by Blaze Ward
“Acknowledged,” Phil called instead. “Stand by for powered flight.”
“Slowly, please?” Tuason added. “We’re cold back there right now, so slamming it to the stops might break something.”
“Will do, Tuason,” Phil nodded to Siobhan. “Let Bok and Kam know.”
Phil cut the line and glanced over at his Second Officer.
He could almost hear the grumbles from here, but they were probably only in her head. For now.
Still, he almost laughed out loud when she demurely pressed a single button on the screen with exaggerated care, like this was a training demonstration or something. Her eyeroll was just as perfect.
“Powered flight initiated,” she said with enough sarcasm to polish steel. “Dead reckoning away. Do we have a course?”
“Negative, Pilot,” Phil replied. “Get us moving away from them as quietly as we can.”
The hatch opened a second time and the blond-haired man Phil wanted to see came through, still bleary-eyed. Phil did the math in his head and assumed Centurion Evan Brinich had been dead sound asleep when the alarm sounded. He was carrying slippers in one hand and his tunic in the other, dropping both in a pile by his station as he sat and quickly started pushing buttons.
Phil agreed with the man’s assessment of the situation, even half asleep. Get to the bridge first, even in just an undershirt and pants. Get dressed later.
On his personal board, Heather Lau’s face appeared at about the same time, coffee mug in hand, taking a sip. Knowing her, she had been in her cabin doing paperwork, but had made good time to the Emergency Bridge. And she wasn’t nearly as tired-looking as Brinich.
Unlike other vessels, Phil Kosnett felt the place for the First Officer was forward, on the Emergency Bridge, where she could immediately take command if something happened to him aft on the Main Bridge. Too many times he had heard horror stories about ships that were suddenly crippled by a bridge hit taking out the entire command staff, or at least cutting off all communications, leaving command to devolve to a poor, junior Centurion who had been relegated to the posting equivalent of Siberia.
Phil juggled his officers and team around, moving someone every week so that everyone got a chance to work with everyone else. A ship this small needed to be a single family, trained and prepared. And for him that included serving with every officer and every enlisted until he knew how they were going to jump.
Little scout corvettes like this had four Type-1-Pulse beam emplacements, two fore and two aft. Fantastic for defense against missiles and fighters, and pretty good when Buran warships decided to make a run right through the middle of the squadron.
On the other hand, instead of the usual Type-3-Extended beams at the far ends on other corvettes, his little scout had two massive sensor arrays, giving him eyes comparable to one of the galactic survey cruisers. And a punch like a two-week-old kitten.
But if that was a freighter over there, they were completely unarmed. The AI overlord Buran didn’t allow guns on any ship piloted solely by humans. Still, if he spotted CS-405 somehow, the area would be flooded with angry warships in a couple of days, at most.
“Sensors,” Phil said, after Brinich had a few moments to study everything. “What do we know?”
“As of an hour ago, they hadn’t see us,” he replied. “Or they assumed we were a rock, but if they could even see us from there, I’ll eat their cargo myself. Ship’s broadcasting navigational information on all channels, so I think we’re safe. Plus, they haven’t hopped over to inspect us.”
“That’s a civilian ship, Evan,” Siobhan snarked lightly. “They have to program their JumpDrive manually after each step. Probably be here four or five hours just figuring out where they are, from what I read in the intelligence summaries.”
“Passive sensors only,” Phil interrupted before the two of them started another sibling-rivalry-session. They were professionals, but could get a little out of hand occasionally, like his own kids, Yi Wen and Yong Sheng. “And keep us running away. Last thing we need is to be sitting here when a Megalodon shows up.”
Both nodded and subsided. They knew the score today. Undergunned, lost, and far from home.
“Phil,” Siobhan said after a beat. “I was just forward talking to Julius Gephardt about food. Do we need to think about turning pirate?”
“How far can we go on current consumables?” he asked.
“About three weeks before it gets dicey,” she replied. “That freighter should have a good supply of food. We might even get lucky and it’s hauling something we can eat in the cargo bay.”
“It’s probably oatmeal,” Evan turned and teased the Second Officer slyly.
Phil nearly fell out of his chair stifling a laugh, in spite of how dangerous the current situation was. Some crews got dark and quiet when things were like this. He had a crew of practical jokers and stand-up comedians.
Siobhan looked like she wanted to maybe kill and eat Evan. She might, if oatmeal was the alternative. The whole crew knew her opinion on that topic.
“Engineering, Kosnett again,” Phil pressed a comm button.
“Tuason, sir,” the watch yeoman replied instantly.
“Ask Kam and Bok if they could get the emergency JumpSail working for a short flight,” Phil ordered.
“How short, sir?”
“Fifty minutes RealSpace, Yeoman,” Phil said. “And then be prepared to run like hell if we need to after that.”
“Standby.”
“Confirm a light freighter over there,” Evan said into the silence. “Transponder’s unencrypted, but the manifest just lists general cargo without telling us details. And he’s going to need a full engine overhaul soon, looking at his output curve. Good enough to make it a couple more runs, but I’m guessing it’s a private ship with razor-thin margins and he’s pushing his hardware as hard as he dares.”
