Outriders

by Ian Blackport

Chapter 6

  Taylor stared through the viewport and felt his lip curl upward in a sneer. He could almost imagine the unpleasant stench wafting off this foul world, its rotten surface a mixture of sickly brown terrain and toxic seas. These were the locales humans had no business claiming, yet governments showed a maddening propensity to hoard them.

  “This is Erimon?” questioned Taylor. “What an ugly, godforsaken planet. Wish I knew what the Elathan government sees in this place. Surely there’s a more picturesque world to plant their flag.”

  “Maybe they’re hoping it’ll become a garden world in a few million years?” suggested Connor.

  “Long-term real estate investment, huh? Then I’ve got my fingers crossed the scheme pays dividends for their hundred thousand times great-grandchildren.”

  Alexis whooped in triumph and pumped one fist. “Got it.”

  “Compiled the distress message?” asked Rinko. “That’s my girl.”

  “Not a long recording, but we can listen to the entire thing. Want me to play it?”

  Taylor lifted one forefinger in a manner befitting a patient schoolteacher. Or at least he assumed professors gestured in a similar way; he never attended any schools, so it was basically guesswork. “Hold that thought for a moment. Let’s be courteous and summon the little warmongers. I’d hate for them to sulk or shoot us in the back after learning they were excluded.” Taylor opened a channel through their starship from one console and cleared his throat. “Attention jackass stowaways. You’re wanted on the bridge for a brief conference. Bring your choice of wine.” He closed the channel and crossed his legs.

  “We should seal them into the lounge and vent its atmosphere,” Kyla said.

  “Let’s put a pin in that suggestion and revisit at a later date.”

  “We aren’t a damn taxi service. Especially for spooks liable to get us killed.”

  “We also aren’t coldblooded killers looking to settle a vendetta,” retorted Taylor. “Not before we know what they’re hoping to achieve.”

  “I’m not risking our ship for their cause.”

  “On that much we agree.”

  Taylor turned when he heard footfalls climbing the stairs and greeted the spies with an entirely unwelcoming smile.

  “Your juvenile antics are tiring,” Harun declared.

  “I suppose I could take inspiration from you and just threaten to murder everyone instead,” replied Taylor.

  The major exhaled a weary sigh and gritted his teeth. “Have you deciphered the distress signal, or are you only in the mood to be churlish?”

  “We have the message. Alexis, do your typing thing, if you please. The one that makes stubborn computers compliant.”

  “You mean hit play? Sure thing, boss.”

  Alexis flicked her fingertip over a holographic screen at her station and commenced the recording. White noise rustled for several seconds until a woman’s voice emerged. The words were shaky yet resilient, spoken by someone grasping for strength deep within herself.

  “This is Flight Lieutenant Clara Aylett of the Elathan Combined Starfleet Commission. I am the sole survivor of Corsair Squadron after an engagement with unidentified hostiles in the Tethra system.”

  “Jesus Christ,” whispered Tessa.

  Taylor snapped his fingers at Alexis and she brought her scanners online, hunting this region of space for signs of enemy starships while the broadcast continued.

  A faint waver seizing Lieutenant Aylett’s voice steadied as she focused on matters related to her own survival, rather than horrific memories. “They have disabled the navy’s listening installation on Erimon for unknown reasons. My ship’s inducing actuator is damaged and I’m unable to enter faster-than-light travel. The aggressors remain within this system and might intercept this communication, so I cannot give you my current location. If any rescue vessel arrives, please broadcast on an open channel, because my encrypt/decrypt software isn’t functioning. I’ll transmit my location at that point, once I have assurances of who you are. Please hurry.”

  Hissing static echoed from the speakers until clicking to silence, leaving only a suffocating mood suffusing the bridge. An entire starfighter squadron, crewed by highly trained and gifted professionals armed with the most advanced and capable weaponry available, annihilated with scarcely a trace. The thought of an adversary achieving this with impunity chilled Taylor to the bone.

  “Are your long-range sensors detecting the presence of hostiles?” questioned Harun.

  “Nothing,” answered Alexis. “We’re the only blip I can see. No propulsion core emissions either. Whoever those ships were, they’re gone.”

