by James Evans
“It’s not all about size,” he said, nodding sagely. “Get the fabricators running. I want to have at least fifty ready to go in ten minutes, and another fifty ten minutes after that.” He gave Corn a conspiratorial grin. “And then we’ll see if you can hit anything smaller than a planet.”
Twenty minutes later, Corn announced that the fabricators had constructed one hundred and sixteen of the tiny projectiles and were still churning them out. Only thirty-four millimetres in diameter, they weighed about a hundred and fifty grams each.
“Keep the fabs running, Ms Corn. We’re going to use everything we can.”
“I still don’t see what you’re hoping to achieve, sir.” She had one of the sample projectiles in her hand. A small ball of rock covered in an opaque ferro-ceramic shell. “These will just bounce off that cruiser. They won’t even feel them. The mass driver can shift big masses, but it’s designed to get them started on a precise trajectory so that they accelerate under gravity. It’s a delivery system, not a railgun.”
“I understand the theory,” said Cohen, taking the projectile from her hand and weighing it thoughtfully. “But we’re not going to throw these at their hull, we’re going to disperse them like caltrops and let them stumble across them in their haste.”
“Sir?” said an evidently confused Corn.
“Look it up later. For now, I want you to put these in front of our eager suitor.”
“I’m not sure I follow, sir.”
“The mass driver is a precision instrument. We know how fast our friend is going and where they’re going, so I want you to put a cloud of these little things,” he tossed the projectile back to Corn, “in their path. A big cloud. They might only hit a few, but at the speed they’re going, these’ll be a lot more effective than grains of sand.”
Corn grinned as realisation dawned. “Understood. Tricky, but we can do it. Let me get to work.”
She briefed Elson, the weapons officer, then they spent the next fifteen minutes working it out and running simulations on the targeting computers.
“It’s going to be close,” Corn said eventually, “and if they spot what we’re doing, it’ll all be for nothing, but I think we have a solution.” She and Elson walked through the plan and described the manoeuvres they would need to execute.
“That’s the risky bit,” said Corn, “because there’s only a small amount of adjustment built into the cannon itself. We basically have to point the ship in the direction we want to fire. If they’re watching closely, they’ll see, and there’s no way to disguise it.” She nodded at Elson.
“But what if we screw up?” said Midshipman Elson. “If we put a full-sized projectile across their bows, close enough for them to see but far enough away that they’ll think we’ve missed, they won’t change their approach because they’ll just think we’ve missed.” She looked expectantly at Cohen, who nodded appreciatively.
“They’ll see the big shot because it’s three metres across and made of iron,” said Cohen slowly, thinking it through, “but they’ll track its trajectory and know it’s off target. They’ll think we’ve missed and that our cunning plan has gone wrong.”
“Exactly, and they’ll be so busy tracking the big missile that they’ll never see all the little ones,” said Elson.
“Very good, Midshipman, very good indeed.” He looked at the simulation once more then nodded. “How far behind are they now?”
“Ten thousand four hundred kilometres, sir, and they’re closing at about forty kilometres a second,” said Robinson.
“So they’re about two hundred and sixty seconds out. Time to get moving, people. You have command, Sub Lieutenant Corn. Make this plan work.”
“Aye, sir,” said Corn with renewed snap in her voice. “Ms Robinson, spin us around by one hundred and sixty-nine degrees and bring us ten degrees to starboard.”
“One hundred and sixty-nine by ten to starboard, aye,” said Robinson, laying in the change. “Attitudinal thrusters firing in three, two, one.” There was a gentle kick from the thrusters as the ship changed orientation. “Manoeuvre complete, ma’am.”
“Prime the cannon, Ms Elson. Let’s get the big one away.”
“Ready to fire. The firing computer has control, projectile away in three, two, one… Missile away. Looking good. Should miss the enemy by a few hundred metres if they hold their current course.”
“Time for the cloud – everything the fabricators have made. As soon as firing is complete, spin us around, Ms Robinson.”
“Aye, ma’am, ready to go,” said Robinson.
“Reloading complete, automated firing sequence beginning now – sixteen bursts of twenty projectiles, half a second apart.” There was a pause. “Done,” said Elson, waving at Robinson.
“Firing attitudinal thrusters now,” she said, triggering the control.
“Thirty seconds till the first missile crosses their path,” said Elson. “No sign of a change to their trajectory.”
The bridge fell silent as all eyes watched the countdowns on the main display.
“Zero,” announced Elson. “First missile passed two hundred and seventy-three metres beneath their hull. Ten seconds to first cloud impact.”
“Get ready to spin us around, Ms Robinson,” said Cohen, “and cut our velocity by fifty per cent.”
“Aye, sir, course laid in.”
“Contact,” said Elson, “direct hit.”
“Now, Ms Robinson,” said Cohen calmly. He couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for the enemy. But only a little.
“Aye, sir, firing now.”
“Last cloud impact now,” said Elson.
“Main engines firing, ninety second burn at fifty per cent power.”
“Any sign of damage to the enemy?” asked Corn.
