Singularity Point

by Brian Smith

  “Right now we’re effectively running dark: nobody can see us, we can’t transmit or receive, and all our transponders are dead. Whoever commanded Marineris during the battle knew exactly where to hit us to prevent any communications or telemetry from going out. For the record, I don’t think it was any of our own people. There’s a feeling among some, maybe even some of you, that somehow we were turned on by our own people. I don’t think that’s the case at all. I think all hands aboard Marineris were lost well before we rendezvoused with her. The evidence supports it, and that makes it more critical than ever to restore communications.

  “First off: chain of command. As hard as it is, we have to accept that Captain Keith is dead. He was at the main gangway when we hard-docked with Marineris along with our Marines. All of them are gone. Even if they survived the initial drone swarm, which is doubtful, they would have been the first lost during the decompression. I have assumed command of the ship and will retain it until properly relieved by higher authority. Mr. Gordon is now acting exec; Ensign Tanner will take over operations and serve as astrogator, with Mr. Hagen assisting. Lieutenant Yoon, normally operations would fall to you as third in line of command, but with the damage to the ship, Deck Department is the priority and you’re needed there. The only real ‘operation’ we’re going to be engaged in any time soon is trying to get the James repaired and underway.

  “With the loss of Senior Chief Hawse, Chief Hogan is appointed command chief and master-at-arms. Ensign Farrell is now our chief engineer—that’s a big job to fill, but you’ve already shown you can do it, and you’ve got a strong cadre from the goat locker to help you out. The leadership of all other departments and divisions will fall to their senior surviving officers, chiefs, or work-center supervisors. With casualties cutting our manning almost in half, we’ll go to a six-hour port-and-starboard watch rotation until further notice. When personnel shortages require us to put someone technically unqualified or only partially qualified at a watch station, either I or XO Gordon will need to sign off on it first. Questions so far?” Ford asked.

  There were none.

  “Very well. Our current position is approximately halfway between Juno and Vesta, a little farther up-well than both, on a free-fall trajectory with a slight up-well drift. We aren’t in danger of hitting anything on our current course, and there are a fair number of vessels nearby, both civil and PEA. As soon as we can restore communications, we can send a distress call and expect help to arrive in a reasonable timeframe. The reactor and both aux-power units are fully functional, and we have enough propellant mass even with one breached mass tank. Power generation and life support are not an issue—make sure that word gets passed to your people, soonest. Hull breaches affecting high-priority compartments have been patched, and those that can wait have been sealed off. Until we see the inside of a repair yard again, the spaces pressurized now are the only ones that will be.

  “Next: communications. We can replace and restore our transponders from ready spares. Once they’re up and running, fleet will at least have a position on us and know we’re alive and kicking. When we don’t answer their queries, they’ll send someone. Direct communications are going to be tougher: right now we plan to tear down our primary arrays and the arrays from the ship’s boats, all of which were shot to hell by point-defense fire. We’re going to sift the wreckage, part out anything salvageable, and then try to either cannibalize or 3D-print what we need from inside the ship to jury-rig one operable transceiver. It doesn’t need enough gain to talk to Mars or Earth—Vesta will work just as well. The torch bell is severely damaged. Ironically, we could repair her if we had access to the 3D printers carried by Marineris or any other Class I vessel. Mr. Farrell and the snipes think there’s an outside chance we can part out the bells on both boats and use them to get the main bell repaired well enough to withstand a very low-g burn. Frankly, I’m not sure that’s worth the effort, given that we’ll probably be able to call for help before we get the main drive running again, but it’s an option.

  “The bottom line is that we’re all going to be long on effort and short on sleep, but after what we’ve already been through, I have no doubt we’re going to pull through. Internal systems have all been purged of their code, restored via hard backups, rebooted, and partially renetworked. Once we’re back on the fleet net, however, we’ll operate under the assumption that all cryptographic systems are compromised navywide and will govern ourselves accordingly. Furthermore, given the lack of intel we have on what’s happening everywhere else, we’ll remain on a combat footing: Condition III until further notice.

