“He’s pushed us into a war,” Pan said to Gregory and Fowler. “Another one.”
“Certainly making a habit of it,” Fowler quipped. Infuriatingly, the Xerxian was actually smiling.
Gregory said, “Councillor Naat. I’m about to instruct Captain Pan to return to Liberty Habitat.”
“You would abandon our survivors here?”
“You’re sure there are survivors?”
“You signaled them and we will know soon.”
“Why should we bother waiting for a reply signal? Why should we be involved in yet another altercation on your behalf?”
Beside him, Assured and the fighters were blobs in the white holofield. Neither seemed to have advanced positions respective to each other, but Gregory imagined them flying at incredible speeds. Eventually they would close distance, intercept; eventually they would start shooting.
Pan asked Naat, “What do you mean, a massive vessel arrived and deposited something in orbit around the main world?”
But Naat didn’t answer because Gregory was yelling over the top of Pan, confusing Buoun’s ability to translate. “You deceived us and put our ship in danger! Again!”
Councillor Vren had begun muttering to Pi who was doing her best to ignore her.
Gregory began pacing, muttering. “And I thought humans were terrible at communicating with each other. God almighty, what a mess.”
“You do not understand what it is like for us,” Naat said, Buoun seemingly relieved to have something simple to relay. “It is terrible to realize how weak you are, when you have always thought yourself strong. Our recent conflict showed that your one ship and crew are enough to deal with all the military resources of all our domains. We need you here to help, but we feared you would not help with another crisis.”
Fowler’s turn to mutter. “Yeah, good instincts.”
“Recently you told us you trusted us,” Gregory told Naat.
“We are trying to trust you.”
To this translation, Buoun added a quiet and personal footnote: “I trust you.”
Naat said, “Our second carrier shell—the one that is en route and uncontactable—it would have flown into this, unprepared and unaware. The current expedition labeled the creatures attacking this system Xenthracr.”
“Zenthracker?” Fowler interrupted, looking at Buoun. “Is that the attackers’ actual name or a Tluaan word?”
“Tluaan,” Buoun replied. “It means monsters.”
“Subtle.”
“Your people have seen these attackers?” Pan asked. “Met them?”
Pi understood this without Buoun’s help. “We do not know. They did not say about them in the first message they sending.”
“Where are these beings from?” Gregory asked. “You said they attacked your ships.”
“The Xenthracr invaded the Qesh system,” Naat repeated. “Their interstellar vessel may have been a …”
Buoun paused and asked Gregory, “Would the term seed ship make sense?”
Gregory’s stomach did a little flip as he nodded. Alien mother ships dropping seed ships to terraform human worlds had been the stuff of frightening entertainments for a millennium.
This is a nightmare.
“It makes sense,” he said.
“… seed ship,” continued the translation, “which deposited a base in orbit. We know there are Xenthracr on the base and we know they’re on the planet. Our two survey shuttles went to both places and Xenthracr attacked them. The Domain Space Council believe that our expedition’s arrival drew enemy attention to themselves and then to the Qesh artifact. There has been at least one attack on it now. Perhaps the Xenthracr had been here before. Perhaps these particular Qesh had been secretly building the construction in the shadow of the neighboring planet to escape their invaders.”
“And perhaps this is all bullsweat,” Pan said.
“Give us proof,” Gregory added.
When Buoun had interpreted that, Pi pointed to the holographic models of the approaching fighters. “Them are proof!”
“So far, we don’t know that they’re attacking us,” Gregory answered. “They haven’t fired on us.”
One of the helmsmen made a noise and the other said, “Actually, sir, they have.”
Several people said, “What?”
“Laser emitters,” confirmed a sensor op. She gave a bearing or vector Gregory didn’t understand followed by the words, “Eighteen minutes, ten seconds.”
Pan must have caught the fear on Gregory’s face, something the ambassador was instantly ashamed of.
“They’ve gone early,” Pan told him gently. “Aimed a long way ahead of us.”
“And if they improve their aim?”
