

“Lovely,” Hammett said. “I’ll see you later.” He headed back to the Tulwar, where he told his crew about the Roadrunner. “I’m looking into billeting,” he told them. “Then we’ll see about further assignments. In the meantime, go have a bite to eat and relax. You’ve earned it.”

He watched them go, weary, shuffling figures, many of them walking in a daze. He was the only member of the ship’s company with combat experience, aside from the disastrous Battle of Earth. Those who were in that battle would have spent the duration floating helpless in a crippled ship. Today was their first real introduction to war.

They would relax, and let the realization that they were safe and still alive slowly seep in. They would drink too much, and talk to one another about the battle, and raise a glass to the people they’d lost. Without an officer present they would be able to let off steam. He vowed to stay away from the Roadrunner for at least a couple of hours.

He remembered his own first experience of combat. He remembered the aftermath, the shocked, harrowed looks on the faces of his shipmates. He felt like an old, old man as he turned away and went in search of Lieutenant Nicholson.

Chapter 26 – Nicholson

“That was good. Now we’re going to try three-round bursts. A military weapon will have a mechanism to fire short bursts automatically, but we’re going to do it the old-fashioned way. I want you to try squeezing the trigger three times quickly without moving the barrel. I want to see three shots, closely spaced. Ready?”

A dozen pairs of eyes were locked on Nicholson. All twelve students turned away, peering downrange and lifting their newly-minted rail guns to their shoulders.

“Fire!” Nicholson barked, and a barrage of steel pellets flew across the soccer field. The targets were broad green leaves, each as tall as a man, shoved stem-first into the ground thirty or so meters away. The leaves were a tattered mess by now. Soon it would be time for the second squad, currently keeping watch downrange to make sure no one wandered into the path of the pellets, to run out and replace the leaves.

Nicholson swept his binoc across the row of leaves. It was hard to tell exactly how the squad of colonists was doing, but what they needed right now was encouragement, not honesty. “Good,” he said. “Excellent work. Try another burst.” This time he kept his gaze on the students. He walked along the row of grimly concentrating colonists, telling a man to lift his elbow, reminding a woman to squeeze the trigger without jerking it.

“Okay, that’s good. Safeties on.” Each student flipped a small switch that cut power from the battery to the gun’s magnets. “Ground weapons.” He waited while they planted the butts of the guns on the ground beside their feet. “Good. Keep them grounded.” He raised his voice. “Second squad! Change the targets, if you please.”

More colonists rose from behind a low ridge and hurried to knock down the tattered remains of the palm fronds. They planted new fronds and retreated behind the ridge.

“Spacecom won’t always be around to protect you,” he said. “You’ve already learned that the hard way. I wish I could promise there would always be trained military personnel on hand to deal with the Hive or anything else that comes along. We all know that’s not how it works.” He made a grand gesture with his arm, as if he stood in front of a vast army of elite troops instead of a rag-tag militia. “Now you don’t need someone else to fly in and protect you. You’re dangerous now. You can protect yourselves.”

It was largely nonsense, of course. No militia was a match for a trained, professional military force. They needed confidence, though, not cold hard facts.

“Lieutenant? It looks like you have visitors.”

Nicholson turned. Aimee Tanner, a colonist so tiny she hardly looked like an adult, kept one hand on the barrel of her rail gun and used her free hand to point in the direction of the spaceport. Three figures stepped onto the unkempt grass of the soccer field. A fat man led the way, his stomach straining the fabric of his red uniform shirt and spilling over the belt that held up his black trousers. His black sash curved around the stomach in question.

By contrast, the man and woman who followed him were almost ridiculously fit. At least, they gave that impression. They wore black uniforms and medium-weight body armor, which gave them both broad shoulders and deep, solid-looking chests. The armor was narrow at the waist, though, and if either of them had five kilos of fat, Nicholson couldn’t see where they kept it.

“Rack the weapons,” Nicholson said. He had a feeling a confrontation was coming, and he’d learned the colonists were stubborn, prickly, and courageous beyond all reason. If one of the redshirts was going to start pushing them around, Nicholson didn’t want things escalating.

The squad lined up to put their rifles into a simple wooden rack beside the improvised firing range. Nicholson called softly, “Second squad. Maintain your position.” Then he led the first squad a dozen or so paces from the rack and waited.

It took some time. The soccer field wasn’t wide, but the redshirt wasn’t moving too quickly. At last he arrived, his face almost as red as his shirt, and spent a long minute panting for breath. Nicholson looked past him at the marines, neither of whom was winded in the slightest. They wouldn’t be new recruits. They were probably infantry, seasoned ground troops transferred into the brand-new Marine Corps.

“I’m Colonel McLaw,” the redshirt said at last. “I’m in charge of everyone on the surface of Ariadne.”

That brought a mutter of annoyance from the squad.

McLaw frowned and swept a cold eye over the colonists. Silence fell, and he returned his gaze to Nicholson. “We’re here to confiscate your weapons.”

“What?” A babble of voices rose from the squad, all of them talking at once, but it was Aimee whose voice rose above the others. “You can’t take our guns!”

McLaw’s chest expanded, and he smiled, an unpleasant grin full of self-importance. “I can and I will. The EDF will not tolerate unauthorized weapons in a civilian population.”

“The what?” said Aimee. She looked angry enough to eat rail gun rounds. “What’s the EDF?”

For a moment McLaw just gaped at her. He seemed utterly flabbergasted that someone was unaware of his precious organization. “The Earth Defence Force. We were formed under the direct authority of-”

“So go defend Earth,” Aimee snapped. She advanced on McLaw, and although he was triple her weight, he shrank back. “We’ll defend Naxos.” She took another step. She was a good three paces away from him, but he stepped back, to the visible annoyance of the marines directly behind him. “With our guns,” Aimee said.

She took another step. Either McLaw found some courage, or the marines behind him were pushing against his back. He stopped retreating.

“Our guns, which we’ll be keeping,” Aimee said. Her head barely reached his shoulder, but when she leaned forward, he leaned back. “Is that clear?”

A frozen moment passed, and McLaw seemed to realize the absurdity of his position. He straightened up, stared down at her, then gathered himself. He scowled, folded his arms across his chest, and took a deep breath. “The Statsminister himself has given the EDF authority over all affairs related to the defence of the Earth.”

“This isn’t Earth,” Aimee snapped, her hands curling into fists.

“This is part of the war against the Hive,” McLaw said ponderously.

Her arms flew up, making him flinch. “We want to use these guns to shoot the Hive aliens, you moron! Why do you want to take them away?”

“The EDF asks the questions.” McLaw had his footing now. He sneered down at Aimee. “You will turn over your weapons. If you refuse, well ….” He gestured over his shoulder at the marines. “These two will deal with any resistance.”

Aimee’s face darkened, and Nicholson saw a ripple of movement in the squad, some people moving toward Aimee, some edging toward the weapons rack. He’d been pretty much mesmerized by the confrontation, but he threw off the spell and found his voice. “Of course,” he said. “The weapons are right there. Help yourself.” Then, turning to Aimee, “Ms. Tanner. Take the squad to the Roadrunner. Wait there for me.”

She stared at him, clearly wanting to argue. He gazed into her eyes, willing her to trust him, pleading with her silently not to turn a minor confrontation into a violent one.

It didn’t work. She continued to glare up at him, not moving.

“I know that these are the only guns on the planet,” he said carefully. It was completely untrue. More than two hundred rail guns had already been manufactured and were even now being assembled in the factory, and Aimee knew it. “It’s all the guns you have and you won’t be able to get more. But it’s like I said. You’ll just have to trust Spacecom to protect you.”

She blinked, then turned away and said, “Squad! Come with me!” And she set off at a run.

McLaw watched, open-mouthed, as the colonists dashed across the soccer field. Nicholson watched as well, feeling the knot of tension in his stomach ease somewhat. If the second squad would just stay put this could end without an interstellar incident. He smiled at the colonel and gestured at the gun rack. “There’s your weapons, Sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

“Wait!” said McLaw. “I need someone to move the weapons.”

“I wish I could help,” Nicholson called over his shoulder. “Duty calls, though.”

He walked away, moving briskly. This kind of borderline insubordination would never have worked on an experienced officer. He knew exactly how he would shut it down if anyone tried it on him. McLaw, however, had been a civilian as recently as a month ago, and it showed.

“You there. Come over here. I need you to – Hey! Come over here and …”

By the sound of it, the second squad had come up from behind the ridge and were ignoring McLaw completely. Nicholson chuckled as he left the soccer field and reached a broad street.

A block later he came to an intersection and found Aimee and her squad waiting. She planted her hands on her hips and stood in his path. “What the hell, Lieutenant!”

He lifted his hands in a placatory gesture. “They seized a dozen rail guns, all of which can be replaced. And no one got shot by marines. I’d call that a successful outcome.” He lowered his hands. “We’ll need a new firing range, though.”

The anger went out of Aimee, and the rest of the squad broke into a chorus of grumbling. Nicholson let them vent for a minute, then lifted his hands. When they went silent he said, “Large organizations always come with a certain percentage of stupid regulations and difficult people. There really aren’t any exceptions.”

Feet thumped on the street behind him and he turned to see the second squad approaching. He waited until they reached him before he continued.

“Trying to take your guns away was pretty stupid, and I wish it was the worst of it. I’ve been hearing some disturbing rumors from Earth.”

Someone said, “What do we care about Earth?”

“Fair enough,” said Nicholson. “But Earth controls Spacecom. Earth sends out people like that clown McLaw, and tells people like me that he’s in charge.” He paused while the colonists muttered and complained. “So here’s what I need you to understand.” He took a deep breath, not wanting to say what needed to be said. “You can’t trust the military. You need to hide your weapons as quickly as you manufacture them. You need to train in secret. You need to keep your own counsel. And don’t trust anyone in uniform.”

Aimee smirked at him and said, “Can we trust you?”

He didn’t smile back. “I’m a conflicted man. If you don’t trust me, I’ll never be in a position where I have to choose between lying to my colleagues or betraying you.”

She stopped smirking.

Several colonists glanced to the left, and some of them stiffened. Nicholson turned to follow the direction of their gaze. A man was striding toward them, coming from the direction of the spaceport. He wore a naval officer’s uniform without the black armband of the crews newly arrived from Earth. He was stocky and broad-shouldered, with a flat-topped gray haircut and a bulldog’s expression.

“If you want to trust someone in uniform,” said Nicholson, “trust me. And trust him, too. That’s Captain Hammett. He’s about as easy to push around as a grizzly bear.”

Hammett reached the group and stopped, raising a bushy iron-gray eyebrow. “Lieutenant?”

“Captain. This is some of the local militia. I’ve been teaching them to use rail guns, but a Colonel McLaw just confiscated all their weapons.”

Hammett said, “All of them?”

Nicholson grinned. “Officially, yes, Sir.”

“And unofficially?”

“Well, unofficially, a lot of people might leave the factory building where the fabricators are, carrying unmarked boxes and heading for undisclosed locations.”

Hammett nodded. “That might be prudent.” He looked around at the colonists. “That might be something you’ll want to do right away.”

Aimee looked at Nicholson. He nodded and said, “I guess class is dismissed for today. Come to the spaceport tomorrow morning at eight. We’ll work on communications and signalling, and maneuvering in small groups.”

The colonists dispersed, leaving the two officers alone in the middle of the street.

Hammett put his hands in his pockets and let his shoulders slump. “I remember during the Outer Settlements War being sickened that I had to go to war with people who were just like me. They were Navy personnel, just serving on a different Navy. That made them my enemy. It always seemed wrong.” He was silent for a moment, staring down the street, staring into the past. “I thought I’d be spared that, this time around. I figured the Hive invasion put every human being alive on the same side.” He turned to look at Nicholson, his eyes bleak. “We’re not all on the same side, are we?”

Nicholson thought of McLaw, trying to disarm the colonists who’d been fighting the Hive. “No,” he said. “No, we aren’t.”

Chapter 27 – Christine

“What on Earth – Sorry. What on Ariadne are you doing?”

Christine Goldfarb ignored the voice, concentrating on moving a sheet of Fourier metal longer than she was tall. Even with her assistant Tom on the other end, the sheet of metal was brutally heavy. The top was covered in a forest of filaments, each more than a meter long. It wouldn’t take much of a blow to break every last filament off at the base.

She and Tom lowered the sheet into place beside a dozen similar sheets on a long table. Only then did she straighten and turn.

A middle-aged black woman stood in the entrance of Christine’s workshop. She wore Earth fashions, snug trousers and a dark jacket with two buttons. It was the kind of thoroughly impractical clothing you just didn’t see in the colonies. She gave Christine a rueful grin and said, “Sorry. I picked a bad time to distract you.”

That was all it took to undermine Christine’s rising annoyance. She smiled back and said, “Actually, I’m delighted by the interruption.” She rolled her shoulders, loosening the muscles. “Those things are bloody heavy, and I could use a break.” To Tom she said, “Take five minutes or so.”

“I’m Sonia Renfield,” the woman said. “I’m with the scientific team from Earth. Do you mind if I come in?”

“Sure.” Christine eyed the woman curiously as she approached. Christine had always been something of a misfit on Ariadne, appreciated for her scientific knowledge but never really understood by her fellow colonists. She’d done most of her learning through data streams, never spending much time with anyone she would consider a peer.

The two women shook hands. “I’ve heard all about you,” said Sonia. She gestured at the line of bristling metal sheets. “Is this Fourier metal?”

Christine nodded.

“Fascinating.” Sonia moved closer to the table. “And these thin spikes are for heat dissipation, right?” She glanced at Christine. “Are these going to be hull plates?”

Christine nodded again.

“You wouldn’t even need to cover the whole ship,” the woman said. “So long as you had connecting strips, every plate would share heat with every other plate.”

Christine nodded slowly. She hadn’t really considered that possibility. It would save a lot of Fourier metal. Of course, if the heat weapon struck somewhere without any Fourier metal ….

“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” Sonia said. “Maybe not today, though.” She gave Christine a self-deprecating grin. “Today I’m here with an ulterior motive.”

The two of them walked outside and into the sunshine. Christine arched her back, easing the kinks, and gazed up at the crater walls. She’d been doing close work for hours, squinting at things in her poorly-lit workshop. She stared into the distance, resting her eyes, then reluctantly shifted her gaze to Sonia.

“It’s that alien tower,” Sonia said. “It’s given us some huge breakthroughs. It’s only a week since we’ve landed, and our understanding of alien technology has exploded.” She mimed an explosion with her hands. “We still don’t know what makes the gun fire, though. We’re stumped.”

Christine spread her hands. “But I don’t know anything about it! I’ve barely looked at the tower from the outside. I don’t know anything about how Hive technology works.”

“Exactly!” Sonia’s hands made excited gestures in the air. “We need a fresh perspective. We’ve all been hearing each other’s theories for so long, it’s all we can think of. We need fresh eyes.” When Christine gave her a dubious look, Sonia said, “You’re exactly what we need. You’re a generalist. You haven’t spent twenty years specializing in one tiny area. You’re multi-disciplinary. You’re bound to see something we’ve missed.”

It was the direct appeal to her ego that did it. Even realizing that fact didn’t keep it from working. Christine walked to the doorway and said, “Tom? I’m going to be away for a little bit. Are you good to keep fabricating filaments for a while?”

“Of course,” he said. “You go ahead. Oh, and if they have any zinc, bring it back, would you?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She enjoyed the short walk to Garibaldi Plaza. She’d been spending too much time indoors. Since the workshop had power and her apartment still didn’t, she’d been spending her nights on a cot at the back. It was all too easy to let a full day go by without stepping outside.

The city was changing, she saw. Laundry hung from improvised clotheslines, symptoms of the power restriction. Two thirds of the homes she passed were occupied, either by the original inhabitants or by Navy personnel. Occupancy was probably lower in districts that still lacked power.

A marine stood on a street corner, a rifle in his hands, frowning at passers-by. Christine knew from Tom that the colonists didn’t know quite what to make of the military presence in the city. The sailors from the Achilles and Tomahawk were one thing. They had fought courageously to drive the Hive ships out of the system. Some of them, like Nicholson, had fought the Hive here in the crater. Now their ships were disabled, and it was unthinkable that the people of Harlequin wouldn’t take them in.

The marines, though, were another matter. They had arrived only after the aliens left. The optimists among the colonists assumed the marine patrols were there to protect them. After all, the aliens might return. There might even be pockets of hostile Hive troops hiding in some wild corner of the crater.

Cynics said the Marine Corps was on Ariadne to make sure the civilian population did as they were told. They pointed to the almost unbelievable reports trickling in from Earth, where the EDF was enforcing something close to martial law.

Christine, not knowing quite what to think, gave the marine a neutral nod in passing and continued on her way to the plaza.

The tower made her hackles rise. It bothered her on a fundamental level. It was … alien. No human being would have designed something so lumpy, so strange. It didn’t belong in the heart of her city. It didn’t belong anywhere where human beings lived.

Two men and two women stood near the base of the tower, engaged in an animated discussion. They wore civilian clothing in Earth styles, and Christine was not surprised to learn they were the rest of the scientific team. Sonia introduced them, a couple of professors and a couple of doctors, all of them associated with universities back on Earth. Christine began to feel like a country bumpkin, the self-taught yokel who had never even set foot in an institution of higher learning.

Then Sonia led her to the tower, and she forgot all about the other scientists.

A cavity gaped in the base of the structure. The science team had pulled away great chunks of the tower and laid them out on sheets all around the fountain. Christine knelt and examined some of the components on display, then stepped into the cavity and peered at the guts of the tower.

At first all she saw was chaos, a jumble of lumpy shapes that reminded her of a junk heap more than anything else. Finally she realized that the strangest sight of all was the fact she could see anything. Sunlight penetrated the tower, and her gaze tracked upward, looking for the source.

A central shaft rose through the heart of the tower, a space as big around as her skull, extending upward as far as she could see. It glittered with sunlight. Clearly the top was open to the sky. If that’s the barrel of the weapon, then it projects energy upward somehow. What’s the source?

She stared at the machinery that surrounded her until an ache in her back and neck became impossible to ignore. She was stooped over to fit in the cavity, with her head twisted to one side and angled back so she could look up. She backed out and straightened up, groaning as her neck protested.

“It’s a little cramped in there,” said Sonia. “We didn’t want to pull out any more pieces. We were scared the whole tower would come down.”

She took Christine on a tour of the components they’d already removed. “It’s modular,” Sonia said. “That was our first breakthrough. Every piece of alien technology seems to be modular on several different scales.”

Christine examined the hardware on the sheets and quickly saw what the other woman meant. A component the size of a human torso broke apart into knobby pieces as big as her two fists together. Each knobby piece was almost identical to the others. She saw where one of the knobby components had been broken apart into thumb -sized chunks. The outside surface of each thumb-sized piece was covered in bumps and indentations. They could be locked together, one to another, in almost any configuration.

“Look at this one,” said Sonia, and led her to a little thumb-sized piece sitting by itself on a sheet of paper. “This came from a spaceship destroyed in the Battle of Earth.”

The component was indistinguishable from all the others.

“There are wires inside,” said Sonia, “each with multiple contacts. There are tubes as well. Three tubes, each one a different size, run through each micro-block.” She pointed at one of the thumb -sized components. “That’s our unofficial name. These are micro-blocks.” She indicated one of the composite components. “We call the grapefruit-sized ones ‘building blocks’.”

“It’s so … modular,” Christine said. What did it say about the psychology of the aliens? The lack of specialization was very inefficient. Every structure and device would be full of tubes and wires that served no function. But spare parts would be a breeze. If you had a bucket of micro-blocks you were ready for just about anything. In an emergency, you could disassemble anything and turn it into something else.

“It’s odd,” Sonia agreed. “On the other hand, it’s hard to hit a critical spot. If you break a wire or a tube, there’s always other tubes.” She swept a hand up, pointing from the base of the tower to the peak. “There must be two hundred tubes bringing water up.”

