“Because our hardware is designed to accept the flow from refined ternium engine modules, sir. Or from our backup batteries. What it’s receiving now is something different.”
“So our engines are running, but we can’t make use of the output.”
“In a nutshell,” Fredericks confirmed. “Our control system no longer recognizes what its connected to.”
“And you can change that?”
“It’s possible. What I’m trying to work out is if I can do it using the tools I have available to me here on the Loadout.” Fredericks raised a hand in warning. “And even if I manage to figure this out, don’t for one moment think we’ll have anything like our usual output. Expect somewhere between ten and thirty percent of maximum.”
“The higher figure will be enough for the Loadout’s onboard systems to operate as normal,” said Flint. “Though our maximum velocity will be way down.”
“Velocity, manoeuvrability, acceleration, deceleration…” said Fredericks. “We’ll be pretty much a sitting duck - not that we were doing too well against that Kilvar ship before it took out our engines.”
“Which brings up the next of the unknowns,” said Flint. “The local fleet hit the enemy with enough explosives to destroy it ten times over, yet it was completely unmarked.” He remembered how some of the Lavorix warships were protected by energy shields, but when activated, those shields were visible as blue ovoids. The attacking craft at Tibulon had seemed like it was simply immune to weaponry. Flint knew that wasn’t possible – if the alliance warheads were ineffective, it was because of some technology used by the Kilvar.
“The alliance has encountered similar before,” said Fredericks. “However, all this talking is wasting our time, sir. I guess you’d prefer it if I concentrated on getting us up and running.”
“That I would, Lieutenant,” said Flint, stepping away from the engine console.
The replicator caught his eye. Flint was thirsty and his mouth was dry - both likely side-effects of the rough lightspeed transitions - so he requested a cup of water. The liquid was ice cold, but he couldn’t stop himself from draining it in one go, which gave him stabbing brain freeze and also rekindled the dull ache from earlier. Cursing, he deposited the cup in the waste tray and returned to his seat.
A check of the readouts on the command console reminded Flint how limited were his current options. He could tap into the backup batteries and bring the sensors online, but sight wasn’t much use without motion – not in the current situation anyway. Other than that, he had plenty of red failure lights to look at, each of which was generated by the lack of available power.
Flint thought it best to give Fredericks a few minutes without interference and he used the time to consider what action he would take if the warship became operational again. The outlook was gloomy to the point of bleakness – the Loadout was a capable warship, but in comparison to the Kantilvor and, to a lesser extent, the Lucerne, it wasn’t anything special. The crews on the local ships had done everything that Flint would have done himself, and it hadn’t been nearly enough.
Worst of all, he had no idea if any members of the local fleet had survived. The lack of comms from the other warships was worrying, especially since the Loadout had retained enough power to transmit for a short time after the SRT.
“We were supposed to pick up that exium from the facility, and then the Kilvar showed up,” said Flint, determined he’d keep referring to the enemy as Kilvar until someone proved they were a different species. “Seems like coincidence.”
“I doubt it’s coincidence, sir,” said Maddox. “We just don’t know how the enemy figured out what we were doing there. That’s assuming they came for the same thing as we did.”
“Why steal and not just destroy the surface facilities?” Flint wondered.
“Who’s to say the refinery and everything that goes alongside it isn’t an incinerated ruin, sir?”
“Maybe it is,” said Flint. None of this quite added up. If the Kilvar knew what was being created on Tibulon, they could have exited lightspeed right on top of the place and wiped it out before the local fleet had a chance to stop it happening. Or perhaps they didn’t know or care about the exium, and this was simply the initial stages of a more widespread attack on the human-Daklan alliance.
The thought made Flint’s blood run cold. While he was stranded on the Loadout, a dozen populated worlds might already be in flames. Or worse. Everybody remembered what the Lavorix had done to planet Fortune. The alien bastards had turned it to dust using an ultra-long-range weapon called a tenixite converter. Twelve billion people had died on that day, and the Daklan had lost one of their planets in a separate attack.
“Lieutenant Fredericks, how is progress?” said Flint. “Whatever’s going on out there, I want us to be part of it.”
“Me too, sir,” said Fredericks, his tone leaving no doubt as to his conviction. “I’ve located some of the obsolete control software in our databanks – these files go back decades to when our spaceships were fitted with unrefined ternium. I think I can get the old software speaking to the new hardware.”
“Won’t that leave us with a zillion bugs to deal with?” asked Becerra.
“I doubt it’ll be plain sailing, Lieutenant,” said Fredericks. “On the bright side, the original coding was robust and today’s software is no more than a development of what we used back then. Most importantly, I only need a few thousand lines of the old coding – it’ll sit in the main control hardware alongside all the existing stuff and with hardly any crosstalk. None of our consoles will be directly affected.”
“Sounds great!” said Becerra.
“I like your optimism,” said Fredericks with a gruff laugh.
“How long will it take for you to install the old software on the control hardware?” asked Flint.
“I’m ready to give it a go now, sir.”
“Don’t let me keep you, Lieutenant.”
“Here we go…done.”
