by Marko Kloos
“If they’re frightened of it, they have encountered it before,” Colonel Drake says.
“We have what we came for.” Colonel Pace leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Dagger team got the memory modules from the colony. There’s nothing else of worth down there anymore. Let the Lankies keep the place and have fun with their new neighbors.”
“We came for recon,” Colonel Drake says. “We will keep gathering data until the Lankies run us off, or we run out of fuel and ammo.”
Elin starts to raise her hand, then catches herself and lowers it again.
“On that note, sir. Can I make a request on behalf of the science division?”
“You sure can, Dr. Vandenberg,” the commander says. Next to him, Lieutenant Colonel Campbell’s face is impassive, but I can sense the implied eye-roll.
“While we’re on station, I’d like to go back to the spot on the video and drop some of the remaining seismic sensors in the area. It’s not nearly as good as ground-penetrating radar. But we can get a rough idea of what’s there, and how it moves around.”
“We can probably do that,” Colonel Drake says and looks at Colonel Pace.
“CAG, have the battlespace control squadron take stock of what’s left and see how we can put it to best use.”
“Will do,” Colonel Pace replies. “I’ll update you as soon as I have data.”
“Planning on capturing one, Doc?” the XO asks.
Elin shrugs. “Maybe not the whole thing. But I wouldn’t mind getting a sample.”
“Just as long as you don’t go down there and try to make friends with it.”
“That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?” she replies.
Lieutenant Colonel Campbell laughs and shakes her head.
“Just think,” Elin continues. “It hunts Lankies. It can grab six of them as fast as you can clap your hands. Imagine the amount of work we could save the military if we figured out how to set a bunch of those things loose on every Lanky-controlled world.”
Colonel Pace lets out a low whistle. “I like that mental image.”
“You’re much more savage than you look,” I say. “You just met your first one a few hours ago, and you’re already thinking about how to turn it into a bioweapon.”
“It’s my field,” she says with a shrug. “Military R&D. We’re not all just flower pickers down in the biotech labs, you know.”
“I don’t know how long we will remain on station here,” Colonel Drake says. “That depends entirely on our spindly friends in the neighborhood. We have the drone network out for early warning, and the two recon corvettes are keeping an eye on things. But we may have to leave here in a hurry. So I’d rather not commit to any extensive ground ops. Nothing that we can’t pack up and haul back into orbit in thirty minutes flat. Whatever missions we execute while we’re here, let’s tailor them around that requirement.”
“You called this mission a smash-and-grab burglary at the briefing. But this doesn’t really feel like a burglary,” Lieutenant Colonel Campbell says. “I feel like I snuck downstairs into the kitchen in the middle of the night to swipe some cookies. And now I’m holding my breath and waiting for my mom to turn on the light because I clonked the lid against the jar by accident.”
After the briefing, I head for the main ladderwell to head down to Grunt Country and finally get a meal and some sleep. My stomach is rumbling, and I feel like I’ve been up for twenty-four hours even though we only left for the mission eight hours ago. Combat time passes differently from normal time, at least as far as the wear on the body is concerned.
When I reach the ladderwell, Elin is waiting for me in the passageway, hands in the pockets of her overalls.
“I was joking, you know. About turning those things into weapons.”
“You were half joking,” I say. “But it’s not a bad idea. When you get bullied, go hire the biggest bully on the block to punch back.”
“When I proposed the idea, you looked like I had kicked a puppy or something.”
I gesture down the passageway, and she falls into step next to me.
“It’s because I know what a bunch of shitheads we all are,” I say. “Humans, I mean.”
“In what way? Not that I don’t agree with you in principle.”
“Because we haven’t yet designed a weapon that we didn’t end up using against each other in the end,” I say. “We figure out how to sic these things on the Lankies, we won’t be able to resist the temptation to paint national flags on ’em once the Lankies are gone.”
“That’s a pretty dark view of humanity,” she says.
