by Cameron, TR
Trespassers
Book 1 of the Chaos Shift Cycle
TR Cameron
MD Press
For Laurel, my love, and Dylan, my life.
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by TR Cameron
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Chapter One
Lieutenant Commander Anderson Cross didn’t realize that this day, this shift, would be the beginning of the end of life as he knew it. He was unaware that he would be responsible for all that was to come. For now, it was just one more night, one more patrol.
“Alter course twenty-two degrees to the north,” he barked. The response wasn’t as quick as he would’ve liked. Maybe his baritone wasn’t as authoritative as he imagined.
“Aye,” replied Lieutenant Erin Smythe while tapping a series of controls on the flat display in front of her. The ship responded smoothly to her touch, the course correction a hint of motion accompanied by the usual pressure-flex in the hull.
Cross was long accustomed to the second shift command, allowing him to work with the second and third shift officers, but several of his new “night” crew were still having adjustment issues. His executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Kate Flynn, glanced up from the science station and shared his look of amusement. They both remembered their own first steps toward command, which included rotations in each of the crew positions.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Cross said. He took a moment to appreciate the ship around him. She was a far cry from the newly-minted, gleaming warbird he always envisioned commanding. One of the final ships off the last generation’s production line, UAL-2112 showed the cracks and dents that came with age and experience. The Washington, DC was her official name, but in practice she was routinely called the Washington, or the Dee-Cee by her crew. He was proud to be aboard, and prouder still to be in command—even if it was only command of the second shift. He was number three in the Washington’s hierarchy, subordinate to Captain James Okoye and Commander Felix Olivas. Still, command was command.
Kate’s voice cut through his musings. “Permission to leave the bridge, Lieutenant Commander Cross?”
“Granted,” he said without thinking. As his brain caught up, he asked “Where are you headed?”
“Jannik and I think we’ve finished the sensor upgrades on our survey satellites. If it tests out, we might be able to improve the sensors in our torpedoes with the mod. I’ve done all I can from up here, and he wants to run a couple more simulations before he goes off-shift.”
“As if he’s ever off-shift.” Cross nodded and injected appropriate command gravitas into his response, “Sounds like a worthy project, Lieutenant Commander Flynn. Carry on.” He could never pull off a believable level of formality with Kate, a friend and on-again, off-again romantic partner since their academy days. He deliberately did not watch her leave the bridge.
* * *
Two more hours of endless patrol passed, leaving the crew working hard to stay alert. Cross groused in his mind about the foolishness of patrolling this sector of space where only random chance would put them within sensor range of a threat—
“Contact bearing 313°, 30 low. Running analysis now.” His tactical officer’s voice betrayed her youth and excitement.
Cross issued the commands to set an arcing intercept course with the unknown blip as Lieutenant Claire Martin resumed speaking. “Contact is an Alliance destroyer. He’s in the database, AAN Gagarin.” Cross moved to peer over her shoulder. The tactical display streamed information about the Alliance ship.
“About our size,” Cross murmured. Weapons and defense specifications scrolled past, and he acknowledged it with a grunt, clapping her on the shoulder. “Good work, Martin.”
He returned to the captain’s chair, sitting down and rocking to get comfortable. New ships boasted adaptive seating for the bridge crew, a luxury he had enjoyed during his rotations and missed now. “Casco, hail his captain with my regards. Politely request that they leave this sector of Union space.” The communication officer followed his orders, the message taking only seconds to travel to the other ship. A reply arrived with matching speed.
“Sir, they claim that they have every right to be in this area, as it is a contested zone between our two governments. They suggest that perhaps we would like to depart forthwith.”
Cross barked a short laugh. “Forthwith? Who says that? Send reply: Respectfully request that you follow your own advice and get out of United Atlantic League territory immediately.” He felt the eyes of the bridge crew on him, but refused to acknowledge them. The other ship wanted to play? Then play they would.
“Response received, sir. I’m routing it to your display.” A small screen glowed on the wide arm of his chair, and he activated the nondescript earpiece that all the ship’s commanders and execs wore. Cross appreciated Ricardo Casco’s sense of discretion as he played the imaginative, expletive-laden challenge to engage in anatomically impossible actions from the Gagarin’s commander. His teeth flashed in a grin. Oh, it’s like that, is it?
“Helm, plot and execute a direct-intercept path with the Gagarin. Weapons, open tubes and bring cannons to full power. Tactical, orient shields toward the enemy and balance them, but be ready to react. There’s no predicting what he’ll do.” Cross tapped a command code to adjust the ship’s status. “Setting battle standby throughout the ship.”