“We all are, Evan,” Phil said, waiting.
“Phil, this is Kam,” the Chief Engineer came on the line. “Bok says he might be able to get you the first thirty seconds of flight, but we’ll need several hours after that to start a rebuild. Is it worth it?”
Good question.
On the one hand, fresh intel on what Buran’s folks knew, which was probably nothing, since this ship had been pointed towards Severnaya Zemlya. Most likely, they didn’t know about the raid. Against that, there was the possibility of extra food, which was likely to be the first issue they ran into, going forward.
Downside, the risk of getting there just as that ship was ready to jump, and they got away, screaming about redcoats coming. The colonial militia wouldn’t take long to return.
Phil considered that they could try to raid one of the smaller colonies on the way home, but that same militia would have sent warning everywhere about the raid. And since Jessica had launched two big strikes, back to back, the locals would be skittish. And he only had a tiny crew.
“It’s necessary,” Phil decided. “I’ll need one of your techs and a Damage Control team to go over with the Dragoon, Kam. We’ll figure out after that if we need a prize crew or we just scuttle it. Hopefully, those folks are insured by Buran against the big, bad wolf.”
Resolute Revolution (Day 95, Common Era 13,449)
Lan was the better astrogator, so he normally calculated the jumps that took Resolute Revolution to the next port. However Kiel had asked him to cook dinner tonight, a task she usually handled, because she needed to perform some emergency maintenance on a worn generator.
Resolute Revolution was old. It had already proudly served two generations of merchants before Lan and Kiel were able to buy the vessel, nearly seven years ago now. Keeping the ship flying was frequently more an act of love for the old hardware than cold calculation of profit.
They could probably afford to sell this transport to the next generation of youngsters, just setting out, and buy themselves a new, or at least newer vessel. At forty-four years standard, and Kiel’s forty-seven, they had talked. One more run to the se
ctor capital and then home, and they probably would do just that.
They were not rich, not even wealthy, but they had done well enough for themselves, and provided the Lord of Winter with four, strong children. They could look forward to an era of not working themselves into exhaustion to make a profit. Perhaps even take the occasional vacation.
In the past, their only holidays had been to haul the by-chance, paying customer between stars, sharing tales of places they had been and sights they had seen.
Maybe they needed to buy a vessel that could haul several passengers, next time. Haul less cargo and more people, so they didn’t get too lonely or withdrawn as they fast-approached the magical, middle-point of fifty years old. He made a mental note to ask Kiel her thoughts, after she finished cleaning up.
The kitchen was small, as befit an old vessel like Resolute Revolution. Just enough space for one person to work effectively, while the second stood across the small bar where the two of them normally ate their meals together.
Lan had just pulled a casserole from the oven when the proximity alarm sounded.
He stood there, bewildered for a moment, trying to make sense of the sound. The ship was not under thrust. And they were still at least two jumps away from the sector capital.
What in the world might be getting close to them? The scanners had shown nothing moving with any vector that threatened them.
Still, the alarm would continue to sound, growing progressively louder, until he clambered up to the bridge to disable it and dealt with whatever problem the old systems had identified. Probably a wiring fault, again.
And he was holding a casserole dish in one hand, still steaming with the last of the fresh vegetables from Surgut.
Lan wavered for a second longer, and then turned the stove off, opened the door, and slid the dish back in. It would remain warm enough, but hopefully not overcook.
He raced forward, climbing the stairs to the cockpit from which he could see to land.
Winded, he hurriedly checked the scan while he activated the pitiful power absorbers and prepared to turn the thrusters to full power. Lan assumed a dark rock he had missed on the first pass, one that had snuck up on him over the last two hours while he prepared dinner and Kiel fixed things.
The radio light was blinking.
He was being hailed?
By whom?
Lan activated the scanners and sent a ping outward.
His jaw dropped open as the signal appeared. Right on top of him, almost. Dead stop relative, but close enough to have set off the proximity alarms?
No, there was a smaller signal, coming closer. A shuttle?
The light blinked.
“Hello?” Lan said into it, still at a loss for what he was seeing on the screen.
“This is the Imperial Fribourg Fleet,” a woman’s voice announced gravely. “You will heave to and prepare to be boarded.”
“What?”
“You are now a prisoner of war, Sri,” the woman continued. “Surrender or you will be destroyed.”
“What are you talking about?” Lan cried. “This is a civilian cargo ship.”
On the screen, everything went bright white for a second as that other ship fired a single beam weapon. It missed, but not by much. And with neither of them moving, Lan understood the warning for what it is.
“Fine,” Lan announced. “We surrender. The airlock is aft and port, just ahead of the bay doors. Try not to break anything. We were just sitting down to dinner.”
“What’s for dinner?” another woman’s voice chimed in.
Lan was even more confused now. Dinner? Were these barbarians hungry, too? What was the universe coming to?
“Rockfish,” Lan finally sputtered. “With vegetables in a cheese sauce with panko. Who are you people?”
“We’re the Fribourg Empire, Resolute Revolution,” the first woman growled. “The boarding party will join you shortly. Are there any crew besides the two of you?”
“What? No,” Lan barked. “What’s this all about?”