I tap the NAC patch on my upper sleeve with my index finger.
“When I put that on for the first time, there were no Lankies to fight. I fought other people. Even our own. Hood rats, SRA, shitty little Earth militaries. And even after the Lankies arrived, it took us years to stop killing each other and focus on the real threat. Trust me. Ten minutes after the last Lanky dies, we’ll start fucking with each other again. It’s not a dark view of humanity. It’s just our nature.”
“Some of us are trying to be better than that,” Elin says.
“I know. That’s why I’m still doing this job. Just don’t give the bio-weapons division any terrible ideas.”
She steps up to me and gives me a curt one-armed hug, then pulls back quickly as if she changed her mind in the middle of the action.
“Thanks for keeping me alive down there, Andrew. And for letting me tag along after trying to talk me out of the whole thing in the first place.”
“My pleasure,” I say. “Don’t let it seep into your dreams.”
“I hope that’s not the last we’ll see of each other. Come down to the medlab for a chat whenever you feel like it. We have some spectacularly shitty capsule coffee.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”
She nods and turns to walk down the stairs. I watch as she disappears belowdecks, braid bouncing against the collar of her civvie tech overalls. She has some steel in her, but she’s not a soldier, even if she has a commission certificate that makes her a captain in the Corps. If she’s lucky, she’ll never be anywhere near a battle again, and this day will be merely an anomaly, an exciting anecdote for the rest of her life. For us, it’s the ordinary grind. I think about Halley, who speaks my language and understands all of this without a need for explanation, and the sudden yearning I have for her company feels like an open flame that’s searing the inside of my chest cavity.
Another day closer to home, I think. Maybe the fates are kind, and this was the worst one on this deployment. I made it through a Lanky attack and a forced landing today, and that should be enough to fill my danger quota for a while.
I am halfway down the final passageway to my quarters when the lighting changes to red, and the klaxon of the ship’s battle alert blares through the deck.
“General quarters, general quarters. All hands, man your combat stations. Set material condition Zebra throughout the ship. This is not a drill.”
“You have got to be shitting me,” I say into the semidarkness, after a brief look around to check if there are enlisted nearby.
CHAPTER 20
CLOSE COMBAT
When I rush into the CIC to take my spot at the TacOps station, my first glance goes to the situational orb above the holotable. There aren’t too many things that can trigger General Quarters out of the blue, but until I see the color orange on the plot, there’s still a sliver of hope that we’re just suffering a reactor shutdown, or that some frigate in our entourage collided with the supply ship during a refueling op. But as I take my seat and strap in, I see three orange icons on the edge of the display, slowly edging in toward the cluster of friendly blue icons in the middle of the orb. I turn on my screens and secure my supply hose to the receptacle in the pedestal of my chair. This is not a drill, and it’s not a refueling accident. It’s death coming our way in long, black cigar-shaped form.
The CIC is controlled chaos a
ll around me.
“Bogeys Lima-1 through 3 are now at forty-nine by positive one-ten,” the tactical officer calls out. “Speed five thousand meters per second steady, distance 5,313,000, still CBDR.”
“Nashville confirms they have visual on three seed ships, sir,” the comms officer, Lieutenant March, says from his station. “They are on reciprocal heading to the bogeys and coasting ballistic.”
“The quiet was fun while it lasted,” Colonel Drake says. “Warm up Orion tubes two through four. Energize the particle-gun mount and shift it to standby mode. What’s the story on Jo’burg?”
“They are coming about to intercept bearing.”
“Helm, light the main drive as soon as we are clear of the formation. Tell the cruisers to shield the tin cans and form up for egress to the Alcubierre point. Bring us up and around for the intercept bearing and punch it.”
The tactical display is a swirl of movement as the smaller ships maneuver out of the way to give the gigantic carriers space to turn and accelerate. Cruisers and frigates can’t do anything against seed ships, so the doctrine is for the carriers to shield the fleet’s retreat to the transit node and take out the approaching seed ships from long range with Orions.