The bridge crew jumped to their tasks, as the computerized voice announced the change. The thin, light panels running along each wall turned from white to orange-gold and began a repeating pattern. On every deck of the Washington, crew members hurried to their assigned battle stations, with those in the outermost sections of the ship climbing into vacuum suits upon arrival. The Washington lacked the power-assist models that were now standard issue.
His chair display registered a query from Captain Okoye. Cross quickly typed a reply outlining the situation and received a “carry on” in response. Encounters with the Alliance were common on patrol, and unless things escalated, the captain would trust him to handle it.
&nb
sp; Cross watched the enemy ship turn to meet their approach on the main display. Lieutenant Martin confirmed the enemy’s course change and reported readiness. “He has six launch tubes facing forward, covers open, plus a pair of long-range plasma cannons. His broadsides are similar to ours, with a dozen lasers mounted and half that many tubes. Aft armaments are weaker than ours. He’s only got two tubes and one medium range plasma cannon.”
The most frustrating thing about the quarrel with the Allied Asian Nations was that the two factions were so evenly matched. Each came from the same gravity well, expanded at roughly the same rate along only slightly different vectors, and developed technology at almost identical paces. Add in the actions of spies on both sides, and it was beyond difficult to gain a lasting technological edge over the opposition.
In his anxiousness, Cross leaned toward the main display. Forcing his nerves down, he sat back in his seat, depicting the picture of calm for his crew.
“Continue on intercept course, but be ready for evasive maneuvers when he breaks off, or when we launch, whichever comes first. Weapons, at a range of 10,000, launch a spread of torpedoes set to detonate in between our two ships, and fire a quarter power blast from our plasma cannons into his forward shields. If we’re lucky, he’ll get the message.” The monotony of second shift command fell away, and was replaced by the anticipation of real action.
As the distance clicked down to 20,000 meters, Cross keyed the ship-wide intercom and announced, “Stand by for maneuvers. Standby. Standby.” Throughout the Washington, crew members moved to grab the handholds present in all compartments and passageways, or secured themselves at their battle stations. On the bridge, automatic harnesses deployed from the seats at all positions, locking them into their insufficiently, padded non-adaptive chairs. He shrugged to settle his harness into place.
At a distance of 11,000, the Gagarin fired first. Where Cross had envisioned the encounter as a test of wills to be resolved with a show of bravado, the other ship’s commander apparently saw it as a test of power that required the starship equivalent of bloodshed to determine a victor. Both plasma cannon blasts splashed against the Washington’s forward shields. The bridge’s display dimmed to compensate for the brilliance of the beam. It brightened again just in time for Cross to see the impact of six exploding torpedoes.
“Helm, evasive pattern Alpha, but circle for a broadside. Weapons, ready all around. Tactical, damage report.”
“Shields holding, sir. Minor bumps and bruises to the crew, but no significant damage to the ship. One or two more dings and scrapes.” Every sailor aboard took pride in the accumulated scars that the Washington displayed. “The Gagarin is circling back toward us.”
Smythe announced, “Broadside position in twenty-seven seconds.”
Cross fielded another question on his display and summarized the situation as, “Trading shots across the bow.” There was no response. He feared that the Captain was already running toward the bridge.
“Hail from the Gagarin,” reported Casco. “He requests cessation of hostilities and for both ships to exit this contested territory.”
Cross frowned. Arrogant bastard. “No reply.”
* * *
Fifteen seconds later, the two foes reached classic broadside position. Tactical officers on both ships were accomplished at their craft and angled the shields to absorb the impact of a salvo of missiles and a cannon barrage. The space between them overflowed with propellant, shrapnel, and lances of coherent-energy seeking a crevice to creep through. A laser overloaded on the Gagarin, catching fire and melting down to a blackened piece of slag. The Washington accumulated more cosmetic damage, but nothing beyond that.
“Send message to the Gagarin: Again, request that you depart UAL space forthwith,” his earpiece crackled with the captain’s voice.
“Cross, status report.”
He spoke in a hushed tone, confident the earpiece’s microphone would pick him up, “Trading shots with an Alliance ship still, Captain. I don’t think it will go anywhere.” He paused, waiting for Okoye’s reply. It was not the one he wanted to hear. “En route from Engineering. ETA eight minutes. Try not to destroy my ship in the meantime.”
The two ships circled in space. Casco reported, “The Gagarin is requesting visual comm, sir.”