Pan tipped a shoulder, seemingly unconcerned. “At these speeds, the closer we get, the tougher it gets to dodge.”
“So …?”
“With our shields, we don’t need to. A couple of fighters spitting laser bursts won’t worry us. The real question is, should we shoot back?”
“Are we willing to intervene here, you mean?” Gregory looked at Fowler, who just shrugged, no longer smiling. Pan was intimating this was a political rather than military situation. And if the Qesh were the innocent victims of malicious invaders, then that was true. The Confederation as a self-styled moral authority had a duty.
“Can we try scaring them off first?” he asked.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Pan replied.
There were two weapons cons on the bridge, just as there were two sensor stations and two helmpanels. Hard lessons learned in the early days of pirate battles had taught the navy to create backups and duplication wherever possible. Pan caught the eye of the weapons operator closest to Gregory. “Particle beams. Five bursts, three-second intervals. Put them ahead of those bogeys, spacer. Fire across their noses.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Helm, hold vector and speed.”
“Holding, aye.”
The weapons operator punched a final command into his con with a flourish.
Gregory heard and felt nothing. The main screen still showed a shaky close-up view of the attackers; the particle beams didn’t appear on it. They might appear, he supposed, once they got close enough. And how long would that take? “Won’t those vessels see the shots coming?”
“Their sensors should, yes,” Fowler said.
Pan chewed the inside of one cheek. “But worth a try, right?”
“Right,” Gregory replied.
“Comms, transmit a desist order,” Pan said.
Picking up on that, Pi asked, “You want to communicate to Xenthracr? Maybe it willn’t work. Maybe they don’t understand an Human language.”
“And maybe with enough motivation, they’ll try to understand it. Transmit,” he told Sintopas.
In the background, Sintopas began repeating a message in English that the ships should turn around and cease aggressions.
Gregory agreed with Pi. No way would those non-human pilots understand it. But he accepted Pan’s double-barreled logic: on the political side, the logs would show they’d tried to communicate; on the military side, there was a chance that the pilots would at least recognize a signal and perhaps attempt to communicate back.
“Mainscreen off,” Pan ordered. The screen went blank. “Damn jumpy images give me a headache.”
Sixteen minutes later, a sensor operator reported, “Sir, those particle beams have passed them. Hostile contacts’ course hasn’t deviated.”
Pan offered Gregory a mildly apologetic expression, then: “Weapons, we’re close enough to secure a hit. One short PC burst. Choose a fighter and take it out.”
Gregory dropped his head in dismay. We’re in a sector of space that seems to be swarming with intelligent races. And first contact with this race is atomizing one of their ships.
“Violence is communication,” Fowler murmured beside him, reading his mind. “If Naat’s right and this new race are the aggressors here, then perhaps taking a little bullyi
ng themselves will teach them to listen to us.”
Like our bullying did with Domain Surface? Gregory thought. He said, “Or make them angrier.”
A little more than fifteen minutes later, a direct hit was reported. The fighter had disintegrated.
There was no whooping, no celebrating. A weapons con quietly asked a sensor operator, “Was it even shielded?”
“Don’t think so,” she murmured back.
“Second fighter’s taken no notice,” the helm reported. “Not even taking evasive maneuvers. Damn. It’s firing again, captain. Should impact our shields in fourteen minutes, fifteen seconds.”
“Take it out,” Pan ordered.
The weapons operator performed another flourish on his board. Fourteen minutes later, the fighter’s laser bursts arrived to impact Assured’s shields with negligible effect. Twelve seconds after that, sensors confirmed the destruction of the second fighter. The weapons op looked anything but pleased.
“Maintain heading to Qesh artifact, sir?” Lt. Toller asked.
“Until I say otherwise,” Pan told him. To Sintopas, he said, “Anything from the Tluaanto yet?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“That’s more than two hours,” he told Gregory.
When the reply came from the Tluaan frigate, it was from a scientist named Chlalloun, the apparent head of the mission. His message was short and audio only.
