by Hugo Huesca
And his job involved getting to Dione before the Sentinel arrived to finish what Tal-Kader had started on the Monsoon.
The Beowulf’s crew barely had time to pass a fast medical examination when the Sierra commander summoned them to an emergency meeting.
“You think they’ll listen to us?” Navathe asked Clarke while the corvette traveled from one destroyer to another. The meeting would take place in the Hawk, the command vessel of Task Force Sierra. From what Clarke had heard, the courier ships were already on their way to the main fleet, carrying the news that Antonov hadn’t lived to tell.
“They have to,” said Clarke. With Vortex and Captain Riley heading to Dione ahead of Sentinel and Admiral Wentraub, the only hope they had of bypassing the planetary garrison was to match their firepower.
Hawk approached on the corvette’s screens. The destroyer, the smallest ship of the line, was a sight to behold. A cylindrical behemoth of metal, it represented the philosophy of space conflict in every area of its design. At its most basic, a destroyer was a tube of metal welded to an engine and an Alcubierre Drive, with an array of sensors in the other end and the crew hidden as close to its center as possible, protected by many layers of armor and redundant life-support systems. Even the humblest of its weapons became a weapon of mass destruction if aimed toward a populated planet. A destroyer belonged to an entirely different food chain than any civilian ship, and a single destroyer’s mere presence in a system was enough to deter piracy and make every colonial citizen glance nervously at the domed sky, knowing their lives could end in an instant with the push of a button.
Such power came with a trade-off. Due to its size and design, a ship of the line was limited only to space operations. Hawk would only ever cross a planet’s atmosphere if something went catastrophically wrong. Given the oryza reactor that powered it, it also meant something would go apocalyptically wrong, in short order, for the unlucky planet that stopped the ship’s planetfall.
Clarke wondered which massive corporations were rich enough to sponsor the EIF’s fleet, but weak enough to risk fighting against Tal-Kader. The presence of Hawk told much to anyone looking past its amazing display of power. It was a history lesson. Had the EIF been comprised of poor revolutionaries leading a heroic fight against tyranny, they could never have afforded a single destroyer, much less an entire fleet of them, along with cruisers, battle cruisers, battleships, and the swarm of auxiliaries required for its day to day function.
The amount of money the Independent consumed in a single cycle could bankrupt a nation.
Tal-Kader’s private navy was big enough to engulf Independent in any direct confrontation.
The Defense Fleet’s own ships of the line were numerous enough to defeat the both of them without leaving any of the SA worlds undefended.
Earth’s navy had defeated the Defense Fleet with a single ship, the Mississippi. Earth’s inner systems were defended by four dreadnoughts of the Mississippi’s weight category, to deter the SADF from any suicidal attacks against mankind’s motherland.
This was humanity’s food chain. Clarke had no doubts he was right at the bottom of it. And he was about to make a ruckus that would set all the alpha predators’ sights on him.
The corvette docked in Hawk’s hangar, and an industrial claw, not unlike the one Beowulf used to manipulate cargo, added the tiny ship to an array of ships exactly like her. The automated systems of the hangar took charge from there while Clarke and the others changed into fresh uniforms and washed themselves using bars of cleaning gel that left them feeling slimy and smelling of disinfectant. Half an hour later, Clarke, Navathe, and Pascari followed the rest of the crew into Hawk. A contingent of marines waited at the other end of the airlock, with a man wearing an officer’s uniform at the front of the formation.
“Welcome to my ship,” said the man. “I am Commander Bernal Alicante.”
“Joseph Clarke,” said Clarke. Pascari and Navathe introduced themselves and Commander Alicante examined them with tired, but mistrusting eyes.
Alicante talked while they set for the conference:
“I heard about your ship’s fate. My condolences. It must’ve been an ordeal. There are sleeping quarters waiting for you on the Hawk, but I’m afraid you can’t rest just yet. Your message sent all of us into emergency status, so please, excuse our haste,” the commander explained while they marched down Hawk’s carpeted corridors.