  “I want Flight Lieutenant Aylett found and recovered. Can you determine her position?”

  “Her broadcast originated on Erimon’s moon Orna. She was there more than a day ago, but I can’t tell you where she is now.”

  Harun stepped beyond Alexis, his stern features staring through the forward viewport. “Rosenbaum, pilot us a course to the moon. We’ll begin our search from there.”

  Connor raised his eyebrows in Taylor’s direction, who silently nodded approval. Their pilot brought dormant engines online and altered trajectory away from Erimon, cruising toward a solitary moon with craggy pockmarks.

  “Start transmitting an unencrypted message on all spectrums and frequencies,” Harun instructed. “She needs to know we’re here and willing to help.”

  *

  Distorted static crackled through an open communication channel and pierced her solitude. Clara lowered one leg she had propped on a console and shifted in the chair, stretching her sore neck. It was not uncommon for an active channel to receive garbled signals from distant reaches of space, some originating decades earlier. Communication software usually filtered out unwanted, jumbled noise, though Clara calibrated her computer to gather all messages in the hopes of finding rescue.

  “—hailing Lieutenant Aylett of Corsair Squadron.” The voice belonged to a man, confident and sturdy, though without a hardened edge and leaning toward boredom. “I say again, we’re hailing Lieutenant Aylett of Corsair Squadron. Are you receiving?”

  Clara snapped to attention and brought her Marauder’s scanning suite online. “Chirpy, what’ve you got?”

  I DETECT HEAT SIGNATURES FROM A LONE STARSHIP, ALONG WITH LONG-RANGE SURVEILLANCE SENSORS.

  “I’m not reading multiple signals either, and the specifications are larger than a single-seat starfighter. Whoever they are, it’s not our attackers.”

  THIS TRANSMISSION DOES NOT ORIGINATE ON A MILITARY CHANNEL. ITS CHARACTERISTICS SIGNIFY A CIVILIAN CLASS OF STARSHIP.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Clara replied. “I’ll take a pirate or Confederacy warship at this point.” She activated her Marauder communication systems and switched to the same frequency. “I’m here.”

  “I was beginning to think we had the wrong coordinates,” the stranger responded. “Or that you were already gone.”

  Hearing another voice did wonders for her frayed state of mind, though not enough to abandon caution. “Who am I speaking to?”

  “Captain Taylor MacDowell of the independent Stingray-class freighter Solar Flare. Are you the one who sent the distress beacon through Ethniu?”

  SIGNAL CONSISTENT WITH THIS CLASS OF LIGHT FREIGHTER.

  “That was me.”

  “I don’t pretend to know how you rigged the message to bounce off that satellite, or how my own tech folks yanked it back out, but I understand enough to realize you’re mighty desperate. And plenty fortunate as it happens, since we barely noticed the transmission.”

  “Did you receive my message in the Cethlenn or Tuatha systems?”

  “I don’t reckon the signal reached either,” answered Taylor. “We happened to be in this system while readying for a jump elsewhere. We’re likely the only ones who know you’re here.”

  “Where are you currently?”

  “Orbiting Orna at ten thousand klicks. My people tell me you’re in the vicinity, but can’
t pinpoint it more.”

  “Relatively close, I suppose.”

  “Your starfighter functional?”

  “Functional enough,” Clara explained. “Except for my malfunctioning inducing actuator.”

  “Yeah, that’ll do the trick. So are we likely to send pleasantries back and forth for a while, or are you keen to have us come take a closer look and see what can be done?”

  “I need proof of who you are before I give my location.”

  “Paranoid, are you? Look, I’m doing someone a favor by coming all the way out here. But if you’d rather run out of oxygen or freeze to death, that’s not my concern. Have a pleasant day.”

  Clara heard a scuffing noise, and what sounded to her like an exasperated groan, before a new voice echoed in her cockpit. “This is Major Harun al-Ajlani of the Elathan Security and Intelligence Service, serial number 8334921. Is your shipboard computer functional?”

  She paused, fearful this might be a ploy. “Yes.”

  “I’m transmitting my verification codes.”

  Data scrolled over her monitor and a delighted squeak emerged from Chirpy.