“It relieves us greatly that you are here. With powerful allies. We welcome you. There are not many of us left. Please hurry to see us.”
No one could be bothered replying to the reply. Conversation on the bridge had dried up to only that which was necessary to fly and run a ship.
A half hour after Chlalloun’s terse audio signal, Ensign Sintopas announced matter-of-factly, “Connection ping received from Chaatu system buoy. FTL network now linked.” The man was sweating, Gregory noticed, and his short hair was mussed on one side where he must have been rubbing at it.
We’re all wired about as tight as we can get.
Pan came to the railing. “What update would you like sent to Naval Command, Ambassador?”
Gregory scratched at the back of his neck a moment. “Tell them simply we’ve been forced into combat with yet another sentient species.”
“You heard him, Ensign,” Pan told Sintopas. “Add to that the data logs since arrival.”
“Yessir.”
“Pretty heavily populated sector of space we’ve wandered into,” Fowler said brightly. It seemed to Gregory that he was trying to lighten the mood with some dark humor.
Gregory replied, “We’ve met the Xenthracr. Let’s hope the Qesh will be friendlier.”
11
All five of the expedition’s “launch-vehicles” had been parked in a fan formation, side-by-side with their noses toward the main hangar bay’s launch portal. No Tluaan vessels had been permitted aboard.
Prepped and kitted for his away mission, Chipper trudged between the T15 Lioness and the ship’s lone Devilfly fighter-interceptor. He stroked the interceptor’s drive-jet housing before leaning the other way to give the Lioness a friendly thump with the heel of his hand.
Look after us, Missy. Get us there and back, safe and sound.
He emerged from between the ships to gaze at the vehicles the far side of the Devilfly: the ambassador’s sleek yacht and the two Peacekeeper skiffs. Memories surged into his forebrain. His stomach did a disloyal flip. Not so long ago, he’d ridden a skiff to board a pirate corvette; more recently, he’d ridden the yacht to raid the Domain Surface cyberattack facility. Both times, enemy personnel had died.
People. People died.
People, maybe, but enemies nonetheless. He was a soldier, dammit. The deaths of enemies—and colleagues—was in the job description. He had to learn to come to terms with such things. He had to accept that when people like Ana said it’s for the greater good, they were right.
And next time I have leave, I may have to get myself some therapy.
He’d meant it as a kind of bad joke to himself, but maybe it was a good idea …
“A peaceful trip,” he told the Lioness. “You hear me? No trouble.”
It was doubtful that there’d be trouble. This trip was reconnaissance only, no landing required, no engagement expected. Still, he had dressed in his combat e-suit—and the others would have environment suits of their own. None of them would wear helmets, though. Not if things stayed peaceful.
Seven minutes later he was joined by the rest of the away team. XO Chinyama. Lieutenant Berderhan, the pilot who normally flew the Devilfly. And Vazak.
The warrior wore a bulky Tluaan e-suit, carrying her helmet under her undamaged left arm and a big data tablet under the damaged right one. The lower half of the right sleeve had been gathered back and clamped against the upper. She wore no utility rigging and bore no weapons—there was still not enough trust for that. But there were PR19 rifles onboard the T15, locked up where the warrior wouldn’t notice them.
Just in case.
While Chinyama confirmed final maintenance checks with the deckhand, Berderhan ran a palm across the nose of the pursuit runner.
“Not gonna enjoy this as much as flyin’ the Devil,” she said. “But at least it’ll keep my hours up.”
“You’re also flying into a hot zone,” Chipper said by way of encouragement.
She brightened. “Yeah, there’s that.”
“People, let’s board,” Chinyama called from the ramp which jutted from the ship’s port hull. He allowed them to proceed him, then climbed in and hit the ramp seal command.
They had entered the passenger compartment’s aft end, a simple rectangle with storage cubbies in back and an unpartitioned cockpit area up front. Two banks of five combat chairs each lined the inner hull behind the pilot and navigator seats. “Combat chairs” was the designer’s term for them; Peacers always called them “racks”. The two rows faced each other, each rack consisting of an upright crash-couch fitted with sturdy harnesses and gel cushioning against high-g maneuvers.
