by Peter Grant
The Stones of Silence
Cochrane’s Company: Book One
Peter Grant
Sedgefield Press
Copyright © 2018 by Peter Grant. All rights reserved.
Cover art and design by Stephen Beaulieu
https://www.facebook.com/BeaulisticBookServices/
This book is dedicated
to my friend and fellow author
LARRY CORREIA,
who encouraged me to get started
on my own writing career,
and supported my fledgling efforts
with enthusiasm. Thanks, buddy!
Contents
1. Intruders
2. Dilemma
3. The Team
4. First Steps
5. Grand Larceny
6. The Dragon’s Lair
7. Hopscotch
8. First Blood
9. Change Of Delivery
10. A New Threat
11. Innovation
12. Interlude
13. A Miner, Mined
14. Tracing The Enemy
15. Discovery
16. On The Run
17. Enemies And Allies
18. Negotiation
19. Retaliation
20. Preparation
21. Confrontation
22. Girding Loins
Excerpt from “An Airless Storm”
About The Author
Books by Peter Grant
1
Intruders
MYCENAE SYSTEM
“There it is!” The console operator’s voice was hushed as she bent over her radar screen.
“Bearing? Range?” the skipper demanded.
“Bearing 020:005, range fifty thousand.” She frowned. “They’re idjits t’ leave ’spensive hardware swanning around out here wi’out protection. They’re ’bout to lose a small fortune!”
The older man shrugged as he adjusted the controls to aim directly at their target. “A fortune for us, p’rhaps, but pocket change to them. Besides, they can’t afford to spend too much on local security yet. Until they get title to this system, free an’ clear, it might be money down the drain; so, they’re takin’ a chance wi’out it. That’s about to bite ’em in the ass, but if it was us, we might take that chance, too. I dessay they figure it’s worth th’ risk t’ get a head start.”
“We’re gonna take their head start away from them,” the console operator retorted. “They might’ve gotten away with it ’gainst low-tech smugglers or pirates, but not ’gainst fleet-grade hardware like ours.”
“Watch out with that military talk, even in here! Remember, as far as anyone else knows, we’re s’posed to be just pirates ’r smugglers. If word gets out who we really are, they’ll hear it on Rousay sooner or later, an’ then there’ll be hell to pay.”
She snorted. “It’s only you and I in here, Chief! Who else is gonna hear a word we say?”
“Dammit, May, use y’r blasted head! If you watch your mouth all the time, you don’t have to worry ’bout whether it’s safe to talk. If Security heard you, they’d pound all over you – and on me, too, f’r lettin’ you babble! What if they snuck a recorder in here, t’ listen for that kind o’ loose talk?”
She frowned, then sighed. “I s’pose you’re right. Sorry, boss. I guess we’d better run our own security scan, to catch any recorders ’fore we dock with the ship.”
“You got that right!” The man fumed silently for a moment, then added, “Tell the boys to suit up. Let’s grab us a satellite.”
He directed the cargo shuttle into position alongside the satellite, hanging in geostationary orbit over the virgin planet below. Four spacers emerged from the shuttle’s open doors, clinging to the handholds of a maintenance sled as it sped across the few hundred meters separating the shuttle from its new neighbor. Their expert hands and tools made short work of the connections holding the solar power arrays to the satellite. One by one, the external components were towed across to the shuttle and into its cavernous cargo bay, where they were secured.
When the pilot was satisfied, he directed the shuttle in a series of slow, carefully judged maneuvers toward the denuded satellite. Her massive cargo doors gaped even wider as she enfolded it, seeming almost to suck it into her maw like a giant shark eating a smaller fish, whole and entire. The spacers used the cargo bay’s tractor and pressor beams to position it over a set of cradles, then tied it down with nets of plasfiber webbing. At last one of them reported over the radio, “She’s secure, boss.”
“Good work. Everything and everyone inside?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Dumbass! What about the maintenance sled?”
“Aw, shit!” Chagrin was audible in the junior NCO’s voice. “Sorry, boss. Hold on – we’ll get it.”
The Chief Petty Officer pilot watched as the spacers used a tractor beam to snare the drifting sled, pulling it inside the cargo doors and securing it. “Everyone back into the crew quarters,” he warned. “Soon as you’re in, I’ll close the cargo doors, then we’ll go hunt the other two birds.” A series of muttered acknowledgments from his crew answered him.
As the cargo shuttle moved away, passing around the equator of the planet toward the second of the constellation of three survey satellites, the cessation of signals from the first satellite alerted a monitoring station on the planet’s biggest moon that something had gone awry. It powered up additional sensors around the moon’s equator. They recorded the emissions from the cargo shuttle’s gravitic drive as it scooped up the other two satellites in the array, then tracked it back to the larger ship from which it had come. Other signals sped from the monitoring station to sensors on the moons of two other planets, hundreds of millions of kilometers away. They were sent over laser tight-beam channels, that could not be detected or intercepted except in a direct line between the transmitting and receiving stations. The distant sensors were already monitoring the binary star system in general. Now they, too, began paying closer attention to developments around the fourth planet from the major star.
