by James Evans
“Ascendant is to hold back? That doesn’t make any sense, does it? Shouldn’t we be in the fight?”
Cohen shook his head. “Not our call. The admiral wants us as the back, so that’s where we’ll be.”
“And you’re okay with that?” persisted Warden.
“Not my decision to make, Captain,” said Cohen, emphasising Warden’s rank, “or yours.”
“Is there to be a ground assault on U-235,” asked Warden, “or will everything be done by bombardment?”
“There’s nothing in our orders instructing us to stand by for a drop,” said Cohen, “and as yours is the only company in the fleet, I guess that means no assault.”
Warden sat very still for a moment, face schooled to immobility.
“Right,” he finally said. “Ours is the only company. Is that normal?”
“For Staines, no,” answered White. “He likes to have Marines on his ships.”
“Admiral Morgan is a different beast,” said Cohen, “with different ideas about how to get things done.”
Warden shrugged, his face an open book.
“I guess we’ll sit this one out.”
The command suite on HMS Duke of Norfolk’s was the polar opposite of Ascendant’s. It sat behind a bright, spacious bridge and unlike the command suite on the former Deathless ship, lived up to its name by consisting of more than one room.
The main room was dominated by a large conference table; a galley and lounge area were on the other side of the corridor that led from the bridge. Then there were several rooms for junior intelligence personnel and smaller meetings.
Admiral Morgan sipped at his coffee as he stood before the bank of monitors that covered one wall of the command suite. He wore a Royal Navy clone with custom command implants, and was clothed in a white shirt and dark trousers, as was standard for officers on general duty.
A hologram of Rear Admiral Harper sat bolt upright at the table. Of course, Harper wasn’t necessarily sitting in the command suite onboard Caernarfon, it was just easier if virtual avatars sat still in a designated spot. Similarly dressed and wearing the same clone type, Harper was flicking at a data slate.
The main monitors showed the state of each ship in the fleet, their locations relative to Duke of Norfolk and their readiness. In the top right, a countdown timer showed Norfolk would exit hyperspace in a little over six minutes.
“For the record, do you have any last-minute questions about the plan?” Morgan asked in a bored voice.
“No. Just the same as the last time. Get in, drop the drones, get out.”
“Keep an eye out for the Deathless. You can never be too careful,” Morgan replied.
“Vigilance never hurts, I suppose,” Harper agreed before signing off the conference call.
Morgan didn’t take his eyes from the screens. He rubbed at his short-cropped beard and took a turn around the conference table, pausing at the coffee machine for a refill.
Then the counter hit zero, and Duke of Norfolk dropped back into normal space. Morgan stood before the monitors, mug half-raised, as he waited for the rest of his fleet to emerge from hyperspace.
For ten seconds, nothing happened. Then HMS Molesworth and HMS Virtue appeared, followed by HMS Caernarfon a moment later. They were exactly on time and each exactly a kilometre away from Morgan’s flagship. More ships followed, dropping into position behind Duke of Norfolk to form a loose cone a few kilometres wide and deep.
As each ship emerged into real space, the indicator on the board flashed, confirming the reconnection of real-time communications. Morgan counted them all off, then scowled as the last, Ascendant, took its place at the very rear of the cone.
A new counter appeared on the top right of the display bank. Ten thousand seconds till the next jump began. Long enough to complete the in-system work and prepare.
On the displays, the ships’ statuses began to flash with updates as they prepped for the next hyperspace jump. Virtue and Apollo began their drone deployment tasks, each sending a dozen autonomous vehicles into the system to scout, monitor and search for anything that might be of interest.
Apollo’s drone deployment reports flashed across Morgan’s screen. The last deployment was a small fusion-powered wormhole generator to provide a communication link back to Sol once the fleet had departed. The drones began to spread out, their small but efficient solar sails unfurling to recharge their power supplies.
So far, so good.
Then the proximity warning flashed red, and everything went to hell.
Aboard Ascendant, Marine X and Colour Sergeant Milton were sitting in the mess watching the forward displays and working through a jug of coffee.
“Not the worst I’ve ever had,” said Ten.
“High praise. What was the worst?”
“Tricky,” said Ten, leaning back in his chair. He was quiet for a moment. “Ever been to Epsilon City? Did a job there, way back. A provincial commander went rogue, tried to declare his own kingdom. Started attacking nearby towns.”
Ten took another sip as Milton leaned forward, eager to hear the story. He seldom spoke about his past, but his tales were always entertaining.
“The job took longer than expected. We were stuck there for months, cleaning up and chasing the buggers down. The locals had this idea that coffee needed improving. Something about the soil, I think they said. They did all sorts of shitty things to the plant to make it grow in their crappy climate. They couldn’t stop tweaking the plant strains.”
He snorted and shook his head.