“Haste suits us just fine,” Clarke said. “Like Captain Navathe explained in her message, there’s an SADF fleet heading for Dione as we speak.”
“Then, it is true,” Commander Alicante said, “Reiner’s daughter survived the Monsoon?”
“Only until Tal-Kader arrives to finish the job,” said Pascari.
“How? It’s been so long…why now?” asked the commander.
“We hope to figure it out when we get her,” said Pascari.
As they walked, Clarke glanced around. A wave of nostalgia hit him. It had been a long time since he had been inside a ship of the line. The smell was familiar, an unchanging presence on all military spacecraft. It carried a hint of lime to mask the plastic-essence of the life-support machines. The air was dry and cold to the point of shivering.
The carpet and the upholstery were new additions. Throughout his career, Clarke had learned to take notice of the tiny details that gave away a vessel’s age despite the cleaning crew’s best efforts. Hawk had shiny corners, modern computers and sensors, but the automated doors were thick and slow, like those of an old sea-faring vessel. It gave Hawk’s age away, since modern ships used new alloys with sealing foam dispensers to protect a deck’s atmosphere against a breach.
About twenty years old, at least, he decided. Whoever constructed the destroyer, the EIF had modernized it soon after Broken Sky.
They’re expecting a war? He wondered. After all, their sponsors would need a very good reason for the extra expense.
“Here we are,” Commander Alicante announced when they reached a door in the middle of a corridor, guarded by two marines at each sides.
Clarke and the others followed Alicante while the marines remained outside. The room was long, rectangular, with a ceiling low enough that Clarke could easily smash his head against it if he jumped in the tiny gravity of the ship’s current acceleration.
A wooden table, old and worn, along with matching chairs, used most of the space around the room, with the rest being occupied by a dozen officers. Clarke couldn’t recognize their ranks, but only four of them were sitting, with the others ordered behind them. He assumed those fours were the destroyers’ commanders.
As he entered the room, following Alicante, Clarke found that the officers’ gazes fell on him and the others. He scanned them, trying to read his audience. He found curiosity was the dominant feeling, but also alarm, and in some cases, anger and fear.
“So these are the doom-saying castaways our scout found, Alicante?” One of the seating officers said.
Clarke’s head snapped to the speaker. A man in his sixties, almost bald, with deep, purple bags around his eyes.
Something about the way the man addressed Alicante bothered Clarke. He knew the EIF wasn’t technically an official military, but they sure as hell thought of themselves as one. So why was this man speaking to his Task commander without an ounce of deference?
“Captain Navathe of the Beowulf, Stefan Pascari, and Joseph Clarke,” said Alicante. The man took a seat at the front of the table, opposite the other four officers, and gestured at Clarke and the others to take a seat.
“Pascari,” said another one, “I remember that name. You were Antonov’s right-hand man, weren’t you not?”
“Yes,” said Pascari.
“So, it’s true, then. He’s dead?”
Pascari nodded.
“Damn us all,” another commander muttered. “The Jagal branch is going to fall without him.”
A loud whispering spread among those present. Alicante had to smack his hand against the table to
regain their attention.
“Antonov died serving the Edge,” Pascari said, “the way any of us would wish to go. The information we bring you is the same he gave his life to get to the EIF.”
Alicante quickly explained the situation to the officers.
When he was finished, alarm was the new reigning emotion, and fear tied with confusion for the second place.
“By Reiner, his daughter’s alive!” someone said.
“Tal-Kader will get what’s coming to them, at long last!”
Clark looked around. He narrowed his eyes when Alicante had to wrestle for control of the room again.
What’s going on? These people are not soldiers, he decided. Their posture, the way they spoke to each other. They reminded him of…
“Quiet!” Alicante exclaimed. “This is no time for bickering. If the information Beowulf brought us is accurate, Isabella Reiner is alive, but that may change if the Defense Fleet reaches Dione before we do.”