The change happened instantly. Needles jumped and settled, and the background coarseness increased in volume, becoming entirely agricultural and a universe away from the propulsion’s usual note of technological perfection.
“Any problems, Lieutenant Fredericks?”
“I’m monitoring the situation, sir. You’ll know as soon as I know.”
“The obliterators are warming up,” said Lieutenant Bolan. “They’re receiving enough juice to operate at one hundred percent.”
“Sensors coming online,” said Lieutenant Garrett.
The hardware took longer than usual to return to an operational state and Flint wondered if the Kilvar attack had caused some underlying damage he wasn’t yet aware of. He didn’t dwell on the possibility and allowed himself to mentally celebrate the Loadout’s gradual return to a state approaching normality.
“Tibulon is right where we left it, and it’s up on the screen,” said Becerra. “I’m commencing the near scans.”
“Fars underway,” said Garrett. “The sweep is running a little slower than usual, but nothing I can’t work with.”
“We’re at twenty-eight percent of our usual unstressed maximum power output,” said Fredericks. “In the circumstances, I’d call that a good result.”
“So would I. Thank you, Lieutenant.” said Flint, his eyes on the sensor feed. Tibulon was unchanged since last time he’d seen it. Most importantly, it hadn’t been turned into powder by a monstrously destructive alien weapon.
He wrapped his fingers around the controls and tested their responsiveness. The background grumbling became much louder and the Loadout accelerated sluggishly from its starting position, such that Flint could feel the engines struggling to overcome the fourteen-billion-ton inertia.
“We’re not going anywhere fast,” he said, bringing the heavy cruiser back to a standstill.
“I estimate we’ll top out at between seven and eight hundred kilometres per second, sir,” said Fredericks. “Eventually.”
“Can w
e overstress unrefined ternium?” asked Flint. “That would get us a few hundred extra klicks per second.”
“Not a chance of it, sir. The refining process at its most basic involves forcing the unrefined ternium into a stable, but stressed state. The overstress is essentially just increasing the numbers – the higher those numbers go, the greater the chance of something going drastically south. What you’re asking is whether we can perform a refinement in situ. And for the avoidance of doubt, we can’t.”
“Fine,” muttered Flint. He turned his attention to the comms team. “Give me the results of those scans.”
“Nears done and clear.”
“Fars almost done. No hostiles detected so far,” said Garrett. “There again, we’re expecting the enemy to be on the far side of Tibulon.”
“Do what you can to establish comms with either the local fleet or the ground facility.” Flint hesitated. “Can we send a real time FTL comm now?”
“Negative, sir,” said Garrett. “I’ve just checked and the transmitter isn’t available.”
“Why is that?” asked Flint. “The Loadout is down on power, but there should be plenty for the comms.”
“Apologies if I’m stepping on your toes, Lieutenant Garrett, but I can answer this one,” said Fredericks. “The real time FTL transmitters are recent advancements, sir – from a time when every warship had an overstressed ternium drive. It’s likely the hardware won’t function correctly with the power we’re feeding it.”
“That’s probably what’s causing the issue,” said Garrett, sounding relieved that Fredericks had got her off the hook.
“Check it out when you can,” said Flint. “Make sure that’s the reason. If it’s something else, I want that transmitter operational.”
“Yes, sir.”
With the Loadout returned to a mostly operational state, Flint was obliged to make concrete decisions. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that he had no palatable options. The local fleet was either destroyed or out of action, while the Loadout on its own was completely outmatched, even had the enemy been vulnerable to conventional weaponry.
“Sir, I’ve run another sweep for local receptors and there’s nothing visible,” said Garrett. “Apart from a few of the local satellites.”
That at least was something. “Tap into the satellite network, Lieutenant. Let’s see what we can see,” said Flint.
“On it, sir.”
While Garrett requested the link, Flint waited anxiously to find out what was happening on the blind side of Tibulon and whether or not the local fleet had escaped.
Chapter Seven
Upon hearing the first explosion, Lieutenant James Vance had ordered his platoon to hold until he’d evaluated the situation. In the ninety seconds since the first shockwave, two more had swept through the building. Yet still, the exact direction of the blasts was maddeningly difficult to pin down.
Even worse, the facility comms network was showing early signs of degradation. Receptor lights changed from green to grey and back again, and RL Moseley’s voice had sounded like it was crossing a billion kilometres when Vance had spoken to him only a few moments before.
Luckily, the suit-to-suit comms were working fine and Vance knew he’d be relying on them should the local network enter a state of total failure.
“Are we sure this is the Kilvar?” asked Private Bautista as the rumbling of a fourth explosion died away.
“Of course it is, you idiot,” Private Drawl responded. “Who else would it be?”
“It could be anyone,” said Bautista, rising to the bait as he usually did.
“Yeah, like who?” asked Private Carrington. She clapped the nearby Private Danstol on his lower back, which was about as far up the alien as she could comfortably reach. “The Daklan?”
“I don’t know,” said Bautista. “It’s a big universe, isn’t it? Makes sense there’ll be other aliens out there as well as the Kilvar. If the Kilvar even exist,” he added, hoping to poke some of the others into an argument.