“Never did understand why they didn’t grow the bloody plants in greenhouses. Long story short, their beans were evil and their roasters incompetent. The locals loved it but, to me, it tasted like shit. Even this muck is better.”
“Morgan has beans from Earth,” said Milton, “or so I hear.”
Marine X’s face went unusually blank at the mention of Morgan.
“You know the admiral?” asked Milton, frowning.
Marine X ignored the question as Ascendant dropped out of hyperspace and the status displays switched to show the relative locations of the ships in the fleet. He frowned hard at the screens, coffee forgotten.
“Something wrong?” asked Milton as Marine X moved to stand in front of the displays to get a closer look. She followed his gaze but couldn’t see anything unusual on the screens.
“Not sure,” he muttered, glancing around the room before his eyes settled back on Milton. He seemed worried, as if some nagging doubt was troubling him, but he couldn’t quite work out what it was.
“Why is the fleet so close together?” he asked quietly, staring again at the displays.
“Is that important?” asked Milton.
Ten was silent for a moment then he shrugged and shook his head.
“Nah, probably not, just a feeling, you know? Like when the wind changes or you see something out of the corner of your eye, know what I mean?”
Milton frowned. A disturbed Ten was a strangely worrying thing to see, given his normal carefree disposition. Then the displays updated to show drone deployment had begun. All perfectly normal. Ten shook his head again and sat back down.
“Sorry, a twinge of déjà vu. Nothing to worry about.” He picked up his coffee mug and grinned.
Then the proximity warning klaxon sounded.
3
“Talk to me, Captain,” barked Morgan as he strode onto Duke of Norfolk’s bridge. “What’s going on?”
Captain Stevens, commander of Duke of Norfolk since it had launched a few months before, glanced up from his command chair as Morgan came onto the bridge.
“A small craft, forty metres long and likely a scout ship, dropped out of hyperspace about thirty seconds ago, sir,” said Stevens. The enemy ship hung against the stars, sleek and heavily armed, with a disproportionately large hyperspace engine wrapped around its hull.
Morgan glanced at the floor to ceiling viewscreens that dominated the curved wall of the bridge. The intruder’s position
was highlighted by a blinking red circle.
“Is that it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Stevens.
“A scout? Where did it come from?”
Then the proximity warning again.
“Two corvettes emerging from hyperspace in spread formation,” reported Midshipman Todd. “Two hundred kilometres ahead, one fifteen degrees above and the other fifteen degrees below.”
“Identification, Ms Todd?” asked Stevens as Morgan, peered over the shoulders of the crew as they worked.
“Deathless, sir,” said Todd, putting a close-up of one of the ships onto a large viewscreen. “They aren’t using Sol transponders and don’t match designs of any friendly governments.” The corvette, like the scout ship, was heavily armed, with railgun clusters and missile launch systems along its flank. A bruiser of a ship, ready and looking for trouble.
“Confirmed, unknown vessels are of Deathless origin,” said Stevens.
Morgan heard this and rolled his eyes. What else would they be out here? Stevens was already getting on his nerves. He would like nothing more than to replace the man. If it weren’t for Royal Navy protocol, he would already have done so.
“Take us to action stations, Ms Todd,” Stevens ordered.
“Belay that order,” said Morgan, head whipping around. “Send my orders to the fleet to stand our ground. We will remain stationary as if nothing had happened, as per my plan for an unexpected encounter. We will not provoke an incident.”
Stevens frowned at him. “Sir? I understood we were to seek out the enemy and we have some right here. Shouldn’t we engage them immediately?”
“Don’t forget the bigger picture, Captain, you have your orders,” said Morgan, as he took the chair next to Stevens. “Let’s just see what they do before we respond rashly.”
“Order relayed to the fleet, sir,” said Todd.
“I’m not sure I follow, sir,” said Stevens, lowering his voice so that only Admiral Morgan could hear. “What bigger picture?”
Morgan ignored him as his data slate pinged with alerts. It seemed that Stevens wasn’t the only captain who couldn’t visualise the theatre of operations. If he’d been able to pick his own people, this would all be so much easier. Instead, he had to make do with the ships the admiralty had sent. Annoyed, he sent a templated reply to each message to reiterate the order to hold fire.
“More hyperspace points opening,” said Todd as part of the main viewscreen switched to show first one huge ship dropping into normal space, then more. “Three more coming – no five, no nine!”
“Sir, please!” hissed Stevens, leaning over to speak to Morgan. “We must go to action stations and order the fleet to attack. We’re sitting ducks!”
“A little patience, if you please, Mr Stevens,” said Morgan with an air of infinite wisdom and calm. “I know what I’m doing.”
On the display, the Deathless ships accelerated rapidly towards Duke of Norfolk, racing to close the gap and bring the fleet into weapons range.
“They’re coming in from all angles,” warned Midshipman Rees.
“Sir, we need to manoeuvre,” pressed Stevens. “We have to break out before it’s too late.”