“Water?” Christine said.

Sonia beamed. “That’s one of the things we did manage to figure out. They power this thing with hydrogen. Water comes up from the bottom, they separate out the oxygen, and they process the hydrogen in a gizmo up there.” She pointed at a lump on the side of the tower maybe three meters up.

“Huh.” Christine scratched her head. “I was wondering why they built inside the city. They probably picked their spot as soon as they spotted the fountains.”

Several hours sped by without Christine really noticing. The others had had more time to study the tower and other Hive technology back on Earth, but when it came time to test theories, Christine discovered she had a better knack for practical issues. She also knew the resources available in Harlequin. At her suggestion they turned their attention to the alien power boxes. These proved to be remarkably compact hydrogen fusion plants, each one powerful enough to run the entire crater with energy left over.

Once they had a power box running, connected to the tower with a repaired cable, they started running electricity through different sections of the tower. They formed dozens of theories, tested them one at a time, and slowly expanded their understanding of the alien hardware.

When the sun was low in the sky Sonia said, “I think we could try firing this thing.”

The six of them exchanged uncertain glances.

“What could possibly go wrong?” Sonia said. “I’m not being glib. That’s a serious question.”

They brainstormed disaster scenarios, from accidentally destroying a Navy ship in orbit to triggering a massive explosion.

“I don’t think it’s capable of exploding,” Christine said. “Everything about the design channels excess energy into that central shaft. It all gets expelled straight up into the air. I think the worst we can do is accidentally melt the whole thing into slag.”

“That would be a shame,” said Sonia. “Still, I can live with that.”

“Me too.” A sudden rush of excitement spread through Christine’s stomach and tingled across her skin. “Let’s do it!”

Ultimately they made a tour of every building that bordered on the plaza. Mostly it was restaurants and stores that hadn’t reopened since the invasion. They found a couple of apartments containing half a dozen sailors from the Achilles and got them to take up posts in every street that led to the plaza. Then, when they were sure the plaza was clear and every nearby building was empty, they retreated behind the base of a statue.

Sonia hit a remote control switch connected to what they were almost certain was the tower’s trigger mechanism. A data pad close to the tower recorded everything, and the scientists watched on their implants. The top of the tower glowed red, then flashed white. Then it went dark.

“I guess it worked,” said Sonia, her voice strangely hushed. “Of course, it still might blow up.”

They exchanged glances.

Sonia said, “How long do you think we should wait?”

“I don’t know,” Christine said.

They sat, fidgeting, for the better part of two minutes. Nothing exploded. The tower just sat there, inert. When they couldn’t stand it anymore they rose and returned to the tower.

“Well,” Christine said, “we have a working space gun. I can see how that might come in handy.” She grinned at the other scientists. “Tomorrow’s challenge is figuring out how to aim it.”

Sonia looked startled. “Aim it? Now that we’ve tested it, we should take the whole thing apart.”

Christine shook her head. “No way. The Hive is going to come back. We’re going to need that gun.”

Chapter 28 – Hammett

Hammett floated in a vac suit in the bridge of the Tomahawk, gazing out through the starboard window. The ruined engine floated not far away, showing a jagged gash where the alien gun had struck. The engine shrank as he watched, receding with distance. The repair crew had given it a good shove planetward after they removed it. Its orbit would deteriorate, and in a few days or weeks it would hit atmosphere and burn up.

Sailors in vac suits and EVA rigs hovered around the replacement engine, nudging it closer and closer to the gaping cavity in the aft of the Tomahawk. It was the Bayonet’s starboard engine, removed the day before by crews from the Hannibal. Hammett was still surprised by the engine swap. A cruiser like the Alexander would have needed full space dock facilities for an engine replacement.

The sailors outside were made anonymous by their vac suits. The suits were all identical, too, except for a lieutenant with a rank stripe on his chest. There were no black armbands out there, which meant a blended team of sailors was working together without any of the suspicion and cliquishness he’d been seeing for the past week. It should always be like this. One big team. One Navy. Us against the aliens, and the endless subtle dangers of working in deep space.

A familiar muted anger rumbled in his belly. You cockroaches have broken my Navy. Will it ever be whole again?

He grimaced. The Naxos system was about to gain a lot of unity, but not in a good way.

The Tomahawk was cold and airless around him, but she would be coming back to life soon. Her magazines were full, every weapon worked, and there was even a new fighter clamped to the top of her hull. These developments should have pleased him, but they made his stomach twist in impotent frustration. Much of the ordnance and spare parts had come from the remains of the Bayonet, but the fighter and a laser turret were from a corvette in what he thought of as the EDF fleet. The fleet was being stripped to resupply the Tomahawk and the Achilles.

The reason was simple. The EDF fleet was going back to Earth.

It was stupid. It was beyond stupid. The war was here, not back home. Humanity had gained a tiny slice of momentum. They had the Hive on the run, and every warrior’s instinct Hammett possessed told him they needed to press their advantage. They had a chance to roll up the enemy like a carpet and liberate one colony after another.

Instead, all his reinforcements were going home. The new Statsminister had to show the majority of his voters he was looking out for their interests, keeping them safe.

And he needed to show his detractors he could crush them whenever he liked.

The worst part was, Hammett’s original orders hadn’t changed. General Zara Akbar, officer in overall command of the EDF fleet in Naxos, had clarified his instructions in an unpleasant meeting in a commandeered office building in Harlequin. “It’s quite simple, Richard,” she had said, smiling in a condescending way. “You have your job, and I have mine. I defend the Earth. You take the war to the aliens. You’ve done a brilliant job so far, although I did have to bail you out at the end. You won’t have me to rescue you next time.” The smile became a smirk. “Your orders are to press on to Deirdre as soon as your ships are spaceworthy.” She wagged a thick finger at him. “Try to take better care of your fleet this time, all right?”

He hadn’t been able to do anything but grind his teeth in frustration. He’d lost a third of his tiny fleet, and he’d taught the Hive what to expect from corvettes. Advancing alone to Deirdre would be suicide.

It wouldn’t be too healthy for the colonists on Ariadne, either. They’d be completely unprotected.

Hammett’s new commanding officer wasn’t any happier. It still felt unreal to Hammett. Major David Swanson was now officially in command of the Tomahawk. He was a plump, nervous man who didn’t like being in space, and he had yet to set foot in his new command. The idea of pressing on to Deirdre terrified him, but he was as trapped as Hammett.

Outside the window the replacement engine drifted into place and Hammett squinted at the sudden bright flare of arc welders. The repair crew knew their jobs. Hammett really had nothing to contribute, but he had no desire to spend more time on the surface of Naxos. The planet was where the redshirts hung out. Up here he could at least pretend to himself that not so much had changed.

“Captain Hammett,” said a voice in his helmet. “This is the shuttle Hindenburg. We’re preparing to head planetside. Would you like a lift?”

No, he thought. I’d rather stay here. But with most of the fleet already gathered around the Gate there wasn’t much traffic between Harlequin and orbit. He would be wise to catch a ride while a ride was being offered. “Yes, please,” he said, and twisted around. He hated to leave a boot track on the window, but nothing else was quite in reach. He kicked off from the steelglass and floated for the hatch.

New vac suits numbered among the equipment delivered to the Tomahawk during this improvised refit. Hammett again had access to multiple radio channels and automatic scanning of suit transponders. He wondered if he could pick up Radio Free Naxos. He was in the mood for a bit of irreverent snark.

The shuttle held a dozen technicians, some of them with tool belts and suit thrusters full of compressed air. They shifted over to make room for him and the shuttle began its descent.

“It’s nice to work on a ship that stays fixed,” a man said. There was no way to tell which suited figure had spoken. “If I never see the Achilles again I won’t miss it. I swear they’re unplugging things as fast as I plug them back in.”

Someone else made a rude noise over the radio. “Yeah, right. Remind me not to fly on anything you’ve worked on.”

That set off a chorus of insults and good-natured bickering that made Hammett smile. Clearly no one realized an officer was listening in, and he did nothing to remind them.

“Be good to get home,” someone said. “I know my kids are worried about me.”

That comment killed the raucous edge of the conversation pretty quickly. Someone else said, “I’m worried about my kids too. I wish we were doing some actual fighting. I’d feel better if we were jumping to Deirdre right now.” He sighed, a gusty, gloomy sound. “I wanna fry me some aliens.”

“Not me,” a woman declared. “Dying for my planet is one thing. Getting my implants fried, though? That’s where I draw the line.”

That set off a chorus of laughter and more banter that lasted until the shuttle touched down. The hatch opened, air rushed into the shuttle, and Hammett gratefully opened the faceplate on his helmet. He was getting used to the smell of plants. He was beginning to like it a lot.

He had his helmet tucked under one arm and was walking toward the partially-repaired terminal building with its locker rooms when a man’s voice said, “Hammett. You know, you’re damnably hard to get ahold of.”

Hammett turned to see Major Swanson hurrying across the tarmac toward him. “I won’t apologize for taking damage from enemy weapons, Major.” The title was his personal form of compromise. Swanson was a major, if only in an organization Hammett detested. Addressing him as ‘Major’ allowed Hammett to meet the minimum requirements of deference to rank without using the word ‘Sir’, which implied respect.

“Of course, of course,” Swanson said, stopping as he reached Hammett. “It’s bloody inconvenient, though. I don’t know how you stand it.”

Knowing that people like you are trying to reach me makes it easier. He didn’t voice the thought. Instead he said, “What can I do for you, Major?”

Swanson glanced around, waiting for the other shuttle passengers to move out of earshot. “How long do you think repairs will take?”

“On the Tomahawk?” Hammett shrugged. “Probably another thirty-six hours or so. Two full days on the local calendar.” He considered. “That’s if everything goes well.”

Swanson frowned. “How long will it take if something goes wrong?”

Hammett shrugged again. “I can still hardly believe they’re swapping an engine without a full space dock. I wouldn’t be surprised if they couldn’t fix the Tomahawk at all.” A look of alarm crossed the major’s face, and Hammett said, “The techs tell me it’s all straightforward. They’ve got the engine welded in place. It’s all just reconnecting systems and testing them, now. All of that’s pretty straightforward. We’ll probably be ready to go in a couple of days.”

Swanson nodded distractedly. “Right. Good.” He looked at Hammett, fidgeting. “The fleet has orders to leave as soon as the Tomahawk is ready to go.”

Damn it. I was hoping they would come to their senses. He briefly thought about sabotaging the repairs to force the fleet to stay. Kaur was already pushing her luck with that tactic, though. And Hammett wasn’t entirely sure he wanted an EDF-run fleet in the system anyway. “That’s … interesting to know, Major,” he said at last.

“We’ll have to leave for Deirdre,” Swanson said. His face was the color of ash. “We’re doomed.”

Chapter 29 – Hammett

The Tomahawk’s forward observation room was a tiny compartment in the nose of the ship on the lower deck. It ran the full ten-meter width of the ship, but a tall person would be able to touch the steelglass window and the back wall with outstretched fingertips.

The compartment had been designed as a leisure room, a small quiet space where off-duty crew could sit and look out into the vastness of space in front of the ship. The view was particularly good just now, with the Milky Way forming a dazzling splash of light dead ahead and the bulk of Ariadne turning below. The room had been repurposed, thought, fitted with telephones along the back wall and telescopes that made it downright awkward to cross the little chamber.

A sailor was perched on a chair, peering through a telescope, when Hammett entered the room. The young man glanced over, then stiffened. “Hello, Captain.”

“Relax,” Hammett told him. “As you were.” He spent a moment racking his memory. “Daltrey, isn’t it? From the Bayonet?” The handful of survivors from the Bayonet had been distributed between Tomahawk and Achilles. It seemed the EDF commanders were as distrustful of the Attack Fleet personnel as Hammett was of the EDF fleet people. The only crew from Achilles, Bayonet, and Tomahawk going back to Earth were the wounded and the dead.

Daltrey nodded. “Yes, Sir.” He glanced at the telescope, unsure if it would really be appropriate to go back to looking through the eyepiece with his captain standing beside him.

Hammett grinned to himself. “What do you see, Daltrey?”

“The fleet’s gathered in front of the Gate. They haven’t gone through yet.” Daltrey leaned forward and peered into the telescope. “Wait a minute. I can’t see the Hannibal.” He leaned back, blinked, then returned to the eyepiece. “Another ship just disappeared. They’re going through the Gate right now, Sir.”

Not really. The Gate was a long way off. More than three light-hours. The fleet was gone, had been gone for hours. He looked at Daltrey. “Are you on a light-duty cycle right now?” The crew was doing “three sixes”, alternating six-hour shifts. Six hours of active duty, six hours of light duty and recreation, and six hours of sleep.

“Yes, Sir.”

Hammett took a seat beside him. “I haven’t learned the local names for the constellations. Do you see the pentagram of five stars there?” He pointed.

Daltrey nodded.

“That’s the direction the Hive survivors retreated to after the last fight. I want you to keep an eye on that piece of sky. If they’re around, they might be watching the Gate. Waiting to see if we bring in more reinforcements. Waiting to see if we leave. They might have seen the fleet departing.”

Daltrey gulped.

“If they come back, that’s where they’ll come from.” Hammett pointed at the pentagram. “We’ve got some of our scanners working again, but I wouldn’t say they’re perfectly reliable. So I’d like to have some human eyeballs on the job.”

“I understand, Sir.”

“Good man,” Hammett said, and left the compartment.

Every corridor on the ship was narrow, often to the point where two people couldn’t pass. Ahead of Hammett a young man pressed himself into a tiny alcove to let the captain go by. A black stripe showed on the man’s sleeve. That meant it was Ken Hardy, the only crewman on board from the EDF fleet. Hardy was the new fighter pilot.

“Thank you,” said Hammett as he passed. He paused. “How are you adjusting to the new ship, Hardy?”

“It’s fine, Captain. I mean, Sir.” Hardy flushed, then gave a hesitant salute.

Hammett stared at him. Before the Hive invasion pilots had all been officers. Now Spacecom was recruiting pilots with a very specific and unusual skill set, experience with manually-controlled small ships. Baca had been a sailor. Hardy, though, was acting as if he had no military experience at all.

“How long have you been in Spacecom?” Hammett said.

Hardy’s flush deepened. “Tomorrow it will be three weeks, Sir. I mean, Captain.”

“Three weeks?”

“Yes, Sir.” Hardy suddenly looked impossibly young. “Recruiters came to my club. I’m in the Auckland Eagles. We fly Sparrows and Finches. We were South Pacific League champs last year and the year before.”

“You’re … Australian?”

Hardy’s eyes narrowed for just an instant. “New Zealander, Sir.”

“Right. No offense.” Hammett sighed. “Have you had any military training at all, Hardy?”

The boy scratched his head. “Well, we had a two-hour lecture from the Spacecom academy. After that, we spent all our time drilling with these new fighters.” His eyes lit up. “They’re incredible! Um, Sir.”

This is what you get for complaining that the military is too hidebound and needs to be more flexible. “When you’re in the cockpit of a fighter, do you know what you’re doing?”

Hardy nodded, looking much less flustered. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. That’s the important thing. Don’t worry too much about all this military protocol. You’ll figure it out.”

“All right. Thank you, Sir.”

“Carry on, Hardy.” Hammett turned away and walked to the bridge, shaking his head. Was I ever that young?

He had the captain’s seat to himself, a fact for which he was deeply grateful. Swanson was planetside and would be staying there for as long as he could. I wonder if I could leave him behind when we go on to Deirdre. It’s not as if he would actually mind.

“Status,” he said as he dropped into his seat.

“Everything’s green so far,” said Sanjari. “Mr. Geibelhaus says he can’t make any absolute guarantees about the new engine until we really push it, but it’s passed every test he can think of.”

“Internal communications are still down,” Ramirez said. “The phones work, though.”

“Well, we knew an EMP strike would likely fry us for the duration,” said Hammett. “It’s what we planned for and trained for. We have partial scanners, which is more than we expected. I’d say we’re doing fine.” He looked around the bridge. “How much time do we need for further testing? One shift?”

“A full shift should do it, Sir,” said Sanjari. Ramirez nodded his agreement.

Hammett said, “The next phase will be-”

A phone buzzed on Ramirez’ console. He answered, then twisted around to look at Hammett. “Forward Observation Room reports enemy activity.” He turned to Sanjari. “He says it’s in the direction of that pentagram constellation.”

Her hands moved across her console.

Hammett hit the buzzer button wired to the side of his chair. Six blasts signalled General Quarters, and he heard running feet in the corridor outside. “Contact the Achilles,” he said. “Tell Kaur to get upstairs.”

“Aye aye.”

“Sanjari. What can you tell me?”

“I count three contacts so far,” she said. “I can’t tell how large, but they’re bigger than the individual ships. Wait! There’s a fourth contact, Sir. They’re maybe four light-hours out.” She glanced up at him. “That’s all I can say for sure, Sir.”

Ramirez said, “Achilles reports she can lift off in ten minutes.”

“Copy that. Sanjari, can you tell what direction they’re heading?”

“No, Sir. I’ve got two new contacts, though. They’re quite spread out.” A moment later she said, “One contact just disappeared. Let me see …”

Hammett waited, trying not to fidget. The vast distances involved in space travel caused delays that could make combat maddening. Well, you’ll be busy soon enough. Enjoy the lull while it lasts.

“New contact,” Sanjari said. “If it’s the same ship that just disappeared, I can make a good guess as to their heading.” Her fingers tapped on the arm of her chair in a burst of nervous energy. “There’s no way to triangulate. I’m guessing at the range.” More tapping. “I think I have a bearing.” She swivelled her chair around. “This is just an educated guess, Sir. I can’t be certain.”

“I understand. What can you tell me?”

“They seem to be heading for the Gate, Sir.”

Which was exactly what he would have expected. Either they had a massive fleet and they would pour through to attack Earth, or they planned to destroy the Gate, cut off reinforcements from Spacecom, and focus on retaking Naxos.

Benson said, “We’ll be ready to jump in ten minutes or so. Should I line us up with the Gate?”

“No.” Hammett shook his head, weary of the whole mess. “If they’re heading for the Gate, they’re there already.” It was already too late by the time Daltrey spotted the ships. The light he’d seen had taken hours to reach the Tomahawk.

I should have headed for the Gate earlier. Before the fleet left. Then I’d already be there. But what if they went for the planet instead? Maybe I could have-He squashed the spiralling thoughts with the ease of long practice. Recriminations were crippling, and the “what if” game was worse. You’re here now. Deal with the situation as it is. Not as you imagine it could have been.

Movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention. He watched through the starboard window as the Achilles rose and took up station a few hundred meters away. She was a comforting presence, and Hammett was glad he’d rejected the idea of sending one corvette to the Gate and keeping the other in orbit around Ariadne. If they divide you, they’ll conquer you. Keep your firepower concentrated.

“This is interesting,” said Sanjari.

When she didn’t offer any further comment Hammett said, “Don’t leave us hanging, for pity’s sake. What’s interesting?”

Sanjari looked up, startled. “Oh, did I say that out loud?”

“Yes,” said Hammett with what patience he could muster.

“I count sixteen contacts,” she said. “It’s definitely more. Probably a lot more. They’re kind of … leapfrogging. They’re making fast, short jumps.” She hunched forward, peering at her screen. “It’s taking them less than five minutes to recharge before they make another wormhole. But they only jump maybe a hundred million kilometers.”

“Radio message from groundside,” Ramirez said. “It’s Colonel O’Hare. Oops, he wants the Achilles.” With their electronics fried, each ship and both fighters had crystal radios, tuned to the same frequency. The days of private encrypted radio communication were over.

“Ooh, he’s angry,” said Ramirez. “It seems the Achilles took off without him. He’s not too pleased.”

“Tell him it was an emergency,” Hammett said. “Tell him Kaur was following my orders. Then tell him the emergency is ongoing and we need the channel kept clear.”

