by Evan Currie
The dogs are at your heels, he thought. You may be wolves, but this pack of dogs can bleed you out, even if you get us in the end. So run for the hills. We don’t put up with your sort in these parts.
► “Keep our warp fields interposed, interlock the squadron’s fields,” Misrem ordered, leaning over the navigation console as her officers worked.
“Yes Navarch,” the navigation officer replied. “The enemy squadrons are making the maneuver difficult, however. They are on converging and reciprocal courses, and covering both flanks at once is . . . tricky.”
“Just get it done,” she ordered firmly. “We need to pick up the boarding crew and determine what they learned before we can make future decisions here.”
“Yes Navarch,” the man dully repeated.
She straightened up and made her way to the tactical station, ignoring the officer there as she examined the raw data feeding in through their aft scanners.
The enemy strategy was clear enough, and effective, she had to admit. They were intent on making a show of force, establishing that they were not intimidated by her forces despite being clearly outnumbered and outgunned. It might seem to be a laughable stance, but they did have just enough weight of metal to make it clear that even if she were to destroy them entirely, they would wreak more than enough damage to leave her own survival in doubt.
This is not an Oather stratagem, she thought with grudging admiration.
The Oathers would have withdrawn ahead of her forces, gathering their own until they had sufficient power to assure a defeat of her forces. A stand like this was alien to their psychology, and yet here they were. At least some of the ships she was dealing with were Oathers—she was certain of that. The enemy had fought according to Oather psychology until the anomalous group arrived with their damnable destroyers.
These people are a threat, Misrem decided firmly. Not only are they reasonable ship handlers and possess an admirable fighting spirit, but they lead and invite others to follow.
That leadership was more dangerous than all the ships in the universe, than all the courage, skill, or impressive technology. Leaders could turn the weak into juggernauts of unstoppable power, ready to roll over whatever stood in their path.
Leaders, not merely commanders, could alter the balance of power in the galaxy if left unchecked for too long . . . and Misrem rather liked the current balance of power.
Occasional laser blasts slashed across the intervening space between the fighting ships, an almost entirely useless waste of energy as the beams were attenuated by the gravity warping. But enough got through that the damage control board was lit up on her ship and, she suspected, most of the others within her force as well.
“Do we have reports from the boarding crew?” she demanded as she crossed the command deck to the communications station.
“Yes Navarch. They have encountered hard resistance, but not from Oather soldiers, they believe,” the communications officer replied. “They are cutting through decks now, attempting to avoid contact while they make for the shuttles.”
Misrem grunted, irritated that her warriors were, in effect, running from the enemy.
“Are they outnumbered, then?” she asked.
“Uncertain,” the communications officer said. “The centure in charge has elected not to risk finding out in the more difficult fashion while he has vital intelligence.”
She couldn’t fault the man for that, she supposed. “Can they transmit?”
“Not at the moment, Navarch. The entire ship has been irradiated, both sides have jammers in operation, and the data they grabbed is . . . significant.” The officer sighed. “We are barely getting base transit code through as it is. It would take days to send the information they grabbed, and they have no way to filter it down to more useful elements while they’re under fire.”
“Understood.”
She didn’t like it, but she was well aware of the limitations of transmitting data over significant distances, particularly in a combat zone. The restrictions could change as they closed on the ship, which was happening fast, but by that point, the centure and his team would hopefully be able to extract themselves from the stricken vessel and be picked up.
In either case, she hoped they’d retrieved significant intelligence from the enemy library core.
Otherwise, this particular operation would have been rather costly for little gain.
We need better information. I do not like working blind, as we have been, Misrem thought as she watched the distance between her ships and the stricken Oather vessel decrease.
► A glancing beam flash-fried a hundred square meters of the Bell’s armor, making both Roberts and his pilot cringe almost in unison. That was something of an accomplishment on the captain’s part, if any had noted it, given that he wasn’t as plugged into the ship as his pilot was.
So far, they’d only taken light damage, however, so Roberts tried to ignore it as he focused on the converging paths of the three distinct squadrons now about to descend on the Tetanna.
Don’t worry. We’re the military, and we’re here to help, he thought.
Sure, it wasn’t quite as bone-chilling as “We’re the government, and we’re here to help,” but it had to be close in his book.
“Commander,” Roberts ordered softly, his voice still managing to carry amid the general hubbub of the bridge, “adjust course, starboard . . . three degrees. I want a better angle on the enemy destroyers if we can get it.”
“Roger that, Captain,” Little responded. “Adjusting course. I might be able to open the firing window a hair if we accelerate by five points as well, sir.”
“Make it happen. I want to bleed them, people,” Roberts said, looking around. “Every tiny cut adds up. The more they bleed now, the less we bleed later.”
“Yes sir.”
The crew responded quickly, and he could see them refocus their efforts on the situation with new energy.
He made a notation and sent the basic information along to Hyatt on the Bo, as well as to the Rogues. They would already have gotten the maneuvering alert over the squadron battle network, but his notation would ensure that everyone knew why they were doing it as well as what they were doing.