Cross swiveled his chair to look at the communication officer and raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s interesting. Sure, let’s see what they have to say.” He turned back to face front and ran a hand through his hair, an unconscious and consistent move prior to important conversations that always amused those who knew him well.
Lieutenant Ricardo Casco’s hands moved across his controls, and the display split in two, with the real-time exterior view of the Gagarin on the left and its commander on the right. He was a veritable giant of a man, almost spilling out of the command chair.
When he spoke, his rumbling voice reminded Cross of stones grinding together, “You damaged one of my guns, Union. An apology is in order.”
Cross reclined and made a show of thinking. “I think it is more accurate to say that your gun was faulty, and failed to discharge its duty in the heat of battle. I cannot be held responsible for your gun’s inadequacy.”
The Alliance captain reddened slightly while Cross spoke, the only signal that his needling had hit home. His response was measured, “I believe that you are incorrect. My original statement stands. Are you prepared to apologize for this inappropriate provocation in neutral space?”
Cross straightened and locked eyes with the image on his screen. “First, we are not in neutral space. The United Atlantic League claimed this territory more than a year ago, and I have no doubt this was duly communicated to your government. Second, it was you who fired on us first, and that makes you the one guilty of ‘inappropriate provocation.’ Third, perhaps I used the wrong word when I described your gun as inadequate, and for that I apologize. I meant cowardly.”
His bridge crew sat in stunned silence at Cross’s words. The commander of the Gagarin was silent as well. His face stilled the way a predator’s might before charging. The moment stretched as the two commanders stared at each other.
After an eternity, the Alliance officer nodded. “So be it. You have chosen your fate. I will deliver it to you.” He cut the communication line, and the screen reverted to a full-size image of the Gagarin orienting for another attack on the Washington.
“Helm, evasive Bravo. Get some distance, minimal cross-section. Tactical, keep shields oriented toward him, extra power forward. Weapons, set up firing solutions on his engines. If we can knock those out, we can take care of him at our leisure.”
Cross watched as the Gagarin advanced on the main display even as the Washington retreated.
“Setting battle stations.” Orange-yellow lights turned to a red strobe, and pressure hatches closed throughout the ship.
“Casco, send to Gagarin: Last chance. Leave this sector now. We don’t have to do this.” In his heart, he hoped that they wouldn’t take his offer. He knew his ship and his people were better, and he would enjoy proving it to the AAN commander. “Tactical, battle display please.”
A moment later the forward screen split again, displaying a real-time camera view in one half and a three-dimensional representation of the Washington, the Gagarin, and the natural obstacles present in the area. To the benefit of both sides, there was very little space debris in this remote part of their patrol pattern.
“No response from the Gagarin, sir. I have the message on auto repeat.”
“Excellent, thank you.” The other commander wanted to mix it up. That suited him just fine.
“Standby, people. We’ll let him make the first move and reveal all of his secrets.” Cross saw space combat as a multilevel game of chess. The psychological played out on one board, the tactical on another. He had already achieved dominance on the first by pushing the Gagarin’s commander into an emotional response rather than a measured action. Now he would see what opening strategy he
used, and through it understand his approach. Cross didn’t lose often, although his style often left few pieces standing at game’s end.
Without warning, the Gagarin vanished in a smear of acceleration. “Tunnel jump,” the officers at tactical and the helm reported as one. The response was automatic, and the helmsman activated their own tunnel drive, throwing them into the unreality that transcended time and space.
Chapter Two
The tunnel drive was the backbone of modern space travel. Cross didn’t understand the deep science behind it, but he knew the basics. When activated, it created a shortcut from here to there—wherever here and there might be. For short distances, such as the combat tunnel jump, the transit was virtually instantaneous. For longer spans, there was a huge mathematical equation that explained how long it would take per parsec traveled. Fortunately, computers handled that calculation effectively. All he needed to know was it was the only way to cover the vast distances between systems without growing old on the way, and using it too near a gravity well resulted in the complete destruction of the tunneling vessel.
Once the tunnel drive was available, combat applications were inevitable and immediate. But after years of use, those applications had lost their effectiveness. The “tunnel jump” repositioned a ship into an advantageous position during battle. The UAL used the tactic to great effect until the other side began to as well. Now, both sides compensated for it as a standard operation. Upon entering a new sector, the ship’s helm officer set up a jump point that looked safe. With everyone committed to this policy, the tunnel jump became at most a distraction, rather than an advantage.