A new wave of whispering. Navathe and Clarke exchanged glances. She slowly shook her head, to let him know she mirrored his doubts.
“They wouldn’t dare!” one of the standing officers said. “Reiner is the Edge’s martyr, not even an SADF sailor would shoot against his daughter.”
Pascari laughed. “An SADF sailor may not, but these new batches of soldiers aren’t coming from its academies any more, are they?”
Clarke caught his meaning. “Tal-Kader is training them directly,” he said. “We met one of their admirals on the way here. Ernest Wentraub. I’ve never heard that name before, and I was with the Fleet for almost twenty years.”
It would also explain all the veterans manning the bars across Jagal’s startowns. He wondered just how many colonies had received a sudden influx of former SADF sailors over the last decade.
“So, Tal-Kader is increasing their hold on the SA,” said Navathe. “It’s only a matter of time before no one will be able to stop them.”
Besides Earth, you mean.
“We need to take Dione,” a woman standing by a corner said. “Before they do.”
Alicante opened a holo display and showed them a travel log with the distance to other Task Forces and to the main body of the Independent. “We estimate a month’s wait to get the fleet moving, four-to-five to reach Dione.”
Clarke bit down a curse. They didn’t have half a year anymore. Vortex would arrive in less than three months. The Sentinel fleet would arrive at the destroyer’s heels, and then not even the entire EIF would be able to get Isabella out.
“Have we sent couriers yet?” a sitting officer asked.
“Yes,” said Alicante. “We’ll have an answer in two weeks’ time.”
“Sir,” he told Alicante, “Isabella doesn’t have that long.”
“Clarke’s right,” said Pascari, grimacing like the words pained him. He reminded them all about Vortex and Sentinel.
“You have a suggestion?” asked Alicante.
Clarke did.
“We get to Dione ourselves,” he said.
“Alicante, your castaways have gone insane,” said the white haired officer. “They’re suggesting we commit suicide.”
“Five destroyers plus escorts are enough to defeat Dione’s garrison,” Clarke said. “It’s almost a Backwater System, isn’t it? Hell, if the rumors are true, the EIF’s funding comes from those, right? I doubt Dione is getting any reinforcements from them.”
“Planetary defenses, maybe we can take, but we’ll never be able to hold the planet!” said the man in an exasperated tone, like a teacher dealing with a slow and annoying student. “What about the systems’ defenses? They’ll come at us and wear us down in days!”
“We don’t have to hold the planet for days,” said Clarke. “Only for a little while. Daneel Hirsen’s message said he’d be ready to extract Isabella when we arrived. We get there, we get her, we get out.”
“The Systems Alliance isn’t going to like it,” Alicante said.
“I thought they didn’t like the EIF anyway,” said Navathe. Clarke nodded at her discretely, to let her know he appreciated the assist. It was nice to know he had allies after all. Navathe had lost friends, too, thanks to Tal-Kader. She wanted to save Isabella as much as he did. “It can’t get much worse.”
“It can,” said Alicante. “Much worse. Right now, the Systems Alliance has their hands full trying to suck up to Earth while remaining in control of the Edge’s cash flow. They are surviving thanks to Tal-Kader giving Earth the appearance of a tight control over all systems, which would make an all-out war against the Edge too costly for all involved. If we make too much of a ruckus…then Tal-Kader will come after us in earnest. Shit will get nasty, fast. And if we manage to threaten them…Earth may sense weakness and come at the Edge in full strength.”
Clarke’s jaw almost dropped with surprise. Had his ears deceived him? Here was an EIF commander talking about Tal-Kader like it wasn’t a tyrannical abomination that should be destroyed as soon as possible.
Goddamn it, I had to stumble across the only reasonable EIF man today.
“Are you for real?” asked Pascari, his face red with fury. “Let them come! With Isabella, we’ll have the support we need to defeat Tal-Kader. If Earth tries to mess with us, we’ll starve them out! We own the oryza deposits, Alicante, not them.”