“We are clear of the formation and ready to burn, sir,” the helmsman reports.
“Punch it. All ahead flank,” Colonel Drake orders.
We accelerate toward the Lankies at twenty gravities per second. A few kilometers to our starboard, Johannesburg follows suit. The numbers next to the orange icons on the situational display begin to count down with worrisome speed.
“Five million is a little too close,” Lieutenant Colonel Campbell says. “We should have picked them up at ten million klicks already. They came right through the drone picket.”
“It’s not infallible technology,” the commander says. “Doesn’t matter. Weapons, open outer hatches for Orion tubes two and three. Tactical, upload firing solutions for Lima-1 and Lima-2. Hand off Lima-3 to Jo’burg. And make sure there’s absolutely no ambiguity about who shoots at what.”
“Lima-1 and Lima-2 are locked in,” Lieutenant Lawrence says. “Outer hatches open. Ready to fire tubes two and three.”
“Jo’burg reports they’re locked on to Lima-3 and ready to fire. Fire control is linked, sir.”
Everything is happening so quickly that I haven’t even had time to get properly nervous. Barely thirty seconds have passed since I rushed into the CIC, and both carriers are already on an intercept course with the enemy seed ships, with Orion missiles armed and locked on to the targets.
“All right,” Colonel Drake says. “Let’s take a deep breath and double-check our numbers before we launch thirty percent of our remaining long-range ordnance into space. We don’t get extra points for speed right now.”
“Bogeys are still CBDR,” Captain Steadman says. “Distance five million, one hundred thousand. Hell of a closing rate, sir.”
“You’re right. No need to rush in. Cut throttle and go to ballistic, and signal Jo’burg to do the same. We’re far enough from the rest of the task force now.”
On the tactical display, the cluster of blue icons has split into two distinct groups. Both carriers are interposing themselves between the incoming seed ships and the rest of the fleet, which is making for the Alcubierre node at full acceleration. If the carriers fail to stop the seed ships, the rest of the task force will have enough of a head start to make the node.
I have no task right now, no cog I can turn in the machinery to help the ship get ready for battle. My special tactics troopers are buckled in at their action stations close to the escape pods in Grunt Country, and that’s where they will remain until we are out of battle one way or the other. I have a front-row seat to the event, and I don’t need to try to guess what’s going on from the noises in the hull and the movements of the ship. But I haven’t decided yet whether that makes sitting through a ship-to-ship combat engagement more bearable or less so. Everything happens quickly, and the life and death of the whole ship and all three thousand people on her can flip on a single number in a firing algorithm or a fraction of a second of missile flight time. And all I can do is check the tightness of my harness belts and listen to the CIC crew around me as they do their jobs. It’s almost worse than getting launched through a minefield in a bio-pod. If you die in a pod, at least you have privacy.
“Particle-cannon mount is energized and on standby, sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Lawrence,” the commander says.
“Range five million. We have a green firing solution. Johannesburg is still linked and ready to launch.”
“Fire.”
“Firing Two. Firing Three.” Lieutenant Lawrence looks up from his control screen. “Sir, Johannesburg’s bird cleared the tube with a second-and-a-half delay.”
“Fuck,” Colonel Drake says in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. “Ready tube four and match firing solution for Lima-3. Open outer silo door and prepare to fire.”
“Ready tube four, aye. Matching firing solution for Lima-3.”
The blue missile icons on the plot rush out from the two carriers and streak toward the incoming orange icons. We watch the blue tracks extend from the center of the plot, one blip every few seconds, like the heartbeat on a medical status screen. One of the missile icons is a beat behind the other two. It doesn’t seem like it should make much of a difference at these speeds, but the commander found it worrisome enough to warrant a swear, so now I am anxious about it as well.
“Bogeys are still CBDR,” Captain Steadman says. “Coming in straight and dumb as usual.”