  “That’s where we stand with the ship.

  “Now we’re going to address the tactical situation to the extent we’re able to. There’s no way to know exactly what happened to Marineris, and now we may never know. But we can guess based on what’s happened and what we’ve observed since. I suspect that the recovery of Boris Polevoy aka Dejah Thoris didn’t happen as reported. I suspect Flatley was taken by surprise and overwhelmed quickly, probably beginning with a cyberstrike like we were, and she was captured relatively intact, also like they planned for us. I think Marineris was taken in turn when she rendezvoused. That would have been no small task, but if they were caught unawares, I can think of a couple of ways it would have worked, especially with the enemy’s cyber abilities as demonstrated. Since then, Flatley has been on the burn down-well toward Halsey Station along with the Dejah Thoris. Our sister ship, Antrim, made rendezvous with Marineris a few days later and is currently on a trajectory for Nimitz Station, in the Jovian system. We can still see the torch plumes of both vessels optically, with our telescopes.”

  Ford paused to let that sink in, as horrified looks flew around the table.

  “Yeah,” he said, reading their understanding of the implications. “Somehow, I don’t think Antrim was suddenly reassigned to the 5th Fleet, so that ain’t right. We don’t have a position on Copeland right now, which means she could be anywhere. She’s not on her assigned station according to the last batch of message traffic we have on file. So that’s the status of our squadron in a nutshell: Reuben James out of action and incommunicado, probably listed as MIA with the home folks. Copeland is also MIA, and Marineris was destroyed by us, which leaves Flatley and Antrim most likely in the possession of an unknown enemy that has cyber capabilities like we’ve never seen, and both on course for the two biggest naval stations beyond Earth’s orbit.”

  “Not just cyber capabilities, either,” added Chief Eckert. “There’s also the matter of these supersynths we’ve got bagged and tagged, along with the advanced particle-beam weapons. . . .”

  “What do we know about these synths, anyway?” Ford asked. “Any progress on that front?”

  “They’re like nothing we’ve ever seen,” Chief Eckert replied. “We have one guy on board, Petty Officer Vincent, who’s currently working on his Level-Three credentials in synth engineering, but he’s only about halfway through his coursework. He says these things might as well be alien artifacts, as far as he’s concerned.”

  “Any chance they are?” Ford asked seriously.

  “Highly doubtful, sir. That pale-greenish goop seems to be integral to their makeup, but we don’t have anything approaching the equipment needed to start analyzing the stuff. Again, nobody aboard has ever seen anything like it, and there’s no reference to it in any of our data partitions. It’s mystery goop for now, but the one thing we’ve learned is that it’s highly flammable if you hit it with a particle beam in an oxygenated environment: the stuff burns hotter than a magnesium flare. If we hadn’t been fighting in a vacuum, we wouldn’t have anything but ash to examine.”

  “They ain’t any sort of alien tech, skipper. We think we encountered a couple of these synths before, back at 5111 Omega,” Chief Hogan added, looking pointedly around the table. “We were fighting flesh-and-blood people in a pressurized environment there, not ET. The air that was present in that fight meant that both synths we hit burned to
almost nothing, so there wasn’t much left of them—not even enough to tell what they were to start with. We could only speculate, but we’ve thought all along they were some form of combat drone. Given that 5111 Omega was a confirmed MIM operation, it stands to reason that these synths and this attack are somehow related to the MIM as well. Do you think we’re at war with Mars, sir?”

  “I think it’s more likely that Mars is at war with us and we’re just now figuring it out. It’s been a pretty one-sided affair so far, eh? This is why restoring communications is vital: both Flatley and Antrim have unfettered access to any spin habitat under U.S. or TOA territorial control. Both are equipped with nuclear weapons, just like we are, to say nothing of enemy cyber capabilities. If they’re under the control of a kamikaze AI and get into Halsey and Nimitz stations, we’re looking at a surprise attack that’ll kill more than a third of a million people and wipe out better than half the entire navy, all in one shot. It’ll make Pearl Harbor look like nothing—a flash in the pan. We also have to consider the possibility that these acts aren’t being aimed solely at U.S. assets but at Earth’s assets as a whole. If the MIM, or whoever the enemy is, has engineered similar infiltrations of the PEA and CFR navies, as well as those of our TOA allies, we may be looking at a coordinated strike. Yang Liwei, Jellicoe, Vesta, maybe even Armstrong . . . They could all be targets.”

