Legacy Fleet: The Complete Trilogy

by Nick Webb

  Granger cleared his throat and stared down at his notes, squinting before realizing that his reading glasses were still tucked snugly into his pocket. Placing them on his face, he mumbled, “They say your eyes are the second thing to go in old age, followed quickly by your ears.” He waited a moment for comedic timing. “But I’ll be damned if I can remember the first thing.”

  More polite, measured laughter. God, he hated speeches.

  “One hundred and thirty years ago, our forefathers had a vision,” he began, reading his speech from the beginning. “A vision of safety, and progress. We had started spreading among the stars, and with that spread came unknown dangers. It seemed we were alone in the universe, but those early leaders of a United Earth had the foresight to realize that might not always be the case. And fortunately, almost serendipitously, we built warships. Fleets. Far more overpowered than what we thought we needed.”

  He coughed, and it turned into a full-blown fit. An admiral seated behind him reached under the podium and handed him another glass of water, which he accepted gratefully, and continued, “The Constitution. The Chesapeake. The Congress. The Warrior. The Independence, and the Victory. What we today call the Legacy Fleet. We built some ships before, and some after, but those were the finest. Our golden age.”

  He paused, glancing up at the waiting audience. “And then the Swarm came. Without the handful of carriers, cruisers, and frigates that we had at the time, humanity as we know it would have disappeared.”

  Another pause. “But we won. We survived. We lived to fight another day. But that day never came….” He trailed off. He just wasn’t feeling it. The words seemed hollow. Like he was repeating politicized platitudes designed to soothe the ears of everyone present. To not offend. To keep everyone comfortable.

  The hell with it. He picked up his speech and flipped it over, and clearing his throat, he stared up at the audience again.

  “But the truth is, we were lucky. Damned lucky. It wasn’t skill, or grit or gumption or bravery or brilliance that got us through that war. It was dumb luck. They handed our asses to us, and we almost paid the ultimate price. Now we say the Swarm has disappeared. We say they’ve abandoned their worlds and that they’ll never come back. We develop tests and analytic techniques to confirm this conclusion and we pat ourselves on the back for our ingenuity, for surely it must have been us. Surely it’s because of our brilliance, our excellence, that we’ve driven off the Swarm. And so we sit back. We relax. We pretend we’re perfectly safe.”

  He glanced over at the collection of seated dignitaries on the rostrum, and saw that several of the officials were nervously checking their watches, some staring at him, some shooting daggers out of their eyes at him, Vice President Isaacson included. Admiral Yarbrough slowly moved her head back and forth at him.

  “Just because something is old, doesn’t mean we need to throw it away. What kind of society have we become, what happens to our values when we say that just because something or someone has been around a hell of a long time that they’ve outlived their usefulness? We become a society of vacant, immature materialists. Moving from one new thing on to the next. Devaluing age and experience.” He was talking about the Constitution, but he couldn’t help but feel like he was talking about himself as well.

  “And what does this old guy say? He says: be careful. Be watchful. Be vigilant.” He grit his teeth. He knew he needed to make this speech politically palatable to the muckety-mucks up on the rostrum behind him. “And it is for that reason that IDF CENTCOM has decided to not simply retire the Constitution, but to turn her into a museum. A place of learning. A place to remember. Where future generations will see her legacy directly, and be inspired to continue the watchful peace that she oversaw.”

  The words felt hollow and distasteful in his mouth, but it was the best moral compromise he could come up with. “And so we commit the Old Bird into your hands. A gift from the past and present crew of the ISS Constitution and IDF to the people of Earth.” He glanced down at the rows of wide-eyed elementary school students. “Take care of her. Be true to her, and she’ll fly you safely home. Thank you.”

  Applause, and a few waves and handshakes later, it was finally over. Thank god. Where the hell was the adult beverage table? Wherever Haws was, probably. He glanced the auditorium over, and, sure enough, his XO was camped out next to a long table holding hundreds of glasses half full of champagne. He made a b-line towards him, ignoring half a dozen hands reaching out to pat his shoulder or grasp his hand.

