Free Space

by Scott Bartlett

  “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

  “Many things, I hope. Ms. Rose, you never told me you were in the middle of forging an alliance with Sunder Incorporated, and this new Daybreak Combine through them. Why did you never share this with me?”

  A sharp laugh burst from Rose’s lips. “I was too busy saving the colonists of Dupliss Region from you and your pirate friends.”

  “They did not need saving. We did them no harm.”

  “You threatened to. You exposed them to criminals, and you impinged on their freedoms. Don’t try to split hairs with me, Pegg. You should know better than that.”

  Pegg adjusted his sunglasses, apparently buying time. “Listen, Veronica, I know we’ve had our differences. But I’m willing to reconcile if you are.”

  “You must be out of your mind.”

  The Reardon CEO shrugged. “To tell the truth, I am desperate. I have had my ships combing the Northern Contested Regions since our battle in Freedom System, and there’s no sign of the Degenerate Empire anywhere—not in Tempore, Olent, or Lacuna.”

  Thatcher raised his eyebrows. That bodes well for our mission, if it’s true.

  But Pegg wasn’t finished. “The rumors about Degenerate Empire’s formation are just that. Rumors. It seems there is no grand coalition of pirates forming in the north. Which makes sense, given their character. Disorganized, cutthroat. You cannot build an alliance on treachery.”

  “You taught me that, Pegg.” Rose’s voice had turned icy. “This character you’re describing—you embraced it when you sided with pirates.”

  “I repent, Veronica. I see the error of my ways. I wish for my company to join Daybreak Combine, and I want you to arrange an introduction with the leadership for me.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Ms. Rose, please I—”

  “You heard her,” Thatcher growled. “At this moment you have multiple laser batteries aimed at you, and six Hellborn missiles. I’d like nothing more than to blow your ship apart and salvage the scrap, but if you happen to be interested in your own survival, then I suggest you reverse course immediately and do not approach us again.”

  Pegg’s face became a storm cloud. “Ah, the captain who presumes too much. Who thinks himself the lord of space, perhaps. Be careful who you boss around with your lofty principles, my good captain. You never know who will gain the upper hand while the bitter taste of righteousness is still in his mouth.”

  “Candle. Firing solutions?”

  “I have them, sir.”

  “Stand by to execute if the Eagle doesn’t reverse course within forty-five seconds. Guerrero, cut the transmission.”

  Pegg’s face, scarlet with anger, winked from the holotank. Seconds later, his destroyer fired its forward thrusters, then came about to flee with its tail between its legs.

  “And that’s that,” Thatcher said to Rose, who returned his smile warmly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Aboard the New Jersey

  Zemni System, Olent Region

  Earth Year 2290

  Veronica Rose had asked to have dinner with him again.

  I suppose it does make sense, he mused as he marched up and down the ranks of the Engineering division, inspecting uniforms and arms.

  For the captain to have dinner with his employer—with the owner of the ship he captained—should have been a mere matter of course. It would give them an opportunity to discuss what their strategy should be once they reached Ucalegon, the Lacuna system where they expected to find the Xanthic. In a few days, a followup dinner with the other captains would likely be appropriate. There, they could fine-tune the approach he and Rose settled on.

  But no matter how called-for the dinner with Rose seemed, something about it nagged at him. Part of him still resented having her aboard his ship at all, though that part had grown tamer since the battle against Reardon for Oasis. No matter how much space and leeway she gave him, her mere presence as his boss served to restrain the options he might exercise in any given situation.

  He finished his inspection of the Engineering crew and informed Ainsley he was ready to look over the engineering plant spaces themselves.

  There was something else that bothered him about the dinner. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  Everywhere he looked, he saw clean decks, spotless bulkheads, gleaming overheads. Tools neatly stowed. Lockers and quarters neatly kept.

  My crew has finally risen to the level of my standards. Leaving me with less to do.