  “That’s just crazy,” Tanner retorted shortly. “Earth would raze every indie settlement on Mars back down to red dust if they did something like that.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Gordon interjected. “Once you destroy that much naval capability, what’s left to stop the big asteroids they threaten to drop on Earth if it doesn’t capitulate and cede any sovereignty claims over Mars?”

  “That sort of threat—an existential threat against Earth itself—would ensure that no expense would be spared, and no stone left unturned, in sterilizing Mars of human habitation,” Yoon said. “Given that we’ve clearly had fully autonomous AI-controlled weapons used against us, you can bet the gloves are going to come off on that score as well.”

  “So, what then? Mutual assured destruction?” Tanner asked, still incredulous. “Are we just going to kill ourselves off as a species out of spite here, or what?”

  “Not on Reuben James’s watch,” Chief Hogan said pointedly. “Skipper, this is all fascinating to debate, but the longer we talk about this, . . .”

  Ford nodded. “The chief’s right. The sooner we’re transmitting again, the bigger the chance we have of heading off trouble at the pass—no matter what it is. Let’s turn to, people. Restoring communications is priority one.”

  ***

  Later that morning, XO Gordon rapped sharply three times on the hatch of what was normally the XO’s stateroom, one deck above the bridge and opposite the skipper’s “sea cabin.” Nobody had changed accommodations yet; it felt disrespectful, somehow, given that there hadn’t even been time to hold a service for the dead. Not only that, people currently had no spare time to move their personal gear around.

  “Come in, Gordo,” Ford called. What’s the word?”

  “Transponders are fixed, sir. We’re ready to power them up on your order. As soon as we do, the world is going to know we’re alive, and where we’re at.”

  “Hmm,” Ford grunted. “What about the comm array?”

  “Another day, maybe thirty hours at the outside. Yoon’s people are working as fast as they can, but it’s like trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. What’s on your mind, captain?” he added, noting Ford’s brooding demeanor.

  “Nothing. I’ve just been doing some thinking, that’s all. It has occurred to me that we might be the only ones who know what’s happening out here. Coasting without the torch, we’re vulnerable. I’m debating whether it’s wise to switch our transponders back on and announce our survival before we’ve restored communications. We still don’t have a posit on Copeland, nor do we know her status. There might also be other MIM assets around—or whoever it is that did this to us. If the enemy learns we’re still around and bags us before we can get a message out, our people might be totally blindsided.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about that,” Gordon replied. The reversal of his usual reflexive response almost prompted a double take from Ford. Maybe Gordo was turning a new leaf.

  “I had Amy run the numbers on Flatley and Antrim, compared to our repair-time estimates. With the communications lag, it’s going to be a close race any way you cut it—with even odds that we can get a signal out to someone before those ships make rendezvous at their destinations. It also depends on how strong a signal we can put out. If it has to be relayed from Vesta or another ship, that takes more time—not just the signal itself, but arranging the relay. Navy units don’t normally rely on outside agencies for communication relays, and if someone sends a message on our behalf, it’ll have to be in the clear—no encryption. Now, if we switch our transponders on immediately and squawk ‘emergency,’ that’ll probably bring someone right to us within twelve or fifteen hours—there are a lot of ships all around us, and several on favorable trajectories for intercept and rendezvous. If we can get someone alongside, we can relay a message well in advance of Flatley and Antrim, and it should accelerate the entire repair schedule.”

  “Or it brings the bad guys.”

  “Yes, sir. Problem is, we may not know which it is until they hard-dock and try another cyberstrike on us.”