  “What the hell….” He nearly tripped over a small obstacle in his path.

  “Watch where you’re going, Captain!” said a small voice almost directly under him.

  It was one of the schoolchildren. A boy. Maybe ten years old, but obviously very small for his age. But his attitude was ten times the size of his body.

  “Excuse me?” said Granger.

  “You heard me, Captain. Say, nice speech. I fall asleep during half the speeches our teacher takes us to, but yours was great! I like short speeches. Especially when you swear.” The small boy stuck his hand out, which Granger tentatively grabbed. He didn’t quite know what to make of this boy, but he liked him.

  “Glad to hear it. Are you thinking of joining IDF someday? Be a starship captain?”

  The boy rolled his eyes. “Oh, god no. Are you kidding? How boring!”

  Granger chuckled. “Well then, what do you want to be?”

  “A motorcycle racer, of course!”

  “Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

  “Not as dangerous as piloting a starship.”

  Granger grunted—the kid had a point. “What’s your name?”

  “Cornelius Dexter Ahazarius.”

  He repeated the name slowly, as the boy had blurted it out quickly. “Cornelius Dexter—”

  “Ahazarius. The third. And sorry, Captain, gotta go. My teacher is giving me the eye. Probably thinks I’m annoying you or something.”

  The teacher bustled through a nearby group of children and confronted the boy. “Dexter! I told you not to bother anyone important!” He turned to Granger. “I’m terribly sorry, Captain Granger. Mr. Ahazarius here is a little incorrigible.”

  Granger raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.”

  “Come along along, Dexter. Leave the man alone—he’s earned his retirement.”

  The teacher ushered the boy away, leaving that word grating on his ears. Retirement.

  Granger found the drinks and looked around for his XO. Looked like Haws had already made his retreat out of the auditorium. Damn. Granger downed a whole glass of champagne and then quickly reached for another.

  He was just settled into light conversation with a senator when Vice President Isaacson sidled up to him through the crowd. “Captain Granger! Excellent speech, sir. You’re a natural.”

  Granger painted a stiff half-smile on his face. If he was a natural at giving speeches, then poo-flinging monkeys were naturals at etiquette and manners. “Thank you, sir. Very kind.”

  “You know, when President Avery asked me to stand in for her here, I was like a little kid—so excited. To think that I would get to be the one to welcome the Old Girl home, I was just—”

  “Old Bird.”

  Isaacson stopped mid-sentence. “Sorry?”

  “She’s the Old Bird. Not the Old Girl.” Granger noticed the vague show of false embarrassment the Vice President put on. “Common mistake, sir. And we appreciate your presence here.” He grabbed the man’s hand and intended to move on to the next dignitary, but Isaacson held his hand firm.

  “I just wanted you to know,” he said, leaning in close to Granger, “that we are of similar minds. We’ve grown soft. Complacent. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a prophet, Captain Granger.”

  Ugh. Flattery. If there was one language common to every politician everywhere, it was flattery. Granger’s smile thinned. “You’re too kind.”

  “I mean it, Captain. There are those of us in the government that don’t agree
with the findings of the Eagleton Commission. We should be building up our military. Not stripping it down like President Avery wants.”

  How odd. The man was President Avery’s second in command. He was her biggest cheerleader, her most tireless campaigner and surrogate. What the hell was he doing cutting her down in private?

  “Well, I don’t know that we need a military buildup, Mr. Vice President. But a little vigilance and preparedness go a long way.”

  “Indeed,” Isaacson said, flashing his politician’s toothy grin. “In fact, after this whole affair is over and you’re reassigned, would you mind stopping by my office in Washington?”

  An invitation to the Vice President’s office? Granger felt like he was stepping into an alternate reality. “I’d be honored, Mr. Vice President. And what shall we be talking about?”

  “Your future, of course.”

  Granger’s smile vanished. “I have no future, Mr. Vice President. I’m just a sailor at the end of his tour. The Old Bird is retired, and soon, so will I.” He thought of the plague of tumors invading his chest, his abdomen, his brain. The drugs Doc Wyatt had given him seemed to help with the pain, but this level of metastasis was terminal.

