by Glenn Smith
“Well,” he began, “for one thing, I’m about a dozen years older than you are.” Although twelve years did make for a pretty significant gap at their age, that was still one of the oldest and weakest arguments in the book, and he knew it. And judging by the look on her face, so did she. “Given our ages, that difference is pretty substantial,” he went ahead and added, lending at least some credence to the otherwise pitiful excuse. “I’m also engaged,” he admitted, although to be honest he wasn’t so sure that he still would be when he completed his mission.
A look of surprise crossed her features. “You never mentioned that before.”
“It didn’t seem relevant.”
She dropped her gaze to her tray of food and said, “I’d like to be alone for a while,” then picked up the tray and held it out to him. “Take this with you. I’m not very hungry anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
He drew a breath to tell her once more that he was sorry as he took the tray from her, but then just held his tongue instead and left her to her thoughts.
“Is she all right?” Nicole asked him as he set the tray down on the table beside his own.
“She will be,” he answered as he sat down. “Like you said, she just needs some time.”
“I hope so,” she mumbled in response.
Dylan looked at her, realizing that she wasn’t as sure of herself as she’d let on. She had doubts about her sister’s ability to bounce back from her experience after all, but Dylan let her remark pass unchallenged. Instead, changing the subject as he started eating, he asked her, “Is Geoff still above?”
“Yeah. He’s waiting for you.”
“Mm. Okay, thanks.” He shoveled his breakfast into his mouth as though he were a raw recruit in Basic Training again, then downed what was left of his lukewarm coffee, cleaned up after himself, and then walked back to the gangway and hurried up to the flight deck. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Geoff,” he said as he closed the hatch behind him.
Geoff turned to him, then stood up and said, “Take the pilot’s seat, Eric.”
Dylan slid into the chair and followed Geoff’s finger as he pointed out the controls one at a time and explained each one’s function.
* * *
Commodore Kihoe gazed into the mirror as he washed his hands, inspecting his neatly combed white hair. When had that happened, he wondered? Where had all the brown gone? The answer was obvious, of course. The brown had faded into the past, along with his youth.
Kihoe was generally a kind and gentle man who at first glance looked like anybody’s friendly old grandfather, although on closer inspection the relatively smooth texture of his light pink skin and the lively sparkle in his dark eyes betrayed his younger age. Indeed, that was how he saw himself when it came to his relationship with his crew. A loving, caring grandfather who from time to time had to issue orders and occasionally discipline his grandchildren. A man who did all he could, within reason, to keep himself strong and fit in order to better protect them.
“Commodore?” his executive officer called him over the wall speaker beside the sink as he moved his hands out of the water flow, causing it to stop immediately, and held them under the dryer.
“Go ahead, Marcus.”
“Sir, I think we might have something.”
“I’ll be right there,” he replied, less than enthusiastically. ‘Have something.’ Days off were what they all should have been having by now. They’d just spent six months on the front lines—practically on the Veshtonns’ doorstep. They were supposed to be in port enjoying a good month’s worth of R-and-R by now, not ferrying some mid-level Security Police officer through space while he searched for fugitives. Damn that Admiral Westbrook anyway. Who the hell did she think she was, reducing the Katana to the level of a glorified police wagon?
His hands thoroughly dried, Kihoe stepped out of the head and back onto the bridge, and nodded to his executive officer. Commander Marcus Walker in turn nodded to the young ensign manning the tactical station and said, “Report to the commodore.”
The lithe young Brit turned her seat around to face her superior and reported, “Sir, we’ve picked up some energy readings and identified them as traces of a small dual-nacelle vessel’s jump signature. They’re weak and very fragmented, but what little we have seems to match the data-name on the Star Eagle that we received from Trident Station.”
“Can you determine velocity and direction of travel from them, Miss Beacham?” Kihoe asked her, standing before her with his hands folded across his chest.
“Not a specific course, sir, but I can work out a logical search pattern based on a general heading if you’d like.”
“All right. Except for the initial data-name from Trident Station, it’s the only lead we’ve had in the four days since we got this assignment, so we’ll follow it. Work out the search pattern and feed it to the helm. Long- and short-range scanners the whole way. Auto-alert and lock for course change to pursue, should it pick up another trace.” He turned to the comm. officer and instructed him to, “Call Major Hansen up here.”
“Aye, sir,” the young lieutenant replied.
“Mister Walker, put security on standby alert,” he ordered as he turned and walked over to his chair. “I want a boarding team on standby near the shuttle bay at all times. Rotate them however you and the chief see fit.”
“Aye, sir,” Walker replied as he turned away to comply.
Kihoe took his seat, and a few minutes later Major Hansen arrived dressed in full security police duty uniform as though he’d been ready to go to work the moment he got the call. Kihoe turned and looked when he heard the doors open, so the major nodded to him as he stepped out onto the bridge and greeted him with a simple, “Commodore.” Then, when he stepped up beside the commodore’s chair, he asked him, “You have something, sir?”
“It appears so, Major,” Kihoe replied. “We’ve just picked up some weak energy readings that appear to match the data-name on the Star Eagle that Trident Station provided us with. Not enough to determine their specific course, but my people have worked out a search pattern based on their general heading.”
