by S. H. Jucha
“I see,” Darwoo said, his suspicions confirmed. “I’m having Captain Terrine over for a relaxed meal this evening. You could join us, and we can discuss your concerns afterwards.”
“I appreciate the offer of a meal, Captain. I hear your steward has some skills in the kitchen.”
“That he does. Dinner is at 18:30 hours, Captain. I’ll tell the bosun to expect your shuttle. Feel free to pack a bag if our conversation takes us late into the evening.”
Charnoose breathed a sigh of relief after the comm closed. Earlier, he had the suspicion that someone was testing him or he was becoming paranoid, but Darwoo confirmed that he had received the same type of message. “Pack a bag,” meant Darwoo didn’t expect Charnoose to return to the cruiser.
The dinner that evening aboard Darwoo’s destroyer was made to look as casual as possible until the plates were cleared, drinks dispensed, cups of caf freshened, and the stewards retired.
“So both of you received messages,” Charnoose confirmed, and the other captains nodded.
“You’re a dead man if you return to your cruiser, and the commodore gets the enclave’s message,” Darwoo said.
“That I know. What do you two know about Captain Heywood?” asked Charnoose.
“I thought you knew? Heywood is a transfer request from the commodore,” Darwoo replied.
“So much for the admiral placing him in the unknown column,” Terrine groused.
“So what’s the plan, Commodore?” Darwoo asked.
“What?” Charnoose asked.
“As I see it, we just became a two-destroyer squadron that needs a commander. You’re the senior captain. So that makes you the acting commodore,” Darwoo explained.
“And while we’re on the subject of command,” Terrine added. “I would appreciate you, Commodore, making my destroyer your flagship. As you know, I was just promoted six months ago from patrol ship to destroyer. You have a great deal more experience than me commanding a destroyer.”
Charnoose looked at the expectant faces of his fellow captains and said, “Acting commodore it is, and I’ll command from Captain Terrine’s ship. Now, here is what I plan to do.”
Captain Charnoose messaged his commodore the next morning that he was going to conduct some overlapping fire drills with a pair of destroyers to give the new Captain Terrine some experience with cruiser protection, which was heartedly accepted by the commodore. By 15:30 hours Earth naval time, the two destroyers were well away from the other ships in the squadron when they accelerated to full speed.
Cruiser contact came within minutes, but, per Charnoose’s orders, the calls were not returned. The acting commodore announced to his two destroyer crews that orders had been received directly from Space Admiral Li Chong that pro-naval forces were now at war with judiciary forces.
An hour into their accelerated burn and wondering where to go, Charnoose received a comm call.
“Commodore, I have a call from a Haraken for you,” Terrine announced.
Part of the message the captains received said that if they received directions or intelligence from the Harakens, they were to consider it as coming from the space admiral’s office.
“Put him through, Captain,” Charnoose ordered.
“Her, Commodore,” Terrine corrected, “at least I think you call it a her. It’s one of those intelligent machines.”
“Greetings, Commodore Charnoose, and congratulations on your timely escape,” Cordelia said.
“Thank you, Ms. —”
“You may call me Cordelia, Commodore. I have a destination for you and have already given your pilot the coordinates. We have a need for your two destroyers at one of Jupiter’s moons, Callisto, where a destroyer squadron is about to be outgunned. We need your support, Commodore. Make haste. We will be in contact again soon.”
* * *
Commodore Dahlia Braxton, standing on her destroyer’s bridge, was startled by the image of a strange, broad-shouldered man that popped up on her central monitor.
“Greetings, Commodore, I am Z. I believe you are about to be ambushed, if I’m using the term correctly.”
Questions flitted through Braxton’s mind, not the least of which was asking the huge man how he had control of her destroyer’s comms and, if he was a Haraken, was he typical of the humans, but she focused on his key word “ambush.”
“We have comms with Callisto militia, Z. They would have warned us if there was danger,” Braxton replied.