That accomplished, the carefully camouflaged monitoring station adjusted another tight-beam dish, aiming it at a communications satellite beyond the system boundary, over a billion kilometers from the star around which it orbited. It sent an update, and kept the channel open. There would be more signals soon.
The cargo shuttle reversed slowly into the docking bay of its mother ship, pulled gently by tractor beams, nudged hither and yon by pressor beams, lining up precisely with the rails of its assigned airlock. The rails slid into their waiting tracks and locked down, then a concertina airlock extended from the ship’s hull and mated with the collar around the shuttle’s crew compartment hatch. A light above it flickered from red to green, indicating that pressures had been equalized and the airlock was now safe to use.
Chief Petty Officer Lawson shut down the cargo shuttle’s systems, then followed his crew into the docking bay foyer. He dismissed them to their quarters with a word of thanks, then hurried up the high-speed walkway in the center of the main passage, heading for the Operations Center. He drew himself to attention before the Command console.
“We got ’em all, sir. No problems.”
Commander Lamprey looked up alertly. “There were just the three satellites? No others keeping a sneaky eye on things?”
“Not in orbit ’round this planet, sir, or any o’ its moons. We took a real careful look with our radar. I dunno ’bout the other planets in the system, o’ course.”
“Of course, but I don’t expect to find any there. Surveillance satellites are very expensive. I doubt NOE could afford to spend that kind
of money up front, with no guarantee of a return.” He thought for a moment. “Very well, Chief. Carry on.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
As the senior NCO turned on his heel and left the OpCen, Lamprey turned to his Executive Officer. “What d’ye think, Aidan?”
Lieutenant-Commander Macaskill shrugged. “I agree with you, sir. I don’t see how NOE could afford to plant surveillance satellites elsewhere. Another thing, sir. We crept into this system under silent running, taking weeks for the transit, so they wouldn’t detect our arrival; but if they’ve got nothing apart from the three satellites we’ve just captured, they won’t notice our departure.”
“You’re right.” Lamprey rose to his feet. “Tell the Navigator to plot a direct course for home, and get us to the system boundary at maximum cruise. No sense in hanging around. Let’s get our loot back to base, where the experts can look at it.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The monitoring station recorded the gravitic drive signature of the larger ship as it turned and headed for the system boundary, accelerating at a rate no merchant freighter could match. It listened as the other sensors reported in from their distant locations, and merged their input to arrive at the ship’s precise course and speed. It sent regular updates to the far distant communications satellite as the visiting vessel sped away, culminating in the unmistakable gravitic emission signature of a hyper-jump as soon as it had crossed the system boundary.
The artificial intelligence system running the monitoring station consulted the timetable it had downloaded when it was installed. The next visit from its owners should take place within two weeks. It prepared a full report on what it had observed, and uploaded it; then it put itself and the sensors around the system into standby mode, awaiting further instructions.
The sensors and robotic vehicles on the planet below, whether flying or crawling, continued with their assigned missions. They could no longer pass the data they gathered to the orbiting satellites, but they could store months of it in their own memory circuits. Sooner or later, someone would be along to milk them of all that they’d learned.
CALLANISH
Three weeks later, a string of curses blighted the atmosphere in a conference room on a planet many light-years distant. The four listeners seated around the table winced as the speaker gave vent to his frustrations.
“Is it possible Commander Lamprey’s technicians were mistaken?” one of them inquired in a carefully neutral voice.
“No, dammit! That’s the first thing I had Maconachie check. There’s no doubt about it. The satellites’ memory storage banks were scrubbed clean every day, by design, after sending all their data to a monitoring station somewhere nearby, probably on one of Mycenae Primus Four’s moons. Next time we visit there, we’ll have to look for it – but I’ve no doubt it’ll be well concealed. Those bastards at NOE have some good people advising them.”
“So, we still don’t know what, if anything, they’ve found on Primus Four?” another asked.
“No, we don’t. That’s where they’ve concentrated their initial survey, so there must be something worthwhile there, but what it is, we don’t know – yet.”
“And the other sites in the system?” a third listener queried.
“None of them have orbiting satellites to collect data, so we reckon they’re lower priority than Primus Four.”
A long silence fell, as the group considered their options.
“Is it worth sending Colomb back to look for the monitoring station?” the first questioner asked at last.
“She’s leaving for Goheung next week. She’ll spend six months in the orbital dockyard there while they upgrade her systems, revamp her workshops and install new gear. She’ll be the next best thing to a brand-new ship by the time she gets back.”