“It had to be three,” Lieutenant Colonel Campbell says. “One less, and we could have engaged them all by ourselves.”
“Well, yeah, that’s the way the launchers work, unfortunately,” Colonel Drake says. “Two at a time. We needed that bird from Johannesburg in the mix.”
“On the plus side, nobody’s splashed three seed ships in one strike since Mars,” Captain Steadman says in a tense voice. His eyes haven’t left the blue missile icons on the plot since they appeared there a few minutes ago.
“The day it starts to feel like this has become easy,” Colonel Drake replies, “is the day we get our asses kicked all the way up to our ears.”
“Nashville is still tracking the bogeys. Intercept in thirty. Twenty-eight. Twenty-six.”
For the second time in two days, I try to will the disembodied little icons on the screen to hurry along to their targets: blip-blip-blip.
“Give me the visual from Nashville,” the commander orders. “Put it up on the bulkhead and magnify.”
The screen that expands on the forward CIC bulkhead shows a vast dark square of space, and only the little red cross-shaped target markers superimposed by Nashville’s computer provide evidence that we’re looking at something other than empty vacuum. The Indianapolis-class stealth corvettes have the most powerful surveillance optics of any ship in the Fleet, and even those high-powered lenses and their software algorithms aren’t always able to pick out Lanky seed ships in deep space. But this time, we got lucky once again, and our ad hoc early-warning system gave us enough advance notice to employ our long-range firepower.
“Ten seconds to intercept.” Lieutenant Lawrence counts down. “Eight. Seven . . .”
The pulses of the blue missile symbols on the tactical screen seem to be in sync with the beats of my heart now as they merge with the orange icons.
On the viewscreen, a bright flash turns the display white from edge to edge.
“Intercept,” Captain Steadman calls out. “Stand by for post-strike assessment.”
The flare-up on the viewscreen dims slowly to reveal an irregular cloud of glowing fragments expanding into every direction from the center. A few moments later, a small red marker appears on the right half of the image, moving in jerky little steps with every one-second update from Nashville’s sensors.
“Splash two,” Captain Steadman says, with a hesitant note on the se
cond word. “Successful intercepts on Lima-1 and Lima-2. The bird from Johannesburg missed Lima-3. Target is still CBDR, distance now four and a half million klicks.”
“Weapons, update the Orion in tube four with the firing solution for Lima-3 and fire when ready,” Colonel Drake says.
“Aye, sir.” Lieutenant Lawrence moves his fingers over the data fields on his control panel so quickly that they’re practically a blur. “Firing solution updated and verified. Launching tube four.”
Another little blue V-shaped icon appears in the center of the tactical display and rushes outward to meet the remaining orange symbol approaching from the periphery of our awareness bubble. The other ships of the task force are halfway to the edge of our screen on the opposite side, making full speed for the safety of the Alcubierre node back to the solar system.
“Tell Johannesburg to ready another tube for a follow-up shot and fire on our mark.” Colonel Drake has unbuckled his harness, and now he gets out of his chair and walks over to the holotable in the center of the command pit, as if he can better divine the information flow from the computer by looking at the readouts more closely.
“Aye, sir. They have a new bird ready and locked on.”
“That’s half our Orions gone already,” the commander mutters.
The missile races for the point in space where the computer has calculated the intersection between the kinetic warhead and the Lanky seed ship, building up speed with every passing second. There’s a practical minimum range for the Orion missiles where the accumulated speed isn’t yet enough to create the energy for a certain kill, and we are getting closer to that line every minute.
“Ten seconds to intercept on Lima-3,” Lieutenant Lawrence says.
“Sir, there’s an aspect change on the bogey. Lima-3 just changed course.” Captain Steadman looks up from his tactical screens.
“Lima-3 just did what?”
“They just made a vector change, thirty degrees to port and twenty down from their previous approach ecliptic.”