“Nothing obvious, ma’am,” said Elson, “but they’re still on their original course. No indication they’ve reacted to our change.”
Then a message flashed onto the screen.
The enemy vessel ploughed on towards Ascendant.
“Lay in a course to Child of Starlight,” he told his crew. “Let’s take our rescued people home.”
“Main engine burn complete,” reported Robinson. “Setting course for Child of Starlight.”
On the display, the enemy ship hurtled relentlessly on, flashing past Palmerston and disappearing on towards Ascendant and Child of Starlight.
“No weapon discharge detected, sir,” reported Elson as they watched their enemy dwindle into the distance.
Cohen nodded, attention glued to the display.
The seconds ticked by, agonisingly slow.
Then the enemy vessel, at the very limit of Palmerston’s monitors, seemed to shake and shudder before an explosion tore through the ship, ripping it open from bow to stern and transforming it into a fast-moving and rapidly expanding cloud of debris.
25
Cohen stepped out onto the floor of Ascendant’s main bay and looked back at Palmerston.
“That’s a solid ship, Sub Lieutenant Corn,” he said. “And a good crew.”
“Thank you, sir. She’ll be even better once we’ve redeployed the rest of the crew and completed our repairs.”
“I think you’re due a refit when you get home,” said Cohen as Warden and the Marines trudged down the ramp carrying their kit. “Get her resupplied. I want her ready to fly again as soon as possible.”
“Aye, sir,” said Corn saluting. “We’ll be ready when you need us.” She turned back
to Palmerston and disappeared into her ship.
“Captain, a word, if you please,” said Cohen, leading Warden to one side. They watched the Marines leave as Palmerston’s small crew began a visual check of the ship’s exterior.
“Good work today,” said Cohen, more gruffly than he might have liked. “I’ll catch up with Mantle, but I think Ascendant is close to being ready. We’ll be out of here soon. Can’t see anything else keeping us here.”
Warden nodded wearily. It had been a long day. “A little downtime might be good,” he said. “It’s been non-stop since we arrived at New Bristol.”
“But, er,” began Cohen. He sighed and looked at Warden.
“Yes, sir, we’ll get everything pulled together, just in case,” said Warden. Then he picked up his pack and followed the Marines across the bay floor towards the mess.
“Mantle,” said Cohen when he caught up with her outside the engineering command room. “What’s left to be done?”
Mantle turned to face him. She looked exhausted. “The main engines are working, life support and fabricators are running well, and the weapon systems are operational.”
“As we saw. Your intervention was most timely.”
“Timely?” snorted Mantle. “I’m pretty sure that cruiser was already dead, she just hadn’t stopped moving.”
“Maybe,” conceded Cohen. “I notice you didn’t mention the hyperspace drive.”
Mantle’s face hardened. “That little ‘shortcut’ did more damage than we thought, sir. It’ll take a while to unpick the work, and then longer to repair and make everything ready.”
“A while?” said Cohen, focussing on Mantle’s vagueness.
“Several weeks, maybe more. To be honest, we’ve been working on the other systems. The hyperspace engine’s going to be a big job.”
“Hmm,” said Cohen, not entirely happy.
“I need to get back…”
“Of course,” muttered Cohen, lost in his own thoughts. “Give me an update in twelve hours.”
“Aye, sir,” said Mantle before she vanished into the engineering command room. Cohen headed the other way, making for the bridge.
“Welcome back, sir,” said White as Cohen stepped onto the bridge.
“Good to be home,” said Cohen as he settled into his chair. “I’ve spoken to Mantle. I’d hoped for more progress.”
“Sorry, sir,” said White, “maybe we can ask Prime Minister Haukland for manufactured parts instead of raw resources? That might speed things along.”
“No,” said Cohen firmly, shaking his head. “We make it ourselves or manage without. I don’t want to rely on them, and I don’t trust Haukland any more than I trust the Deathless.”
“Very good, sir. They’ve offered to let us dock at one of their facilities to simplify the transfer of resources and allow our teams to have a little shore leave.”
Cohen thought about it for a moment. “That seems like a fair offer.” Then he frowned. “I didn’t think they had externally accessible docking points?”
“A hidden dock with a high-speed transit system connecting it to the habitable parts of the station, from what they would tell us. We have the directions. All we need to do is get into position and they’ll take it from there, apparently.”
“Fine,” said Cohen, too tired to worry about it any further. “Put us alongside Child of Starlight, get us docked, and wake me if anything happens.” Then he stood up and headed for his cabin before he could fall asleep in his chair.
A formal reception was the very last thing that Cohen had wanted, but the Valkyr had spared no effort. Mantle had found some ‘emergency’ that required her immediate attention, so Cohen, White and Warden accepted the invitation and brought with them Palmerston’s crew and the Marines who had taken part in the hostage release mission.
The paucity of resources on Ascendant meant they were all wearing everyday flight uniforms rather than anything more formal, and Warden felt distinctly underdressed amongst the celebrating Valkyr.
“They haven’t held back with their dress,” he murmured to White as the two men hovered at the edge of the room near a bar.