“Can you estimate how far away they are?”
“Not at this time, Major, but if we’re picking up energy traces then we’re relatively close, astronomically speaking, of course.”
“I see,” Hansen replied neutrally. ‘Close, astronomically speaking.’ What exactly did that mean? As close as the Earth is to the moon? As close as the sun is to Proxima Centauri? Were they minutes behind them or days? Should he hang out on the bridge for a while, just in case, or would that only prove to be a giant waste of his time? Then again, what else did he have to do? Read? Watch a film? He was on the bridge now. Might as well stay for a while. “Mind if I hang out here for a while, sir?” he asked.
“Be my guest, Major,” Kihoe invited him, gesturing toward Walker’s X.O. chair, which Walker rarely sat in himself.
Hansen glanced over at Walker, who nodded his approval, then took a seat.
A couple of hours later, just when Major Hansen started thinking about going back to his quarters, the helmsman looked back at Kihoe and reported, “We’re changing course, sir.”
“Mister Beacham?” Kihoe inquired, looking over at the tactical officer.
“Sir, the computer has just located and locked onto the signature,” she reported. “Coming to heading...”
“Never mind that. Are you picking up their ship?”
“No, sir, but...” Her voice trailed off and she sounded confused.
“What is it?” Kihoe asked her.
“I don’t understand, sir. My readings seem to indicate that they’ve lost control of their vessel. Their direction of travel zigzags every which way and their nacelles’ energy readings fluctuate significantly, suggesting radical changes in velocity, but... I’m not seeing any signs of weapons fire or wreckage, no energy traces from other vessels... I can’t find anything that might explain why they
flew through this area so erratically.”
“Can you tell how long ago came through here?”
“No, sir, I can’t. I’m sorry, but without the specs on their propulsion systems, particularly their energy signature disbursement rates, there’s no way to calculate that. And even if we knew those disbursement rates, the disturbances that all their course changes caused would make those calculations inaccurate to an indeterminate degree.”
“In other words, you don’t know and you can’t figure it out.”
“That’s correct, sir,” Beacham confirmed with regret. “I’m sorry. All I can say for sure is that we’re closer than we were. The signature is stronger than when we first picked up.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” Kihoe remarked. Then he asked, “Does the signature and trajectory you’re reading now vary in intensity at all?”
She checked her scanners and sensors. “A little, sir, but...”
“All right. Base a new search pattern on the strongest readings you’re getting and initiate. Same programming as before.”
“Aye, sir.”
“We’ll have him soon,” Kihoe muttered. “I can feel it.”
Major Hansen decided to stay put for a little while longer.
* * *
“Good,” Geoff said with approval. “That’s exactly the maneuver you should have made under those circumstances. Now, bring us back to our original course and speed.”
Dylan entered the appropriate commands into the panel and the Star Eagle returned to its previous heading obediently.
* * *
Commander Walker stood on the aft deck from where he’d been monitoring their search operations and watched while Commodore Kihoe paced back and forth impatiently in front of his station. He was beginning to worry about the old man. It was a well-known and documented fact that those officers who rose to command a starcruiser, especially one of the new Olympus-class ships, were not the type of people who could easily sit around and do next to nothing for hours on end without getting antsy. Added to that were the facts that ‘A,’ the commodore was tired from having spent six months out on the front lines and ‘B,’ he was annoyed at Command for postponing the crew’s shore leave in favor of assigning Katana to this search. The long tour and the frustration and the current hours of inactivity were beginning to get to him, and the crew was beginning to notice.
So was Major Hansen, he noted when his eyes fell to their guest to find him watching the commodore as well. He had no idea whether that would leave the major with a bad impression or not, but as Kihoe’s executive officer, Walker saw it as his responsibility to do all that he could to prevent that from happening, so he didn’t hesitate to step forward.
“Excuse me, Commodore,” he said quietly as he stepped in front of his superior, blocking his path. “May I have a word with you in private, sir?”
Kihoe looked at him oddly for a moment, then said, “Certainly, Commander. In my ready room.”
Walker waited for Kihoe to lead the way, and when he followed he saw out of the corner of his eye that Hansen was watching them leave.
As soon as the ready room door closed behind them, Kihoe turned and faced Walker. “So what can I do for you, Commander?” he asked, his back rod straight, his shoulders square.
‘Commander?’ The commodore usually called him ‘Marcus’ behind closed doors. He old man must really have been feeling frustrated. “I just thought I should make you aware of the fact, sir, that your fatigue and frustration is beginning to show. The crew is beginning to notice, as is the major.”
Kihoe stared at his executive officer—his friend, he reminded himself—for a moment. He almost lashed out at him verbally to remind the man of his place, but then remembered that pointing out any behavior on the part of the commanding officer that might prove detrimental to the crew was the executive officer’s place, so he held his tongue. He sighed. The simple fact that he’d almost bitten Marcus’ head off was proof enough that he was right, and he deserved to be acknowledged for it. “You’re right, Marcus,” he told the younger man as he relaxed his rigid stance a bit. “Thank you.” He turned and walked over to his drink dispenser.
