by James Evans
“We’re ready now, sir. All our flight systems are working, and the diagnostic tests have gone well. We’re airtight, fuelled, armed and ready to go.”
“Excellent. Then please proceed. Ascendant is some way from being ready, so Palmerston is our lifeboat and I want her proven and ready, just in case.”
Corn frowned. “Are you expecting trouble, sir?”
“Expecting? No, Sub Lieutenant,” said Cohen, staring at one of the battle damage repairs. “But let’s prepare, just in case.”
Cohen killed the comms link and walked through Ascendant towards the bridge, brow furrowed as he thought through their situation. Again.
The fleet was gone, lost to Morgan’s incompetence. Ascendant was safe, for now, but stranded a long way from home. Cohen was horribly aware how quickly things might change if the Deathless discovered their location.
A message pinged into his HUD. Visitors in the conference room. He frowned again. Visitors could mean only the Valkyr, and since that first visit, they had communicated only remotely. He flicked an acknowledgement and changed course to head for the conference room.
When he arrived, he was astonished to see three Valkyr waiting for him. Lieutenant White was with them, a pot of coffee on the table and a selection of untouched cups arranged before the visitors.
“Trygstad, Ramberg,” he said, “welcome.”
“Commander,” said Trygstad. Ramberg just nodded. “This is Miriam Haukland, the prime minister of Child of Starlight.”
“I am honoured to meet you,” said Cohen. “How can we be of service?”
Haukland clasped his outstretched hand. “Commander Cohen,” she began, “your repairs proceed satisfactorily, I trust?”
Cohen opened his mouth to reply then frowned as he realised he hadn’t needed his slate for translation.
Haukland saw his confusion and tapped her throat, upon which a tiny mic was strapped. “Sub-vocalising with automatic translation, speaker in lapel. Not perfect, but good enough. In time, I may learn your language, but only if you stay longer.”
“I’m sure you’ll be glad to see us on our way,” said Cohen with a faint smile. “The repairs are going well, and once they are complete, we will leave.”
“And your other ship, the small one?”
Cohen paused, face frozen to immobility. The Valkyr had been nothing but friendly so far, but discussing the functional readiness of his ships with anyone outside the Navy made him distinctly uncomfortable. “Other ship?” he said finally.
“The smaller one, Palmerston. She arrived in system in your main bay but launched to space shortly before your landing attempt. Is it ready to fly?”
“She is,” said Cohen slowly, struggling to keep his face immobile. It was clear that the Valkyr knew an awful lot more about the situation than they had previously suggested. “How did you know she was in our main bay?”
Haukland gave a little shrug. “Your sensors are degraded, but ours function perfectly. We see everything, both inside Ascendant and in the volume around Child of Starlight.”
“You’ve scanned the interior of our ship?” asked Cohen, mildly outraged by the intrusion.
“Of course, Commander,” replied Haukland. “Would you not have scanned a vessel that crashed into your home?”
Cohen opened his mouth to say that there was no way he would ever countenance such an action, but then he realised that that was exactly what the Navy would do. Regardless of hostile intent, an inspection would be needed to search for anyone needing assistance. Or to check for life-threatening damage to critical systems.
“You’re right, of course,” he said and inclined his head. “Palmerston is functional and about to begin main engine flight trials.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“You asked how you could serve,” said Haukland. Then she took a deep breath and looked suddenly uncertain. “We need help, and we think you may be the people to provide it. Maybe the only people who can help.”
She glanced at Trygstad and gave a tiny nod.
“This is research station Ornament,” said Trygstad, flicking at a tiny data slate until the conference room’s main display began to show images. She moved on before Cohen could ask how she had circumvented Ascendant’s security.
“Ornament is just one of many stations we operate, but it is the largest dedicated to research.” A scale was added to the picture and Cohen whistled. “With a radius of a little over two hundred kilometres, Ornament is one of the larger bodies in the asteroid belt, and it hosts an experimental facility conducting important research.”
Cohen nodded, transfixed by the image that spun gently on the screen. Ornament was clearly artificial, a space station in the shape of a giant wheel. At its centre, a small hub hung at the end of delicate-looking spokes.
“Fascinating. What sort of research? And how can we be of service?”
“Approximately three hours ago,” said Trygstad, ignoring Cohen’s first question and tapping at her slate to zoom the display, “a hostile vessel docked at Ornament’s main bay here, on the outer rim of the station. Communications were lost soon after, and contact attempts elicit no response.”
Cohen nodded, finally seeing the shape of the problem and the type of help Haukland needed. “And so you want us to take a look and rescue your people?”
