Morris Umber climbed out of his cockpit and stalked back into the yurt, growling as he tore his bubble-head helmet off. "Do we have any good intelligence on these things?"
Ix Chel threw her helmet across the open space. "I want my mommy!"
Rittenhouse stomped into the yurt. “Now I surely do recall they told us everything over here wants us dead. I didn’t reckon they meant OUR OWN SIDE!” He threw Ix Chel’s helmet back at her.
Calvin Gretch was still in his cockpit, woodshedding his ship for letting herself be co-opted by alien programming. Gretch's ship, Ruby, took the reaming like a head-hanging dog.
Zack Cade came into the yurt laughing on a battle high. He had to laugh. That encounter had got his heart racing. That was real honest-to-God fear he’d felt back there. But now he and his mates were alive and lots of the enemy weren't. The coffee was hot, the beer was cold, and Gort Neuman was still ugly. Life was all right.
The conjoined Dagger ships took the watch. Calvin Gretch brought out the basketball. Rittenhouse's ship held the hoop. The other Dagger ships couldn't be trusted not to tilt to help their own pilots. The ships didn't understand cheating. They understood winning.
The pilots played hard, bleeding off some of this adrenaline jag, as they did a post mortem on their entry into enemy space,
Morris Umber sat on the sideline with a checklist.
“They’re using rupture weapons,” Umber said from the bench. “That’s new from last update.”
“Wonder if they learned that from us,” Rittenhouse said, trying for a three pointer. “Note that. What’s next?””
“ Shimmer,” Umber said.
“Was there any Shimmer in play?”
"I didn't see Shimmer back there," Zack said. He slipped in someone’s sweat. Gort stole the ball from him.
"Don't wanna see Shimmer," said Ix Chel, taking the pass from Gort.
“Shimmer beat the Jesus out of Dagger Team Five in the way back,” Rittenhouse said.
Umber went down the checklist. “Concussion mines. There were lots of those.”
“Didn’t hit any,” said Ix Chel.
“Avoidance systems worked on those,” said Gretch.
Rittenhouse asked, "Can we withstand concussion mines?"
"Should," Umber said.
Rittenhouse intercepted the ball and held it midcourt. "You know? I never much cared for that word. Should. Should doesn't rightly know which side it's on. Can we or can we not withstand contact with a concussion mine?"
His whole team answered in tired chorus: "Insufficient data."
"Be it known,” Rittenhouse declared. “I have grown so all-fired, hell and tarnation tired of hearing those two words slapped together."
"It be known, Lieutenant," said Ix Chel.
“Right then,” said Rittenhouse. “Clean up. I want everyone inside a tactical map in five.”
The team re-gathered five minutes later in the yurt space, which had transformed into a planetarium. It was like standing in Rutog space without a ship.
"This place is as weird as the recon report said," Calvin Gretch said.
"Weirder," Umber said.
Space on this side of the Intersection was a region of ancient stars. They already knew that from early reconnaissance. Being in it brought a whole different understanding. It was dark. The stars were dim and red and there weren’t a whole lot of them.
Rittenhouse called it disconcerting.
"Do we know where we are? On the map?” Rittenhouse asked. “Do we have a proper map? Is this current?"
“Are you expecting the stars to change since the last recon, Lieutenant?”
"Could."
Morris Umber had to allow that. No one could be sure what happened to spacetime on this side of the Intersection when they weren’t looking.
They already knew that time over here did not synch with time back there. Why couldn't space get equally spongy?
“Anyone know where we are now compared to where we were on the other side?” Zack asked.
“No,” Morris Umber said.
“Where’s Sirius? It was right next to the gate when we left.”
“Sirius isn’t here.”
The biggest objects near the Intersection on the Rutog side were two cold, dense, dead planet-sized charcoal rocks like gate guardians in tired orbit.
"This can't be the Milky Way. Can it?" Rittenhouse said.