As Ramirez murmured into a handset Hammett thought, We still have decent electronics on the fighters. They were never fried. We’ve got a way to have secure communications between the two corvettes. We’ve even got decent short-range scanners, until the cockroaches fry us again. I need to remember that.

“Captain!”

Hammett looked up. It was Daltrey, standing breathless in the entrance to the bridge. “I spotted some more ships, Sir. They’re coming straight at us.”

Chapter 30 – Hardy

The fighter Jinx separated from the Tomahawk with an audible clatter. Hardy gave the ventral thruster a short squirt, pushing the little craft away from the corvette. When he was a hundred meters from the ship he gave the dorsal thruster a matching squirt and the ship drifted to a halt.

He was afraid. He’d known combat would be frightening, but he’d never imagined it would be this bad. The enemy fleet, swarm, whatever you wanted to call it, was still a good twenty minutes away, but Hardy was on the ragged edge of panic.

Eyes squeezed shut, he watched his death play out hundreds of different ways, projected onto the inside of his eyelids by his overheated imagination. His flesh burned, his lungs hemorrhaged in vacuum, he was decapitated by flying debris ….

“Hardy!”

He jerked, banging his head on the back of the cockpit. He could hear the terrified rasp of his own breathing echoing in his helmet. Is it loud enough to trigger the microphone? Am I broadcasting my panic?

Something stirred in the back of his mind, a horrible worm of memory. I was saying, ‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ over and over. Into the radio.

“Hardy, do you copy?” The voice belonged to Gary Black, the fighter pilot from the Achilles. He’d survived the battle at the Gate. The Hannibal had retrieved him from the crippled remains of his fighter. Hardy had seen a picture of the ship, a melted wreck with the nose entirely ripped away. Hardy could still barely believe the man had survived.

“I copy,” Hardy said. Shame washed over him, so strong it drove some of the fear from his mind. He wasn’t quite thinking clearly, but the panic receded a bit.

“Listen, Hardy. I want you below the Tomahawk. I want you to circle wide on the port side and drop down beneath the corvette. Do you understand?”

The two men had the same rank. Black had no particular right to give Hardy orders, but he was at least fifteen years older and he had combat experience. Plus, he sounded so perfectly calm. Hardy obeyed him without hesitation, bringing the fighter sideways in a graceful curve. By the time he came to a stop beneath the Tomahawk he was, if not exactly calm, at least fully in control of himself.

“We’re going to swap positions,” Black said. “I want you to move to starboard, not too quickly. I’ll move to port. When you’re beneath the Achilles I’ll be above the Tomahawk. Then I want you to loop around on the starboard side until you’re above the Achilles. By that time I’ll be underneath the Tomahawk. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Hardy turned the fighter to starboard, then gave the main engine couple of seconds of thrust. He tried to watch his scanner displays while also keeping an eye on both corvettes. Black’s fighter was a glittering triangle above him, moving toward the Tomahawk. It was a lot to keep track of, and by the time he took his new position above the Achilles he was surprised to notice his fear was almost entirely gone.

That’s why you’ve got me circling the corvettes. You’re keeping me busy so I won’t go squirrely. It was an embarrassing realization, but anything was better than the mindless terror of a few minutes before.

“Here they come,” said a voice over the radio. “Ten o’clock. About fifteen degrees above the horizon, forty degrees to port.”

Hardy checked his orientation, made sure he was aligned with the corvettes, and squinted at the designated spot in the starscape before him. Was that a speck of light moving relative to the other stars? He brought up a tactical projection on his scanners.

A solitary alien ship leaped into focus. It was huge, maybe triple the mass of a corvette, and he gulped. Why did I volunteer, again? I must have been insane.

Black started speaking, describing the approaching vessel, and Hardy frowned, confused. Why is he telling them about the ship? The corvettes have better scanners than we do. Oh, right. The EMP. Black and I have the only working scanners. He turned his attention back to the scan display, watching for any details Black might have missed.

For an instant a laser painted a fat red dot on the front of the alien craft. Then the Hive ship started to wobble as it approached, darting away from the laser again and again. The laser crew did its best, but Hardy could tell the aliens’ shields, magnified by so many ships all clustered together, were holding up just fine.

The tactical projection showed amber lines emerging from both corvettes, marking the paths of lasers so he could avoid flying into harm’s way. Orange lines appeared next, erupting from the rail guns. Both corvettes were firing everything they had at the approaching vessel. Hardy reached for his own controls, thinking to fire, then made himself relax. He didn’t have the power or the massive ammunition reserves of the corvettes. He needed to hold his fire, save it for close range.

Pain hit him, an explosion in his skull that flashed momentarily through his entire body. It was gone in an instant, and his tactical display was gone with it. “EMP strike,” Black said calmly over the radio.

Hardy glanced left. Sure enough, the clock display and menu that had hovered in the corner of his eye since puberty failed to appear. Fine. This is what I trained for. Now I’m going to make them pay for all this inconvenience.

He tried to remember the range of the EMP weapon. It would tell him the range of the alien craft. Except the alien was closing rapidly, so it didn’t really matter. He could see the ship with his naked eye now, like a sinister metal football plunging toward him.

Hardy expected the alien ship to break apart, as it had done in previous battles. The ship just kept lumbering in, though.

The aliens were trying a new tactic.

Closer and closer the alien ship came, until Hardy could see the lumpy outline of individual craft in the vast composite body. As the distance closed it became more difficult for the alien to evade, and the red glow of lasers shone almost continually on the front of the ship. The alien shield seemed to be holding, though, the glow dissipating across an energy barrier a handspan from the hull.

Rail gun rounds ripped into the alien craft, and Hardy saw component ships take damage. It didn’t seem to faze the attacking vessel, though. It charged the Tomahawk, a black circle on the front of the hull beginning to glow red.

When the Hive ship and the Tomahawk were a dozen meters apart the corvette spun on its axis. For a moment the side of the Tomahawk glowed red with terrible heat. Then the Tomahawk raced away, fleeing toward Ariadne. The Hive ship pursued, racing to catch up with the corvette. Hardy followed as well, and he saw the Achilles spin and race after the Hive ship.

Hardy kept his fighter just above an imaginary column connecting the Achilles to the alien ship. Within that column would be a storm of laser and rail gun fire. Hardy raced along a scant six or seven meters above the danger zone, and tilted his nose down momentarily to try a quick burst from his own lasers and rail guns.

If he did any damage he couldn’t see it. Frustrated, he returned to flying along just above the alien ship, an inconsequential gnat not worth swatting.

The Hive ship bobbed and twisted as it flew, evading some of the fire pouring into it from the Achilles. The range was too close for the alien to remain unscathed, but from what Hardy could see, the Achilles wasn’t having much effect. The lasers did nothing, and the rail gun rounds either missed, or did little damage on impact.

In fact, it was almost as if the glittering stream of projectiles arced away from the Hive ship in the instant before impact.

Hardy frowned, watching. He tilted his fighter for a better view, flying almost upside-down from the perspective of the Achilles. If the Hive ship had an “up” or “down” he couldn’t tell.

Each round would be about the size of his fist. They were too small and moved too quickly for him to properly see one round. A stream of projectiles, though, made a glittering line. He could see two such lines leaving the nose of the Achilles and reaching toward the alien ship.

Where they curved slightly to port, either missing the ship completely or grazing the edge of the hull.

The alien rotated, putting the side that had been her port now at the top. And Hardy saw a stream of rail gun rounds flash past between him and the alien craft. They were deflecting upward now. And they were moving slower by the time they reached the alien ship. He was almost sure of it.

“Achilles,” he said. “The aliens are using some kind of magnetic deflection on your rail gun rounds. They deflect upward. You need to adjust your aim accordingly.” The alien twisted beneath him, and he said, “Now it’ll be deflecting to starboard. Aim more to port and you’ll score better hits.”

He didn’t get a reply, which was fine. He needed all the attention he could muster to keep up with the alien. The Tomahawk was twisting and diving and jerking to avoid the Hive ship, and the Hive ship was matching every maneuver, plus adding in twists and jerks of its own.

The Hive ship was faster, and only frantic evasion saved the Tomahawk from destruction. Again and again the Hive ship closed and scorched the corvette. Hardy couldn’t see lasting damage, but hull plates had to be twisting and weakening.

The Achilles continued to spray rail gun rounds into the alien ship. It was a grim battle of attrition, and Hardy couldn’t yet tell who would win. If the Tomahawk fell, he realized, the Achilles would be completely at the mercy of the alien ship.

And there was the small matter of the other alien fleet, the one busy destroying the Gate.

A stream of rail gun fire tore into the back of the Hive ship, ripping the hull of one of the small composite ships. Hardy looked down at the exposed innards where the tough outer skin was breached. Maybe I can finally make a contribution.

He dove in, firing lasers and rail guns. The lasers did nothing, and he stopped firing them. His thumb-sized rail gun rounds, though, bit deep. Every third round was explosive, and he saw bits of metal and plastic erupt inside the exposed cavity. Dark fluid sprayed out, then quickly froze, and Hardy grinned as he pulled back and brought the fighter around for another pass.

As he started to dive again, though, something shifted on the hull of the enemy ship. A huge piece of the ship broke away, and for a moment he thought he’d done real damage.

Then he saw the truth. A smaller composite ship, maybe five or six of the smallest craft, was separating from the parent ship. Like a corvette launching a fighter, the alien was sending out a smaller, more manoeuvrable craft to swat to the gnat that had finally become annoying.

“Oh, hell.” He hauled back on the control stick, pulling away from the smaller craft as it came toward him. He realized almost instantly he was making a mistake. The smaller ship would have weaker shields. It would be vulnerable to fire from the Achilles, even the Tomahawk. He should have stayed close to the corvettes.

Even as he pulled away to starboard, though, the Tomahawk jerked to port and dove. In an instant the corvettes were hundreds of meters away, with the small Hive ship in the way.

Hardy retreated, then dove and turned, trying to race past the alien ship. It darted in close, the heat weapon glowed red, and Hardy watched in horror as the tip of his starboard wing turned red, bubbled, and melted away.

After that he forgot about the corvettes. He dove and twisted and rolled, frantic to escape. He tried fleeing in a straight line, but the other ship quickly overtook him. The universe became a nightmare of terrified retreat, with death hovering scant meters away.

He didn’t fire back. He never had a chance. The alien ship was always above him, below him, beside him. It hovered like a mosquito, always close. He had no room to manoeuver, no time to make a plan. Death was always an instant away. He could do nothing but react, react, and react again.

Finally he dove toward the planet. A screaming voice in the back of his mind told him his fighter with its stubby damaged wings might handle atmosphere better than the lumpy alien craft. He flew straight at the bulk of the planet, jerking from side to side to avoid the worst of the heat weapon but maintaining his overall course. The planet filled his view, mud-colored and crater-pocked. Closer and closer he raced, and finally he felt the buffeting impact of the upper atmosphere.

He brought the nose up a few degrees and sent the fighter spiraling downward, burrowing deeper and deeper into the atmosphere. The Hive ship plunged along right beside him, keeping up effortlessly. He tried rising, banking, diving. The Hive ship matched him move for move. If anything, it handled atmosphere better than he did.

Well, this isn’t working. He brought the nose up, rising until the drag of atmosphere disappeared. He couldn’t see the corvettes. What the hell do I do now?

“… Craft, do you …”

Hardy frowned at the strange voice on the radio. I really don’t need the distraction right now. He flew on, jerking and twisting, his nemesis never far away. Static hissed and crackled in his ear, and suddenly he heard a clear voice.

“Small craft pilot. Do you copy?”

“I copy,” he said. “If it’s me you’re talking to.”

“We can cover you. I need you to fly in over the Green Crater. Do you understand?”

“No,” he said, exasperated, most of his attention on his frantic manoeuvers. “I don’t know where the crater is, and I’m kind of busy.”

“Turn left. About a hundred degrees.”

The alien ship loomed to starboard, close enough that he felt the glow of the heat weapon on his shoulder. He shrugged to himself, jerked on the stick, and stomped a pedal. The fighter turned sharply to port and raced away, the Hive ship quickly catching up.

“Good. I need you to go another ten degrees left.” The voice was clearer now. It sounded like a young woman, tense and excited. He did his best to adjust his course, not an easy thing to do when survival required zigzagging back and forth.

“That’s great. Now you just need to stay alive for about two more minutes. When I give the word, I’ll need you to fly perfectly straight for about ten seconds. We’re going to be shooting that ship from the surface.”

Hardy sputtered in indignant disbelief. What? Are you insane? If I stop evading he’ll cook me in about three seconds. And what kind of weapon are you going to fire from the surface without hitting me? He jerked the stick left and right, making the hind end of the fighter wag like an excited puppy. He felt a jar of impact as he bumped into the alien ship, and he took a quick glance over his shoulder.

He was just in time to see the Hive ship break away. It turned back and climbed, and he saw a white glow as its engines fired. The ship shrank quickly with increasing distance, and Hardy felt his whole body go limp with relief.

The fear returned a moment later. “Hold your fire,” he said. “Mystery voice on the surface. Hold your fire, the alien’s gone.”

“Yes, I see that.” The woman on the radio sounded amused. “I guess they’re on to our little trick. Congratulations, pilot. You get to live.”

He looked down at the surface and saw the crater, a circle of green so dark it was almost black. Lights glowed in the atmosphere above the crater, and his throat constricted as he realized he was seeing wreckage burning as it fell through the atmosphere. Was it the Tomahawk? The Achilles? Both of them?

Then a glint of metal higher up caught his eye. The two corvettes hung serenely above the planet, drifting in a low orbit almost directly above the crater. “Sweet Jesus,” Hardy muttered. “I don’t believe it.”

“Thank you for sharing that thought,” said a man’s dry voice over the radio. “If you wouldn’t mind docking with the Tomahawk, you can resume your prayers in your quarters.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Hardy, feeling his cheeks grow warm. “I mean, aye aye, Sir.” He turned toward the waiting corvettes, gently testing his controls one at a time. He’d lost a ventral thruster, but everything else seemed functional. He would be able to dock safely.

He sighed quietly and allowed himself to smile. The battle was over.

Chapter 31 – Kaur

“Stay on him. Keep firing.” It was a useless command – the crew was already doing exactly that – and Kaur made herself lean back in her seat. She felt utterly useless. She couldn’t even see the battle. Why couldn’t the bridge have a forward window?

She’d chosen the only obvious tactic, pursuing the massive alien ship and doing her best to shoot it to pieces as it pursued the Tomahawk. Now she had nothing more to contribute. Maneuvers were a direct conversation between the spotters and the helmsman. The gun crews would fire manually as long as they had a clear target and ammunition remained. All Kaur could do was watch, and fret.

The Achilles carried one nuclear missile, and she longed to fire it. At such close range, though, the Tomahawk and Achilles would both take lethal damage from heat and radiation, and likely from shrapnel as well. If she pulled back far enough to protect the Achilles, the aliens would be able to intercept the missile at a longer range. She wouldn’t achieve anything.

Metal clanged somewhere aft of the bridge, and she jerked her head up. “What the hell was that?” She regretted the words as soon as she said them. No one on the bridge would know, not with internal scans fried. She’d shown the crew her nerves and achieved nothing.

A metallic grinding sound reached her ears, and at first she thought it was a repair crew responding to whatever had just happened. The sound didn’t match any tool she could think of, though. I should send someone to investigate. She ran quickly through a crew roster in her head. Who could she send, that she could reach quickly by telephone?

No one. And there was only one person on the bridge not doing anything useful.

“Samson, you have the conn. I’ll be right back.” She rose, relieved to have an outlet for her nervous energy, and left the bridge.

In the corridor just aft of the bridge the grinding sound was much louder. She moved toward the noise, rocking slightly as the ship changed direction. Alien troops had boarded the Alexander before the Battle for Earth. If there were Hive soldiers on the Achilles, things were going to get messy. By the sound of it, though, this was a smaller-scale attack. They hit us with something little. Something that could dart in fast and reach the hull without getting crisped by a laser. If it was small enough the laser crews might not even see it.

She rounded a corner and stopped short. A metallic shape jutted down from the ceiling, a smooth curve half the size of a vac suit helmet. The ceiling panel was torn and tattered around the strange object, as if it had burrowed into the ceiling. It must have come in the other way, though, striking the top hull and digging in from above. The ship’s automatic force fields would be holding in atmosphere, but God herself only knew what other damage the thing was doing.

With a shrill squeal the alien metal ball moved several centimeters to one side. The ceiling panel curled down, and several bits of plastic tumbled to the deck. Kaur saw a crescent of starry sky behind the little intruder where it had come through the hull.

That’s enough standing here gaping. She thought briefly of running for the weapons locker, then reached for the thigh pocket on her vac suit. She had deviated far from the five articles of faith required of a Khalsa Sikh, cutting her hair and eschewing a turban to meet the requirements of Navy service. She wore the Kirpan and Kara, though, and she’d remembered to move the small dagger to a pocket on her suit.

She drew out her kirpan now. The corvette had low ceilings, and she had no trouble reaching the alien ball. She stabbed upward. The kirpan had a steel blade as long as the palm of her hand, and she kept it as sharp as a scalpel. The point hit the metal ball and skidded sideways, though, doing no damage.

“Fine,” she grunted. “We’ll do it the hard way.” She unsealed her right glove, dropped it to the deck, and slipped the kara from her wrist. The silver bracelet was far more than personal decoration. She gripped it, holding the metal circle in her fist like a knuckle duster. She punched upward, slamming the bracelet against the metal shell of the intruder.

Again and again she struck. After five blows that jarred her shoulder and rattled her teeth a crack appeared in the case of the alien ball. Kaur pressed the tip of her kirpan against the crack, then hammered the end of the handle with the heel of her other hand. It hurt, but she ignored the pain, hitting the knife repeatedly until suddenly the blade slid a finger’s width into the case. The next blow drove the blade deeper. A final blow drove the blade in hilt-deep, and light flashed bright inside the case.

Kaur blinked, seeing a blue-white line on her eyelids, then stepped back as the ball dropped to the deck plates in front of her. It was more like a turtle than a ball, she saw. The upper surface was flat, with half a dozen metal limbs that ended in saws and probes and tapered drills. It lay on the deck, unmoving.

She saw only darkness in the exposed hole in the ceiling. She would have to get a technical team to examine the damage in detail, but it would keep until after the battle.

Several seconds had passed since the last sharp course adjustment, and she bent her legs unconsciously, preparing for the next twist. When nothing happened she maintained her crouch for a moment, then straightened up, alarmed.

The Achilles was flying straight.

Shoving the bracelet back onto her wrist, she left his knife in the alien machine as she snatched up her glove and hurried back to the bridge. A quick glance told her nothing too serious was wrong. The atmosphere on the bridge was one of excited relief. She said, “Status?”

“We’re good, Sir,” Samson said. “We’ve had a reprieve.” He made a gesture to the helmsman and the corvette swung gently sideways.

At first all Kaur saw was the Tomahawk. The other corvette looked rough, with dark lines of shadow where hull plates had warped and pulled loose at the edges. She was motionless relative to the Achilles, drifting along above Ariadne, which filled the sky behind her.

It took a moment for her to spot the alien ship, or most of it. A massive chunk of wreckage trailed fire as it plunged deeper and ever deeper into the atmosphere of Ariadne.

“A handful of little ships escaped,” Samson said. “The colonists got most of them, though.”

Kaur blinked. “The colonists?”

“Yes, Sir. They fired some kind of surface weapon. I think it’s that tower Lieutenant Nicholson was trying to destroy.” Samson beamed. “Lucky for us he didn’t make a very good job of it.”

Kaur shook her head. “They hit the alien ship from the surface?”

“Twice,” said Samson. “The first shot crippled it. Burned a hole right through. It took a minute for the other ships to break away. But a great big chunk finally separated, and it started to rise. That’s when they fired the second time.” He flashed a wide smile. “Hit it dead center. It was brilliant.”