“We’re taking you and your ship prisoner, Sri,” she answered. “We will be boarding with guns shortly.”
“Fine,” Lan cut the line.
He stewed for a second before he opened the intercom, unsure where his spouse was at, right this moment.
“Kiel, dearest,” he said. “Could you join me in the kitchen? I think we’re having company for dinner.”
Invasion (April 4, 402)
Dragoon on a Scout Corvette had not been Trinidad Mildon’s dream, growing up. Not even in the top one hundred options. He had wanted to be an actor. Had studied the dramatic arts, both stage and music. Was all set to be a leading man, until he stopped growing at one hundred seventy-two centimeters. Short for a guy. Still a nickel taller than the Boatswain, but Bok was the only man in the crew Trinidad could say that about.
However, part of being an actor was training for action roles. Learning how to fight with hands and guns. Turned out he was way better at that part, although he could still cry on command.
Somehow, he had ended up teaching other actors how to do it. The shooting and punching bits. And gotten in with a group of retired navy folks doing the same thing. Listening to their stories of when they had been kids. One thing led to another.
Which was how he found himself at the airlock hatch to a Buran freighter, armored up in a combat suit with a pulse pistol in hand, surrounded by three of his people and a couple of others, about to technically invade a foreign country.
In the back of his mind, Trinidad found himself waiting for the director to yell Action.
“Boarding team, no change in status,” Heather Lau said over the secured comm. “Two life signatures forward from you, same deck. Nothing else. Not even rats.”
“Roger that, Tactical,” Trinidad replied.
One last glance around to make sure everyone was ready, getting nods. Nakisha had a ram, in case they needed to shatter a door lock. Vlad and Gerry had pistols like him.
Time to get serious.
Trinidad reached up and turned on the spots on both sides of his helmet. Lights.
He checked the recording and transmission gear. Camera.
Trinidad keyed the external override on the airlock, once it agreed that the pressure inside had equalized. Action.
Muted beeping as the door opened outward into the shuttle’s airlock. Trinidad had the pistol in his left hand, and his right hand, the blocker, free, just in case there was a fighting robot or something on the other side of the door. His job would be to stop it long enough for Nakisha to blow it to pieces with her pulse rifle.
Nothing.
Well, dingy. Just like one of those bad vids he had been an extra in, once upon a time. Not enough lighting. Walls that had been painted a long time ago, but were fading to rusty bland now.
He wondered if it would smell like mold, or fresh paint and newly-cut lumber, like a movie set, if he opened his faceplate to sniff the air. Maybe later. Gas attacks were always an option in defending tight corridors. That was why his team were in combat suits. Full life support, and reasonable armor against surprises.
Still, nothing.
Trinidad poked his head out and looked both ways. Central corridor, right down the spine, from his guess. The airlock was pretty deep, so all the cabins were probably the same depth and this one had just had an outer hatch added.
Aft, a closed hatch across the corridor that felt like the engine room. According to Evan Brinich, the cargo deck ran the whole length of the ship, just below this, with hatches at both ends to allow smooth loading and unloading. And it was currently several degrees below freezing down there.
He turned and stepped out of the airlock, facing forward. More dinginess. Place felt old. Not horror movie bad, just run down. Of course, he was used to a brand new ship, with a crew of people constantly cleaning and fixing things. Didn’t look like much of that happened here.
“Hello?” he yelled, keying the external speakers.
�
��In here,” a woman’s voice yelled back, echoing down the corridor from somewhere forward.
This was nothing like training. Or a movie. In the action sequence, the good guys would be lined up down corridor, ducked into doorways, desperately trying to stop the bad guys from storming the ship and capturing the princess.
Grenades. Cross-fire. Smoke. Ominous music.
Something.
A glance back. Nakisha didn’t help when she shrugged at him.
“I’ll lead,” he announced, mostly just to look like he was in charge.
There was a light on, from an open doorway to port, ten or twelve meters forward. It spilled out like moonlight against the dinginess. Audio pickups caught what sounded like metal utensils on plates. Had they been serious about eating dinner? While being boarded?
Trinidad scowled inside his helmet and squared his shoulders.
He edged forward, staying tight against the starboard wall, letting Nakisha stay to port and cover the long hallway against sudden surprises. Gerry and Ivan trundled along like crabs, watching backwards and staying back far enough that a grenade didn’t get everyone.
Doorway.
Trinidad caught movement inside and brought up the pistol.
He found himself looking at the back of a man’s head, bent over and slurping something from a spoon.
“Nobody move,” Trinidad yelled in Mandarin.
Great, now it sounds like a hold-up. I wish the writer was here to come up with better dialogue. Maybe we’ll get lucky and this whole sequence will end up on the cutting room floor, or something.
The man glanced back. Nobody was supposed to be that calm with a gun pointed at them. Not even in movies.
There was a woman as well. She leaned to one side to look across the bar at him.
“Hello,” she replied in the same language. “Lan says you’re pirates? What are you doing here?”
“Taking you into custody, ma’am,” Trinidad answered, wishing he didn’t feel like the villain. Still, it was a paycheck, even if there wouldn’t be any residuals from this one.