“We want you,” said Haukland, leaning forwards to emphasise her words, “to secure the station and remove the pirates before they escape.”
Cohen sat back, eyebrows raised in surprise. “The station? That’s what you’re worried about? What about the people?”
Haukland waved her hands at him in irritation. “The people, yes, we wish to rescue them of course, but the station and the research data are less easy to replace or recover. Can you help?”
Cohen glanced back at the screen, taking in the huge scale of the station. The Admiralty would scream bloody murder if he put his crew at risk, but how could he refuse to help the very people whose materials he needed if Ascendant was ever to get home.
“You’ve been very generous to us,” he said, “and it seems only right that we should seek to repay that generosity.” He shared a look with White, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of agreement. “What did you have in mind?”
13
“Coming out of hyperspace in three, two, one,” said Sub-Lieutenant Corn, who had left engineering to pilot Palmerston for the mission. The view on the main display changed, and for a moment all they could see was a field of stars. Then Corn fired the attitude thrusters, and Palmerston twisted, bringing Ornament into view.
“Target ahead,” whispered Corn, momentarily awed by the sheer scale of the research station.
“Good work, Corn,” said Cohen, checking the sensor readings. They had emerged from hyperspace inside Ornament’s ring, mere kilometres from the station’s dock and far closer than would be acceptable under normal circumstances. At home, this sort of manoeuvre might cause an immediate response of the “shoot first, ask questions if anyone survives” type.
But Haukland had assured them that the station was unarmed and that their unannounced arrival would not be seen as hostile. Indeed, the ability to maintain some element of surprise was key to the entire mission.
“Any sign they’ve noticed us, Mr MacCaibe?” asked Cohen, not entirely trusting Haukland’s assurances regarding the station’s crew, and rightly cautious with regards to the pirates.
MacCaibe, seconded from Ascendant to replace Palmerston’s usual weapons officer and the third member of the tiny flight crew, shook his head. “Nothing so far, sir. But we’re awful close. If they start shooting now, we could be in a pickle.”
“Take us in, Corn, and be ready to step sideways pretty sharpish if anything happens.”
“Aye, sir,” said Corn as she triggered the control sequence that would see Palmerston dock on the inside of Ornament’s ring, with the sweeping bulk of the station between them and the pirates’ ship.
Assuming it was pirates that had
attacked the station. Cohen had his doubts about that, but Haukland had been adamant.
“The Koschites would never attack a research station like Ornament,” Haukland had insisted. “What would they gain? We share our results, mostly, and if they need resources, they have only to ask.”
But something still didn’t feel right to Cohen, and his fingers drummed on the arm of his chair as Palmerston closed on the docking port.
“Some damage to the station, sir,” reported MacCaibe as he watched the feeds from Palmerston’s cameras. “Looks like the pirates put a few rounds through the poor dear.”
He flicked at his controls and brought up images of damage to the station’s exterior, “Looks like railgun rounds to me, sir.”
Cohen grunted his agreement and relayed the information to Warden.
“Twenty seconds,” said Corn as the attitudinal thrusters fired to align Palmerston and slow her approach.
Cohen checked the internal monitors, which showed area behind the airlock where Warden’s small team of Marines stood ready.
“Are you sure six will be enough?” Cohen had asked when he had discussed the plan with Warden. But the Marine captain had just shrugged.
“Given what we know of the station and the enemy, either six will be plenty or our entire force, everyone we have on Ascendant, won’t be enough.”
And so the Marines waited, a motley mix of Deathless lizardmen and standard RMSC clones, all wearing powered armour and carrying a multitude of weapons and other kit.
“Ten seconds,” said Corn. Cohen nodded, then blinked in surprise as a message flashed onto the main display.
Captain Warden waited on the inside of Palmerston’s port airlock with his small team, watching the docking timer count down towards zero.
The plan was simple: storm the station, rescue the scientists and evict the pirates with whatever degree of force was necessary. At least, it had sounded simple when they had thrashed it out on Ascendant.
Here, faced with the enormity of research station Ornament, Warden found himself doubting the wisdom of the plan.
“Ten seconds,” said Corn over the intercom.
There was a gentle clang as Palmerston docked with Ornament, followed by a pause while pressures were equalised.
“Stay sharp,” said Warden, the helmet’s mic conveying his words to the team. “Let’s keep this tight.”
There was a hiss as the airlock doors slid open, then Marine X was through, leading the way into Ornament with Goodwin and Milton behind him. Warden went next, with Harrington and Drummond bringing up the rear.