“It’ll take NOE that long to build and deploy new satellites, so we can send her to snatch them when she gets back,” another observed. “Still, that might be risky if they suspect what we’re up to.”
The group’s leader looked at him angrily. “Not once in a generation does an opportunity like this come along. I’m willing to chance NOE’s anger if we can skim off the cream before they find out what we’re doing. With that in our bank account, we’ll have the last laugh!”
“But… what if they upgrade their system security before we can do that?”
“With what? It’ll cost them billions to do it properly, and they don’t have that much yet. They haven’t raised enough from investors. Rousay’s government won’t let them use its warships to secure Mycenae – they don’t have enough of them. We’re delaying their application for exclusive rights every way we can, but they’ve got the gelt to grease the right palms at the United Planets. Sooner or later, they’ll get it, and that’ll bring in more investors. With their money, NOE will sew up the Mycenae system tighter than a rat’s arsehole; but before then, we’ll have located the richest deposits – with their help, the stupid fools! – and grabbed as much as we can. We’ll be gone before they can afford proper system security.”
“And if they find out what we’re up to?”
“Then we’ll spit in their eye and dare them to do something about it! Our government will back us. They’re already having wet dreams at the thought of all the tax revenue they’ll milk us for, and they know Rousay won’t go to war for NOE. That’s why they allowed us to use Colomb last time, and they’ll let us use her again, if need be, when she gets back. As a warship, even an auxiliary, she carries more clout than just another merchant freighter. She can browbeat any civilian security setup, if she has to – and that’s all NOE can possibly afford out there for at least the next year or two.”
“So, we aren’t going to send one of our freighters to look for that monitoring station?”
“No. Let’s wait until NOE’s installed new satellites, then we can snatch them and the monitoring station at the same time. I want to cost them as much money as we possibly can. If we can bankrupt the bastards, so much the better!” The speaker suddenly looked more cheerful. “In fact, we’ll sell the first three satellites at Medusa, or another planet that won’t ask too many questions. Survey birds are very expensive. Even at stolen-goods prices, we should get enough for them to buy a couple of fast freighters. We’ll need them to carry what we’re going to steal from Mycenae under NOE’s nose, as soon as their own surveys show us where to send our thieves!”
For the first time since the meeting began, his audience laughed.
2
Dilemma
ROUSAY
Cochrane took advantage of the elevator ride to straighten his uniform jacket, tug the sleeves of his shirt out through its cuffs to just the right length, and make sure his mirror-polished shoes had not been scuffed during the security check. He was ready and waiting by the time the elevator reached the top floor. He walked to the security desk.
“I’m Captain Andrew Cochrane. I have an appointment with Mr. Marwick at eleven.”
The security officer checked his log. “You’re listed, sir. I’ll have Dando escort you to his suite.”
Dando proved to be a younger guard, looking rather like one of the many recruits Cochrane had helped shape and form into spacers over the years. He scurried down the corridor ahead of him, looking back over his shoulder to make sure the Captain was keeping pace, and led him into the open door of a spacious corner suite.
“Captain Cochrane to see Mr. Marwick,” he announced officiously.
“Very well. Return to your duties.”
The secretary’s response was haughty and unfeeling, Cochrane noted, as the young man nodded jerkily and backed out. She was doubtless a First Families descendant, just like her boss, although surely the offspring of a rather lower-ranking ancestor than his. She didn’t bother to look up at the visitor, but kept on with her work, making it clear without words that she was his social superior, despite his senior rank and her nominally lower position.
“Take a seat, Captain. Mr. Marwick is slightly delayed. H
e’ll be along shortly.”
He didn’t thank her. She wouldn’t have cared whether he did or not, anyway. He sat down silently in a corner, from where he could observe all those passing in the corridor outside through the open suite door.
The sound of voices heralded the appearance of a small group from the elevator foyer. The secretary looked up from her desk, suddenly alert, and stood. The visitor took his cue from her, also coming to his feet as three men and two women entered the anteroom.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Marwick,” she said, pasting a bright smile onto her face.
“Hello, Marti,” the oldest man said, his voice a low, weary growl. He glanced at the man in the corner. “Captain Cochrane?” He didn’t offer his hand as he ran his eyes over the tall, ascetic-looking visitor.
“Yes, Mr. Marwick.”
“Our previous meeting ran over time.” He shook his head, obviously irritated. “Those of us in business may say that ‘time is money’, but as far as Ministers of State are concerned, it’s not their money, so they don’t feel any pressing need to be punctual.” He indicated the woman standing next to him. “This is Marissa Stone, another member of our Board of Directors. She’ll be joining us this morning.”
“Ms. Stone,” the Captain acknowledged with a nod.