“The militia’s comms have been compromised, Commodore, which we are attempting to correct. In the meantime, you’re approaching Callisto from an inward direction, and there is a cruiser and two destroyers waiting in orbit on the opposite side of the moon.
The commodore swore under her breath for a moment, which Z couldn’t hear, but he could read Braxton’s lips. Several expressions were new to him, so he stored them in the appropriate directory
“My four destroyers can’t take on a cruiser and its escorts, Z,” replied Braxton, worried that she was going to be asked to do just that.
“That’s why I’m requesting you halt your advance, Commodore. I’m sending you help, and I have a plan.
Z closed that comm and opened another, contacting Commodore Charnoose, who was approaching Callisto from outward of Jupiter and would have to swing around the planet to reach Callisto. “Greetings, Commodore, I’m following up on Cordelia’s contact with you. Your pilot now has the telemetry on the situation developing at Callisto. Please regard your left monitor, Ser.”
On the destroyer’s bridge screen appeared a layout of the far side of Jupiter and its four largest moons, of which the farthest out was Callisto. “A cruiser and two destroyers are waiting to attack a destroyer squadron approaching from inward. You will aid them by taking this course.” A dotted line illustrated the course, which allowed Charnoose’s two destroyers to remain hidden until they broke cover from behind Ganymede, although the curve of Callisto would obscure their approach for a little longer.
“I see the judiciary has a cruiser and two destroyers against our six destroyers. It will be a close fight, Z,” Charnoose allowed. The commodore wasn’t a coward, but he was a practical man and liked the odds in his favor.
“Not to worry, Commodore, you will have further aid. Please follow the timeline and course, precisely. Good fortune, Commodore.”
In the meantime, Braxton nervously paced her bridge, waiting for Z to respond with the help he promised her. The commodore’s instincts were to retreat, but Admiral Chong’s message on this subject was clear and explicit: “Do not underestimate the value of the Harakens’ data. These are people who possess artificial intelligence and can defeat a fleet with mere fighters, suffering negligible losses on their part.”
Many hours later, while Braxton had just begun a quick shower in an attempt to cool her impatience, the destroyer’s comms officer hailed her. “Commodore, you’re wanted on the comm.” Of course, now the Haraken calls, Braxton thought with frustration. Throwing on a robe and toweling off her short, wet hair, she took the comm at her stateroom desk, but, to her surprise, the call wasn’t from the Haraken.
“Commodore Braxton, this is Commodore Charnoose. I’ve been directed by the Haraken SADE, Z, to support you. I’m approaching Callisto from outward of Jupiter. Presently, I’m hidden behind Ganymede. According to Z, your four destroyers will make a clockwise run at the hidden cruiser and its escorts. I will be attacking with two destroyers from about 135 degrees farther spinward from you.”
“Is that man who contacted me one of the artificials?” Braxton asked.
“They refer to themselves as SADEs, Commodore.”
“SADEs or humans … I have to tell you, Commodore Charnoose, if our messages hadn’t come from Admiral Chong himself, I would say this is foolhardy, being directed by a … whatever … sitting over 3 billion kilometers from us.”
“Your pardon, Commodore Braxton, but I owe my life to the timeliness of the admiral’s message, which had to have been coordinat
ed and distributed by the Harakens, probably by their SADEs. Our people certainly couldn’t have done it. And I’ve been guided here by two SADEs to support you when you would have flown into a cruiser’s trap.”
“We’re still six destroyers against a cruiser and two escorts, and militia comms is sure to warn them.”
“According to Z, the comms have been reacquired, and they are fronting bogus communications to the cruiser. Also, Z promises us further aid, but he wasn’t specific. I take it the SADEs are fairly busy if they are doing what they are doing for you and me all over the system.”
“We are putting a great deal of trust in these people, Charnoose, but let’s do this. Set your contact clock with the enemy to 8:35 hours, Sir.”
“As the Harakens say … may the stars protect you, Braxton.”
“Good luck to you too, Charnoose.”
* * *
“You want me to do what?” the militia commander cried out.