  Oh, a captain’s duties never stopped. There were requisition orders to sign off on, performance reviews to check over, personal issues to address, and whatever crisis had chosen today to rear its ugly head. But so far, Pegg’s claim that the north was totally devoid of pirates had held true. So much so that Thatcher was starting to feel faintly uneasy about it. Tempore had been almost empty, and Olent eerily so. Usually, there were at least a few intrepid merchants seeking to transport goods from Iberis to Dupliss along the faster northern route. Not now.

  All of it added up to the fact that Thatcher couldn’t reasonably claim he had no time to dine with Rose. And so, as he completed his second surprise inspection of Engineering this month, he relented, sending her a message to ask whether she was available tonight.

  They were also due to arrive in Lacuna Region tonight, and typically he would have wanted to be in the CIC for a regional transition. But now that he’d consented to the dinner, he decided it would be best to get it over with as quickly as possible. Otherwise, the anticipation would distract him from his duties until it had arrived.

  If Lacuna is as empty as Olent, we have nothing to worry about. But in the event there was trouble, the wardroom—where they would be dining—wasn’t far from the CIC. Candle would notify him in that event, and he would be sitting in the captain’s chair in less than a minute.

  Being in this part of the Dawn Cluster reminded him of his first engagement as captain of the New Jersey, when he’d taken out seven pirate ships by exploiting the cruiser’s ability to catch up to her own missiles, allowing her to build up a sizable barrage using the single tube she’d had at the time. The tactic was becoming known throughout Frontier as a Hellfire barrage.

  At seventeen hundred hours, he sat in the middle of the central wardroom table, sporting the midnight brass-buttoned blazer and matching tie of his full dress uniform. His hand moved to straighten the colorful ribbon rack over his left breast pocket for the hundredth time, but he stopped it, forcing himself instead to take in the immaculate table set by Chief Scott, which boasted perfectly even spaces between the cutlery, plates, and glassware.

  Back in the U.S. Space Fleet, as XO of the USS Hepburn, his captain had teasingly accused him of having OCD, such was his requirement for neatness and orderliness from his subordinates.

  If he did have it, then OCD was a good thing to have. If things weren’t neat, they grew chaotic. The slightest flaw with one’s ship could grow into a weakness for the enemy to exploit. That had been one of the first things his grandfather taught him.

  The hatch opened, and the marine sentry showed in Veronica Rose, who wore a gleaming golden dress that accented the figure underneath without clinging to it.

  She’d dressed up rather nicely, and while he should have expected it, he found himself momentarily at a loss for words as he rounded the table to take her hand. “You look, uh….” He cleared his throat. “Nice.” He’d been about to kiss her hand, but he opted to shake it instead, which ended up feeling even more awkward. She gave a small smile, and they parted to walk to their places, across from each other.

  Why didn’t Scott put us at opposite ends of the table? Because that would have been absurd, of course—calling to each other down the sturdy wooden table, like in a film set during Earth’s Victorian Era. His mind’s strange behavior almost made him want to laugh. Its reaction to Rose’s arrival.

  Luckily, Scott didn’t waste any time in bringing the first course, a garden s
alad.

  The CEO forked a couple leaves of dressing-smeared lettuce, then a cherry tomato. “How is the New Jersey doing, Commander?” She popped the mouthful past her perfectly white teeth.

  Rose often asked how the ship was doing, instead of asking about him. It was something he liked about her, actually. The recognition that his existence was so inextricably bound up with the Jersey that if it was suffering, so was he—and probably vice versa, which was why it was so important not to let his crew see weakness, or fear, or doubt.

  He swallowed a mouthful of salad and washed it down with some sparkling water before speaking. “Today was as uneventful as every day has been, since we spoke to Ramon Pegg. Inspection scores have been improving steadily. They’re making me work hard to find any areas where they can improve, actually.”

  “Surely Captain Thatcher doesn’t think there’s such a thing as a perfect inspection score?” Rose gave an impish smile.

