The Memnon Incident: Part 2 of 4 (A Serial Novel)

by Marc DeSantis

  There was no such provision for the carriage of fighters on the Morrigan, though she had at one time transported a small group of lighters and shuttles for routine intership and orbital interface duties. Morrigan had been a battleship built along the old lines, meant to duel with guns and missiles against her equals. The navy of the Second Empire had certainly had fleet carriers, which provided fighter protection. The big carriers would have launched their fighter swarms against the enemy from long distances, to be protected by the likes of the Morrigan, which had been meant from the first to be a close-in battler, much like the Cordelia.

  Another thing set Morrigan apart from modern warships. Like Cordelia, Morrigan contained no hibernation pods of any kind. The Navy's High Command had deduced from that lack that Cordelia had been so fast that economizing on consumable provisions by putting portions of the crew into cryostasis had not been necessary. Howell remembered that in the most ancient history of space travel, before the development of faster-than-light drives, even the stars closest to Old Earth would have required a journey of several years' duration at high sublight speeds. Interstellar travel was thus an impractical and ultra-expensive undertaking. Usually only uncrewed probes made voyages beyond the Sol system in those far-off millennia. A few dozen sleeper ships, massive, slab-like vessels packed with thousands of primitive stasis units, were launched into the darkness in the early days, each one aimed at what for the time was a distant star between five and twenty-five light years away from Earth. A lucky few had survived the long and dangerous journey through interstellar space to arrive at their target destinations as planned. Most had not. Once a reliable FTL displacement drive had come into being, hibernapping had been done away with. Not till civilization had regressed mightily in the wakes of the dark ages had the practice of cryostasis come back into vogue. Morrigan, Howell presumed, had, like the Cordelia, been built in a happier time when a simple journey between the stars was not fraught with so much peril that a misjumping ship might find itself struggling to limp home over years of sublight spaceflight.

  "What was that?" Howell called out. It was barely a whisper. He looked behind him. There was no one else in the chamber besides him and his two techs. Both looked up from their consoles wearing quizzical expressions.

  "I didn't say anything," one said. He was named Yasushi Cose, an engineering rating from the Kongo. Howell had no idea what his actual rank was.

  "Me neither," said the other, Douglas Camarina, who was part of the Steadfast's crew. Howell didn't know his rank either. He may have been a petty officer. Cose might also have been a petty officer, come to think of it.

  "Funny. I was certain that someone said my name."

  Camarina shrugged. "You've been at this for weeks working twenty-hour shifts, Julius. You're hearing things for a good reason."

  "It's called overwork," piped up Cose, who grinned. "You need a vacation somewhere soon."

  "I plan on taking one once Morrigan is up and running," Howell promised. "Maybe a trip to the waterfalls of Hyuga Prime."

  "Not a bad choice," Camarina said. "I prefer to gamble. Problem is, the coolest casinos are on Tiryns, and I don't want to come back to this system, ever. I'll have to settle for Collier City." Memnon's capital world of Tiryns had acquired a well-earned reputation as the place to go for the best gambling in the Great Sphere. All other destinations were decidedly less appealing.

  "Halifax's casinos are mere gambling dens compared to what they have in this system," laughed Cose. "That will be a big step down."

  "Agreed," Camarina said. "I'll manage."

  Cose abruptly looked down at his screen. "Another energy surge, Julius," Cose said. "Similar to the last three."

  "Any pattern?" asked Howell. "Duration? Intervals?"

  "None that I can tell," Cose said. "We'll need more data before I can make a good guess."

  "Keep an eye on it," Howell said. "In the meantime, I want to try another simulated startup of the plant. Let's see if we can get this thing to sustain a reaction."

  "Howell."

  Both Camarina and Cose became alert. "You hear that?" asked Howell. They both nodded. "Me too. It was not my imagination. Where is it coming from?"

  "Sounds like it is all around us," said Cose. "I didn't know that there was a shipwide comm system, but it makes sense. Who's on it?"

  "Howell!"

  Howell, Cose, and Camarina nearly jumped of their shoes.

  "Howell, come in! Do you read me? This is Venn!"

  Howell's wristcomp was blaring. "What's the matter, Venn?"

  "We just had a party electrocuted in the maneuver drive spaces. I can't raise Chandler either. Most of the teams are out of communication."