Chipper ran his eyes over the racks with affection: even wearing an e-suit—and compared to other troop vehicles—Lioness racks were actually quite comfy. He was lowering himself into the closest one when Chinyama put a hand on his elbow.
“Take the nav seat, Corporal.”
Berderhan, the pilot, had already strapped herself in up front. Chipper glanced at the seat beside her. “That should be yours, sir.”
“It’s yours for this trip. I’ll have access to all the data I need back here.” Chinyama brushed past him and dropped into the forward-most portside rack. While the ceiling held several monitor screens, this particular rack had a tactical tablet connected to a swivel arm. Chinyama powered on the tab. “I’m told you have some pilot hours logged? Handy skills. Might be beneficial to sit up front and observe the lieutenant.”
Chipper assented with an inward scowl. What the XO really meant was that he didn’t want to be bothered if Berderhan needed navigational assistance.
Rank-perks, he grumbled. Squeezing himself into the nav chair only exacerbated his irritation. He really wanted to sit in a crash-couch. Piloting and navigation seats were never made for bigger-boned people like him.
“Travelin’ up front with the smart folk, huh?” Berderhan had to grin and talk around a datapen she had clamped between her teeth like a cigar.
Chipper half-rose again; he’d sat on a harness strap and needed to fish around for it underneath his butt. “Eh?” he said.
“Smart folk up front. Dumb folk in back. No offence, XO.”
“None taken.”
Chipper laughed, relaxing a little. “So, normally I’m dumb folk?” He had the strap now, so he planted his butt. The chair had gel cushions, at least; it was the arms that were set too close together. And it was a little too low to the floor.
Berderhan’s grin widened around her datapen as she adjusted a swivel-display on the roof to a better angle. “Just sayin’, it might be good for a Peacer to
sit up here. Ya might grow a few IQ points.”
“So only dumb people join the Peacers, Lieutenant?” You’re probably right.
“They tell me dumb helps, kiddo. But XO says you’ve logged some hours? Maybe you’re not as dumb as some.”
“A few hours,” he admitted while continuing to wrestle with his harness. Whoever had used it last had shortened the straps all the way in. Was anyone actually that skinny? “Before joining up, I flew ferries up and down to Oceana Orbital for a year. Since then, I’ve logged sixty-three hours on skiffs. And thirty on simulators for pursuit runners like this.”
She pulled the datapen to tap and scribble across the helmscreens above her knees. “When we get in the thick of it, maybe I’ll let you take stick?”
“Great way to get us all killed.”
“New plan—we stick to our day jobs. I fly. You shoot.”
Chipper finally got his straps right and clicked in all the buckles. “Hopefully not today. Me shooting things on this trip means we’ve crash-landed.”
“Copy that. No crash-landings today.” She turned her head to call to the racks. “All set, back there?”
Chinyama murmured assent. Chipper craned his neck around. Vazak was struggling with her strapping. He sighed and unbuckled his.
“I’ll go help the warrior.”
As he rose, Berderhan cuffed his arm. “Get me a juice while you’re back there, flight attendant. I believe they’re in the compartment above her chair.”
“Ah, Ambassador, Councillors.” Pan was standing at one of the sensor stations as Gregory returned to the bridge with the Tluaan delegation.
It was now 0315 shiptime. Since receiving Chlalloun’s message, they’d all taken respite in their respective quarters. Gregory wondered if Pan had rested at all.
The captain waved the Tluaanto to their side seating. “We’ve reached high orbit around Kh’het4 and we’re coming up on the Qesh artifact. One thousand kilometers out and maintaining minimal approach-speed, maintaining caution.”
While Buoun translated that, Gregory said privately to Pan, “Commander Chinyama was exiting the lift when I got in. Wearing a flight-suit.”
Assured (Envoys Book 2) Page 12