“On my command, launch a full barrage of your asteroid-collision missiles against the cruiser. What part of my instructions were not clear, Ser?” Cordelia asked.
“That cruiser and its escorts will swat my missiles away like insects. Then that commodore will turn this moon base into debris,” the commander wailed.
“You have control of your comms again, correct, Major?”
“Yes, we’re doing as you’ve requested, Cordelia. The commodore is unaware that anything has changed.”
“Excellent, Major. Fire your missiles when I command. The commodore will be too busy to attack your moon base.”
* * *
The judiciary commodore, who was waiting for word when the pro-naval destroyer squadron made orbit, suddenly found his forces simultaneously attacked on two fronts. The crews aboard his cruiser and destroyer escorts raced to combat the six destroyers that threatened to bracket them.
Without warning from the militia that was supposedly operating as his confederates, a barrage of missiles was launched from the moon’s surface. Although the missiles were small, there were hundreds of them, and in that number they were still dangerous to his ships. Unexpectedly, the defensive fire of the commodore’s ships was forced to eliminate threats from three different directions.
The space around the cruiser began filling with the attackers’ missiles and the moon base’s defensive missiles. Unable to effectively mount a complete shield against the overwhelming fire from multiple directions, the cruiser was repeatedly struck until containment was lost on two of its three primary engines, and the capital ship exploded, taking one of its escorts with it.
The second escort captain immediately surrendered, which left the two pro-naval commodores with a problem, which was quickly solved by another comm call.
“Congratulations, Commodores, on your successful engagement,” Cordelia said.
“Real-time visuals and comms,” Braxton said, shaking her head at the concept that their engagement was monitored as it happened from billions of kilometers away.
“It appears that the captain who surrendered to you was one of the officers we placed in our unknown or undecided category. Whether you replace him as captain or not, I would take the precaution of changing out key bridge officers. You do need to add that destroyer to your squadron. I have need of all seven destroyers.”
“Don’t tell us … our pilots have the coordinates, and we should hurry,” Charnoose guessed.
“Quite intuitive of you, Commodore Charnoose. One of us will be in touch soon, Sers.”
-24-
Sol’s war between the naval forces waged on for weeks, as fleets broke apart and reassembled with their compatriots. Although the judiciary forces were outnumbered, the enclave had worked diligently to promote its people into command positions aboard capital ships, primarily cruisers and battleships.
One critical aspect of the war was decidedly in the judiciary forces’ favor. The pro-naval forces, discovering a rogue ship in their squadron, argued for the captain’s surrender, which often cost their forces damage to their ships from the ensuing fight or a lost ship when the recalcitrant captain refused to surrender. On the other hand, the judiciary forces promptly dispatched an adversary in their midst — no questions asked, no quarter given.
The SADEs continued to assemble significant-sized pro-naval squadrons of destroyers, some of which were anchored by a cruiser or two. These large destroyer forces had the advantage of locating the judiciary’s capital ships, and swamping them with horrendous barrages of missile fire, before they could rendezvous with other capital ships and present a formidable force of their own. Without the Harakens’ technology and the SADEs, the pro-naval forces might have had to slog out a long war of attrition.
* * *
Soon after the tribune’s broadcast, Admiral Portland sent requests to six commodores, ordering that they reinforce his fleet, and then waited weeks for their responses. Eventually, he received affirmative replies from five squadrons never hearing from the sixth, which he later learned had fallen prey to pro-naval forces.
As the five squadrons bolstered his beleaguered forces, Portland knew he needed to resupply his ships, and for that he depended on the moons and stations of Saturn — homes of the system’s greatest concentration of rebels, with well-earned reputations as the most recalcitrant in the system. Even the local militia had operated in unstated truces — you don’t bother us and we won’t bother you.
* * *
“It’s just a little subterfuge, Yelstein,” Berko said. The militia major was working hard to convince the shuttle pilot to take part in his plot.
After the Idona broadcast, the rebels had come out in small batches from deep in the moon’s enclave. Major Berko greeted each group with all the humility he could muster. Thankfully, his troopers supported him, and there were only minor incidents, which were eventually forgotten or, at least, put aside for the interim.