“Shut the hell up!” said Vance angrily. He pushed himself away from the wall against which he’d been crouching and, with a conscious effort, loosened his grip on his gauss rifle. “We’ve waited long enough – we’re heading into North 12-A.”
“The door light turned orange,” growled Sergeant Tagra. “That means the base has switched to backup power.”
“Damnit,” said Vance. “Wait up!” He requested a channel to Captain Laney. “No response.” Reluctantly – since the man was an ass of the highest order – Vance scanned for Lieutenant Sizemore’s comms receptor. The receptor appeared, but it was grey. Vance swore again. “Private Steigers – find out if any of Lieutenant Sizemore’s squad are answering the comms.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vance had been through enough of these times to recognize his life and the lives of his platoon hung by a thread. The shooting hadn’t started yet, and the plasma missiles hadn’t come in through the roof either, but it was only a matter of when. He halted in front of the North-12A access panel.
“For those of you too young to have seen any real combat, you’re about to find out what you signed up for.”
None of the soldiers came out with a wiseass response, which was just as well since Vance didn’t want to listen to anything that wasn’t a yes, sir or an incredibly intelligent suggestion about how to improve the platoon’s situation. He touched the access panel and the double doors opened without obvious strain.
A corridor led to another room, and Vance spotted personnel ahead. He advanced into a huge open space, with a ceiling that looked as if it reached the inner roof of the building. The alliance had filled the room with more bespoke tech, including what looked like a miniaturised reactor, an eighty-metre replica of an annihilator, and a vertical stack of nine obliterators linked by thick cables to the largest console Vance had ever seen. These were the objects which first caught his eye – everywhere was the same and he fleetingly wondered how much money it took to keep a place like this running. Certainly more than he’d see in a thousand lifetimes.
The military’s expenditure had never troubled Vance before and it didn’t now. He breathed in, smelling ternium and metal, along with another, dense, tangy odour that only seemed to materialise whenever enough cutting-edge crap like this was jammed into one place.
Given the rapidness of the attack and the fact that the facility’s chain of command had apparently failed, the personnel hadn’t gone anywhere. The quantity of equipment made it impossible to perform an accurate headcount, but Vance hazarded that three or four hundred people worked in this part of North-12A, and, for all he knew, there might be linked areas holding several hundreds or thousands more. Faced with the choice between screaming in panic and getting on with their duties, most personnel had chosen the latter and the atmosphere was surprisingly calm.
Vance’s eyes landed on the closest occupant. “Ma’am,” he said, putting on his best manners like his wife insisted whenever she brought him out in public.
Almost all of the Daklan who worked in scientific fields were female and this one was no exception. She was already looking Vance’s way, as were about a hundred other personnel who were interested to find out what was going on.
“You are here to protect the exium,” said the alien. She wore no helmet and her features were particularly humanlike – more so than many of her kind – with thick black hair and eyes which seemed especially piercing. The dusky redness of her skin only added to the allure and Vance heard a few murmurings on the squad channel. She was beautiful, no doubt about it, and Vance tried not to let it distract him.
“That’s right, ma’am. Could you point the way?” he asked.
The Daklan’s eyes speared into Vance and wouldn’t let him go. She raised an arm, slowly, as if she had all the time in the world, and pointed towards the centre of the room.
“RL Moseley is at the ingar reactor, human. The prototype is with him.”
“Have you received ord
ers to take cover, ma’am?”
“Where would we go?” Tilting her head to one side the Daklan gave a languishing shrug. “Besides, our warships will destroy any attackers.”
“I hope so too, ma’am, but until I receive the all-clear, I’m going to assume the surface facility is under threat.”
Vance was worried and he tried to keep it from his face. The facility relied so much on air support that the military hadn’t issued clear guidance for situations where the local fleet was unable to offer protection. Situations like this one. Vance hadn’t been on Tibulon long, but he’d been told that he should report to whoever was sitting in the ground control station – currently Captain Laney. He’d reported, but the return orders weren’t coming.
“We’re dividing into squads,” said Vance on the comms channel. He’d assigned names long before today and the soldiers knew which team they belonged with. Calling up the facility map on his HUD, Vance noted with irritation that North-12A had a total of seven entrances, though four of those led to areas inaccessible from other areas of the research building. Unfortunately, he couldn’t guarantee that any attackers wouldn’t simply blow open the walls or the roof and enter that way.
With so many unknowns, Vance didn’t try anything elaborate.
“Squad B, locate and secure the three main entrances. Squad C, find the other four doors and check them out. Shout if anything sticks its head in your line of sight.”
“Shout or shoot?” asked Sergeant Gantry.
“If it looks like a Kilvar, shoot first,” said Vance. “Squad A, come with me. We’re going to have a word with RL Moseley.”
“No response from Lieutenant Sizemore’s platoon members, sir,” said Steigers. “Should I keep trying?”
“No.” Vance gritted his teeth. “Lieutenant Sizemore and his troops are dead.” He headed towards the ingar reactor, stopped after a couple of paces and turned. “Ma’am, I’d recommend you locate a helmet and a gun. You might need both.”
The Daklan nodded. “I will do so.”
Dark of the Void (Forged Alliance Book 1) Page 7