The Odysseus was now in range for a delayed link to the network, but it would take several seconds for the ship to get the alert and several more before a reply would reach the Bell. Organizing fleet movements over ranges of several light-seconds was a pain, and almost impossible without the use of FTL networking, which was the first thing enemy forces took out when they intended to conduct operations within a system.
We’re going to have to develop a playbook to deal with that, Roberts supposed.
What exactly that playbook would entail would probably take up the better efforts of most of the current Black Navy’s command structure, with input from multiple other organizations, including the Block, no matter how distasteful.
No one wanted a repeat of the Drasin Invasion.
► Chief Dixon was starting to feel like his mind had been blown when the Odysseus took the beating she had, leaving him with some sort of permanent mental trauma.
“Please tell me someone else is hearing that,” he muttered, twisting around in his firmsuit, trying to locate the source of a sound that he shouldn’t have possibly heard.
“I hear it, Chief,” one of the engineering mates said, his voice shaky. “I really don’t want to be here right now.”
The mate wasn’t the only one.
Dixon adamantly refused to break and run, but he wanted to be anywhere but on the evacuated deck listening to the sound of a child sobbing.
“When I get my hands on whoever is fucking around, I’m going to rip him a new asshole,” the chief snarled, masking his fear with anger.
He’d checked his suit systems, and the sobbing wasn’t coming over his radio. Given that he and the others were standing in a vacuum, that was a major Goddamn problem when considering someone was playing a joke.
&nbs
p; He keyed into the tactical channel. “This is Chief Dixon. Get me some Marines out here.”
There was a pause before the damage control coordinator on the bridge responded.
“Dispatched, Chief. What’s wrong?” Her voice was concerned, not that he blamed her.
“Don’t know,” he growled. “Either we’re all hallucinating down here . . . or there’s a little kid crying somewhere on this deck.”
“A . . .” The damage control coordinator hesitated. “A kid? Chief, the entire deck you’re on is in hard vacuum.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Dixon snapped. “If there was air, I wouldn’t be freaking out so damn much. I’ve checked my suit. Everything is working, but that sound I’m hearing isn’t registering on the pickups.”
“Chief, you’re in vacuum. If there was anything registering on the suit pickups, something would be wrong with the suits.” A new voice cut in, one that the chief paled upon recognizing.
“Yes, sir, Skipper.” Dixon took a breath, trying not to snap at the commodore. “I can’t explain it. It’s just . . . we need some backup down here, okay?”
“It’s on its way, Chief. Can you locate the source of the sound?” Weston asked seriously.
Dixon sighed, glad that the commodore wasn’t talking like he thought they were losing their minds.
“No sir. It seems to be coming from all around,” Dixon admitted. “But I’m not the only one hearing it, sir. We’re all hearing the crying, and it’s really spooking us. I don’t mind saying, sir, I wish the lights were working down here right now.”
He heard Weston chuckle softly. “I bet. Alright, try to keep calm. The Marines are cycling through the airlock now. They’ll be to your position in a minute. Let them find the sound. Just try to get the ship patched as quickly as you can.”
“It’d help if you stopped getting us shot, sir,” Dixon said, hiding his nerves as best he could as a sweep of lights lit up the corridor a little ways down. “I see the Marines now.”
The commodore apparently elected to ignore his sarcasm. “Okay, good. Just hold it together, Chief. You’re the one holding us together.”
“Roger that, sir. Sorry, I’ll get on it,” Dixon promised.
“Don’t worry about it, Chief. I’ll leave you to it. Weston out.”
The commodore closed the link from his side just as the Marines arrived. They stomped silently up to the repair crew in hardsuit armor as they looked around, their rifles sweeping the halls.
“What’s going on, Chief?” the lead Marine asked, his HUD ID showing him to be Lance Corporal Jan.
Dixon frowned, recognizing the name, but it wasn’t the time.
“It’s that damn—”
The chief was cut off by the sound of a child sobbing again and spun around.
“That. Do you hear that?” he demanded.
The Marines had circled around the repair crew on instinct, guns pointed out. They’d heard the sound, but none of them could find anything.
“What the hell?” Jan swore. “I’ve got nothing on my suit pickups.”
“We’re in hard vacuum, Lance Corporal,” the chief reminded him. “There’s nothing for them to pick up.”
“But . . . then . . . what?”
“Now you know the problem, Marine,” Dixon said flatly. “Solve it. Good luck. We have a ship to repair.”
He stomped away, irritated that the vacuum kept his march from sounding more impressive, and hauling his team with him as the Marines stood in the dark, listening to the impossible sound coming from all around them.
“Try not to shoot anybody!” Dixon growled over the comm, knowing that he was just trying to mask how much he was creeped out too. He hated that fact but was unable to stop himself all the same.
If this is a joke, I swear I’m going to actually keelhaul someone.
► Jan looked around nervously, not bothered by the lack of light as his armor HUD had plenty of ways to compensate for that. The strange sounds echoing around the corridors, however, were creepy enough on their own. And the fact that the sounds had no trouble propagating in hard vacuum was wrong on so many damn levels.