  I HAVE AUTHENTICATED HIS CODES. THEY ARE GENUINE.

  “God, am I glad to hear from you, sir.” She felt relief flooding through her weary body, scarcely wanting to believe rescue might finally be here. “I’m sending my location now.”

  A different voice came through on the frequency, this one belonging to a woman. “I’ve got her. Cineth Basin in Orna’s Arid Headlands. Putting the coordinates on your console, Connor.”

  “Major, my Marauder is operational. I can meet you in orbit and dock on your freighter with magnetic clamps.”

  “Negative, Lieutenant,” responded al-Ajlani. “Has the integrity of your flight suit been compromised?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Power down all systems and exit your starfighter. We’re bringing our freighter to land on the canyon floor.”

  “I don’t understand, Major. Docking in orbit would be much easier.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible. We’re conducting a classified operation. Traveling with a Marauder clamped to our hull would spoil the whole thing.”

  “I only need passage back to the Tuatha system, sir. Once I’m in range of Elatha I can be out of your hands and get myself planetside.”

  A delay answered her statement, enough to cause a nervous flutter in Clara’s stomach. His verification codes might be legitimate, but something felt wrong.

  “It’d be best if you came aboard before we speak,” Major al-Ajlani replied. “Even in the short time you’ve been out of touch, much has happened.”

  ARE YOU CERTAIN IT IS WISE TO TRUST THIS VESSEL AND ITS OCCUPANTS?

  “What choice do I have?” Clara muttered.

  “What was that?” questioned al-Ajlani. “I didn’t catch your last transmission.”

  “I said, I’ll meet you on the ground, sir.”

  “Affirmative. Major al-Ajlani out.”

  The communication switched off and Clara slumped in her chair, reaching for the flight helmet propped on one console. “That was strange.”

  WHAT COURSE DO YOU WISH TO TAKE?

  “His verification codes were authentic. Whatever is happening, this is my only option.” She yanked her helmet on, secured vacuum seals and activated the flight suit’s tactical and communication protocols. “Shut down life support and deactivate systems.”

  I CANNOT COME WITH YOU.

  “No.” Clara felt a strange ache in her chest at the thought of abandoning her last squadmate. “You can’t.”

  YOU ARE LEAVING ME.

  “I’m sorry, Chirpy. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  IF THIS IS THE ONLY WAY TO GUARANTEE YOUR SURVIVAL, I AM OKAY WITH THE DECISION.

  “I’ll come back for you, okay? I promise.”

  BE SAFE, CLARA.

  “You too. Power down all systems and go into recovery mode. Don’t respond to anyone or activate for any reason unless I transmit my personal clearance codes along with the passcode, ‘Good to see you again, Chirpy.’ Understand?”

  I WILL DO AS YOU ASK. BUT ONCE IN RECOVERY MODE I CANNOT REACTIVATE UNLESS AN OUTSIDE SIGNAL DOES SO FOR ME. YOUR CODE ALONE WILL TURN MY SYSTEMS ON ONCE MORE. IF YOU FAIL TO RETURN I WILL REMAIN HERE FOREVER AND BE UNABLE TO HELP YOU AGAIN. DON’T FORGET ME.

  “How could I ever forget you? The brave little virtual intelligence who helped save my life.”

  Consoles faded to black and the last systems disconnected, bathing the starfighter in cold darkness. Clara attuned her AugIris implant to low-light conditions and disengaged the lever controlling manual cockpit access. Whistling hydraulics hummed as the tempered glass canopy lifted and Clara climbed from her seat and hopped over the ledge. Maneuvering jets ignited on her suit and she gently coasted to the surface several meters below.

  She activated her flight suit’s wrist-mounted display and selected the data for her Marauder. “Flight Lieutenant Clara Aylett, authentication code Corsair-L570B31-49106. Seal starfighter hatch and trigger safeguards.”

  Clara turned away as the canopy shut, leaving her Marauder hidden in a forgotten crevasse beneath the surface of an uninhabited moon. She navigated craggy rock formations and triggered bursts from her jets to cross inhospitable terrain. The low-gravity environment made traversal less taxing at least. Reaching the edge of this fissure, Clara stepped into an expansive gorge broad enough to land a freighter. She activated the emergency short-range distress beacon on her flight suit, which would light up her position on any nearby sensors like festive decorations.