  “Well, another cyberstrike through a hard-dock linkup is easy to prevent if we’re anticipating it, now that we know what to look for,” Ford mused. “We’re also combat capable, aside from not being able to maneuver. It’s a calculated risk, then—drawing more enemy fire versus getting a message out in time to save half a million people and half the fleet.”

  Gordo grinned wildly. “Well, I—”

  “Stop!” Ford interrupted with a wry smirk. “Actually, we do know that. Seems like a no-brainer when we lay it out that way, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Activate the transponders, coded ‘emergency’ and ‘ship in distress.’ Time to let the world know that Reuben James is among the living.

  “Aye, aye, captain.”

  December 1, 2093 (Terran Calendar)

  USS Reuben James

  The Asteroid Belt

  The PEA torchship Vladivostok was the vessel that responded to their emergency beacons. Perhaps sensing that something major was amiss, it warned off all other responding traffic and executed a skillful burn-and-rendezvous with the stricken USN torchship approximately eighteen hours after Ford ordered Reuben James’s transponders reactivated.

  Ford and his teams on the bridge and in CDC watched tensely as the vessel approached, knowing that it was attempting to contact them, but unable to send any sort of reply. That would look suspicious to the oncoming vessel, and in the PEA-monitored space around Vesta, the local authorities were inclined to shoot first and not even ask questions when they suspected piracy or other forms of foul play.

  Vladivostok was a naval cruiser, Class II by U.S. standards, much larger and more heavily armed than Reuben James. Her captain regulated his ship’s burn so that when he was about an hour away he was able to cut thrust and precess his ship for several minutes, bringing his whole sensor suite into play.

  Reuben James was swept by powerful lidar and radar scans, and Ford ordered the ship to be illuminated by external lights to the maximum extent possible, allowing their rescuers’ optical telescopes to visually confirm the damage as they closed.

  Once satisfied that Reuben James was who her transponders claimed she was, Vladivostok pivoted stern-to once again and finished her deceleration burn. Once she was alongside, communications were possible via maser-lamp signals.

  Neither ship requested to soft- or hard-dock with the other, which would have been the easiest thing to do. Vladivostok sent over one of her ship’s boats instead, much to the relief of everyone on Reuben James: a ship’s boat was too small f
or anyone to try any shenanigans with. Trusting a PEA vessel wouldn’t normally be an issue, but after fighting off a boarding action by a vessel of their own navy, the survivors were understandably anxious.

  When the airlock opened, Ford found himself being regarded suspiciously by a man in the black uniform jumpsuit of the Russian Navy. The man was blond, with slightly longer hair than USN regulations permitted, and the palest blue eyes Ford had ever seen. The Russian officer saluted sharply, requesting permission to come aboard, in his own language, which was instantly translated in Ford’s eardots. Ford returned the salute and welcomed him aboard. The officer introduced himself as Captain 3rd Rank Misha Pyotr Vitalich. He was the USN equivalent of a lieutenant commander, one of Vladivostok’s senior department heads.

  Vitalich’s first question was the obvious one: “What happened here?”

  “It’s a long, strange story,” Ford replied, “but there are immediate concerns that may affect you as well as us, which require immediate attention in order to avert a possible surprise attack against your country, mine, and in fact all the spacefaring nations of Earth that have territories on Mars.”

  Vitalich was sharp—he noticed the lack of a command pin embossed on Ford’s uniform. “Where is your captain?”

  “He was killed. I’m in command of Reuben James,” Ford replied. “When we saw it was a PEA vessel coming to our assistance, we put together an intelligence package and a briefing for you based on what has happened and what we know. Time is of the essence, and the possibility exists that there are no secure means of communication within your navy or mine. At this moment we need three things: First, we need to brief your commanding officer on what we know. Second, we need access to your communications array, or to arrange for you to send a message on our behalf. And third, we could use your help with repairs—specifically, printing bell plates to repair our torch bell and communications arrays, if you have printers aboard that can produce size-appropriate parts.”