“Okay, spread out,” he told his squad. “Look for the source of that sound, but don’t go out of sight of each other. We’ll secure each area before we move on, clear?”
The other members of the squad acknowledged and replied with firm “oorahs.”
Jan put his own orders into action, carefully clearing the area around him before he moved to check around the bits of debris that had been thrown everywhere when the deck explosively decompressed.
Nothing.
The sounds were intermittent as he and his squad slowly cleared the deck. There didn’t seem to be any directionality to the crying, which made a twisted sort of sense, he supposed. Hard to tell what direction it was coming from when there was nothing for it to travel through.
The logic didn’t relieve him of the creepy feeling that was permeating the area, however.
“Clear,” he said finally. “Anyone have anything?”
Negative replies came back immediately from the squad as they also cleared their sections.
“Alright,” Jan ordered. “Next section, on me.”
The squad formed up as he led the way, moving through the corridor to the next section of the deck, an open lab from the looks of it. He was about to move in when a flash of gold in his peripheral vision caused Jan to pause and turn to his left.
“You see that?” he asked the man at his back.
“See what?”
“I don’t know. I caught a flash of something,” Jan said. “Hold position while I check it out.”
“You got it,” the Marine said with a shrug as Jan walked down the corridor to the junction.
It was dark, but the optics in his armor and the augmented HUD rendered that fairly meaningless. Jan could easily see down the length of the corridor in both directions once he reached the junction, and he slowly swept the area without finding any hint of the golden flash he’d spotted.
“Weird. This place is getting to me,” Jan said, turning back the way he’d come.
A sobbing sound to his left caused him to turn again and look down the corridor. There was a figure at the end of the hall, wearing something he had to look twice to place. The attire looked like old armor, the sort he’d only seen in museums. It was shiny, what little light there was glinting off the golden surface, but what really spooked him was that the armor didn’t cover the figure’s whole body like an environmental suit would.
“What the hell?” he whispered, cocking his head to one side. “This has to be a gag, right?”
“Jan?” a Marine private called out. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I . . .” Jan had glanced back for a moment, then froze when he realized that in the time he’d looked away, the figure had vanished. “What the . . . Did anyone else see that?”
“See what?” the private asked from down the hall where the rest of the squad waited at the door to the lab. “You sure you’re okay?”
Jan stared down the hall, over the rail of his rifle, as he sought out what he’d seen to no avail. He slowly shook his head. “You know what, I’m not sure any—”
He lowered his rifle as he spoke and started to turn back, only to come face-to-face with the armored figure less than a foot away. Jan felt a chill run down his spine as he looked down into the bleeding eyes of a child staring back at him.
“It hurts . . .”
The low, hissing voice broke him of his frozen terror, and Jan jumped back, a full augmented leap that slammed him into the nearby bulkhead. He screamed and his finger tightened on the trigger of his rifle.
CHAPTER 17
► “We’re looking at too many to take, boss.”
Rider couldn’t help but agree as he piggybacked on Dow’s suit imagery, looking over the large squad currently occupying the library core area. The suit counted at least thirty troops, with what had to be an officer working quickly at the access
node.
“Keep eyes on, Money,” he told Dow. “I’m going to try to link up to the battle network, but interference is pretty stiff. Could take a while. Don’t get spotted.”
“Roger that,” the Marine said from where he was crouched against a wall, holding a sensor probe out around the corner.
“You two, keep an eye on him,” Rider told the other pair. “Withdraw at the first sign of detection. I don’t know what’s going on here, but we’ll not do any good getting killed for nothing.”
Kensey and Ramirez nodded as Rider ducked back and tried to find a signal to the Marines battle network.
The Priminae ships usually didn’t put up much in the way of signal interference. In fact, the ships’ materials were noted for unusual signal clarity, but the fighting had irradiated large chunks of the ship, the Marines had popped enough laser-attenuating smoke to choke a small town, and the enemy was presumably running some sort of signal jamming on top of it all.
He was able to get into the ship’s network, however, due to its frequent repeaters. From there, Rider looked for a repeater node somewhere within range of the colonel. He couldn’t find her, unfortunately, but the sergeant was clear as day as he entered the range of the engineering repeater.
“Sarge, Corporal Rider,” he signalled.
“Go for NCO, Rider.”
“We’re outside the library core, Sarge. Large contingent here, outnumbered and outgunned. No way can we take them with what we have at hand. Orders?”
“Hold one. I don’t have a link to the colonel. She’s on the bridge, heavy damage there. I’ve dispatched a runner.”
“Roger. Holding.”
“What’s your situation?”
Rider considered briefly before responding. “Nominal. We’ve not been spotted; we’re armed and have cover. We could tear them a new one before they got us, Sarge, but they would get us. There’s just no maneuvering room on this heap.”
“Roger that. Hold . . . I’ve got the colonel linked in. Colonel, Rider is on the line.”