“Really,” said Kaur. “Outstanding.” She walked over to her chair and sat. “I guess we better go down there and ask them how they did it.”

Chapter 32 – Hammett

Hammett trudged down the ramp from the Tomahawk and onto the tarmac of the Harlequin spaceport, limp with the exhaustion that often came in the aftermath of battle. He hadn’t done anything physically demanding, but he felt as if he’d been through a triathlon. There was still much to do – the ship had to be diagnosed and repaired – but first there was time enough to rest.

Not, apparently, in the opinion of the EDF. Colonel O’Hare came stalking across the tarmac toward him, bristling with indignation. Major Swanson trailed along behind him, looking almost comically sad. O’Hare started haranguing Hammett before he was properly in earshot, spewing a furious diatribe that reached Hammett’s ears as an indistinct, angry mumble.

“… No right … authority … court-martial!” The colonel fell silent, saving his breath for the chore of stomping his way across the landing field. He stopped at last in front of Hammett, tomato-faced, all but vibrating with indignation. “Well?” he said at last. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

I should be worried about this. He’s my commanding officer. He wields a frightening amount of power. I should take him seriously. I should at least try. Oh, to hell with it. Hammett shrugged. “I don’t think I understand the question, Colonel.”

O’Hare’s eyes narrowed. He started to speak, then paused, considering his words. “You undermined my authority. You were …” He hesitated, searching for the word he wanted. “Insubordinate.”

Of course I’m insubordinate, you ridiculous man. Hammett lifted his eyebrows. “Insubordinate, Colonel? What do you mean?”

“You flew into combat without your commanding officer, and you ordered Kaur to take off without me.”

Hammett lifted his hands. “I was unable to persuade the Hive ships to wait, Colonel.”

O’Hare’s face scrunched up into an angry snarl. He was shorter than Hammett – the top of his head just reached the bridge of Hammett’s nose – and he rose onto his toes as he leaned forward, lifting a thick forefinger to jab at Hammett’s chest. “It stops here, Hammett.” The jabbing finger didn’t quite touch the front of Hammett’s vac suit. “You’re not launching again without Major Swanson on board. Not under any circumstances. Is that clear?”

Hammett kept his voice mild. “It’s clear, Colonel.”

“I don’t want Kaur launching either. Don’t give her any orders to the contrary.”

“All right, Colonel.”

O’Hare stared at him, then grunted and turned toward the Achilles, which was just touching down.

Swanson started to follow, then hesitated. He gave Hammett a sheepish, apologetic look, took another step after O’Hare, then stopped. Finally he looked at Hammett and said, “Er, do you know when you’re launching again, Captain?”

“When you tell me to, I guess,” Hammett said sourly. Swanson gave him a look of such distress that he relented. “I have no plans to launch again until the aliens return, Major. The ship took some damage up there. I have to repair that first. Then I guess I’ll wait to see what you and Colonel O’Hare want to do.”

Swanson said, “Was anyone hurt?” He looked genuinely concerned, too.

It was an obvious question, the least you could expect from any sort of decent human being in the aftermath of combat, but Hammett found himself strangely touched. It was more than he’d get from O’Hare. “No,” he said. “No one was hurt this time. Thanks for asking.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Goodness, Captain, you look exhausted! Don’t let me keep you. Just keep me posted as best you can.” He tilted his head for a moment. “You’ve lost your implants, right? You can usually find me in the terminal building. If I’m not there, I’m probably around the spaceport.”

“Very well, Major.” Hammett started to move past him.

“Captain?”

Hammett stopped.

“I know it’s unlikely, but if I can be of any help, you must let me know.” He nodded in the direction of O’Hare, who was loudly berating Kaur in the distance. “We’re not all tyrants and bullies.”

“Thank you, Major.” Hammett was surprised to discover he meant it.

“Carry on, Captain.”

Hammett went on to the terminal building, a handful of bridge crew trailing along behind him. The building had been hastily repaired, with a vast sheet of polymer so thin it was translucent stretched tight over the hole in the roof and then sprayed with hardener. The edges of the sheet stretched halfway down the walls on two sides, partially covering the windows, and stakes and guy wires jutted from flower beds.

Inside, some of the rubble had been cleared away. Some of it had simply been shoved into one corner. A handful of offices were undamaged and had been taken over by the EDF, then abandoned when most of the EDF had returned to Earth. Now O’Hare and Swanson had an office each, and another office served as a meeting room.

More important to Hammett, the terminal had a locker room that was largely intact. He stripped off his vac suit, washed his face, and wished he’d had the foresight to bring a clean uniform. He plodded out to the main arrivals hall, which had become something of an informal lounge.

Empty vending machines lined one wall. To replace them, colonists had filled baskets with fruit and lined them up on a couple of tables. Hammett grabbed himself an apple and a pear and sank into a padded seat under the sagging polymer roof. The only light was whatever sunlight made it through the roof covering. He told himself it wasn’t gloomy. It was more like sitting under a shady tree back on Earth. At any rate, there was no one shooting at him and no one yelling at him. He could relax, at least for a short time.

“Hello, Captain.” Hayat Sanjari sat down beside him. She’d scrounged up a plate and a knife from somewhere, and she started peeling a mango. Juice pooled on the plate. “You know, it’s amazing the variety of produce they can grow here.” She gestured from the mango to the apple in Hammett’s hand. “I don’t think these grow in the same climate zone, back home.”

“I’m a sailor,” he said, “not a farmer. I wouldn’t know.”

Sanjari, busy scraping mango flesh from a strip of peel with her teeth, didn’t answer.

They spent a minute eating. He finished the apple, added the core to the growing pile of mango peel on her plate, and accepted a slice of mango from her. “Oh, this is good.”

She nodded. “I’m starting to really like this planet.” She took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I’ve been talking to Geibelhaus. He did a quick triage of the damage. He says there’s three categories: Things we can ignore, things we have to fix and can fix here, and things we’ll have to put up with because they need full space dock facilities.” She paused. “Do you mind me talking shop, Sir?”

“No, it’s fine. Go on.”

“Well, he says we’re technically spaceworthy, but there are some twisted hull plates that make us vulnerable. It would be prudent to deal with those. That’s anywhere from a day’s work to a week, depending on local facilities. It’ll help if they’ll contribute some labor, too. Oh, it wouldn’t hurt to ask them to manufacture us some ballistic rounds. We went through quite a bit of ammunition. If they had the capacity to manufacture explosive rounds, those would be most welcome as well. They aren’t essential, though.”

Hammett nodded.

“Aside from that, a lot of wiring that ran close to the hull needs to be replaced. That’s about it. Geibelhaus says the bones of the ship are intact. She’ll look pretty ugly until we can get new hull plates. But she’s in good shape.”

“That’s good,” he said, and added the core of his pear to her plate.

Sanjari glanced around, then lowered her voice. “Have you heard about the Theseus, Sir?”

Hammett lowered his own voice as well. “What’s the Theseus?”

“It seems the colonists have a ship of their own. And they’re rigging her for war.”

He blinked, startled. “They’re doing what, now?”

She grinned. “That scientist lady? The one they call the mad scientist?”

“Goldfarb,” he said. “Rumor has it she’s the one who saved our bacon today, with the alien gun.”

“That’s the one,” Sanjari agreed. “Her specialty is apparently heat shielding. She’s got this cargo ship called the Theseus, and she’s covering it in some kind of heat-proof hull plates.” When he gave her a skeptical look she shrugged. “That’s what the rumor mill says. And when has the rumor mill ever been wrong?”

That made him laugh out loud.

“Anyway, word is they’re trying to figure out how to put guns on her.”

“I see,” said Hammett. “Just one question.”

“What’s that, Sir?”

“Why are we practically whispering?”

She glanced around the room one more time before replying. “The colonists aren’t too keen on telling the EDF they’ve got a warship. Well, kind of a warship. When it’s done.” She shrugged. “They’ve heard some of the stories from Earth. They’re scared the EDF will order the Theseus to Earth or Deirdre or something. They’ll build it and the EDF will take it away, and they’ll be helpless when the Hive comes back.”

Hammett was silent for a moment. At last he said, “I wish I could say it was a ridiculous concern.”

Sanjari nodded ruefully. She looked straight ahead, then stiffened and said, “Let’s talk about something else.”

Hammett followed the direction of her gaze. In the terminal’s front windows he could see a black and red reflection moving toward his seat. He sighed, thought about standing and hurrying away, and decided it would be unseemly.

“Hammett.” It was O’Hare, sounding as charming as usual. “My office. Now.” He stomped off.

Sanjari muttered something Hammett couldn’t understand. When he looked at her she flushed and said, “That was in Telugu, Sir. Please don’t ask me to translate.”

“I think I got the gist of it.” He stood. “Thank you for the mango, Specialist.”

Kaur and Swanson were already waiting when he entered the office. O’Hare stood behind a wide, scuffed desk. “Sit,” he barked, and lowered himself into a squeaking chair. “The Gate is destroyed. You can both forget about going back to Earth any time soon. You won’t have the opportunity to shirk your duty.”

Hammett and Kaur exchanged glances.

O’Hare said, “I want to know the status of both corvettes.”

“The Tomahawk can’t be flown,” Hammett lied promptly. “She’s got a bunch of heat-buckled hull plates. They’ve got to be removed, straightened, and put back on. It’ll take at least a week.”

“An enemy weapon penetrated our hull,” Kaur said. “I want to take apart the upper hull and see what damage it did. I want to make sure there are no remnants of the weapon, either.”

“How long will that take?”

Kaur spread her hands. “It’s hard to say, Sir. At least three days. We have to completely dismantle a section of hull. Everything’s connected to everything else in that area. It’s going to be a big job.”

“Nonsense.” O’Hare pursed his lips. “You returned from the battle and landed the ship without any problems.”

“Yes, but-”

“You’re making excuses!” O’Hare slapped the desktop for emphasis. “I won’t stand for it! I spoke to your man Schwartz. He tells me that, as far as he knows, there’s a hole in the hull plate and no other significant damage. He says you can weld a patch over the hole and the ship will be ready to fly.”

“There was an alien machine burrowing into the ship,” Kaur said doggedly. “I don’t even know what it was trying to accomplish. It would be grossly irresponsible to launch the ship again until we know for sure what it did.”

“You destroyed the alien machine,” O’Hare said. “Don’t deny it.”

Kaur stared at him, silent.

“Aside from the hole in the hull, what’s the status of the Achilles?”

“The Achilles is shipshape, Sir,” Kaur said. “That means she’s good to fly.”

“I know what it means,” O’Hare snapped. “I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about three days of repairs, is that clear?”

Kaur stared at him for a long, silent moment. At last she said, “We’re loading ammunition right now. Aside from that, if we could have a few hours’ notice before we depart on any long trips, it will allow us to stock up on fresh produce.”

“Here’s your notice,” O’Hare said. “The Achilles will be leaving for Deirdre tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred.” His eyes slid to one side, checking the time on his implants. “That’s Greenwich Mean Time. It’s seventeen fifteen now, by the way, since both of you have managed to damage your implants.” He made it sound like negligence on their parts. “Nothing will delay our departure. Nothing but my absence.” He gave Kaur an ugly look. “You won’t be leaving without me again. Is that clear?”

Kaur nodded. “It’s clear, Sir. But I need more time to investigate-”

“You launch tomorrow, Commander. Understood?” When neither officer spoke he said, “Good. Now go take care of your ships. You’re dismissed.”

They left the office, and Kaur led the way to a quiet corner of the arrivals lounge. She turned on Hammett and said, “All right, Captain. What gives?”

Hammett shook his head. He felt as if his skull was full of static, a churning storm of frustration and impotent rage. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He ordered me to Deirdre, and you didn’t even react.” Kaur glowered at him. “I was waiting for you to jump in. I thought we’d be arguing for the next hour.”

“Would it have done any good?”

Kaur opened her mouth, then closed it.

“No,” said Hammett, answering his own question. “A good commander picks his battles.”

“But-”

“Methods are many,” said Hammett, “for the flaying of felines.”

“What?”

Hammett chuckled grimly. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

Kaur didn’t speak, just stared at him, dark eyebrows drawn together, waiting for Hammett to explain.

“We know roughly where the Hive fleet is gathered,” Hammett said. “Or maybe it’s the place where they have a Gate of their own. At any rate, we know more or less where it is. What direction, anyway.” He started to tilt his head to bring up a menu on his implants, then stopped himself. Even after all this time, the habits of a lifetime lingered.

“They always come from the direction of that pentagon constellation,” he said. “They flee in the same direction. It’s where they’re hiding out. It’s where the next attack will come from.”

Kaur said, “Okay …”

“If I was still in command,” Hammett said, “I would send you out in the Achilles tomorrow early. I’d have you make a reconnaissance flight in the direction of that constellation. I’d gather a little information and figure out what to do next.”

Kaur nodded. “And?”

“And that’s exactly what you’ll do, tomorrow at 08:00. We’ll get what we want, and we’ll do it without antagonizing the Colonel. We’ll build up a bit of good will instead, by following his orders.”

“But he thinks the Achilles is going to Deirdre.”

Hammett shrugged. “What’s a few degrees here or there? Do you think there’s a person in the entire EDF who can point toward the Deirdre system? Besides, it would be foolish to jump directly toward Deirdre. You’d give away your intentions to the enemy. It just makes sense to start out by making a few jumps in a different direction.”

Kaur stared at him for a moment. “No insubordination required.”

“None at all,” Hammett said. “We’ll be model officers. We’ll do every last thing we’re told.”

“You have a devious streak, Captain.”

Hammett raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “This, from the commander of the corvette that kept unrepairing itself?”

Kaur grinned. “Touché. I’m going to see a lady about some fruit. Want me to send some to the Tomahawk?”

“Please,” said Hammett. “Get me some mangoes if you can. They’re delicious.”

Kaur nodded and walked away, leaving Hammett staring at the wall of the terminal with unfocused eyes. Has it really come to this? I have to bullshit a civilian to be allowed to scout the enemy, all so I can try to defend a colony the Navy has abandoned?

How much longer can I keep pretending the Navy isn’t broken? How long can I maintain even a pretense of following orders? How long until I get an order I have to refuse?

And what happens then?

Chapter 33 – Kaur

When Ariadne hung like a pumpkin in the sky behind the corvette, Kaur called the engine room and told Schwartz, her engineer, to start powering up the wormhole generator.

“Why did you wait?” O’Hare said suspiciously. He’d taken over the captain’s chair. Kaur, not wanting to bump Samson from the Tactical station, stood. “We’ve been up here for twenty minutes.”

“It’s not good to open a wormhole too close to a planet,” Kaur said patiently. “And it takes time to line the ship up properly without computer assistance.”

O’Hare didn’t speak, just frowned at her. They had wrangled a bit before taking off, O’Hare wanting to give every order until he realized he had no idea of the small details of running the bridge of a corvette.

I must not sigh. I must not roll my eyes. A good commander chooses her battles. “We’ll jump shortly. No one is shirking their duty.” Quite the opposite. We’re moving closer to the enemy, in contravention of your orders.

Hopkins said, “General quarters, Ma’am?”

“Give it a couple of minutes,” Kaur said. She wanted to put the crew on alert a minute or so before the jump, so they’d still be sharp when the ship went through the wormhole. The problem was, although she knew how long it took the Achilles to charge its generator, she wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed. We need mechanical timepieces. We haven’t got a single working clock on the entire ship. Well, there’s O’Hare’s implants. The thought of using the self-important EDF man as a glorified grandfather clock amused her. I wonder if I could get him to announce the time every fifteen minutes?

“Hurry up and jump,” said O’Hare. “You can’t just hang around here where it’s safe. I won’t stand for it.”

That time Kaur let a small sigh escape her. “Sound General Quarters, Mr. Hopkins.”

A buzzer sounded.

“Well?” snapped O’Hare. “What are you waiting for?”

“The laws of physics, Colonel,” Kaur said tiredly. “We’ll jump as soon as the wormhole opens.”

The jump happened without direct intervention from the bridge. A spotter in the forward observation room, waiting with a phone at his ear, saw the wormhole open ahead of the ship and informed Engineering. The corvette jumped a moment later.

“Forward observation reports no enemy activity,” Hopkins said. “Aft observation reports clear. Dorsal observation also clear.”

Kaur released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. What I wouldn’t give for proper scanners. “Hold position,” she said, and walked to the port window. She peered outside, looking for stars that vanished and reappeared, occluded by moving ships.

“We need to jump again,” O’Hare said. “We need to generate another wormhole.” When Kaur didn’t speak he said, “Answer me!”

“Did you ask a question, Sir?” Kaur said without turning. “Those sounded like statements.” Giving the crew an example of disrespect to follow wasn’t the brightest thing a commander could do, but she didn’t care.

“Contact!” Hopkins interrupted. “Port observation reports movement. Ten degrees above horizontal, about fifteen degrees port.”

Kaur brought her hands up, measuring the angles, then peered at the stars. Rough estimates of angles still left her a huge swathe of sky to search, and she fumed yet again at the lack of decent electronic tools.

Then she caught her breath. There, just below the lowest star in the pentagon constellation, a point of light moved. She cupped her hands around her eyes to block out ambient light, her hands not quite touching the window.

One of the stars wasn’t quite stationary. That was all she could say for sure.

“Helm. Bring us about. Fifteen degrees to port and ten degrees up.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” O’Hare demanded. “Your orders are to go to Deirdre.”

Kaur looked at him, an indignant clown of a man almost spilling from his seat in agitation, and jerked a thumb at the pentagon. “The enemy is that way.”

“You have your orders! I won’t have you shirking your duty.”

A bark of laughter escaped Kaur before she could stop it. “Do you mean to tell me that flying toward the enemy is shirking my duty? Colonel? Do you really insist that we fly away from Hive ships?” More words rose, angry, contemptuous words, but she bit them back. Choose your battles.

O’Hare glared at her, red-faced, apparently at a loss for words.

“What if I insist we continue toward Deirdre?” Kaur said sarcastically. “Then you can call me a coward and order me to advance on the enemy. We can both get what we want.” She turned toward the helmsman. “Set a course for-”

“You will engage the enemy.” O’Hare looked as if he was biting into a lemon.

“If you insist,” Kaur said, and turned her back on the man. She stared out at the distant point of light, battling her fury. Pull yourself together, Meena. You’re about to fly into danger. You might be in combat in a matter of minutes. Don’t go in thinking about how you’d like to strangle your commanding officer. Focus!

“Ready,” said the helmsman.

Minutes ticked past. This would be a great opportunity to shove that idiot out an airlock. Who’d ever know? Focus, Meena. Focus.

“Wormhole is ready,” said Carver at Operations.

“Open wormhole.”

Energy shimmered for a moment in front of the ship, and the deck surged under her feet as the Achilles accelerated.

They jumped.

O’Hare hopped to his feet and hurried to the port window, where he cupped his hands against the steelglass and peered outside. He’d be leaving handprints on the window, but if that was the worst thing he did on this mission Kaur would count herself lucky.

“All observation posts report no close enemy activity,” Carver said.

“I can’t see anything either,” said O’Hare, face still pressed to the window.

“Dorsal observation reports movement to starboard,” Carver said after a moment. “Thirty degrees from forward. A hair below the horizon.”

Kaur strode to the port window. At first she saw nothing. Then several stars vanished, and she leaned forward.

“Dorsal observation says there’s a dozen ships, size unknown,” Carver reported. “She says there’s a rock, too. A big one.” The observation posts were equipped with telescopes. They would be getting a far more detailed view of the enemy. After a moment Carver added, “Best range estimate is fifty thousand kilometers.”

Either they haven’t seen us, or we’re too far away to react to. Or they’re jumping toward us and we’re about to be overwhelmed. A wormhole jump would allow the enemy to move faster than the light that was reaching the telescopes. They would literally arrive before the Achilles saw them leave.