Umber said, “People who analyze these things for a living aren’t sure this is even the same universe.”
Gort Neuman objected to that. “What's with this "other universe" scheisse? Doesn't the uni part of that verse mean there's only one verse?”
“There's no background radiation here,” Morris Umber said. “There should be some if we were in our universe. The elements are the same, but they’re old. And the radioactive elements are in real short supply. I’m not seeing main sequence stars larger than an M type, and nothing brighter than a white dwarf. Gravitational hot spots on the tactical map are neutron stars and black holes. We’re not in a galaxy. It’s just a clutter of small stars. There’s no hint of spiral. No galactic arms. Space is small here. And farther out space is empty. There's nothing farther away than a few hundred thousand light years.”
“Yes, a few hundred thousand light years is very constricting.” Gort said gripping his chest. “I’m having trouble breathing.”
Zack felt the smallness. Strange how claustrophobic a few hundred thousand light years could feel.
“What the hell kind of place is this?” Zack asked Umber.
"This is the place Rutogs come from."
Rittenhouse's ship, Sherry, reported a ping, no alarm in her voice.
"We have a message from Dagger Team Eight," Sherry told her pilot.
"Authenticate that," Rittenhouse ordered.
"It's a voice message," Sherry said.
Voice messages were self-authenticating.
Rutogs couldn't put two words together to make a false message much less organize them into the proper range of human vocalizations.
Terrestrial interspecies communication was tough enough.
"Excellent.” Rittenhouse said. “I was wondering if we might run into them. It’s getting on the end of their tour. I was afraid the gas-holes got them."
It was first time Dagger teams overlapped tours out here.
The message from Team Eight was short.
Team Eight announced they were heading home. They had parked a data cache at designated coordinates for pickup in case they didn’t survive the journey home to deliver it themselves.
Rittenhouse dispatched a rover bot to pick up Team Eight's data cache.
Team Eight reported that they were crippled. They were headed home. They recorded all the weapons that hit them. They advised any future Daggers to adjust their energy diffusers to levels indicated.
Gretch looked over the specified levels. “We already did that.”
"They say the Automated Identification System of every piece of human made equipment in the chokepoint is fouled."
Ix Chel made a wry face. "Is that a fact?"
"That would've been good to know before we came through," Gretch said.
"This is what happens when your intelligence reports are always five years out of date," Rittenhouse said.
Dagger Team Eight's report ended with coordinates of a star system of possible interest. That didn’t sound firm or encouraging.
Rittenhouse came to the end of the report. “Is that it?”
“There’s a verbal post script,” Sherry said. “‘The Rutogs are sending fake messages. Watch for imposters.’"
"Imposters?" Gort and Umber squawked at the same time.
Gretch's face moved into furrows. "How does a beaker full of gas pose?"
Rittenhouse frowned. "The suggestion that Rutogs could have any ability or inclination to impersonate anything—especially persons—is a far fetch."
There was a famous tale of attempted espionage—maybe even true—of an Eridanin S
aur who had painted its scales Caucasian flesh tone and walked up to the gate of a secure research lab on its hind legs to tell the guard, "Hello. I am not a spy. My documents are in order. Where to find the schematics for the F1477 space trident?"
“I’m pretty sure we'll sniff out a Rutog poser,” Ix Chel said.
"Do Rutog smell?" Gort asked.
"If you find that out, you're getting too close to your work, compadre," Ix Chel said.
Rittenhouse tried to contact Dagger Team Eight on the Dagger channel. He received no acknowledgment.
"We must smell like Rutog," Ix Chel said.
“They're already in transit,” Rittenhouse guessed.
Good thing about transit is you never know you’re in it. In the Intersection you just pause your own existence. It doesn’t matter how long or short a time you’ve been in Rutog space, you skip straight to the end of the five years you’ve been missing from the homefront. To your point of view the crossing takes no time at all, which was a very good thing if you were bleeding to death.