“Dark in here,” murmured Goodwin, exhibiting again her inordinate skill at stating the bleeding obvious, as Ten had once described it. The corridor wasn’t quite pitch black, but the main lights were off and only a dim glow emanated from what looked like an emergency backup.
“A chatty AI?” muttered Harrington, mildly disturbed by the concept.
“Don’t upset it,” replied Ten, “or it might not open the doors when we ask.”
“What?” asked Goodwin, thoroughly confused.
“Quiet,” snapped Milton. “Focus on the job.”
Marine X nodded and padded off down the corridor, following the directions laid out in the helmet’s HUD. He was carrying a suppressed rifle, the heavier version of the carbine they had used when first deployed on New Bristol.
At the end of the corridor, they came to a T-junction. Marine X checked it was clear then made to turn right. A message appeared in his HUD from a sender identified as Agent O.
Marine X paused, glaring suspiciously at the message that hovered before his eyes. Behind him, the rest of the team paused.
“What’s the hold up?” asked Warden.
“You didn’t get that message? Agent O is giving me directions.”
“Who the hell is Agent O?”
“At a guess, I reckon it’s Ornament’s AI,” said Marine X. “Let me ask.”
Marine X rolled his eyes.
“Got that one,” said Warden. “I guess we have inside help.”
“You want to follow its advice?” asked Marine X, still hesitating at the junction.
It comes down to a question of how much I trust the Valkyr and their weird AI, Warden thought. A foreign AI as a guide wasn’t the weirdest thing he had ever encountered, but he still wasn’t comfortable with the idea.
“Go left,” said Warden, “but keep your eyes open.”
“Sir,” acknowledged Marine X, swinging left and following his rifle down the corridor.
Warden filed that under ‘deeply suspicious’, and the team proceeded with their normal caution, checking each room they passed and locking doors as they went.
“This isn’t the route we planned,” said Milton, her unease palpable even over the radio.
Marine X reached the door, checking carefully, then Goodwin triggered the controls and they flowed smoothly through into the next room.
“Bugger me,” muttered Marine X, momentarily stunned by the room that lay beyond. ‘Atrium’, it said on the plan, but that didn’t do the room justice. The space was cavernous, with a vast glass roof that enclosed the area and gave an expansive view of the inside of the wheel, Ornament’s hub, and the space beyond.
At least four stories tall, the atrium was bathed in starlight and lit from within by a multitude of cunningly hidden lamps. A forest grew beneath the glass, leaves rustling in the gentle breeze of the air conditioning. It was serenely beautiful.
The Marines had entered on a balcony level that ran around the vast space, and now they had an excellent view of the park that flourished in the centre of the station.
“That’s not something you see every day,” said Goodwin.
“Keep moving,” hissed Milton, “or this’ll be the last thing we see today.”
A line of gently glowing panels appeared in the floor, marking a line along the balcony, disappearing from view as it followed the curves of the walls.
“I hope that doesn’t lead all the way to the enemy,” muttered Ten as he made his way cautiously along the balcony. The same thought had occurred to Warden, who sent a question back to Agent O. Marine X crept a little further along the balcony, sweeping his helmet cams across the scene to capture everything they were seeing.
Ten turned to look at Warden, who shrugged.
Marine X stretched his neck and blew out a long, calming breath. Then he turned the corner and led the way into the next corridor.
As Agent O had said, the path lights dimmed to nothing after twenty metres, leaving only the low-level emergency lamps to light the corridor.
replied Agent O, managing to imbue a simple text message with an inappropriate degree of youthful excitement.
“Use it,” said Warden as the team’s HUDs decompressed Agent O’s information dump, “but don’t rely on it. Mark I eyeballs for preference, and let the HUDs log everything.”
He paused to look around at the team, then he glanced at the plan of the storerooms in his HUD, which now showed the last known positions of the pirates.
“When the lights go off, we go in,” said Warden, checking his weapons one last time.
The lights went out almost immediately, and the corridor was plunged into near total darkness. The Marines’ helmets switched to infrared and enhanced vision as the door to the storeroom opened quietly in front of them.
Marine X moved smoothly through the open doorway, weapon up as he searched for the enemy. They could hear people moving and see the flash of lamps as the pirates, apparently unfazed by the sudden blackout, went about their work.
The storeroom was huge, laid out for automated trucks and stacked floor to ten-metre-high ceiling with crates and racking.
Milton and Harrington went one way, edging along a line of crates towards a group of people clustered around a loading truck of some sort. Ten and Goodwin went the other way, making their way around the back of the stores.