“I need a size estimate on that rock,” Kaur said. “I need a velocity and bearing, too. I’m sure it’s not just sitting still.”

“What’s happening?” O’Hare said, sounding frightened. He polished the window with his sleeve while looking over at Kaur.

“They’ve got a rock,” Kaur said. “Probably an asteroid of some sort. They’re pushing it toward Ariadne.” She grimaced. “When the colonists fired that gun they painted a great big target on themselves. Now the aliens are going to drop a bloody big rock on them.”

O’Hare lowered his arm, leaving a long smear on the steelglass. All his bluster was gone. “Can they do that? I mean, the gun is pretty small. Can they really hit it from here?”

“They don’t have to hit the gun,” Kaur said. “They don’t even have to hit the crater. Hell, if the rock is big enough, they don’t even need to hit the right hemisphere. They can devastate the planet completely with any impact, if the rock is big and they get it moving fast enough.”

O’Hare stared at her, aghast.

“There was a bit of that sort of thing at the tail end of the Outer Settlements War,” Kaur said bleakly. “Small rocks, mostly, moving really fast. They did incredible damage.” She’d seen vids of the aftermath. Hammett would have seen it first-hand. You could undo a hundred years of terraforming with one strike.

“What do we do?” O’Hare said hoarsely.

“I guess that’s up to you,” Kaur snapped. “You probably want us to fly on to Deirdre and pretend this isn’t happening.”

O’Hare turned away from the window, staring at Kaur with his lower lip sticking out like a petulant child. Finally he said, “What do you recommend?”

“We need to learn as much as we can about this rock. We need to know how big it is and how fast they’re accelerating it. Then we need to return to Ariadne. It will take the Tomahawk and the Achilles working together to give us any kind of chance of saving the colony.”

O’Hare stared at her, silent and sullen.

“I’m not leaving eighteen thousand people to die while I fly off to Deirdre,” Kaur said.

O’Hare dropped his gaze. “Fine,” he muttered. “Take us back to Ariadne.”

“Soon,” replied Kaur. “We need more information first.”

They spent an hour flying parallel to the moving rock, doing their best with clumsy manual instruments to calculate the rock’s velocity. Undamaged scanners would have told them everything they needed to know in a few minutes. Instead they made rough guesses. By the end of an hour Kaur knew little more than that the rock was moving quickly, and it was still accelerating.

“Let’s get home,” she said at last. For all she knew the aliens would open a wormhole in front of the rock and drive it into the planet in a matter of minutes. It was time to get back to Ariadne and get started on a solution. “Line us up.”

“Ready,” said the helmsman after a minute.

“Open a wormhole.”

A long moment passed, and Kaur gave Carver an annoyed glance. “Mr. Carver. Where’s my wormhole?”

Carver, a telephone handset pressed to his ear, gave her a helpless shrug. “Mechanical problem, Ma’am. Power’s not reaching the ring.”

Kaur closed her eyes, picturing the wormhole generating system. The wormhole would be projected by a ring of superconducting material placed behind heavy shielding in the nose of the ship. It needed fantastic amounts of energy, which it drew directly from the main engines. In a cruiser every major wire and cable would run through the heart of the ship, where the bulk of the ship would protect it. A corvette was too small for such measures, though. Inevitably a lot of key systems and components had to be close to the skin of the ship.

The main power cable connecting the engines to the projection ring ran along the dorsal hull. Right about where the alien ball had penetrated the hull plates.

“We’ve got power again,” Carver announced.

“Jump us,” Kaur ordered, and stood. When Carver said, “Jump complete,” Kaur gave him the conn and stepped into the corridor.

A fat power cable snaked along the deck plates, and a technician hurried past, saying, “Sorry about this, Ma’am.”

“It’s fine,” Kaur assured him, and moved aft. She found the spot where she’d disabled the alien machine. One ceiling panel was missing. Another panel, badly tattered, had several fresh rivets holding it in place. She could see the underside of a steel patch welded over the hole in the hull.

The same technician came down the corridor, and Kaur held a hand up, stopping him. “The main power cable running to the projection ring. Where is it, exactly?”

The young sailor looked up at the ceiling. “Should be about here, Ma’am.” He gestured with his hand, indicating a line running forward to aft along the edge of the corridor ceiling.

“Are you certain?”

“I can check, Ma’am.” The technician stretched up and twisted a couple of small handles on a ceiling panel a little darker than the others. The panel swung down, suspended by hinges on one side. “Yup,” the man said. “There it is.”

Kaur squinted into the exposed space above the panel. She could see several plastic tubes, an emergency force field generator, and a steel rib. There was also a thick power cable held to the panel above by plastic clamps.

“Thank you,” Kaur said, and moved aside so the technician could close the panel. The cable was a good forty centimeters from the spot where she’d destroyed the alien machine.

Which meant either the power failure was unrelated to the alien machine, or the ship had a much more serious problem than she’d suspected. She imagined that alien ball spawning smaller machines, mouse-sized devices that kept on burrowing until they hit something vital. There could be a dozen tiny robots destroying her ship from the inside.

Unless they were even smaller. Beetle-sized, still big enough to burrow into a cable and cause a short. There could be hundreds of the things.

“Bloody hell.”

“Ma’am?” The technician gave her an alarmed look.

“I don’t think we’re done with surprise equipment failures,” Kaur said. “Keep your eyes open.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Kaur returned to the bridge. Was it safe to jump again? Well, it was hardly safe to remain in deep space with a compromised ship. She’d have to jump again and hope for the best.

And then land, and refuse to launch again until the ship could be completely overhauled.

O’Hare looked up from where he sat in the captain’s chair, silent and unhappy. She ignored him, moving to the back of the bridge. She kept her face still, but in her mind she ran through a catalog of system failures, planning a response to each one.

The helmsman said, “We’re lined up, Ma’am.”

Samson lifted his phone handset, tapped the bank of phone switches on the console, and flipped a few switches back and forth. He listened to the handset, then looked at Kaur. “My phone’s dead, Ma’am.”

Hopkins reached for his own phone, mumbled, “Test,” then said, “My phone’s still working.”

Carver said, “Mine’s good too.”

Kaur strolled over to the starboard window, then turned her back to the window and looked at the bridge crew. It allowed her to clench her fists behind her back without anyone seeing. She said blandly, “I guess we’ll need an overhaul when we get back.”

Carver had replaced his handset. A buzz came from his console and he grabbed the phone again. After a brief conversation he said, “The generator is ready.”

Finally. We need to get home before something else fails. “Open the wormhole.”

“It’s open.”

“Take us through.”

The helmsman reached for a lever and the ship surged forward. Kaur realized she was holding her breath, and made herself exhale. If the wormhole closes with the ship half way through, holding your breath won’t help. “What’s our status?”

Samson reached for his phone handset from force of habit, then lowered his arm, frowning. Carver spoke into his own handset, then flipped a switch and spoke again. At last he said, “Looks like we’re about a hundred thousand kilometers from the planet.”

“Good. Bring us-”

A sound like a thunderclap interrupted her. Kaur felt herself jump, and saw the bridge crew look at one another, eyes wide. O’Hare said, “What was that?”

Kaur strode to the bridge entrance. She smelled smoke as she drew close, a faint whiff of burning plastic. She hurried into the corridor. The smell grew worse with every step, and she coughed, then closed the faceplate on her helmet. Her eyes burned, and she blinked, feeling tears on her cheeks.

When she rounded the corner she saw a haze of blue-white smoke hanging below the ceiling. A sailor appeared at the far end of the corridor, a fire suppression kit slung across his back. She said, “This way,” and led him to the tattered ceiling panel where the alien had breached the hull.

He ripped the panel down, and a wave of pale smoke came rolling out. He lifted a hand scanner and played it across the ceiling. “It’s cold here, Ma’am,” he said, his voice tinny in the helmet speakers. He played the scanner over one wall, then the other. “Here we are.” He indicated a wall panel. “Can you help me open this?”

Together they unfastened the panel. If it was hot, she couldn’t feel the heat through her gloves. More smoke came roiling out as soon as the panel was out of the way, and the sailor dropped his fire suppression kit on the deck. He fumbled inside for a moment, then brought up a canister and directed a stream of foam into the exposed cavity.

The smoke didn’t seem to be clearing. There were no eddies in the haze, so the fans weren’t blowing, drawing smoke into the filters. Another problem caused by burrowing robots, or an unforeseen consequence of the EMP weapon?

The sailor made a discreet gesture, indicating something behind Kaur, and she turned. O’Hare stood in the corridor behind her, doubled over, coughing. The sound didn’t penetrate Kaur’s helmet. She considered helping the man, then decided she couldn’t be bothered. “Do you know how to turn on the filter fans by hand?”

“I think so,” he said. “I’ll have to open up more panels and expose each fan, one by one.”

“Get started,” she said. “The fire seems to be out.”

Echoing coughs filled her helmet, broadcast from the helmet speakers. O’Hare had finally closed his faceplate, which activated his suit radio. He spent another minute coughing, then straightened, panting audibly. She tried to walk past him, heading for the bridge, and he stuck out a hand, stopping her. She waited, arms folded, as he wheezed and made reflexive attempts to wipe his streaming eyes through the faceplate of his helmet.

“What happened?” he rasped at last.

“You remember that alien object that burrowed through the hull? The one I was worried about? The one you told me to forget about because you wanted to get to Deirdre? Well, it seems to have left behind some surprises.”

“What … what will we do?”

“Float here helplessly while we evaluate the damage,” she snapped. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to land and pull apart the ceiling and a couple of bulkheads, like we should have done before we launched.” Her lip curled. “It’ll be a much bigger job now.”

O’Hare stared at her, seemed to search for words, then coughed instead. Kaur stepped around him and returned to the bridge.

Every person on the bridge had their faceplate down. Samson stood on his console, his head inside an open hatch in the ceiling. He lowered himself into a crouch, and the haze of smoke around his shoulders began to stir. He closed the hatch and lowered himself to the deck as smoke swirled and vanished into a vent above him.

“No fresh problems,” Carver reported. “The rest of the phones are still working.”

“Let’s get groundside,” Kaur said. “There’s no way to tell what’s going to malfunction next.”

The helmsman said, “Oh, for ….” Kaur looked at him, and he flushed. “Nav thrusters aren’t responding.”

Carver crossed to his side and looked over his shoulder as he tried several controls. The ship trembled, then stilled. The helmsman said, “We’ve got port-side thrusters only. We can only go in one direction.”

Kaur sighed. “Fine. Get on the radio to Hammett. Tell him to come pick us up.” She scrubbed a hand through her hair. “Don’t mention the rock. Not over unsecured radio.”

Hopkins grabbed the handset connected to the radio. He conducted a low-voiced conversation, then turned to Kaur. “Hammett says he’s got half his hull plates scattered around the landing field. The colonists have a ship, though. He’s asked them to come get us.”

There goes the last bit of dignity that might have clung to our return. “Ask them to hurry. Tell Hammett we have urgent news. Then call Schwartz and tell him to get started on repairs. Just enough to get the ship on the ground.” She thought of the giant rock, hurtling toward Ariadne, speed and rate of acceleration impossible to calculate. “We’re racing the clock. We’ve got a deadline, and we don’t know what it is. We need to get this ship on the ground so we can repair it properly and get back out there.” She pictured the rock slamming into the planet and shivered. “There’s rather a lot at stake.”

Chapter 34 – Hammett

“Three days,” said Benson. “Mr. Geibelhaus says that’s the best he can do.” Geibelhaus himself wasn’t at the meeting. He was busy putting the hull of the Tomahawk back together.

“Schwartz says he can’t be sure,” said Kaur, “but he says we should be able to land the Achilles in about eighteen hours. After that, I would think we’d be able to tear everything apart, check for hidden damage or hidden alien parts, and get it all reassembled within a day to a day and a half.” She spread her hands. “It’s impossible to be more specific.” She was the only representative from the Achilles. Every crewman with a ranking of Technician One or higher was in orbit, working on repairs.

Five more people sat around the polished boardroom table in the meeting room in the terminal building. O’Hare, who had recovered much of his bluster, sat with crossed arms, glowering at each person as they spoke. He had the air of someone longing to voice an objection, frustrated because no one would say anything outrageous.

Swanson sat beside him, looking nervous and unhappy. Hammett found himself almost liking the man. The major might have been a decent person, or at least harmless, if the EDF movement hadn’t sprung up and drawn him into its unwholesome ranks. Swanson hadn’t spoken yet in the meeting, and didn’t seem likely to start.

Christine Goldfarb and a man named Ron represented the colonists. They were supposedly there to learn what the Navy force needed and to offer whatever help they could. So far, neither of them had spoken beyond making simple introductions.

“I don’t recommend launching the Achilles before the Tomahawk is ready,” Hammett said. “This fight will be tough enough with both ships covering each other. One ship alone won’t stand a chance.”

“It’s only a few hours difference,” O’Hare said grudgingly. “I suppose we can wait.” His eyebrows drew together. “I want all Naval personnel ready to abandon the planet if we can’t stop this rock. We should take any useful munitions or supplies with us. There’s no point in leaving it here.”

He spoke not a word about the colonists who would die when the rock struck. He didn’t even glance at Ron and Christine, and Hammett felt a familiar lump of anger burn in the pit of his stomach. “Yes, Colonel.”

O’Hare tilted his head, checking the time. “I want a status report first thing in the morning. I expect repairs to continue on schedule. I won’t tolerate any delays.”

Hammett didn’t speak, just stared straight ahead. In his peripheral vision he watched O’Hare lean forward, plant both hands on the tabletop, and heave himself to his feet. “If no one had anything more to add, this meeting is adjourned.” When no one spoke he headed for the door.

The others stood, drifting toward the door of the meeting room. O’Hare strutted out. Swanson looked at the others, clearly embarrassed. Then he shrugged and followed O’Hare.

Christine paused in the doorway. She glanced at Hammett and raised an eyebrow, then peered into the corridor. A moment later she closed the door and returned to her chair. Hammett sat as well, hiding a grin. He hadn’t had to explain a thing to the young scientist. She had read the situation perfectly.

Ron and Christine exchanged glances. She nodded, and he spoke. “I don’t think they know a thing about the Theseus. I should bring the rest of you up to speed, though.” He waited as the others took seats. “I hesitate to trust you,” he said. “It seems like a horrible thing to say, I know. But I’m quite sure I can’t trust the EDF.”

Hammett didn’t speak, just nodded his understanding.

“Your people liberated Ariadne,” Ron said. “Some of your people have died defending my world, and I’m not about to forget that.”

“Just the same,” Hammett said, “though it pains me to say it, your distrust is entirely warranted.”

Ron nodded. “Still, I have to take a leap of faith.” He glanced at Christine. “We aren’t military people. Oh, we’ve learned a lot since the Hive came. But when we fought alongside Lieutenant Nicholson and the others, we realized how much we don’t know. Quite simply, we need your help. But it won’t be a one-sided relationship. We have something to offer as well.”

Hammett looked at him, waiting.

“There’s a reason we brought you down in shuttles,” he said, looking at Kaur. “We didn’t want to reveal the Theseus. We’ve given her an overhaul.”

They’ve probably mounted a couple of industrial lasers on a freighter, Hammett thought. I’ll have to find a diplomatic way to tell them it’s hopeless. He gave Ron a polite smile, opened his mouth, and hesitated. This was not a pair of foolish civilians playing at being soldiers. This was the man who led the resistance on Ariadne and the woman who saved the Tomahawk with a reconfigured alien weapon. He said, “What have you done, exactly?”

Ron nodded to Christine. She gave Hammett a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m sure it’s not up to military standards, but we’ve done the best we could. Maybe it’s simplest if I show you.” She gestured. “The ship’s next door.”

They peeked into the hallway before they left the meeting room. No one wanted O’Hare inviting himself along. The shortest route was to the left, through the arrivals lounge, but that would take them past the EDF offices. They turned right instead, pushed open an emergency door, and ducked under a low spot on the polymer sheet covering the roof.

Christine led them around the terminal. “We don’t have any lasers,” she said. “I have some ideas for adapting that alien tower. I’ve almost figured out how to duplicate what they did. I’m pretty sure I can make the gun a lot smaller.” She looked over her shoulder and flashed a smile at the Navy personnel. “They have all this redundancy in their technology. It’s inefficient. My version will be just as powerful, but well under half the size. It’ll be able to shoot faster, too.”

She unlocked a small door in the hangar wall. “I just haven’t had time to work on it. I’ve been too busy with the Theseus. Here it is.”

Hammett stepped through the doorway, then moved to one side as the others followed. The big hangar doors were closed now, a sad concession to the distrust the colonists felt for the people who should have been their allies. A dozen men and women swarmed around and on the freighter, some of them glancing over at the newcomers, most of them concentrating on their work.

The ship was ugly. That was Hammett’s first impression. It was blocky and unlovely, with turrets jutting like warts and strange patches of metal spikes that looked almost like fur. He guessed the ship had twice the volume of the Tomahawk, but she probably had less mass. The inside would be mostly empty space for storing cargo.

“These dissipate heat,” Christine said, walking over to the ship and stretching a hand up to point at a cluster of impossibly thin spines. “I call it Fourier metal. It covers nearly the entire ship, and it distributes heat evenly across the hull. The spines allow the heat to dissipate.” She moved toward a ramp. “Let me show you what’s inside.”

They entered the ship’s cargo hold. There didn’t seem to be much room for cargo. The space was almost entirely filled by thick metal tubes that ran the full length of the ship, front to back. Each tube was thick enough that a man could have crawled inside.

“These are the main rail gun batteries,” Christine said. “Nine tubes in a three-by-three grid pointing forward, and nine more pointing aft. We can’t aim them. They fire where the ship is pointed. We have some smaller guns mounted on turrets. Those can be aimed. These are our heavy hitters, though.” She walked over to stand under the nearest tube. It was almost low enough for her to reach up and touch it. “By putting all the tubes together, we can use the same set of electromagnets to fire forward or back.” She smiled. “We can’t fire forward and backward at the same time, of course.”

“Of course,” Hammett echoed, feeling dazed. “Why are the tubes so big?”

She frowned, puzzled. “Well, more mass means more impact, right?”

He looked up at the enormous tubes running above her head and felt his perspective shift. “You mean … your rounds are …” He held his arms out in front of him, indicating a circle as big as one of the tubes. “This big?”

Christine nodded. “You can see for yourself. Here’s some of the ammunition.” She led the way aft to a bin full of colossal cylinders. The bin itself was easily three times Hammett’s height, made of thick wire mesh that gave a clear view of the objects within.

Each rail gun round was the size of a keg, a keg big enough to hold a grown man. He thought of the fist-sized rounds the Tomahawk fired and whistled.

The massive projectiles weren’t made of metal, he saw. Each round was cut from stone, with a steel cap on each end and half a dozen steel bands linking the caps.

“We don’t have enough steel to make solid rounds,” Christine said. “That’s why the gun barrels have to be so long. We need every bit of distance to get a good muzzle velocity.”

For a long time Hammett didn’t speak. He just stared at the bin of gigantic ammunition, thinking about the ramifications. The Navy would never adopt guns like these. They were hopelessly inefficient. There was barely enough steel to let the magnets function. The waste of space was phenomenal.

When your starting point was a freighter with a big empty cargo hold, though, it made perfect sense.

“You may have inadvertently solved a problem we’ve been having,” said Benson. “The aliens have some kind of deflector. Probably magnetic.” He grinned. “I can’t wait to see them try to deflect a round that weighs a thousand kilos and is ninety percent stone.”

“There’s more,” said Christine, looking pleased. “Follow me.”

She led them aft to a staircase that climbed in zigzags to the top hull. They walked along a catwalk, looking down on rail gun tubes and other hardware, catching only infrequent glimpses of the deck plates far below.