“Incoming signal from Virtue,” reported Todd. Stevens frowned in frustration as Admiral Morgan’s attention whipped across the bridge.
“To my screen only, Ms Todd,” said Morgan. He turned to his screen as the message was decrypted and displayed.
“Three scout ships will pass within four thousand metres in thirty seconds on their current course,” reported Rees.
Morgan ignored the stares from around the bridge, waiting for the perfect moment to launch his plan. He raised one hand, a finger pointed into the air.
“Action stations,” he said solemnly, “take us forward.” He dropped his arm and pointed at the enemy fleet, “Engage!”
Warden sat beside Captain Cohen on the bridge of Ascendant, waiting. His HUD told him it had been only a few minutes, but he’d never sat so long under the gaze of an enemy. It was distinctly uncomfortable. The viewscreen showed the Deathless vessels approaching quickly, their trajectories lit in red on the tactical display, probable targets picked out in blue.
He leaned toward Cohen. “Why we aren’t attacking, sir? They’re getting a lot closer, and I thought you’d want us suited up by now.”
Cohen gave him a puzzled frown, seemingly surprised that anyone would even ask. “Our orders are to remain here until Admiral Morgan tells us to engage. The forward portions of the fleet will engage the enemy while we remain in reserve.”
“Are you pulling my leg? Ascendant just waits? That’s it?”
“No, Captain, I am not pulling your leg. Now if you don’t mind, I have a ship to command.”
This is nuts, thought Warden.
Ten strutted confidently into the battery, a stream of bullshit ready to roll over the occupants if they challenged him. He was almost disappointed to find the loading bay and secondary fire control room were empty.
He checked the toilet for good measure. No sign of the weapons crew at all. In theory, the railgun battery didn’t need to be manned, but it still that seemed strange.
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he pulled a cold can of cider from the fridge, grabbed a chocolate bar and sat down at the fire console.
These Navy boys really do have the good life, he thought, as he swigged the booze and took a bite of the Uranus bar, which fortunately didn’t taste as bad as it sounded.
“Now then, what do we have here?” he muttered to himself as he surveyed the battle displayed on the viewscreen above the console. He chewed his bottom lip as he looked at potential targets.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he mused as he tapped a couple of icons. “Three scout ships, eh?”
“Permission granted,” he muttered with a slight smile.
“I am the very model of a modern Major-General,” he mumbled as he picked his targets, worked out a firing solution, and fired.
“I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical, you Deathless bastards,” he intoned with satisfaction as the leading edge of the barrage struck the first of the scout ships.
“What the hell just happened?” demanded Cohen as the tactical display updated.
“Er. The forward railgun batteries fired, sir,” said MacCaibe. “two scout ships destroyed, one crippled, before they could fire on the fleet.”
“I didn’t order that. We have strict instructions not to engage the enemy. Which of you fired?”
“It didn’t come from the bridge, sir. The command came from the secondary fire console in the forward battery itself.”
“Show me the feed for the battery,” Cohen snapped. When he saw the Marine in power armour sitting at the console and swigging from a can, he heard Warden sigh
audibly.
“What’s the meaning of this, Captain?”
“It would appear Marine X has engaged the enemy,” Warden replied, stony-faced.
“Get him up here, on the double, Captain.”
“Why did you open fire, Marine X? Our orders were to stand by!”
“When a squadron of enemy vessels dive through the fleet at high speed with weapons primed and targets locked to target a support ship, I figure they aren’t out collecting donations for the Natural History Museum,” Marine X growled back at him.
Cohen’s eyes bulged as he bellowed, “Captain Warden, confine this man to await court martial!”
Marine X cocked his head, expression grim. “The most recent Articles of War grant a Royal Marine the authority to take command of an unmanned Royal Navy gun battery with no assigned target if they identify an enemy vessel and deem it a threat to the fleet. I identified three vessels and I deemed.”
Cohen could feel his face flushing red, “And another thing, you were drinking on duty!”
“Ah, well, sir, there you’ve got me. I did indeed have two units of apple-based alcohol. You can keelhaul me at your convenience. But I was obligated to defend the fleet, Captain Cohen. You can charge me for it, but the court martial will support my actions.” Without waiting to be dismissed, he snapped a salute and left the bridge.
Cohen rounded on Warden. “We’ll discuss this later, Captain.”
Warden’s unease was growing, and he squirmed in his seat.
“Control yourself, Captain,” said Cohen, not looking away from the main viewscreen. “This is how these things are done.”
“But we’re sitting ducks!” he snapped.
“Despite the cavalier actions of your Penal Marine, Ascendant will await orders before moving from our assigned position.”
“Still?” said Warden incredulously. As a Marine used to a degree of freedom to act, the Navy’s rigid adherence to orders was alien to him, especially when Morgan’s orders made no sense.