  His eyes flitted back to his plate, and he focused on forking up the next morsel. The food was delicious, much tastier than his usual fare, but he wasn’t used to making small talk around chewing. Normally he took his meals in his office, while working.

  His mouth watered between each bite, unused to the sharp bursts of flavor. For the main course, Scott served them chicken that had been boiled, then grilled and seasoned to perfection. Honeyed carrots sat alongside it.

  “Tad.”

  Thatcher looked up, jolted by the realization that he hadn’t said anything for several minutes.

  And by her use of his first name.

  “Yes, Ms. Rose?”

  “Will you have some wine?”

  His gaze drifted to his empty glass. Across from it sat Rose’s, almost filled to the brim. She nudged the bottle closer to his glass.

  “I…uh, can’t remember the last time I took a drink.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. But I can’t have a conversation with a wooden plank. The plank might be more talkative, actually.”

  He forced a smile. The expression seemed strange on his lips, for some reason. Then he reached for the bottle and filled his glass to just below halfway.

  She continued watching him, fork and knife lowered to the table, until he took a sip.

  He smacked his lips. “Hmm. Tart.”

  Thatcher still hadn’t succeeded in his mission to make the New Jersey a dry vessel, like those that flew in Space Fleet. It didn’t seem very likely to happen, with Veronica Rose aboard.

  She took a long pull from her glass. “Maybe military topics will get you talking. I’d like to hear your opinion on how sustainable you think the Daybreak Combine will prove, over the long term.”

  His teeth paused mid-chew. “Long term?” he repeated, forgetting manners for the moment.

  Rose didn’t seem to notice. “Yes. We’ll need to resolve the trouble between Kibishii and Meridian. Something like that could end up being the powder keg that blows the entire thing apart. That would not help our cause. Both Frontier and Oasis Colony need a stable north, if we’re to avoid disaster in the coming years. For that, we’ll need strong partnerships that will survive whatever the Dawn Cluster is becoming.”

  Years? Thatcher resisted the urge to shake his head, though he felt his features hardening. “Once the wormhole is reopened, the UNC will send more super-ships, and corporations won’t be able to make war on each other either way. Until then, it’s our job to stabilize and unite the Cluster, so that we can assist Earth against the Xanthic the moment the wormhole reopens.”

  “Tad….” A look of sympathy softened her eyes, which shone emerald in the overhead halogens. “I’m so sorry. I know you have family on Earth.”

  “On the moon,” he corrected. “They were evacuated.”

  “Yes.” She set down her cutlery and leaned forward. “This is very difficult for me to say, Tad. But I think we need to prepare for the possibility that the wormhole may never reopen.”

  Thatcher stared at the tabletop, his vision blurring. He couldn’t think of what to say. He had nothing to say. Inside him, anger at Rose’s words warred with shame for feeling angry.

  “Tad?”

  She’d struck a nerve. His mental stability depended on the idea that Earth was still holding on—that Lin was safe, and that he’d return for her soon. He couldn’t tolerate anything that contradicted that.

  A speaker set into the overhead spared him from his torture.

  “General quarters! General quarters! This is not a drill. All hands man your battle stations.”

  Thank God. A battle.

  He stood. “I need to see what’s going on. I’ll keep you informed.”

  With that, he left.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Aboard the New Jersey

  Red River System, Lacuna Region

  Earth Year 2290

  “Sitrep,” Thatcher snapped as he dropped into the captain’s chair, feeling lightheaded. He’d only swallowed half of the wine he’d poured himself, but his tolerance was so low that even that had an effect. Technically he hadn’t been drinking on duty, since this wasn’t supposed to be his watch. Just as technically: he should give the command to Candle. He was impaired.

  This is why I want a dry ship. Depending on the situation, it wasn’t unheard of to draw on members from both watches to see the ship through an engagement. If one half of the crew was drunk at any given time, that impacted their chances of survival, didn’t it?