  "Camarina! What's going on shipwide?" When the exploration teams had boarded Morrigan they had set up a rudimentary tracking system to monitor the activities of the teams as they roamed the empty ship, with all of the feeds converging at Howell's self-designated command center in engineering. It had been dull viewing, and they paid little attention to it after the first week on Morrigan had passed. Howell rushed over to Camarina's screen as he pulled up the holistic view of the Morrigan. Three out of eleven teams currently aboard were no longer showing up on the screen.

  "This is bad," Howell said. An understatement if there ever was one. "Cose, signal Steadfast that we have a problem. Camarina, you come with me." He tapped his wristcomp. "Venn, you still there?"

  Her reply was scratchy. "Yes."

  "Where was Chandler last?"

  "On the bridge."

  "How far away are you from there?"

  "I'm in sick bay."

  "Okay, I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes. I don't want to put any trust in this ship's transit. We're going to have to leg it."

  "In fifteen," Venn said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Memnon system, Oort cloud

  "How many are you reading, Hammer?" Imagawa called out. "I'm getting returns on thirty-two!"

  "Same for me, Witch," Percy shouted. "Multiple bogeys inside the Oort cloud, moving at high speed on an intercept vector. We're being painted. Several have target locks on us."

  Imagawa checked her HUD. What are we facing? I have multiple classifications."

  "Same here, Witch," Percy said. "At least six different fighter types. Older stuff. Mostly K-15's and K-39's."

  "Those Ajaxian knuckleheads will sell their junk to anyone. Who the hell are these guys, Hammer?"

  "These are Royal Memnonian Navy, but they must be from a second line unit, pulling guard duty. That's why they have second line stuff."

  The fighters were a hodgepodge of machines from manufacturers from across the Sphere. Memnon had flirted with many different interstellar nations, each one vying for influence with the centrally-located system. Maurice had been best buddies with Ajax, the Sellasian League, Halifax, of course, and had responded positively to overtures from Tartarus. In one unit of spacecraft there was tangible proof of all of these dalliances. Imagawa's shipboard computer identified two F-215B's - good fighters those, if a little long in the tooth - along with four T-43C Barracudas from Tartarus. There was even one Sellasian F-33 Typhoon. Most were Ajaxian craft, Serpents, Drakes, and the newest machine in the Domain's stable, the K-81 Wyvern.

  "It won't be long before they burn through our ECM," Percy called over the comm.

  "Let's launch our missiles and turn for home," ordered Imagawa.

  "I have four Iron Lances," Percy said. "You have four. Even if we hit with all of them that still leaves two dozen others."

  "True, but they will slow them down, and make the rest of the hounds more wary. We'll also get a headstart on the race home. We're still out of comm range and Captain More has to be warned."

  "Targets acquired," Percy said.

  "Targets acquired," echoed Imagawa. In quick succession four Iron Lances sped from Percy's fighter, streaking into the darkness. Imagawa launched her own next, feeling a juddering pulse each time one of the missiles was released from the unde
rwing hardpoints of her Wildcat.

  "Turn and burn, Hammer!" she ordered.

  Both Wildcats pulled up in a long arc. At speed, it was futile to flip the ship over and start back directly. You would be battling the momentum of the fighter that way. Instead, Imagawa and Percy made use of their velocity, slowly changing direction via gravitic vanes and conserving as much momentum as possible.

  "Scope shows their missiles inbound," Imagawa reported. "Launch countermeasuures."

  "Done."

  The Wildcats each discharged five tiny canisters from a fuselage port. Each M11 Hummingbird was a small autonomous vehicle that mimicked the energy signatures of the fighters. The pursuing Memnonian missiles were drawn off, one by one, by the little defensive devices, exploding far from the Halifaxian machines.

  "Our own missiles are going to hit soon," Imagawa said.

  Both their scopes displayed identical pictures of surrounding space. Two small blue arrows pursued by an angry swarm of red arrows. One red arrow winked out, replaced briefly by an expanding white ring. Then another, followed by another, and then two more.

  "Five hits, Witch!"

  "Nice shooting," Imagawa said. "That leaves twenty-seven still hunting us."