  A starship swooped low above the canyon overhead with blaring searchlights radiating through the darkness. Dust and microscopic rock fragments whirled beneath the freighter’s thrust nozzles as it decelerated and descended into the chasm depths. Not surprisingly, the ship resembled a sleek stingray, with wings running the entire length of its rectangular fuselage and narrowing to a triangular tip. A raised bridge sat slightly starboard of the center line and two nacelles extended from the stern. The hull was a discolored brown shade and bore scarring from plasma weaponry.

  Clara waited for the unknown starship to settle, linked her helmet’s targeting suite to her holstered sidearm and carefully walked closer.

  Chapter 7

  “Our newest passenger is onboard and looks to be in good health,” Kyla announced via the intercom. Her voice echoed through the bridge as she brought Lieutenant Aylett into their cargo hold and sealed its airlock. “Considering the shit storm she’s gone through lately.”

  “Happy to hear,” responded Taylor, eyeing the wretched world of Erimon beyond their viewport. “Get her equipment stashed, give her a medical examination and confiscate her weapons. Turn the screws a little if she doesn’t want to behave. We’re the kind souls who rescued her from certain death, etcetera.”

  “She’s only a starfighter jockey. We all know flyboys and gals don’t have much fight in them. Kyla out.”

  “Meh,” Connor murmured. “She’s not wrong.”

  Taylor closed the channel and was unsurprised to find annoyance coloring Harun’s habitually uninteresting face. Tessa naturally looked angry and ready to toss out threats like usual; she needed more variety in her expressions.

  “You don’t have the authorization to take weapons from our people,” Harun declared.

  “You better believe I do. No one is armed on this starship unless they have my blessing.”

  “She’s an Elathan pilot—”

  “So she claims,” Taylor rebuked. “Only trouble is we have no evidence beyond her story. You gave us your authorization. She didn’t. I won’t have some unknown lass plucked off a barren planet spreading a tale of woe and strolling around my ship armed. Until we know who she is, no weapons and no privacy. So unless you have her service record tucked in your pants, this is how we conduct business. If you have a problem with that, find another starship.”

  Harun chewed his lip as he pondered and nodd
ed. “Since I have no doubt we’ll verify her claims, I can make this temporary concession.”

  “Wasn’t waiting for your permission.” Taylor turned and cast a scowl at craters marring the moon’s surface. “Connor, take us away from this neglected slice of space while Alexis charts a way out.”

  “Have a preference?” she asked.

  “Find me an empty system, and I damn well mean empty. No warring independent worlds, no Confederacy outposts, and no miserable tourists gawking at colorful gases and nebulae. I want a remote, forgotten system so we can regroup and determine what in the fiery pits of hell is happening. And you,” Taylor said, jabbing a finger at Harun. “Come with me.”

  The captain descended stairs, passed crew quarters and strode toward their lounge, though turned right down a hallway before reaching it. He halted midway to their galley and folded his arms while Harun leaned against the corridor wall.

  “Something on your mind, Captain?”

  “Damn straight. Might not have entered your thoughts, since government tools like yourself love doing whatever pleases them, but this entire recruitment is illegal. It’s unlawful in Confederacy space, and I know for a fact it’s unlawful on Elatha, too. You can confiscate our freighter and use legal chicanery to transfer it to the war effort, though we have the right to challenge that decision in court, but you have no authority to forcefully conscript its crew. None of us are Elathan citizens.”

  “A curious amount of legal knowledge for a band of smugglers,” said Harun.

  “We skirt the law on a regular basis. Turns out the way to be most effective is to know what those laws are and how best to circumvent them.”

  “Doesn’t this complaint strike you as marginally hypocritical, coming from someone who by your own admission routinely flouts the law? But that’s the intriguing aspect about legalities. Laws are perfectly adequate during peacetime, though I have found their limitations irksome on more than one occasion. But during war? Conflict has the tendency to muddle and fog rules of conduct, to blur the distinction between lawful and prohibited.”

  “That’s how you want to defend enlisting us?” Taylor questioned. “This is war, we can do what we want?”