  Guerrero twisted in her seat, eyes wide with strain. “The system is filled with what appear to be pirate vessels, sir. At least, every profile I’ve fed our database has come back ‘missing’ or ‘stolen.’ One hundred and nine suspected pirate ships at last count.”

  “One hundred and nine?”

  Guerrero nodded.

  Looks like there’s more to Degenerate Empire than rumors. Clearly, they’ve withdrawn to this dead-end region to consolidate their forces. To fortify.

  And then? To take the north, in all likelihood.

  “What’s our position relative to the jump zone, Lieutenant?”

  “We’re just twenty thousand kilometers outside it, sir.”

  “Have the rest of our ships arrived in-system?”

  “Negative. Swan, North Star, and Georgia are unaccounted for.”

  He gave a distracted nod, calling up a scaled-down view of the battlespace on his holoscreen. As he studied it, his breathing came a little easier.

  Being their slowest ship, it was a little unsettling that the Swan was yet to arrive. Even so, the closest pirate was tens of thousands of kilometers away, and besides, the Kibishii troop ship was moving under stealth.

  Either way, their missing ships should arrive inside the jump zone at any moment, and when they did, they could make for the corresponding gate to fall back to the Olent Region, if they chose to.

  He snatched his comm from the chair holster where he’d placed it upon sitting—a habit that came as naturally as breathing, after years serving in CICs. A couple button presses put him in touch with Veronica Rose.

  “Commander.”

  “Ms. Rose. I….” He cleared his throat. He’d been about to apologize for his behavior at dinner, but that would start rumors running through the ship, and probably hurt morale. “We’ve sighted one hundred and nine potential pirate vessels, many of them moving on our location.” As he spoke, the Georgia popped into existence inside the jump zone, leaving just the Swam and North Star unaccounted for. “Two of our ships are yet to arrive, but once they do, we’ll have plenty of space to fall back to Olent.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  He studied the tactical display with gritted teeth. “Even if the pirates have inferior ships, which I’m sure they do, there’s no way we can take on a force that big with just eleven warships, one of them barely capable of defending itself in space. It may be safer to fall back and reconsider our options.”

  A silence passed over the line. During it, North Star popped onto his holoscreen. Good.
<
br />   “I’m not sure what those options might be, Commander, other than to try to convince Simon Moll over instant comm to find us some reinforcements, and then wait for them to reach us. By then, the Xanthic may have made their move. If that happens, any effect we might have had will be negated.”

  “I know, ma’am.” Thatcher surveyed his holoscreen’s render of the system, eyes narrowed in thought.

  “Are we sure we want to fall back?”

  “No. We’re not. But I can’t recommend trying to push through this system to the rest of the region. The pirates are too well-positioned throughout the system. They’re sure to intercept us by the time we make it to any of the other gates. We’ll take losses.”

  A sigh reached his ears from Rose’s end. “Very well, Commander. Order the retreat as soon as our ships have all arrived. Keep me updated. Rose out.”

  The line went dead, and one of Rose’s words echoed through his mind: “retreat.” The word grated at him, like a metal file on slate. Edward Thatcher would have called him foolish for that. But he’d never had his grandfather’s cool head. Right now, retreat felt like failure, even if it did mean sparing hundreds, if not thousands of lives from the swarming pirates’ weapons.

  Rose is right. Falling back could prove disastrous. But so could pushing onward. They’d arrived at one of the many impossible decisions that littered the career of any active-duty service member.

  At last, the Swan arrived from Olent, appearing inside the jump zone. “Give the order for all ships to make for the regional jump gate, Guerrero. Ahead full.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Together, the formation of warships changed its heading, all sailing toward the jump gate he’d designated, all matching the Swan’s top speed.

  But they’d barely gotten underway when fourteen more ships appeared in-system, all of them in the jump zone they’d just vacated.

  Thatcher’s eyes widened as his display populated with their profiles, all of which had already been cataloged by the ship’s computer.