They gazed out across a sea of brightly coloured outfits, no two the same, that filled the hall. Unlike the Deathless, the Valkyr didn’t seem to pursue ostentatious body modifications, and they had no need for the more extreme military clones, like the ogre or harpy models. Instead, they pursued an ideal of human form, melding genetic engineering and exotic micro-electronics to give themselves abilities beyond the obvious. Next to the high-end beauty of the Valkyr, Warden and White’s workmanlike clones were obviously low-end and functional.
“What the hell?” muttered White, nudging Warden and turning his attention to the Marines who had just entered. Milton and Goodwin wore clean versions of their everyday uniforms, but the same could not be said of Marine X.
“What is he wearing?” said Warden, shaking his head in amazement.
“And where did he get it?” replied White. “I’m damned sure Mantle’s fabricator schedule didn’t include tailoring dress uniforms.”
Marine X looked resplendent in a fresh white shirt, dark trousers and a dark blue coat with tails. A long sword hung from his waist and on his chest he wore a single ribbon. He waved at the officers and sauntered over, escorted by Milton and Goodwin.
“Evening, sirs,” said Marine X, collecting glasses from the bar and passing them around. He looked the two officers up and down, taking in their drab, workmanlike clothes, and shook his head sadly. “It’s tragic when standards are allowed to slip, don’t you think?”
Warden was momentarily lost for words, but White suffered no such problem.
“Where did you come across an outfit like that, Marine X?” asked White, sipping at his drink.
“It’s not so much what you know, sir,” said Marine X cryptically with a sly grin, “and more about who you know and how persuasive you can be.”
“The ribbon, Marine X,” said Warden as he felt White gearing up to ask another question about the uniform. “I don’t recognise the ribbon. Is it for a campaign?”
“Long service, sir, very long. I’m not supposed to wear my medals, not till my time’s served,” he paused and shrugged. “But if I cared too much about the rules, I’d never have made it this far, eh, sir?”
“We’ve already asked these questions, sir,” said Milton, “and he gave us much the same answers. Inscrutable, that’s our Marine X. Can’t get a straight answer out of him.”
“Maybe Goodwin can dig something out of the files,” said Warden, grinning. “I hear she’s pretty talented when it comes to ferreting out secret information.”
Marine X’s grin vanished immediately. As he shifted his stance, the friendly atmosphere evaporated, becoming altogether darker and more threatening. “Can’t say I’d recommend that course of action, sir,” he said quietly, leaning slightly forwards. He gave Warden a stern glare, and for a moment it seemed like a cloud had covered the small group.
Then Marine X grinned again and relaxed. “More drinks,” he said, emptying his own glass. “That’s what we need.” He busied himself at the bar, handing out more glasses like the station’s best-dressed waiter.
Then there was a gentle chiming noise and all eyes turned to the podium, where Prime Minister Haukland now stood ready to address the gathering.
“Friends,” she said in Koschite, relying on the guests’ HUDs to provide translations. “Welcome. Tonight we thank Commander Cohen, the crews of Ascendant and Palmerston, and Captain Warden’s Marines for securing the release of our fellow citizens.” She waved at Cohen to step forward, then she turned to an aide and lifted something from a cushion.
“We have no tradition of military medals or awards, but please accept this as a token of our appreciation and of our friendship.”
Cohen stepped forward and Haukland passed over a scale model of Ascendant mounted on a slab of rock.
“Thank you, Prime Minister,” said Cohen with a polite bow of
his head. “You have been both gracious and generous during our unexpected visit, and it has been a pleasure to offer what limited aid we could during our stay.”
He gave her another nod then backed away as a polite ripple of applause rolled around the chamber.
“Trygstad told me they plan to add defences to some of their facilities,” said White quietly after Marine X had left in search of food, Milton and Goodwin trailing after him like an honour guard. “They’re not at all pleased about the situation, or the need for change, from what I gather.”
“Defences?” asked Warden.
“Automated gun emplacements and some sort of semi-autonomous drone weapons platform system, specialised AIs to monitor for hostile vessels and coordinate a response, emergency beacons and escape vessels, extra shielding and engines. That sort of thing.”
Warden raised an eyebrow. “She told you all that? Bit indiscreet, wasn’t it?”
White grinned widely.
“Ah,” said Warden, grinning. “That sort of conversation, was it? Didn’t realise you’d been pumping her for information.”
“That’s not–” began White before quietening as Cohen walked up, still clutching his model ship.
“Glad to see you two are enjoying yourselves,” said Cohen, setting the award down on the bar and picking up a glass. He took a sip, grimaced, and put the glass back down again.
“Did you get anything else from the Prime Minister?” asked White.
“They want us gone, but we knew that already. Other than that, just disappointment at the actions of their erstwhile allies, I think. And they’re still bitter about the loss of Ornament. They had big plans for that station.”
“Nice model,” said Warden, inspecting Cohen’s award. “Why is Ascendant resting on her side? Is that normal?”
“Something’s up, sir,” said Marine X, appearing like a well-dressed ghost at Warden’s side. “Haukland’s vanished and her aides have gone with her.”