A squadron of destroyers, loyal to the judiciary, sat in orbit over Berko’s base, and the major was seeking a means of supporting the cause — a long-awaited change in UE policies.
“You want me to dress up like a minute-chick and keep a bunch of Navy crew occupied while you screw around with their supply shuttle?” Yelstein asked. The major was nodding vigorously, like it would convince her to help. Lydia Yelstein knew she wasn’t a beauty — a nice shape, if a bit on the slender side, but with a face that could only be considered handsome. “Major, I don’t own anything much more attractive than a flight suit, much less face masks, nor do I know how to act the part.”
“What if I found someone to help you with all that?” Berko argued. Actually, he already had someone in mind, having seen Trooper Marlene Elliot out one evening with some girlfriends. He wouldn’t have recognized the young blonde if she hadn’t hailed him. When Yelstein hesitated, Berko forged on, “This is our chance to help or don’t you believe in what the tribunes are promising?” He narrowed his eyes at her as if to doubt where her convictions might lie.
“That’s not fair, Major. You know I’m a supporter. Okay, okay, before you guilt trip me any further. Go find me some support.”
A half hour later, Pilot Yelstein found herself in Trooper Elliot’s cramped quarters, not much bigger than a militia holding cell. Marlene was working on her makeup, applying a face mask to Lydia from her wide selection, when a knock at the cabin door announced two of Marlene’s friends, arms loaded with clothes.
The girls chatted happily while they sorted through pieces of clothing to see what worked. Lydia felt like a store mannequin as the girls spiked her hair with glow-pins and dressed her. Well, almost dressed her. Lydia was still waiting for the remainder of her clothes when the girls began having her try on footwear, finally choosing red, high-heeled boots that shifted through a rainbow of colors as her feet struck the deck.
Marlene quickly dressed and then turned Lydia around to look in the mirror with her. Lydia could hardly recognize herself. Marlene had achieved exactly the look Lydia feared — they were minute-chicks stroll
ing for clients.
“You know the plan, Trooper” Lydia asked, trying to bring some order to the masquerade.
“Plan, Pilot? What could be easier? Your access level gets us to the shuttle bay where we find the destroyer’s shuttle crew, who just happen to be all men!” Marlene said, cocking a hip, tossing back her blonde hair, and offering the mirror a brilliant smile.
Lydia felt ridiculous taking the lifts up to the shuttle bays located just below the moon’s surface. It wasn’t just her appearance that she had trouble with — she couldn’t walk in the high-heeled boots and was forced to hold onto Marlene’s arm the entire way.
“They’re going to know this is a masquerade.” Lydia grumbled.
“They will if you keep acting like that.” Marlene shot back. “You have to loosen up. Pretend that any one of these guys could be a high flyer for the night. Just like you would pick up someone you liked in a date bar.” When Marlene saw a frown form on Lydia’s face, she stopped and turned Lydia around to face her. “Pilot, tell me you’ve picked up a guy before for a one-nighter.” When Lydia continued to frown and looked away, Marlene cried, “They gave me a virgin player … oh, we’re dead. We’re so dead!”
Lydia was forced to shush Marlene, whose voice had started to rise. “Okay, so I’m not experienced at this,” Lydia said. “Think of a different scenario for us … one where you take the bigger role. The major says his people need about eight minutes, top.”
Marlene was thinking furiously and came up with a variation of the plan before they reached the bay where the military shuttle was parked. They cycled into the bay’s airlock, spotted the three crew members of the military shuttle they were targeting and waved at them through the airlock’s plexi-window. The crew looked around for a moment to ensure the women were waving to them and then hurried to join them in the airlock.
“Hi there, boys,” Marlene cooed as Lydia slid behind her and hugged her, nestling her cheek against Marlene’s and smiling at the crew. “My friend here has a thing for uniforms … you know, military types, but she’s a little shy. So we’re looking for a brave man … someone who can handle two women at once.”