Walker grinned. “No problem, sir.”
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Actually, I could use some, yes, sir,” he answered as he walked up and joined his old friend. “Thank you.”
Kihoe filled two large mugs with the steaming hot brew and handed one to Walker, then stepped around behind his desk and took a seat. Walker sat across from him, uninvited but at all times welcome, he knew. “I certainly understand your frustration, sir,” he told the commodore as he set his mug down on the small stand beside his chair to let the coffee cool for a few minutes. “We’re soldiers, you and I. We’re not police officers. This assignment should have gone to a security corvette or two, not a starcruiser.”
“Bridge to Commodore Kihoe,” Beacham’s voice came over the speaker.
Kihoe reached across his desk and tapped the comm. receive button on his console. “Go ahead, Ensign.”
“I think we’ve got them, sir,” the young woman reported. “The computer just locked onto their signature. It’s the strongest reading we’ve had yet. Looks like they changed course again and then resumed their original course once more.”
“Evasive action?” Walker asked her. “Is there a chance they know we’re tracking them?”
“I doubt it, sir. Not at this distance.”
“We’re on our way, Ensign,” Kihoe advised her as he stood up. Walker stood up with him, glanced longingly at the coffee that he hadn’t even touched yet, and then followed him out.
* * *
“That’s pretty much it as far as piloting goes,” Geoff told Dylan.
“At least for a ship with this type of controls layout,” Dylan qualified.
“True, our systems aren’t the most up-to-date ones on the market, but they’re a lot more advanced than the ones that were originally built into it,” Geoff pointed out. “They’re a lot closer to the new than they are to the old.”
“It’s a lot easier than I thought it would be,” Dylan commented.
Geoff looked sidelong at him and snickered, then said, “Don’t start feeling too proud of yourself, Eric. You’ve learned how to fly, but without the navigational computer you wouldn’t know where to fly. There’s a whole curriculum for training in navigation that we’ve barely even touched on. Not to mention maritime law.”
“Maritime law,” Dylan repeated. “I wonder why they still call it that.”
Geoff shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, but it’s the law we operate by, and before you can get licensed as a private or commercial pilot you’ll also require training in emergency situational response procedures, engineering and maintenance, the proper handling and disposal of fuel and other hazardous substances...”
“Okay, okay, Geoff,” Dylan said, raising a hand to silence his ad hoc instructor. “Enough. I get the point.”
Geoff grinned and asked, “Want to keep going?”
“Nothing much better to do,” Dylan replied.
* * *
“Picking up a vessel at extreme range, Commodore,” Beacham reported. Then she turned in her chair and faced her superior with a smile. “It’s them, sir,” she told him positively. “It’s the Star Eagle for sure, but...”
“But?” Kihoe asked, looking over at her. “But what, Ensign?”
“I don’t think theirs is the only ship out there. I’m picking up additional energy readings that indicate a second vessel might be paralleling them.”
Well, all right then, Miss Beacham,” Kihoe replied, straightening in his chair, just a little bit. “Close on them and put them up on the screen if you can. Full magnification.”
“They’re still pretty far ahead of us, sir, but I’ll see what I can do,” she said as she turned back to her console to comply.
Walker gazed over at his commanding officer and was pleased to see that the imminent
end to this mission had renewed his vigor and brought the sparkle back to his eyes.
* * *
“Wait a minute,” Geoff said, focusing hard on the scanner readout display.
“What’s wrong?” Dylan asked him.
Geoff tapped the intercom ‘call’ button. “Verdai, could you come up here, please? We’ve got something on our tail.”
“What’s on our tail?” Dylan asked him.
“I don’t know yet,” Geoff answered, seemingly very concerned about it. “It’s still too far aft for our scanners to lock onto, and without a lock we can’t get readings accurate enough to try to identify it.” He tapped on the arm of the pilot’s chair a couple of times, then said, “You should probably let me in there.”
“Sure.” Dylan vacated the pilot’s seat and made room for Geoff to slide into it, but stayed there on the flight deck with him. A few moments later Verdai showed up and Dylan backed off a little farther to make room for him as well.
“What do you have, Geoff?” Verdai asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Geoff repeated. “I thought it was a sensor reflection for a second, but it’s putting out its own energy readings.”
“Let me see.”
Geoff leaned a little to one side so that Verdai could see past his shoulder to the scanner display. “It is definitely a vessel,” Verdai concluded after a quick analysis of the readings.
“What kind of vessel?” Dylan and Geoff both asked him at the same time.
Verdai shook his head and answered, “I do not know. It is still too far off. It appears to be a large vessel, though. I can tell you that much. We should upgrade these sensors and scanners at our first opportunity, Geoff.”
“I’ll add that to the list.”
A warning klaxon suddenly sounded. “What’s that?” Dylan asked.
“Proximity alarm!” Geoff exclaimed. He hit the intercom as Verdai herded Dylan toward the table and chairs. “Everyone brace for evasive maneuvers!”
“I thought ships in jumpspace automatically avoided obstacles,” Dylan said as he took a seat in the chair Verdai indicated.