“We put a fusion plant in the nose to supplement ship’s power,” Christine said. “The rail guns need a lot of juice. There are battery backups for the turrets. They should be good for a thousand rounds or so. Haven’t tested them yet. No backups for the big guns, though.” She reached the end of the catwalk, pausing in a hatchway. “This is the bridge.”

Hammett climbed a short ladder and stepped onto the bridge. His first sense was of alarming exposure, though to be fair it was not much worse than the bridge of the Tomahawk. The bridge of the Theseus jutted above the hull like a steel and steelglass blister, with windows on every side. The bridge was fairly far aft, and he could see the hull of the freighter stretching away before him.

It bristled with weapons.

The rail gun turrets were clearly new, compact bumps sticking up from the hull, each with a set of four rail gun barrels poking out. These barrels were much smaller than the behemoths set into the cargo hold, probably smaller even than the guns on the Tomahawk. He grinned to himself at the thought. Naval guns had never seemed puny to him before.

“Wow,” said Benson. “What caliber is that one?”

Hammett turned. Benson was staring through the aft windows, and Hammett crossed to join him. A turret sprouted from the hull just behind the bridge, with a single barrel as big as Hammett’s leg.

“Fifteen millimeter,” Christine said. “We’ve been experimenting with different sizes. The Hive keeps adapting. We wanted lots of different things to throw at them.”

Hammett said, “How many rail guns do you have, exactly?”

Her forehead scrunched. “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. We’ve got eleven turrets, but some have one barrel, some have two, and some have four. And then there’s the big guns. Six forward and six aft, like I said.”

Hammett whistled. “I’m not sure the Tomahawk could even carry ammunition for that many guns. Not for a fight that lasted more than about a minute, anyway.”

“The fabricators have been running day and night,” she said. “We have about twelve thousand rounds on board. We’re not actually sure how many we can carry. There’s still cargo space available. Finding a way to store it so everything’s available in an emergency – that’s the real challenge.” She pointed at Ron. “He’s been handling the logistical stuff.”

Ron shook his head. “Ammunition’s been a nightmare. We finally stopped manufacturing the big rounds. We built magazines that can feed the guns directly. Once the magazines are empty, though, that’s it. The gun is done.” He spread his hands. “The ammunition is just too bloody heavy to move. We can’t reload manually fast enough to do any good.”

Hammett blinked. “You reload manually?”

“Yep.” Ron grinned. “Welcome to the frontier, where even the most sophisticated tool has some kind of human labor bottleneck.” He chuckled. “No, we’ve been stretched to the limit just putting together guns that will actually fire. Machinery to load the ammo automatically?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Forget it. It’s not happening, unless you can talk the Hive into giving us a few more months to get ready.”

“Manual loading,” said Hammett. “You’ll need a sizeable crew, then.”

Ron nodded. “We plan to launch with a crew of thirty.”

Hammett imagined this behemoth lumbering into the sky, ignoring the alien heat weapon and spewing stone and steel missiles in every direction. He imagined the Tomahawk and Achilles accompanying her, and taking a pounding from friendly fire. Mistakes happened in combat, of course. With civilians at the gun controls, firing rounds that massed a thousand kilos or so … “How soon can she be ready to fly?”

“She’s ready now,” Christine said. “She’s been ready for two days. We added three more turrets while we were waiting, though.”

“This is …” Hammett let his voice trail off. Every instinct he had from a lifetime as a professional military man told him to discourage these enthusiastic amateurs. Amateurs died in combat. It was just that simple.

But what was the alternative? Could they trust their defence to professionals? The professionals had been ordered away from the Naxos system. Only a combination of stubbornness and mechanical failures had kept even a pair of inadequate corvettes in the system.

However hopeless a refitted freighter might be, it was infinitely better than nothing. And that was the alternative.

Nothing.

He thought of the doomsday rock tumbling through space toward Ariadne. It could arrive in a matter of moments, if the aliens sent it through a wormhole. To put that much mass through a wormhole would be an impressive technological feet, though. If they could do such a thing they wouldn’t have launched a risky conventional assault on Earth.

In the absence of a wormhole, the colony might have anything from eighteen hours to a week before the rock arrived. Every telescope on the planet was trained on the approaching menace, and their estimates of speed and acceleration would improve. It was clear, though, that doom was coming and time was short.

The people of Ariadne couldn’t wait around for the Navy to save them.

“Very well,” he said. “The corvettes should be spaceworthy in another three days. We’ll launch them. All three ships together.”

Ron shocked him by shaking his head. “Three days is too late. And, no offense, Captain, but I’m not sure your corvettes will be much help.”

Hammett stared at him, flabbergasted. “Not much help?”

“You’ve fought bravely and effectively,” he said. “But they’ve learned from you. They know how to deal with corvettes now, and you have no defence against their heat weapon.” When Hammett started to object Ron said, “How did your last battle go?”

Hammett stared at him, frustrated. “It went badly. But with help from the Theseus-”

“The Theseus is immune to heat weapons,” Ron said. “Your corvettes are not. If you launch with us, you’ll die.”

Hammett looked down at his uniform and thought about all that it represented. “If we die, will die doing our duty. We’ll be up there with you, doing what we can.”

Ron smiled. “I never doubted it. But I don’t need you throwing your lives away any useless gesture. I’d rather you did something a little more effective.”

Hammett stared at Ron, offended, fighting to control his indignation. Ron is your ally, Richard. And Christine is a damned sight smarter than you are. Listening to them will be a lot more useful than yelling at them. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, “What do you have in mind?”

“We have a ship,” Ron said. “We have guns. We have a crew that knows how to fly, and gun crews who know how to load and fire the guns.” He lifted his hands, palms up. “Some of us have learned about ground combat, but we don’t know anything about fighting in space.”

Hammett nodded.

“We need leadership,” Ron said. “You could command the Theseus. Your people could help us run her.”

Hammett wanted to suggest replacing the colonists completely with Navy personnel. That would be stupid, though. The colonists knew the ship, knew the guns, and there wasn’t time to bring his own people up to speed. “I need to talk to my officers.”

“No you don’t,” Ron said calmly. “You have all the information you need. Every minute that passes, that rock gains speed. The longer we wait, the longer it will take to match velocities. If we are to have any hope of deflecting it, we need to move quickly. If you spend a day – or even an hour – dithering, you might doom us all.”

Damn it, this is not how it’s supposed to work. I’m a Spacecom officer. I protect civilians. I don’t lead them in battle. That’s what this uniform means. It means I stand on the wall, and I do my duty, and I keep people safe.

“We’re launching the Theseus,” Ron said. “In thirty minutes. With or without you. I’d rather have you on board, but we’ll go without you if we have to. Are you coming, or not?”

The silence stretched out. Hammett could think of a thousand reasons to say no, but with every passing second the rock came closer. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. Then he opened his eyes and said, “Yes.”

Chapter 35 – Christine

The Theseus had been accelerating hard for just over thirteen hours. Christine Goldfarb sat in the galley just below and ahead of the bridge, watching the coffee cup in front of her, waiting for the change. The surface of the coffee had a distinct tilt. The entire ship felt as if the nose was higher than the tail. They were accelerating hard enough to mash everyone against the rear bulkhead if the internal force fields, the same ones that gave the ship artificial gravity, hadn’t been compensating. Even with the force fields, though, the acceleration was unmistakeable.

She would have sworn she couldn’t hear the ship’s engines, but when main power cut out she was suddenly aware of the absence of a background hum that had been with her since they launched. The surface of the coffee went flat, then rippled as the ship swung around.

The deck seemed to tilt beneath her, regaining its familiar angle, and the surface of the coffee once again sloped aft. The ship was decelerating now, the engines working just as hard to slow the ship down as they had worked to speed it up. The Theseus was plunging tail-first toward a rendezvous with the approaching rock and the aliens that escorted it.

They had accelerated for thirteen hours, but they’d decelerate for almost twenty. By the time they met the rock, the Theseus would actually be racing back toward Ariadne at a fantastic speed. The same speed as the rock, which was already moving at a hell of a clip, and still accelerating.

It was a big rock, and the aliens were applying a comparatively slow acceleration, a fact for which Christine was deeply grateful. It meant they still had time to reach the rock and give it a nudge, at a range where the tiniest movement would cause it to miss Ariadne by a wide margin.

She hoped.

She wished, not for the first time, that the Theseus could generate a wormhole. They would have closed with the enemy long since if they could have jumped. Still, you did what you could with what you had.

They knew much, much more now about the rock’s position and speed. The Theseus had a decent set of scanners and a functioning computer. That, combined with the rapidly shrinking distance, had brought them a flood of information. If the aliens didn’t pull any last-minute stunts the Theseus would reach the rock with an almost perfectly matching velocity, in just over an Ariadne day.

That was when things would get interesting.

Half a dozen weary crew loafed in chairs or fiddled with the galley’s primitive cooking facilities. Every face looked drawn and strained. The ship’s weapons were all brand-new, which meant no one had any real experience using them. Hammett had everyone running endless drills. They had fired hundreds of rounds of ammunition into space. They had refilled magazines, and hauled ammunition from different bins.

Lieutenant Nicholson, who had seemed so friendly and nice back on Ariadne, had revealed a whole new side to his personality since launch. He took sadistic delight in springing new exercises on his exhausted recruits, telling them the closest ammo bins were empty and they had to figure out how to get at rounds stored in the farthest corners of the hold. Christine was one of his recruits, and she was bone-weary, with frazzled nerves to boot.

Despite Nicholson’s tyranny, though, she couldn’t resent him. She’d overheard much of Hammett’s speech to a crowd of Navy volunteers. He’d reminded them that he didn’t have permission to leave Ariadne in the Theseus. They could all face arrest when the ship returned. He almost certainly would. He told them it was fine if they decided to stay behind. He said it was just common sense.

Not a single sailor had broken ranks. A dozen and a half of them were laboring in the hold right now, drilling alongside the colonists, hauling rail gun rounds back and forth and doing it all without complaining.

Much.

She sighed, sipped her coffee, and shifted the pistol on her hip to a more comfortable position. Everyone on the ship was armed. The Alexander had faced boarding parties, and the Achilles had been penetrated by alien machinery. Hammett wanted everyone on his blended crew to be ready for anything. They’d fired off a dozen rounds each on an improvised firing range at the back of the hold. “You won’t need accuracy,” Nicholson had assured them as he led the brief lesson. “You’ll be firing at close range. Just make sure you know what’s behind your target. I don’t want friendly fire incidents.”

The gun, like the Navy itself, simultaneously repelled and comforted her. She desperately hoped she wouldn’t have to use it. She thought of the Outer Settlements War, which had ended when she was a baby. If the thought of firing on an alien sickened her, how could Navy personnel even think of waging war on fellow human beings?

A metallic impact echoed through the galley, interrupting her morbid train of though. All around her, people froze in position, listening. Four impacts, a pause, six more impacts, then three more. Squad six was wanted aft. Christine sighed, drained her coffee, and stood. She was training with squad six. In theory she was along on this flight to offer scientific advice if it was needed. In reality, she’d contributed everything she could designing the ship’s armaments and defences. Now it was a job for soldiers, not scientists. So she was learning drum signals and magazines, and finding her way around the cargo bay. She’d be able to contribute manual labor, if nothing else.

The endless drills served another purpose beyond training, she realized as she hurried aft with the rest of the squad. She was too busy, and too tired, to indulge her fear. Had the Navy officers planned it that way? She shrugged inwardly. Planned or not, it was a blessing she would happily accept.

A sailor with a smear of dirt down the side of his face met them at the bottom of the stairs. “Squad Three has been killed,” he told them cheerfully. Even as he said it, Squad Three went hustling past, lugging sacks full of rail gun rounds up the stairs. He ignored them. “In their absence, you’re needed to service Turret Eleven. Who can tell me what size of ammunition Turret Eleven uses?”

Before Christine could coax an answer from her exhausted brain, the woman beside her called out, “Fifteen millimeter!”

“Is she right?” the sailor asked. “If she’s wrong, you’ll carry the wrong ammo up there and the aliens will kill us all.”

“She’s right,” said a man. “I’m certain. Turret Eleven takes fifteen millimeter ammo, and it’s on the nose of the ship.”

“Very good,” the sailor said. “Where’s the closest ammo bin?”

Several people pointed.

“Too bad that bin’s on fire,” the sailor said, shaking his head in mock sorrow. “Where else?”

“That one’s closest to us,” someone said. “But there’s a bin right beside the turret. That’s the smart one to use.”

“It would be,” the sailor agreed, “at the start of the fight. We’ve been fighting for a while, though. That bin might be empty by now.”

“There’s a bin amidships,” Christine said. “We’d have to go right past it on the way to Turret Eleven.”

“Great,” said the sailor. “Let’s do it. All the ammunition you can carry. Load up at the bin and carry it forward to Turret Eleven.”

Christine set off with the others at a trot, knowing they would lug all the ammunition right back to the bin when they were done. By the time the battle started, though, they would know the ship backward and forward. They’d be able to load any gun, under any conditions. Smoke, fire, vacuum, hampered by the vac suits they would all be wearing by that time, none of it would matter. They would be ready.

Telling herself it was necessary, she willed the voice of protest in her muscles to be silent as she hurried to the bin, helped load a dozen rounds onto a stretcher-like carrying rack, then took the handles on the end, grunted, and stood. The man on the front muttered a curse and the two of them set off for Turret Eleven at a fast shuffle.

The aliens better get here soon, Christine thought as her hands and forearms burned. This is killing me.

Chapter 36 – Hammett

Hammett stood behind the captain’s chair on the bridge of the Theseus, gazing aft and fighting the urge to fidget. The bridge, designed for a very small crew, felt crowded with Hammett and Sanjari there, along with a couple of colonists named Eddie and Hal. The two of them were usually the entire crew. In fact, Eddie often flew the ship by himself. They sat side by side at the helm consoles. Hammett had wiped a film of dust from the captain’s seat before he first sat down. Apparently no one ever used it.

The rock was visible to the naked eye now. It loomed like a red-brown apple, slowly growing as it approached. Since the rock was aft of the ship, Hammett felt as if he were fleeing, locked in a deadly race that he was losing. He pushed the thought away, wishing the enemy would hurry up and reach the Theseus. The waiting was fraying his nerves.

“I’ve got movement, Captain,” Sanjari announced, and Hammett felt a tiny shiver run up his back. Be careful of what you wish for. “I think they finally saw us.”

Hammett circled the captain’s chair, sat down, and brought up a navigational display. He could see the rock as a green lump in the projection. A swarm of tiny blips came into focus, sharpening as they moved far enough from the rock for the scanners to differentiate them. As he watched, the smaller blips merged together. One blip after another disappeared, blending with the amalgamated craft, until a single glowing dot remained. The distance between the dot and the rock slowly grew as the alien ship moved toward the Theseus.

“Sound General Quarters,” Hammett said. The crew, after hours of relentless drilling, was resting. Now they would rise and move to their posts. Were they as nervous as he was? It’s worse for them, he decided. It’s their first time.

“I said sound General Quarters,” Hammett repeated, frowning. The fight hasn’t even started and things are already falling apart.

“I told everyone,” Eddie said.

Hammett, who had been waiting for a drumbeat announcement, scowled. The crew had drilled without using their implants. Every colonist on board still had implants, though, and the Navy personnel among them would realize quickly what was going on. “Fine,” he said, and turned his attention back to the nav display.

The alien craft was closing quickly, and he wondered if he’d be able to see it if he looked over his shoulder. “They’ll close with us and try to burn us,” he said. “Let’s give ‘em a taste of the main aft battery.”

“Right-o,” Eddie said cheerfully. He wasn’t about to adopt military etiquette, and Hammett, a guest on his ship, wasn’t about to insist. “Point-blank range?”

“Point-blank,” Hammett confirmed. The last thing he wanted to do was miss with his opening salvo and warn the Hive ship that he had a potent new weapon.

A young man with a halo of curly dark hair stuck his head through the bridge doorway. “I’m ready with the drum.” He held up a thick steel wrench longer than his arm and grinned. His job was to relay Hammett’s orders to the rest of the ship by bashing the wrench against the struts that supported the catwalk outside.

“Stand by,” said Hammett. He was tempted to use the crew’s implants instead, but everyone had drilled with drum signals, and Eddie and Hal had enough to concentrate on already. “We’ll be firing the main battery aft, on my signal.”

The drummer nodded and rested the wrench on his shoulder.

Closer and closer the Hive ship came. Hammett twisted around in his seat and saw it sweeping in from behind, a behemoth, a lumpy shape like a deadly potato, growing as it approached. He turned his back, demonstrating a calm indifference he didn’t feel, and Sanjari gave him a strained grin. Eddie and Hal didn’t notice. They were focused completely on their consoles.

“It’s coming up on our port side,” Eddie said, his voice shrill.

“That’s fine,” Hammett said. “It can’t hurt us. Fourier metal, remember?” He had serious doubts about the untested shielding, but he wanted the crew calm.

“Turning!” Hal said, and his hands moved on the controls. The stars, which hadn’t wavered in hours, slid past the windows as the ship tilted. Hal cried, “Now!”

“Fire!” said Hammett, and the drummer vanished from the doorway. Three echoing clangs rang out, and Hammett stood, looking through the aft windows.

The alien ship filled his view. He didn’t see the nine huge rounds as they hit, but he saw an eruption of debris. Shrapnel splattered against the steelglass, and a spent round went tumbling past. Another volley slammed into the Hive ship, then another, and suddenly the void was full of individual ships swarming in every direction.

“Cease fire!” He didn’t even hear the drumbeat. He moved to the window, flinched involuntarily as a small Hive ship flashed past just a few meters away, then flinched again as a stream of small rail gun rounds tore the little craft to shreds.

For a short, terrible time a storm raged around the Theseus. Eddie and Hal didn’t touch their controls. They just flew straight, giving the gun crews a stable platform to fire from. Steel canisters filled the space around the Theseus in a lethal storm, while Hive ships dodged and twisted and died.

Five small ships came together in a clump directly in front of the bridge. They found a blind spot just aft of a gun turret, and the bottom of the amalgamated ship glowed red. Hammett held his breath, waiting for hull plates to buckle and twist, but nothing happened.

“It works,” said Eddie, disbelief in his voice. “That furry metal. It actually works!”

For thirty long seconds the alien hung there, hugging the hull of the Theseus. Then the Hive ship broke apart, smaller ships fleeing in five directions. The entire attack force fled with it, pulling rapidly out of the effective range of the rail guns. Hammett saw a small ship jerk to the side as a round hit it, then straighten out and streak away.

A few seconds later, the Theseus was alone.

Eddie let out a cheer, and Hal slapped him on the back. The drummer stuck his head into the bridge, looked around, then stepped back outside. He shouted something Hammett couldn’t make out, and someone in the hold whooped.

“Reduce thrust,” Hammett said, resuming his seat. “Launch the Wasp.”

The Wasp was a little two-person survey ship, designed for taking samples from asteroids and other space rocks. It was small, maneuverable, and equipped with a powerful laser. The laser, designed to drill straight down when the Wasp was on the surface of an asteroid, was pretty much useless as a weapon. Today, though, it would serve a different function.

“Frank,” said Eddie, “find Mr. Nicholson and take the Wasp out.” He turned in his seat and grinned at Hammett. “They never did fry us. Thank God! I don’t know what I would do without my implants.”

“You get used to it,” Hammett said. “Stay sharp.”

Eddie nodded and turned back to his console.

A buzzer sounded, warning everyone the main cargo hatch was opening. A long minute passed, and at last the buzzer went silent. “Doors are shut,” Hal announced. “The Wasp is out.”

“Stay close,” Hammett said. “We’re the only cover they’ve got.”

The stars swung past the windows as Hal brought the ship around. The rock loomed now through the forward windows, vast and sinister, looking as big as a planet. It was less than a kilometer across, but it seemed impossibly vast at close range.