  Isaacson came in close again. “Please reconsider, Tim. I think you’ll find that in a few weeks, the political climate may have changed somewhat. There are rumblings in the Senate—key people are nervous about the Eagleton Commission. And if the chips fall where I think they might, I’ll need someone in the military I can trust. Someone of like mind.”

  His eyes were oddly insistent. But what in the world was he talking about? He almost asked when he heard his personal comm device go off, pulsing with the arrival of an urgent message.

  Simultaneously he heard dozens of other comm devices go off all around the vast hall. The crowd, which had up to that point been chatting and laughing amiably, fell into an uncomfortable silence as dozens of eyes looked down to read their messages.

  Granger pulled his out of his pocket.

  It was from CENTCOM, Priority One.

  UNIDENTIFIED VESSELS SIGHTED ON TRAJECTORY TOWARDS EARTH. ETA 1 HOUR. ALERT CONDITION RED.

  Chapter 21

  Earth’s Moon

  Observation Compartment 2, Lunar Base

  Lieutenant Miller leaned over the railing and rested her head against the window, looking out at the gray, barren moonscape. The glare from the sun was harsh in her eyes, though the protective coatings on the composite glass at least made it bearable to look out the window and take in the magnificent view. Just above the white glare of the regolith, the half-illuminated blue, green, and white globe of the Earth hovered.

  “Seems so small from up here, doesn’t it?” she murmured.

  “You’d never even know ten billion people lived down there just by looking at it from space,” replied her husband, who was leaning his head against the window next to her.

  “Ten billion people. And little Zack-Zack.” She squinted against the glare, trying to make out the coast of California under the cloud cover. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You know”—she tapped a finger against the window, pointing towards the Earth—“both of us being out here on duty. I should just take an early discharge. It’s not fair to him. It’s not fair to my parents.”

  He shrugged. “Oh, they love it, and you know it. And Zack-Zack will be fine. It’ll only be like this for two more years and then you can at least draw early retirement and go reserve. I’ll join you in just a few years after that, and we’ll have it made.”

  He was right, but it didn’t mean she had to like it. The guilt wracked her at times, knowing that someone else was taking care of her son. Raising him. Teaching him. Cuddling him at night before bed. Sure, that was her own mother, but it still killed her inside. And though her husband hid it well, she knew it killed him too. “Yeah, I guess. But we could manage, you know, if I left now. It’d be tighter, but we’d figure it out.”

  A silence. Was he mad? Why wasn’t he looking at her, or saying anything?

  “Commander Ashworth said yes.”

  At first she didn’t realize what he’d said, but then it hit her. “He said yes? Really?”

  “Really.” He turned to grin at her.

  “So I’m cleared to transfer to the Clyburne?”

  “You’re clear. He said he’ll handle it—already put the request in yesterday.”

  Her chest swelled and she felt flushed. Finally. After four years, they’d finally get to serve together. See each other every day. Have sex.

  And before she knew it he had grabbed her and pulled her in close, kissing her with the full force of three months of pent-up sexual tension. She kissed back, eagerly, drinking him in.

  Finally.

  The sound of a klaxon immediately overhead made them both jump, and they pulled apart.

  “What the hell is that?” she said, noticing the red flashing lights down the empty hallway—everyone was at the decommissioning ceremony, but soon, several doors down the hall burst open and several officers dashed down towards another set of doors.

  “That’s a red alert,” said Tom, turning to her. “Get back to the Constitution.”

  “Red alert? In space dock? Here?” It was almost incomprehensible.

  He nodded. “Probably just a drill. Some jackass pencil-pusher over in the admin building decided to make life difficult for Granger, just as a parting shot.”

  “They really don’t like him, do they?” she remarked, as they turned down the hall and made for the space dock where their ships hovered.

  “No one in fleet admin likes him, and half the captains and admirals despise him. That’s why he’s been shuffled off to the Constitution all these years—they wanted him out of their hair.”