Lieutenant Rittenhouse prepped another data dart. The hell of it was, this report, like all their reports, wasn't getting to home space any sooner than the team would.
But sending it now increased their chances of getting something home.
The pilots returned to their individual ships. The ships disassembled the yurt and broke camp. Zack and the other pilots slept in their cockpits while their ships carried them further into the empty darkness in search of a strategic target.
Zack was at the edge of sleep, dimly aware that the ship had just dropped out of a warp. He woke up fully when his ship growled.
The sound instantly communicated something not right and you should take a quick hard look at everything around you. It was a general warning, more efficient than words. This was growl of a guard dog telling you something out there wasn't right and probably means you harm.
"What's out there, John Henry?"
The ship John Henry didn't answer in words. He just growled deeper and louder. The ship didn't know what was out there, except that it was something.
Wide awake now, Zack got on the intership com: "Anyone else got the growls?"
Got ayes and amens from the rest of the squad.
Rittenhouse called for an immediate scramble. “Break wide and arm your guns.”
“Warp coordinates?” Gretch asked.
“Negative! Negative warp!” Rittenhouse ordered–
As Ix Chel sang out, "Shimmer!"
3.
Already the Dagger ships were jumping apart from one another.
You don't ever want to see Shimmer. Zack wasn’t sure if it was even a thing to be seen or it's just a phenomenon that makes your brain think you're seeing waving energy and makes your ship miss a few connections.
A Shimmer hit disrupted your brain synapses, broke down your chemical bonds, and cracked you open.
And you don’t ever want to create a warp around one.
Ix Chel's ship was baying. She'd located the generator of the Shimmer.
Zack’s ship received her transmitted coordinates and rolled away from the waving sheets, yelling, “John Henry, breathe fire at it!”
Gort must’ve seen him using the flamethrower because he sent, “Zack? Does fire work?”
“No. It’s breaking apart and reassembling. I think this is its pissed face.” The neon curtains shivered and spat.
John Henry jinked clear of the spreading sheet of pissed off Shimmer.
Morris Umber dodged another Shimmer as he lobbed a load of objects at the Shimmer generator. The objects had to be Umber’s magnets.
Umber called the magnets his science project. He talked about them a lot. He hadn't been able to try them out before because Rutogs didn't use Shimmer on the Earth side of the Intersection.
Umber's magnets peppered the generator.
The Shimmers dimmed momentarily then the generator blew up like a bosenova. The individual Shimmers fractured into garish arcs and thinning curtains, purple and green, shivering. Then they sparked and faded to dark like dying fireworks.
Gretch whooped. “Let’s go find another one!”
Morris Umber compiled the report of the Shimmer encounter and marked the success of the magnets. He loaded the report into a data dart, tucked in a patent application, activated the dart's tracer to flag it as friendly, and sent it back toward the Intersection.
In case the team didn’t make it home, someone would know how to get past Shimmers. Someone five years from now.
As the dart sped away, Zack's tongue found its way to the roof of his mouth, unconsciously prodding where his own tracer was embedded. Your tracer was your ticket home intact. It was your Identification Friend or Foe. That's why it was physically implanted. You lose your tracer, all the guns in the Citadel will welcome you home as you come home through the Intersection.
Zack had to wonder how long it was going to take the Rutogs to figure out that they could strip tracers out of terrestrial robot scouts and data darts and use the tracers as passkeys.
The Rutogs might not have a concept of passkeys. Not yet anyway. Stupidity was too much to hope for in a powerful enemy.
Individually, the Rutogs weren’t all that powerful. Their numbers and implacability made them serious.
Zack opened his intership com. "Is Team Eight is still here?"
"They're in transit home," Umber answered.
"They said they were headed home. Doesn't mean they made it into the Intersection yet.”
“Lemme hail them,” Gretch said. Then, a few moments later: "Well, Zack, if they're still here, they're shunning me."
“Ping them," Zack said.