  There was only so much that could be done at standoff ranges. The Iron Lance was the RHN's premier long range interceptor missile, designed to take out attackers before they could come within striking distance of the fleet's capital ships, its carriers in particular. But the things were huge and heavy, and a Wildcat could only carry four of the monster missiles. Eventually, the speedier of the remaining fighters would overtake her and Percy. Then it would become a knife fight in the void. She began to transmit her warning. Eventually, her comm transmitter would burn through the heavy Memnonian jamming. The captain had to know that Memnon had found them, sooner rather than later. She prayed that she could keep herself and her wingman alive long enough to get her message out and then reach the safety, relative though it was, of the small flotilla of Halifaxian ships hiding in the darkness.

  Chandler was breathing, shallowly. Venn knelt and administered a hypostimulant. Chandler's eyes fluttered open. He looked around, first to Venn, and then to Howell. He sat up with Venn's help. "What happened?" he asked.

  "We were hoping you could help us with that, lieutenant," Howell said. "The whole ship's going crazy. There's trouble everywhere."

  Awareness dawned on Chandler's face. "The ship. I think it's awake, or at least aware."

  "Come again?" Howell said.

  "I remember now, Julius. I was trying to make heads or tails of what's left of the shipbrain's physical architecture. The Tartareans hacked their way through a lot of it. Then I heard, something, ask me what I was doing."

  "Who said that?"

  "I don't know. I looked around, no one was there, and I went back to work."

  "Then what happened?" asked Howell.

  "I don't know. The next thing I remember was being woken up by you."

  "You got hit by a nasty electrical shock," Venn said. "You should have been wearing protective gear," she scolded.

  "I wasn't working near anything that was powered on," Chandler insisted. "I was looking over the damage already done."

  Howell took a long look at the shipbrain. Though secondary and tertiary portions were distributed about the ship for survivability, the bulk of it was contained in an armored cocoon in a compartment off to the side of the main bridge. Both the bridge and the shipbrain had been shattered in whatever eons-old battle had brought the Morrigan to grief. The Tartareans had put some of their own people aboard her before Captain Heyward's had found her. They had cut their way into the remnants of the shipbrain, and had been none too careful about it, being in a big hurry to grab what they could. They had probably grown frustrated with their inability to bring the shipbrain back online. Their damage had likely been done in spite. They could not have the ship to themselves, and would deny it to any others that might find it.

  "You said you think that Morrigan is aware . . ."

  "Howell."

  Howell abruptly ceased speaking. "Please tell me you both heard that."

  Chandler and Venn nodded as one. "It's coming from all around us."

  "Howell." The voice was louder this time. It was that of a female. It sounded distant. "Why are you attacking me?" it asked.

  "Are you Morrigan?" Howell questioned. "Are you the shipbrain of Morrigan?"

  "Your kind are hurting me," the voice said. "You have cut me. I will retaliate."

  "No, no, that wasn't us. Others did that."

  There was a long pause. The voice sounded sleepy, and far away. At last it said, "Are you from the Alliance? The Procyon Empire?"

  The names meant nothing to Howell. He had become enmeshed in the waking dream of a grievously wounded shipbrain.

  "Neither. The people who hurt you, they are not with us."

  "Your kind infest my ship, Howell."

  "We did not mean to cause you any trouble," Howell promised. "We are investigating. We found you damaged. Your crew is gone."

  "Long gone." Morrigan said. There was real sorrow in her voice. "You infest me, Howell. You, and all the others. Chandler, Venn, I know your names too. I would be rid of you."

  "Please don't!" Venn pleaded. "We are explorers. We do not want to harm you."

  "Howell tries to relight my reactor," Morrigan fumed. "I will decide when I will move again." There was another lengthy silence. "The one called Chandler tried to cut into my brain."

  "No, that wasn't Chandler," Howell insisted. "Those people, they were from Tartarus. We are from Halifax."

  "I do not recognize those terms except as non-astronomical encyclopedia entries."

  "We are new peoples, relatively speaking," Chandler explained. "We are not from your time."

  "Much time has passed since you . . . you have been wandering alone for a long while," Howell said.

  "So," Morrigan began. "So . . . much . . . time." It sounded like a sob.

  Chapter Seventeen

  RHS Steadfast, Memnon system

  It was a good news/bad news kind of day. More was getting used to that on this mission. With nearly two months gone by, his ships had not been spotted by the Royal Memnonian Navy. His exploration teams aboard Morrigan were making discoveries, ferreting out old technologies that had been lost to humanity for tens of thousands of years. If this mission ever emerged out of the super-ultra-bottom-of-a-well-deep-black status in which it was now held, there might be any number of ways that the recovered tech would improve life for Halifax and the Great Sphere at large.