The Wasp rose into view ahead of the nose of the Theseus. The little prospecting ship had the same tall, thin profile as a corvette, although on a much smaller scale. The ship couldn’t have been more than two meters wide, with a couple of steelglass bubbles on the top marking the positions of the pilot and co-pilot. A colonist named Thursby would be at the controls, with Nicholson behind him.

Six articulating legs extended from each side, just above the bottom of the hull. They gave the Wasp an insect-like appearance which someone had amplified by painting the hull in alternating black and yellow stripes. The little ship had a sleek appearance which was marred by a wire basket welded to the back. The basket, designed to carry tools and samples, contained only one object, a metal cylinder painted red and yellow to warn of its lethal contents.

The Theseus had made one stop before heading into deep space. The ship had docked with the Achilles and picked up a small, deadly package.

The warhead from the ship’s nuclear missile.

The Wasp raced ahead of the Theseus, and Hammett suppressed a curse. The little ship was unarmed and completely unprotected by Fourier metal. It was terribly vulnerable. Still, it might slip over to the rock unnoticed. Perhaps distance from the Theseus was the best thing.

He checked his nav display. The Hive ships formed a loose cloud on the far side of the rock, several kilometers distant. They were far enough away to be just about impossible to hit with rail gun fire, but close enough to react quickly if the Theseus did something effective. The aliens were probably gambling that the humans wouldn’t be able to do much of anything at all.

Or they were biding their time while reinforcements came rushing in.

If we were just here to nudge the rock sideways, that strategy would work. They could take their time figuring out how to beat us, then put the rock back on track. Let’s hope our little firecracker takes them by surprise.

“I don’t like that sensor shadow,” Sanjari said. It was impossible to know what might be happening on the far side of the rock, no way to know how many ships hid there.

“It works in our favor too,” Hammett said. “The Wasp is already invisible to most of them.”

The little survey ship was almost to the surface of the rock. It would land, burn a deep hole with the laser, and plant the nuke in the heart of the rock. With any luck the rock would be blasted into fragments, each chunk spinning off into the depths of space at a high velocity.

“The Wasp is touching down,” Sanjari said.

Eddie turned to grin at Hal. “Everything’s working! Maybe this won’t be so bad.”

As if on cue, a fresh blip appeared beside the rock on Hammett’s scanner. Something was coming around the rock. Something big. “Line us up on that new target!” he barked. “Drummer, be ready to sound Fire Forward.”

There was a clatter as the drummer dropped his wrench on the catwalk outside, then scrambled to pick it up. The rock fell away as the nose of the Theseus started to rise.

“Too late,” Sanjari said.

Hammett had only a brief glimpse of the Hive ship. It was a ring of metal, a couple of dozen of the little ships joined together in a circle. Within the circle a rock hovered, a fist of stone a good eight meters wide. Even as Hammett took in the details a flash of white light surrounded the ships and the rock.

And the rock came hurtling toward the Theseus.

Chapter 37 – Nicholson

Lieutenant Nicholson floated beside the Wasp, one hand on a landing strut, holding himself in place, his other hand up to shield his face. He hadn’t realized just how powerful the Wasp’s laser was. The barrel of the laser was a ring a meter wide. It blasted a column of incredible energy into the stone beneath the ship, and gobs of molten rock came bubbling up, bumping the underside of the ship or touching the struts and making him flinch.

“It’s reasonably safe,” Thursby said. “The stone cools quickly.” He reached out a glove and used the thickly-padded back to swat a floating glob of stone. The bubble had already hardened, and went drifting off into the void.

“Safe,” Nicholson said. “Right.” He edged back as a glowing ball of stone the size of an egg drifted past his thighs. “I won’t test it, just the same.”

Thursby’s teeth showed briefly in a smile through the faceplate of his helmet. “Chicken.” A moment later he put a lie to his own words, dancing back as a large glob of stone came dangerously close to his boots.

“I didn’t think the laser would be this big.” The warhead was no bigger than a person’s head. The hole would be much bigger.

Thursby lifted one hand in an exaggerated gesture typical of seasoned spacers. Subtle gestures and facial expressions didn’t translate well in vac suits. “She’s only got two sizes of laser. This big.” He held his thumb and fingertip a few millimeters apart. “And that big.” He gestured at the hole they were boring into the rock. Less stone was bubbling out now. Was the rock being vaporized?

“It’s designed for putting an access tunnel in a big rock,” he continued. “A claustrophobic tunnel, granted, but you could wriggle into it, provided you weren’t too fat.”

“How long will it take to reach the middle of this rock?”

Thursby lifted his hand again, indicating a shrug. “Depends on what the rock’s made of. At least ten minutes. Probably closer to thirty.”

Thirty minutes? His nerves were already stretched to the breaking point, and it hadn’t been five minutes yet. I’m not sure I can stand thirty minutes.

“At least the ship does all the work,” Thursby said. “All we have to do is drop in the bomb and fly away. Oops, here comes another one.” He edged back as another blob of molten rock floated toward him.

Nicholson ignored him, putting both hands on the strut and swinging his body sideways. This put more distance – and the body of the ship – between him and the melting stone. He pulled his way along to the back of the little ship, where he opened the cargo basket and drew out the warhead.

It was such a simple-looking device, just a metal cylinder with a couple of tiny access ports and holes for the screws that would attach it to a missile. Nicholson and Christine Goldfarb had rigged a timer, a plastic gadget with a spring-loaded dial that could be set by giving it a twist. There were no electronic parts to be fried by an EMP weapon. Just a battery and a set of contacts that would close when the timer hit zero. The battery would be enough to ignite the explosive shell around the ball of plutonium at the center.

Cradling the cylinder gently against his chest, he pulled himself one-handed from strut to strut until he was once again beside the laser. He peered under the belly of the ship to look at Thursby, who had his back turned. “Thursby. What is it?”

Thursby closed a hand around a strut, levered himself down until his feet were against the surface of the rock, and used his legs to press his shoulders against the underside of the Wasp’s hull. That freed his hands, and he put a hand on the butt of the pistol belted around his waist. “I thought I saw something.”

A chill went through Nicholson, and he let go of the strut, giving it a little nudge with his fingers so his body spun around. When his back was to the ship he reached back and grabbed the strut, stopping himself. His gaze swept the horizon a few meters away. To his relief nothing moved.

Then Thursby swore, and half a dozen spiky shapes rose into view. Nicholson let go of the strut, drew his pistol, and fired as alien troops came skittering across the stone toward him.

His first shot was lucky. An alien thrashed, then came loose from the surface, floating back and up with legs twitching. The next few shots went wild, the recoil pushing him back and turning him. His shoulders bumped the hull of the Wasp, steadying him, and he poured half a dozen aimed shots at the nearest alien.

Nicholson honestly couldn’t tell if the creature had a vac suit. The alien was so strange he couldn’t be sure what was artificial and what was part of its body. Two limbs came up, deflecting his shots, as the other four limbs kept marching forward. Then a shot made it through and the alien just let go of the rock and let itself drift away.

Several more aliens closed in. Nicholson let go of the pistol for an instant, letting it float in the void before him as he grabbed the handle on the timer and twisted. A bright orange plastic tag stuck out from under the dial, an extra safety feature so a bump against the dial couldn’t blow up the Theseus by accident. He grabbed the tag and ripped it free. The bomb was live. If the aliens killed him, the nuke would still go off.

The aliens were terrifyingly close, but they advanced slowly, clinging to the surface of the rock with every step. Still cradling the bomb against his chest, Nicholson grabbed the floating pistol and took aim at the nearest alien.

The ship moved behind him, spoiling his aim.

Nicholson looked up, staring in horrified disbelief as the Wasp lifted away from the surface of the rock. He said, “Thursby, you cockroach!” Then he jammed the pistol back in its holster and put a hand on the thruster controls on his belt. A pair of aliens closed on him, forelimbs reaching out to pierce his suit, and he hit the thrust button.

Streams of compressed air sprayed from nozzles on either side of his belt and he rose from the surface of the rock. As he looked down he saw several more aliens who’d been right behind him, crossing the space where the ship had been. A stretching limb missed the toe of his left boot by a hairsbreadth.

He couldn’t fly away, though. Not holding a bomb. He couldn’t just shove the bomb toward the rock and hope for the best, either. No, there was only one thing to do, if he could find the courage to do it.

On the lighter side, he told himself, it was the last thing the aliens below would expect.

Aliens swarmed the area where the ship had been. There were at least a dozen, probably more, clinging to the rock all around the Wasp’s landing site. Nicholson could see the laser-drilled hole, though, a dark circle growing smaller every second as momentum carried him farther from the rock.

Changing the angle of his body was awkward with the canister clasped to his chest. He took it in both hands instead, holding it at arms’ length, using it to change his center of gravity as he contorted himself. When his head was toward the rock and his feet were pointed into deep space he tucked the bomb against his chest again and gave the thrusters another squirt.

In he went, diving head-first toward the alien troops. The bomb was throwing him off, though, messing with his sense of balance. He tucked the canister between his knees, praying he didn’t lose it, and hit the thruster again, twisting his body to adjust his trajectory. It gave him more speed than he would have liked, and he plunged toward the rock.

He aimed for the hole, but he was off by a meter or so. In fact, he seemed to be heading directly for an alien soldier. At the last second he embarrassed himself by screaming. The startled alien brought a couple of limbs up to protect itself and he piled into it. For a horrible moment he found himself clinging to a couple of alien arms, staring at the steel coverings that encased each limb. Then he pushed with one arm, pulled with the other, and heaved himself feet-first toward the gaping maw of the laser-drilled bore in the rock.

The sharp tip of an arm hit the side of his head, jarring him. The blow didn’t have much force, though, because the alien itself was floating free. He’d knocked it loose from the surface when he struck. His head snapped to the side, and when he straightened he saw the alien spinning helplessly just above the stone.

Nicholson didn’t spin. His legs were in the bore hole, which gave him much-needed stability. He reached down with both hands and caught the edges of the hole. The stone there was rough to the touch, bubbled and lumpy from melting. It gave him a good grip, and he pulled himself in, dropping below the surface of the rock even as the first aliens reached him. He saw steely limbs slash through the space above him as he dropped out of reach.

The hole was deeper than he’d expected. The laser on the Wasp had real power. With his head and shoulders well below the surface he still hadn’t hit bottom. He bent his legs, which put his knees against one side of the hole and his hips against the other, bracing him in place. With his hands he grabbed the bomb and gave it a shove, sending it tumbling down toward the bottom of the shaft. With a little luck it would ricochet around in the depths and not come bouncing back up.

Then, doing his best to push the bomb from his thoughts, he drew his pistol and looked up at the mouth of the hole.

A meter of width had seemed extravagant when he was watching the laser drill at work. From inside the hole it seemed downright miserly. He had to hold his pistol close to her body and tuck in his elbows just to get his arms above his head. He extended the gun, pointing it at the circle of stars above, and waited for the aliens to come.

For a moment all he could see was stars. Then a spiky shape appeared, and he started shooting. He emptied the magazine, ejected it, and fumbled for another one. As he reloaded, though, the aliens drew back.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Nicholson snarled. “Yeah, you better run away. I got lots more where that came from.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Thursby. “Quit fooling around in that hole and get out here.”

Nicholson wasted a moment gaping up at the stars. Then he scrambled up until his head and shoulders stuck out of the hole.

Chunks of alien soldiers floated all around him. The Wasp hovered above and to one side, and Nicholson saw the laser drill glow for a moment. It vaporized a retreating soldier, leaving a couple of limbs twitching in the vacuum.

Nicholson took a good grip on the edge of the hole, got his feet under him, shouted, “Here I come!” and kicked off. A quick twist at the last moment let him hit the side of the little ship shoulder-first, and he grabbed for a handle. From there it took just a moment to pull himself up and into the open rear cockpit.

“Bomb’s set,” he said. “Not much time left.” He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d twisted the dial.

“Right,” said Thursby, and accelerated away from the rock, curving the Wasp to one side, getting them away from the bore hole. “What would be a safe distance, do you think?”

“Ariadne would be nice. Earth would be better.”

“That’s helpful,” he muttered. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

Half a dozen small Hive ships came looping around the rock, racing after the Wasp. Even one of them would be enough to destroy the little survey ship. The Hive ships wouldn’t be stupid enough to fly in front of the laser drill. They’d get up beside the Wasp and burn through her hull.

Nicholson said, “Maybe we could-”

The bomb exploded.

There was a flash of white light, bright enough to leave spots on Nicholson’s retina. He squeezed his eyes shut, and by the time he opened them a moment later everything had changed.

The rock was gone. The space where it had been was empty. He looked for the Hive ships that had been targeting the Wasp and couldn’t see them either.

“It looks like we cracked the thing in half,” Thursby said.

Nicholson took a slow look around. He spotted a chunk of rock off to one side, spinning as it drifted away. Only when he saw a Hive ship beside it did he get a sense of scale. The rock was hundreds of meters long, a jagged slab maybe a quarter the size of the original stone.

In another direction – ‘up’ from the perspective of his seat in the Wasp – he saw a second chunk, easily twice the size of the first one. It was closer, deflected less because of its mass. It was still hurtling toward Ariadne at a high velocity, he realized. They all were. The rock would miss by tens of thousands of kilometers, perhaps hundreds of thousands. The planet was safe.

Unless the aliens got to work redirecting the remains of their rock, of course. The defense of Ariadne wasn’t over.

“Good work,” he said to Thursby. “Oh, and thanks for saving my life. Sorry I called you a cockroach.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said cheerfully. “I have two ex-wives. You’ll have to work a lot harder if you want to offend me with harsh language.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Let’s get back to the Theseus.” He twisted in his seat, trying to look aft. “Do you see it?”

“Seven o’clock,” he said, his voice suddenly bleak. “Looks like they’re in trouble.”

Chapter 38 – Hammett

“Damage report!” Hammett barked, wincing at the echo of his voice inside his helmet.

“We’re totally depressurized,” Eddie said. “Engines still work, though.”

The drummer leaned in through the doorway. “Side’s all stove in, Captain. It’s quite a mess down there.” He vanished again, his voice still audible over the suit radio. “There’s a big split in the hull. Looks like one of the big rail gun things is bent.” After a pause he added, “I think there was a turret on that side. I guess it’s gone now.”

Gone. Hammett closed his eyes. Crushed flat, you mean. Obliterated in an instant, with the gunner inside. And any crew unlucky enough to be close by when the rock hit. The butcher’s bill is going to be high. He opened his eyes. Later. Right now you have to focus on keeping the bill from getting higher.

“Eddie. Send a broadcast to all hands. Tell them we’ve taken a hit, but we survived. We’ve taken the worst they can dish out, and we’re still alive. And tell them the big rock has been destroyed. Ariadne’s safe.”

Eddie nodded. A click sounded in Hammett’s ears as Eddie changed frequencies. Eddie spoke, his arms moving unconsciously for emphasis. Hammett couldn’t hear the words. Different teams had radios set to different frequencies. Hammett’s radio was set to a frequency shared only by Eddie, Hal, and the drummer.

The radio clicked again and Eddie said, “Done. What now, Boss?”

“Trouble,” Hal interrupted. “Look!”

Hammett followed the direction of his pointing finger. Some fluke of physics had left a chunk of rock no more than thirty meters across spinning madly, its center of mass almost stationary in relation to the Theseus, only a few hundred meters away. Hive ships were gathering around the chunk, joining together to form a ring.

“Bring us around,” Hammett barked. “Get us pointed at those ships. I want the forward battery ready to fire. Get every turret firing now. We have to disrupt that ring.”

Eddie and Hal leaned over their consoles. Hal cursed, then said, “We’ve lost all the starboard nav thrusters.”

Nevertheless, the ship started turning, slower than Hammett would have liked. It would be too late, though. The circle of ships was complete. The chunk of rock was slowing its mad spin, and in moments it would come hurtling toward the Theseus.

A flash of sparks erupted from a Hive ship as a rail gunner scored a lucky shot. The ring was too far away, though, for effective fire. A decent military-grade targeting system would have made short work of that circle of ships, but the colonists were aiming manually, and it was hopeless.

Maybe it’s too far for them as well. Maybe they’ll miss. Maybe—

Something glowed in the void of space on the far side of the ring of ships. A circle appeared, a disk of flashing white light made tiny by distance, with black specks dancing in the center. A moment later, the ring disintegrated.

“What the hell?” It was the drummer, standing in the doorway, gaping at the distant circle of ships. “What’s happening?”

Alien ships were breaking apart, disintegrating, tumbling in pieces to collide with each other and the slowly spinning rock. For a moment Hammett thought his rail gunners were showing some amazing skill with their weapons. A quick glance at the nav display, though, showed him the truth. “That’s laser fire,” he said. “The fleet is back.”

Eddie let out a cheer, then leaned over to clap Hal on the back. Then he seemed to slump in his chair. He twisted around to look at Hammett. “Is that good news, Captain? Or bad news?”

Hammett’s own brief moment of exultation was fading. Ariadne and the Theseus were saved, but the EDF was back in charge. “I’m not sure, Eddie.”

“We’ve got an incoming call,” Hal said glumly. “I suppose it’s to tell us we’re all under arrest.” He flipped a switch on his console. “This is the Theseus.”

“Theseus,” said a familiar voice. “This is Captain James Carruthers of the SS Indefatigable. Sorry for barging into your party uninvited, but we just couldn’t resist. Are you in need of any assistance?”

Chapter 39 – Hammett

“How’s this, Captain?”

Hammett looked at Eddie’s worried face and suppressed a smile. The man looked more nervous than he had during the battle. “It’s just fine, Eddie. Hold steady here.”

The relief fleet was queued up in a line, the ships no more than a dozen meters apart, with the Gideon in front and the Theseus bringing up the rear. The Gideon was a Jumper. It would generate a wormhole for the entire fleet.

A shimmering white circle appeared in front of the Gideon. Hammett rarely got to see a wormhole with his own eyes, and he drank in the sight as the Gideon jumped through and disappeared. The rest of the fleet followed in rapid succession.

“Remember, go down as soon as we’re through,” Hammett said, and Eddie gave a distracted nod. The supply ship directly ahead of them raced forward and vanished through the wormhole. Eddie hesitated for a moment, then hit the thrusters. The Theseus surged toward the shining circle of light. There was a flash of brightness, and then the circle was gone, replaced by a clutter of ships with Ariadne a dark crescent in the distance.

Eddie braked and brought the nose of the Theseus down, then moved into position below a corvette. Each ship had a different direction assigned to it as it went through the wormhole, to reduce the likelihood of collisions on the far side. It was a slight danger, but it seemed to have loomed large in Eddie’s mind. He sagged back in his chair and let out an exaggerated sigh. “We made it.”

“We did,” said Hammett. “Good work.” The Theseus had a split in her hull, but a force field now kept the atmosphere intact. He still wore his helmet, but he had the faceplate up. A familiar lassitude crept into his muscles. The danger was over for the moment. He could rest. The job was done.

For now.

The alien swarm had broken and run when the relief fleet came through the wormhole. They’d fled toward the pentagon constellation. Before long, Hammett knew, he’d have to take some ships and go after the aliens. There had to be a base out there in the deep dark. Either that or a Gate of some sort. He still had his orders from Admiral Castille. Track the enemy back to their hive and destroy them. With Ariadne safe, he could finally resume his mission.

If they let him. He and the other Navy personnel on the Theseus had sneaked away to the hangar, hiding from O’Hare until the Theseus could launch. O’Hare would not take this breach of his authority lightly. Still, with a total of two EDF personnel in the entire system, he might have the sense not to push things. And if he decided to assert his tenuous authority, what could he do?

“The fleet is moving,” Hal said. “They say they’re returning to Ariadne.”

“We’ll tag along,” said Hammett. He watched as Ariadne loomed larger and larger through the window.

“Look, Captain,” said Hal. “More ships.”

Several points of light glittered on the far side of the planet, growing slowly as they approached the fleet, and Hammett’s stomach sank. Carruthers, he remembered, had left a crew in orbit near Ariadne, assembling a new Gate to Earth. Apparently the Gate was active.