  They reached a junction where the hallway split, each branch leading to the airlocks of a different starship—one branch ending in the Constitution and the other in the Clyburne. Dozens of other officers and crew members were streaming around them, jogging towards the ships.

  “Wait,” he said, and reached in one more time for a kiss. And then he was gone, pulling away and joining the throng of men and women rushing towards the Clyburne. “See you in a few days,” he called back.

  She waved, but her stomach clenched as she turned to jog towards the Constitution. “What’s up, Ballsy?” she asked the man running past her. Lieutenant Volz.

  “Haven’t you heard?”

  “No.” She ran to keep up with him, and they passed through the airlock.

  “The Swarm. Little Cumrats are back.”

  Oh, god. Her thoughts immediately went to California. To her son. Her parents.

  And her husband, on another warship, possibly heading off into battle.

  Her stomach clenched even more.

  Chapter 22

  Earth’s Moon

  Main Auditorium, Lunar Base

  Within seconds of reading his message the klaxons rang out, followed by flashing red lights. The civilians in the room panicked; several schoolchildren screamed. Granger tucked the comm device back in his pocket and stood up straight, scanning the room for Yarbrough or any of the senior admiralty. He spotted them leaving the room in a rush, and he hurried to catch up with them. He noticed Commander Proctor jogging after him out of the corner of his eye.

  “What’s the situation, Admiral?” he said as he fell into step behind her, next to one of her aides.

  “Several ships q-jumped into orbit around Jupiter. Complete communications blackout on all the moons and orbital platforms. And ten minutes ago a cargo freighter imaged the ships en route to Earth at incredible speeds.”

  “How incredible?”

  Yarbrough turned her head to flash him a pained glance. “They’ll be here within the hour.”

  Granger’s mouth hung open. “But that puts their speed at around—”

  “Nearly point five c, yes, I know,” Yarbrough replied. They were nearly to the Lunar Base Command Center
, and officers were streaming through the halls, reporting to their duty stations.

  “But isn’t that impossible?” said one of her aides, a young lieutenant.

  “Kid, nothing’s impossible when it comes to the Swarm—”

  “We don’t know it’s the Swarm, Captain Granger,” interrupted Yarbrough.

  “Care to take any guesses as to who else it might be, Admiral?” he said icily. He knew it was politically correct to think the Swarm threat was finished, but he couldn’t believe her intransigence on the issue when an entire fleet was bearing down on Earth.

  “CENTCOM isn’t sure. We knew there was a threat out in the Veracruz Sector and sent scouts to investigate.”

  “And?” he said, as they rounded the corner into the Command Center.

  Yarbrough demurred. “And, well, we lost contact with them.” She saluted the commanding officer of Lunar Base, Rear Admiral Tully. “What’s the latest, Sheldon?”

  “ETA fifty-five minutes. The cargo freighter managed to image most of their fleet in decent detail. We’re looking at six to eight large carriers or cruisers.”

  “Origin?”

  Admiral Tully shrugged. “Not any design I’ve ever seen. Certainly not Swarm.”

  Yarbrough cast a glance back at Granger. “See?”

  “We know next to nothing about the latest Swarm technology, Admiral. It’s reckless to assume it’s not them just because it doesn’t look like their ships from seventy-five years ago.”

  “Are they aggressive?” said Yarbrough, turning back to Admiral Tully.

  “Still no long range comm signals out of Jupiter. Ganymede Station is silent, as is Callisto Depot. Hell, the only way we knew they showed up was from an old scientific satellite in high-Jupiter geosynchronous orbit that was out of range of whatever jamming signal they’ve got going on.”

  “What do our defenses look like here?” asked Granger.

  “Lunar Base is no sitting duck, Captain. Plus we’ve got a dozen ships sitting out there in honor of the Constitution’s decommissioning. The Qantas, the Clyburne, the Petain. If this is Swarm, and if they’re anything like the ships from last time, they don’t stand a chance against us.” Admiral Tully smiled smugly.