Lieutenant Rittenhouse got on the intership com. “What are you at, Cade?”
“Things arrive home through the Intersection five years after they cross in here,” Zack said.
Ritt said, “Yes, that is a fact. What is the destination of this particular train of thought, sir?”
Umber jumped onto the com. “The Eights got here four months before us. Zack is thinking that the Eights can carry messages home four months faster than we can!”
“Pinging for Dagger ships,” Gretch said.
A Dagger's tracer was passive. It only chirped if you pinged it. It doesn't sit there singing here I am.
Gretch sent a wide ping for Dagger ships, screening out his own team’s six tracers. If Dagger Team Eight were in transit through the Intersection, the ping should get no return.
Gretch sang out: “I got chirp.” Then more dire: “Five of them.”
Five chirps equated to five Daggers ships.
"Five?"
"Ho! Not good!" Zack said.
"Where's the sixth?" Gort said. As if anyone could know.
Gretch told Rittenhouse, “Team Eight is still here and they're short one ship!”
“Five ships. How many pilots?” Zack demanded.
"Ping for crew!" Ix Chel barked.
Gretch pinged for human beings.
"Six!” Gretch sang. “There are six men!"
"And five ships. Sounds uncomfortable," Zack said.
You practiced doubling up. You never wanted to do it. But it wasn’t worse than death.
Then Gort said, "Nothing to say that sixth man isn’t in a body bag."
"Shut that,” said Rittenhouse. “What is their location?”
"Can't tell from a ping,” said Gretch. “But a ping means they're on this side of the Intersection.”
“They were supposed to be going home," Ix Chel said.
“Do we go look?” Umber asked.
“Negative,” said Rittenhouse. Zack was glad that he, Zack, wasn’t the one who had to say that.
Rittenhouse had to make the hard decision. “If they're in trouble, the Eights need to get themselves out of it.”
“There’s another possibility here,” said Ix Chel. “The Eights did warn us to watch for imposters.”
“Yes, they did.”
“But what if the pings are real
Daggers? Those are our brothers,” Umber said.
In a voice like interstellar frost Rittenhouse said, “We are not here to keep each other alive. I resent you making me say this, sir. We complete our mission. We will render assistance on the way back if we live.”
***
If we live.
The Space Corps never lost a Dagger team. That was the official story.
But the unit designations of the famed Dagger teams skipped from Six straight to Eight with no Seven in between.
So of course there was a rumor that wouldn't die of a mythical Dagger Team Seven.
The official word was that Dagger Team Seven didn't exist, never had, and there was nothing unusual about the unit number eight directly following the unit number six. Administrators routinely slapped nonsequential designations on units. As long as the designation wasn't ambiguous, the system accepted it. There was nothing suspicious about it and no intentional reason for it. Just an admin who was making sure he didn't duplicate a unit designation.
Rumor spinners never met a gap they couldn't fill. No matter how many times the Space Corps denied it and Intelligence sneered at it, the conspiracy addicts read significance into the gap in the numerical sequence. The denials only seemed to confirm it, and every Dagger wannabe pretender in the known galaxy was a member of that ultra secret Dagger Team Seven.
When Dagger Team Nine was formed Zack and his team strode into a bar with their shiny new Dagger pilots' wings. They wore their black berets, except for Gort, who’d left his on some blonde.
Heads turned. You felt the reverence. It was like being the biggest baddest gunslingers of the Old West swaggering into the saloon. You could tell someone to kiss your ring, but the Daggers weren't wearing rings. Zack told himself he didn't give a rip, but the royal reception really wasn't hard to take.
The bar's owner came out to greet them. Zack watched the man's eyes move at the level of the Dagger's broad chests where their names were sewn on their breast pockets.
The owner's eyes widened. "Cade!" he blurted. He shoulda stopped right there but he had to go on and say, "You're a real one."
That told Zack that this man thought someone else named Cade was a Dagger wannabe.
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