The EDF was back.

Boots clomped on the catwalk outside, and Sanjari came into the bridge. She carried her helmet carefully in both hands.

“Specialist Sanjari,” Hammett said. “Your helmet appears to be steaming.”

She grinned at him and came closer, and he saw four coffee cups cradled in the helmet. By the look of it two were black and two had cream. He smiled his thanks and lifted out a cup of black coffee.

Sanjari delivered coffee to Eddie and Hal, then dropped into an empty chair and lifted her mug to Hammett. “To still being alive.”

“Hear, hear,” Eddie said, and all four of them sipped.

“A new fleet just came through from Earth,” Hammett said, his voice carefully neutral.

Sanjari quirked an eyebrow.

“I was hoping they wouldn’t bother,” Hammett admitted. “They were quick enough to abandon us, after all.”

She shrugged. “Maybe Acton’s down in the polls. Needs to blow up some aliens, show the public he’s doing something.”

“Maybe.”

She grimaced. “We know what the EDF is like, though. Fighting the Hive is secondary. Keeping the citizens in line is priority number one.”

“Yeah.” He felt as weary as if he’d walked all the way back from the battle. “You never know, though. Maybe they’ve had a change of heart. Maybe they’ll congratulate us on a job well done. Maybe they’ll ask how they can help.”

Sanjari snorted.

If only it was true. We have enough ships now to really make an impact. We could head out there right now. Fly toward the pentagon until we find their base. Catch up to them while they’re still reeling from the last fight. Clobber them before they recover. We could really do some damage.

If only.

“Incoming call,” Hal said. By his tone of voice it wasn’t Carruthers. He glanced at Hammett, then flipped a switch when Hammett nodded.

“Theseus. Take a stationary orbit above the colony settlement. The corvette Assegai will be docking with you.”

Hal flipped the switch back to its original position, cutting the connection. “Hello to you too,” he said sarcastically. “Oh, fine, thanks for asking. You’re welcome for fighting aliens and saving the planet. Oh, you want to speak to the captain? Well, since you said please and thank you, I guess I could put you through.” He blew a raspberry. “Earthers.” When Eddie jabbed him with an elbow he added, “Er, no offense.”

“None taken,” Hammett said, amused. Eddie and Hal didn’t wear the uniform of Spacecom. They could speak their minds. There were rare moments when he envied them.

The Assegai came soaring toward the Theseus. Both ships had airlocks and docking clamps in their noses, so the corvette flew as if darting in for a kiss. Eddie had oriented the ship so that the planet was “down”, which made a certain kind of sense, though Hammett wished he could have looked out the window at the world he’d fought so hard to save. The Assegai tilted as it approached, matching the attitude of the freighter.

“Permission to enter the bridge.”

Hammett turned. A short older man stood in the doorway. His vac suit hid his build, but he gave an impression of wiry strength. “Ron, isn’t it?” said Hammett.

Ron nodded.

“Permission granted. We’re about to receive visitors.”

Ron stood beside the captain’s chair and watched the Assegai approach. “Coming in a bit fast, aren’t they?” He was reaching for the back of the chair to brace himself when thrusters on the nose of the corvette glowed red. “Show-offs,” Ron grumbled as the Assegai drifted to a perfect stop, the locks touching with a metallic clatter and a hint of a tremble in the deck plates.

Before long Hammett heard the thump of feet on the catwalk that ran along the spine of the ship. Ron turned to the doorway, squaring his shoulders. He was a person of some importance in the colony, Hammett recalled. I’ll have to make introductions. I wish I knew his last name.

O’Hare, predictably, was the first person through the doorway. Two more EDF officers followed him, strangers, men unified by red shirts, black sashes, and an air of self-importance. No fewer than four marines followed, laser rifles held across their chests.

O’Hare pushed past Ron, ignoring him completely, and planted himself in front of Hammett’s chair. Hammett stood and crossed his arms over his chest, staring down at the shorter man. He could see the other EDF men and the marines in the corner of his eye, gathered along the side bulkhead.

“Hammett.” O’Hare paused long enough to give him a spiteful smile. “You are hereby relieved of command. I am placing you under arrest for gross insubordination.” He made a peremptory gesture and a pair of marines came forward.

Hammett started to protest, then sighed and closed his mouth. The marines slung their rifles and grabbed his arms, not gently. They hauled him sideways a couple of steps, pausing when O’Hare opened his mouth.

“This unauthorized vessel is now under the command of the Earth Defense Force.” O’Hare glared around the bridge, then gestured at the EDF man on his right. “This is Colonel Holmes. He’ll take command here.”

Hammett looked for Ron, wondering how the colonist would react. He was just in time to see the back of the man’s head as he hurried from the bridge.

“There will be some changes around here,” O’Hare continued. “We’ll have no more sudden trips without proper EDF supervision. A contingent of marines will come on board and confiscate your sidearms, as well.” His gaze, cold and imperious, swept the bridge, looking for signs of dissent.

No one spoke.

“You’re all lucky I don’t have you hanged for treason.” O’Hare headed for the doorway. The marines were already following, dragging Hammett with them, but O’Hare still made a peremptory gesture.

The catwalk seemed to stretch away for kilometers as Hammett plodded along, keenly aware of the shocked eyes of the crew staring up at him from the hold below. He felt a strange, numb unreality, as if the whole experience was happening to someone else and he was just watching. O’Hare strutted along in the lead. Hammett and a pair of marines came next, one marine a bit ahead and one a bit behind to allow for the narrowness of the catwalk. Hammett walked between them, his body half-turned, a pair of iron hands gripping each arm. Two more marines followed, with an EDF man bringing up the rear.

Holmes, apparently, was remaining on the bridge of his new command.

After an endless time they reached the forward end of the catwalk. And everything changed.

Another staircase descended from the catwalk at the nose of the ship. As O’Hare reached the top of the stairs, figures in vac suits poured up the steps. Boots clattered urgently on the catwalk behind Hammett, and he turned to see more colonists running from the direction of the bridge. Every man and woman held a pistol.

O’Hare said “What-“, then went silent as Ron pushed past him. The little colonist shoved a pistol under the chin of the marine holding Hammett’s left arm. The man on the right let go of Hammett, started to unsling his rifle, then froze as several pistols covered him.

Hammett turned. One of the marines behind him was pointing his rifle down the catwalk at the colonists approaching from that direction. The other marine took aim at Ron’s head. Hammett wrapped a hand around the barrel of the man’s laser rifle and pushed upward. The marine locked eyes with him. He was well into his thirties, with hints of gray in his blond hair. By the look on his face he’d never seen combat. He looked frightened, but determined.

Hammett said, “Stand down.”

The man’s lips curled in a snarl.

“I served with a lot of good men and women in the old Marine Corps,” Hammett said. He pitched his voice so all four marines would have no trouble hearing. “It was a sad day when the corps was disbanded. They served for decades, and they never disgraced their uniforms. Not once.”

The marine said, “Let go of my weapon, Sir.” He let go of the laser rifle with one hand, putting the other hand on the butt of his sidearm. “I won’t tell you again.”

Behind him, half a dozen colonists stood face to face with the last marine. That marine had his rifle trained on a man’s chest, and six pistols pointing at his face.

“The new Marine Corps is brand new,” Hammett said. “It has a spotless reputation so far.”

The blond marine drew his sidearm, a bulky laser pistol. He levelled the weapon, the muzzle a handspan from Hammett’s ribs.

“You’re about to set the tone of the new Marine Corps for years to come,” Hammett said. “You could fire the first shots ever fired outside of training. Will you kill a Spacecom officer?”

“I will if you don’t let go of my weapon.”

“If I let go,” Hammett said, “what happens next? You’ll escalate this situation. Marines will fire on civilians.”

“Armed civilians,” the marine said.

“Civilians,” Hammett repeated. “Human beings who just fought a successful battle against the Hive. Is that what you want to see? Marines killing the only people who are actually fighting the Hive?” He jerked his head. “Look around you! Does this look like a Navy ship? You’ve pushed your way onto a civilian vessel. Of course they’re resisting!”

The marine stared at him, eyes hard and uncompromising.

Hammett took a deep breath. His arm, held above his head, was starting to cramp. If his hand started shaking he was going to lose a lot of credibility. “Give me a chance to talk to these people. To negotiate a truce. After all, we’re all on the same side.”

The marine blinked, but the laser pistol didn’t move.

“You don’t have to kill anyone today,” Hammett said. “There’s no disgrace in giving your allies a chance to talk before you kill them.”

The marine’s gaze flicked to O’Hare. Hammett could just make out the EDF colonel in the corner of his eye. A colonist had him shoved against a bulkhead, the barrel of a pistol mashed against his cheekbone. He was white-faced and silent.

“Stand down,” Hammett said softly. “The war against the Hive needs all of us. It needs me, and it needs the colonists you’ll kill before they gun you down. It needs you and your men. Don’t get all of us killed.”

The marine said, “I …”

Hammett, suddenly sick of the whole standoff, snarled, “Holster that weapon, Marine! I’m bloody tired of looking at your ugly face. Put it away.”

The man gulped and holstered the pistol. Hammett let go of the rifle barrel, hiding a wince as he lowered his arm and pain flared in his shoulder. The last marine gave a quick glance over his shoulder, then tilted the barrel of his laser rifle toward the ceiling. In an instant every rifle was in the hands of a colonist.

Behind the colonists Colonel Holmes came out of the bridge, a pair of colonists behind him, one big man with a hand on the colonel’s collar. Hammett couldn’t see the gun in Holmes’ back, but the terror on the man’s face told him everything he needed to know.

“Well, that was exciting. Careful with those rifles.” Ron stood with a commandeered rifle in one hand, barrel pointed at the ceiling, and a rail pistol in the other. He took charge effortlessly. “Some of you get back down the stairs. We need some room to move.” Several colonists retreated down the steps. “The rest of you back up.” Ron made a gesture, herding the colonists around him against the railing of the catwalk. That cleared a path to the airlock.

“All right. Everyone who answers to the EDF, get the hell off my ship.”

Beside him, a colonist stepped back from O’Hare, allowing the man to finally straighten up. O’Hare, white-faced and wide-eyed, had no chance to recover his composure. The man who’d pressed him to the bulkhead now holstered his pistol, put a hand on each of O’Hare’s shoulders from behind, and lined him up with the opening of the airlock. A quick shove sent the EDF man stumbling forward, and a hard kick to the seat of his pants drove him through the hatch.

No one quite had the nerve to be so rough with the marines. The colonists stayed back, and the four marines, stripped of their rifles but still wearing holstered sidearms, marched to the hatch and into the lock. Holmes hung back, looking terrified, then scuttled after the marines as the last man stepped through the hatch.

Ron followed Holmes into the hatch. A moment later, Hammett heard a clang as the outer hatch closed. Ron returned, looking satisfied. He grinned at Hammett and said, “Let’s return to the bridge, shall we? I daresay this isn’t over.”

The other colonists moved aside, clearing a path. Hammett nodded his thanks, then followed Ron along the catwalk. Ron was murmuring as he walked, talking to someone via his implants. Hammett walked with him, glad to be spared the need to make conversation. Should he thank the man? Or tell him off for making a bad situation worse?

Eddie stood on the catwalk in front of the bridge, eyes wide. He hurried into the bridge as they approached. Hammett stepped through the doorway and took a position along one bulkhead. The mission was complete, after all. He was no longer in command. Sanjari came over to stand beside him, giving him an inquiring look. He shrugged. It was all too much to explain quickly.

The two ships were still docked together. Hammett could see the gleaming hull of the Assegai, latched to the nose of the Theseus. Other ships filled the sky around them, some from the relief fleet, some from the EDF fleet. It was an alarming amount of firepower when tensions were running so high.

Ron moved to the middle of the bridge, then hesitated. He looked at Hammett. “I’ll borrow your chair if I may, Captain. It’s the simplest way to take a call.”

Hal promptly spoke. “Message from the Assegai.” He looked uncertainly from Hammett to Ron. Hammett made a “go ahead” gesture and Ron sat in the captain’s chair.

“This is Ronald Faraday, military commander of colonial forces.”

That made Hammett raise his eyebrows. By the glance Hal and Eddie exchanged, the title was news to them too. They didn’t look displeased, though.

“This is Colonel O’Hare of the Earth Defense Force.” The man’s voice shook with anger. It sounded as if he’d spent the last couple of minutes working himself into a rage. “The colony on Ariadne is a member of the United Worlds. You are subject to the laws of the republic and under the military jurisdiction of Spacecom.”

Ron spoke, sounding unimpressed. “We’ll declare ourselves an independent world if we must. And it appears we must. After all, you alternate between abandoning us and bullying us.”

“I’m done negotiating,” O’Hare snapped. “You will surrender your vessel immediately and unconditionally. All of your personnel will lay down their arms. Marines will board your vessel and collect weapons. All crew and passengers will be placed under arrest. Any resistance will be met with lethal force.” His voice rose, an unmistakable tremor distorting his words. “If you refuse to surrender, the fleet will fire on your vessel. You will be destroyed.” He stopped speaking for a moment, the noisy rasp of his breathing echoing from the bridge speakers. “Well? Do you surrender?”

Ron put a hand over the microphone on the arm of his chair and murmured, “Did you catch that?” He paused, then said, “Yes. Do it now.”

A line of white fire blazed up from the planet below. It made a shaft of dazzling light, as thick as a man’s waist, and it lanced through the void directly beside the hull of the Assegai. In fact, it left a black streak on the corvette’s bridge window.

O’Hare, his voice a screech, said, “What the hell was that?”

“That,” said Ron, “was my response to your little ultimatum.” He chuckled, sounding altogether too pleased with himself. “It’s your move.”

When O’Hare spoke again it was clear he’d forgotten his microphone was on. His voice, barely audible, said, “What was that? Where did it come from?” After a moment of silence he said, “Well, can we destroy it?”

Ron said, “If you fire on the city of Harlequin your ship will be the first one destroyed, Mr. O’Hare. Your forces may win this battle, but I can guarantee you will not survive.”

The bridge speakers went silent. Long seconds crawled past, and the tension in the air stretched tighter and tighter. Finally O’Hare spoke again, with the tone of a parent making a reluctant concession to an unruly child. “Fine. You can keep your freighter. You will, however, deliver Captain Hammett to the Assegai.”

“No chance,” Ron said promptly.

O’Hare said, “Can you hear me, Hammett? I’m giving you a direct order. Deliver yourself immediately to the Assegai to face court-martial. If I don’t see you at that airlock in two minutes, you’ll be tried in absentia, with desertion added to your other charges.”

Hammett felt his skin go cold.

“Get over here, Captain,” said O’Hare. “It’s your last chance to avoid hanging.”

Ron made a gesture and Hal cut the radio connection. Ron stood and turned. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to go.”

Hammett said, “Yes, I do.”

Sanjari clutched his arm, squeezing hard enough that it hurt through the sleeve of his vac suit. “Captain, you can’t!”

“I’m an officer in Spacecom,” he said. “It’s my duty.”

Ron said, “You don’t have a bloody duty to report to a prison cell.”

“You don’t understand,” Hammett said. “You’ve never worn this uniform.”

Sanjari shook him. “And you’ve never worn a uniform with a damned black armband. Neither have I, and I never will. I’ll let them execute me for dereliction of duty before I’ll do it.”

He stared at her, startled.

“It’s not the same Navy we joined,” she said, staring up at him with anguish in her eyes. “You know that. You never would have joined a Navy run by the EDF. You never would have given your oath to a man like O’Hare.”

Hammett lifted his hands helplessly. “But I DID join the Navy. I did give my oath.”

“What was your oath, exactly?” she demanded. “What part of your oath allows for firing on the city of Harlequin?”

He squirmed.

“How about ordering your marines to fire on colonists?” she said. “What happens if Carruthers decides he won’t stand for it? What happens when I refuse to put on the armband?” She let go of his arm and put her hands on her hips. “Will you command my firing squad?”

He said, “Sanjari …”

“It will come to that,” she said. “I won’t serve the EDF.” She brought a hand up and thumped it on his chest. “I won’t do it, do you understand me? If you keep serving them, maybe you’ll be the one they send after me.”

“I doubt it.”

She nodded. “I know. They won’t give you any responsibility. Not after today. They’ll stick you in a cell and leave you to rot. You won’t have to make any tough choices.” She glared at him, and he flinched. She’d always been the perfect subordinate. He’d never seen her so fierce.

“I’ll still stand up to them,” she said. “I’ll still fight them. And they’ll come after me. And you’ll be no help at all.”

There was a long silence. He said helplessly, “I’ve worn this uniform since I was twenty years old.”

“You’re done with that uniform,” she said. “Get it through your head. It’s over. You get a prison jumpsuit now. That’s if you’re lucky.”

He said, “They won’t …” He let his voice trail off. No, they wouldn’t execute him. That wasn’t what she meant. The fate she meant, the fate worse than prison, was wearing an armband and serving the EDF.

“Call from the Assegai,” said Hal.

Hammett made a curt gesture and O’Hare’s smug voice filled the bridge. “Hammett. You’re running out of time. Are you coming, or not?”

Hammett looked down at his vac suit with the three horizontal stripes of a captain across the chest. He remembered how he’d felt when he received the promotion. His feet had barely touched the deck plates for a week. Even his lieutenant’s uniform had been an enormous source of pride. Hell, even the ill-fitting cadet jumpsuit he’d worn during training had made him feel like a knight in shining armor.

Keep it bright. The words swam up out of his memory. Three long decades had passed since a grizzled sergeant had spoken those words to a starry-eyed cadet in the halls of the Naval academy. You’re proud of your shiny new uniform. Keep it bright. Stay proud. If you disgrace that uniform, it all means nothing.

For three decades those words had rattled around in the back of his mind, guiding his decisions. Even more than his vows, more than the uniform itself, that offhand little speech had shaped him. He was proud of his uniform. Intensely proud.

If he gave in to the EDF, he realized, he would be proud of the uniform no longer.

O’Hare said, “Well?”

“Go to hell,” Hammett said. “I’m done with you.”

Hal cut the connection. A long moment of silence passed. Then, with a metallic clatter, the Assegai uncoupled from the Theseus and floated backward. When several dozen meters separated the two ships the nose of the corvette swung around. With a flare of light from their engines the EDF fleet moved away from Ariadne, leaving the Theseus and the nine ships of the relief fleet drifting quietly in orbit.

Hammett took a deep breath, held it for as long as he could, then let air dribble out through his nose. He felt dizzy, disoriented, drunk. He felt as if reality itself had just torn.

Ron stood and stepped away from the captain’s chair. He walked up to Hammett and said, “Welcome to the armed forces of the Independent Republic of Naxos.”

Thanks for reading. Book 3 will be coming soon.

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I’d love to hear your comments. Leave a review or reach out to me by email at author@jakeelwoodwriter.com.

Author Notes

Jake Elwood is a Canadian writer of science fiction, especially adventurous space opera with a dash of humor. When he’s not at a keyboard he likes hiking and biking and sometimes kayaking on the Bow River. He is also the author of Stars Like Cold Fire, under the pen name Brent Nichols.

Stars Like Cold Fire

Jeff Yi survives the hell of the Naval Academy and looks forward to a quiet posting as a junior officer on a battle cruiser – until an assassination attempt makes it clear that his father’s legacy might yet get him killed. The admiralty can see only one way to keep him safe - give him a command of his own. Jeff takes over the Petrel, the smallest, ugliest ship in the fleet. He’s in over his head, in deep space, with a crew that resents his unearned promotion. He has to learn the ropes and earn their respect, and he has to do it quickly – the galaxy is about to erupt in interstellar war.

Purchase Stars Like Cold Fire now - http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01K5WHTA6/

For more titles and releases by Jake Elwood check out his website and don’t forget to sign up for his mailing list: http://jakeelwoodwriter.com/