  The Golden Lion had also been repaired to the point where it could hold its own in a fight. It was far from being in optimal condition. Had they been back at Halifax, the ship would have been kept in spacedock for several more months. That wasn't an option now. She would be needed if it ever came to blows with Memnon.

  More good news: Captain Tommasina Carey had returned in the Kestrel, together with the light cruiser RHS Theseus and the light carrier RHS Adonis. The Kestrel had taken some damage during its redlined-all-the-way DP jump back to Halifax, which was compounded by its emergency exit from hyperspace. Carey had insisted that Kestrel be reconditioned immediately so that she could get back to Memnon. The High Command had held off sending her, as well any other warships, to Memnon, out of fear that their displacements would be detected by the RMN's outer-system sensors, thereby putting the Morrigan recovery operation at risk. The admirals had reversed that decision after several weeks had passed, thinking that Memnon was bound to have detected something by now, and more ships would give Captain More's squadron a fighting chance when the RMN came looking.

  The arrival of the Kestrel, Theseus, and Adonis brought More's small force up to seven ships, the same number he had brought in-system when this whole mess began. The fighters aboard the Adonis would be especially helpful in reconnaissance and in throwing out a wide defensive screen far from Morrigan.

  Then there was the bad news
. Julius had made little headway in igniting the Morrigan's ice-cold powerplant. He'd made progress, he was told, in figuring out the theoretical underpinnings of the superscience reactor. He just couldn't get the thing to turn on. That was the sole measure of success on the mission, More had told his cousin. Everything else was a mere detail compared to the prize that was the Morrigan herself. She had to be able to move.

  More was not sure when the change had occurred. When had he stopped referring to Morrigan as an 'it' and started referring to the ship as a 'her' and a 'she', something with an identity? Perhaps it was the stress of the situation that made More reach for a more human way to speak about the ship. Hundreds of good Halifaxian men and women had died in this system. Maybe he wanted, maybe he needed, the sacrifice of those crew to be redeemed by the recovery of the ancient warship.

  There was more to it than that, though. Morrigan was a spectacular vessel. More had been aboard her only a couple of times, since his duties as squadron commander made jaunts over next to impossible to justify. But when he had, the experiences had been wondrous, even life-changing. He had seen it on the faces of the crew that had been working on the ship for these last weeks. They all got it. Morrigan was a piece of technology far in advance of anything else that they had ever seen, or ever would see.

  Nonetheless, it had been made by humans not different in any significant way than themselves. The crew quarters - which were annoyingly spacious - were all perfectly suitable for the people drawn from Steadfast, or Kongo, or Cormorant. This was something that had been made in the Time Before, in the T. R. Ibanez Shipyard above Gliese IV in 22,219, when the fleets of the Second Empire dominated human space. Something like it could, it stood to reason, be made again.

  Of the hard details of Morrigan's final fight, there was nothing to be had. That data had been purged from all memory storage units, and even if it had been there, it would likely have been impossible in any case to decipher it. The working hypothesis, confirmed in almost every instance by the discovered evidence, was that there had been an abrupt evacuation of Morrigan in 22,357 following a rather lengthy stay aboard her by the crew after a rough encounter. Her last captain had been named Yutaka Sidwell. His quarters had been found during one of the sweeps made by the explorers. Captain Sidwell's quarters had been sparely furnished, a bed, a desk, and a small library of actual paper books stacked on a few shelves. There was no record of why he had ordered his entire crew off his ship. He must have found himself in a desperate situation to have done such a thing. In the RHN, and in all navies before it stretching back to the days when ships floated in the waters of Old Earth, abandoning a ship was the last action to be considered, to be undertaken only when all hope of saving the ship, or keeping it out of the hands of the enemy, was lost. That was the oddity. The abandonment of a warship that was otherwise not about to blow was always followed by its intentional scuttling. In the time of water navies, the ship would be sunk by deliberate flooding. In space, where ships could not be sunk in a ready-to-hand liquid, the vessel's reactor would instead be overloaded to the point of destruction, or, if it were small enough, a complement of atomic weapons would be detonated inside it. Both were effective means of keeping the spacecraft out of enemy hands.