The look on Alicante’s eyes was troubled. The Hawk’s commander hid his hands under the table and straightened his back. “It’s not our decision to make,” he said. “This is a decision for the higher-ups. We’re talking about risking everything we’ve achieved so far, for a woman we don’t know.”
“Reiner’s daughter,” Pascari reminded him.
“It’s not our decision!” said Alicante.
“Very well,” Pascari said. “You want an order? I was Antonov’s right-hand man. With him gone, I’m Jagal’s provisional branch director, and I’ve the power to make an executive decision in an emergency. This is an order, Commander Alicante. Task Force Sierra is to head for Dione as soon as possible. You’re now under my command.”
To put someone as bloodthirsty as Pascari at the helm of any military vessel was probably a poor idea. Clarke had little doubt he’d come to regret it…but right now, seeing Alicante reel in surprise as he realized that Pascari’s argument was right, Clarke couldn’t help but cheer for the guy.
We may not like each other, but, right now, we’re on the same side. Clarke was fairly sure Pascari wished revenge for Julia. Clarke wanted to save an innocent woman from torture and death. Different objectives, same direction.
Alicante looked around, like begging for help from his officers. “The Independent is not going to like this.”
“If they don’t jump at the chance of saving Reiner’s legacy, then the committee are traitors to our cause and should be replaced,” said Pascari.
Navathe and Clarke exchanged another alarmed look. The EIF was ruled by a committee?
By Reiner, that explains why they never get anything done, thought Clarke.
“He’s right, you know,” one of the destroyer commanders said. “That’s a Reiner we’re talking about.”
Many others followed suit, expressing their approval. Many of those officers had been the most scared-looking ones at the start, but were now the most anxious to prove to the others their loyalty to the cause.
Alicante’s expression was downcast, defeated. He looked at Pascari.
“A word, Pascari?”
Clarke, Pascari, and Navathe followed him outside the conference room.
“Look, I understand your points, really, I do,” Alicante said. “I didn’t want to mention this in front of the other officers, but…we’re not ready to assault a planet. My men…they’re good sailors. But they don’t have the experience. There’s a reason Sierra is a scout force only. We’re meant to enter combat only as a last resource. The Independent sends the newbies to train safely with us because there’s little risk they’ll screw up and get killed! You know what will happen when S
ierra strikes Dione? We’ll wash against their defenses and break, Pascari!”
Something clicked at the back of Clarke’s head. The officers behavior. The lack of deference in the way they talked to Alicante.
Sierra is a training designation for the rest of the fleet, Clarke thought. But that was only half the story. It was also a convenient place to send the EIF officers that didn’t make cut for the fighting. The troublemakers, the incompetent. A safe job to keep them occupied where they could hurt no one.
Not even Alicante seemed fit to lead the group.
Dear gods, you don’t like to make things easy for us, do you?
“Well, Alicante,” said Pascari, a strange glint in his eyes, “if it’s experience you need, you’re in luck. Joseph Clarke has plenty of experience. Decades of it. He was a destroyer commander during Broken Sky. I’ve seen him keep calm during pirate attacks and get us out of an SADF ambush that should have killed us.”
Clarke blinked. He hadn’t expected to hear this. Pascari hated him. Why was he building him up?
“It’s true,” said Navathe. “He outwitted a planetary garrison to bring us here, using only a Free Trader. With five destroyers, there’s nothing Tal-Kader can do to stop us from getting Isabella.”
Clarke could feel the other’s gazes on him, as intense as a targeting laser. He wasn’t one to get flustered easily, but the weight of the faith his two shipmates were putting on his shoulders was colossal. It was the kind of faith that could get a lot of people killed if Clarke made a mistake. It was the kind of faith that could get people killed even if he did everything right.
“Is that true?” Alicante asked him. “Can you take Dione?”
That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? It didn’t matter what Clarke thought. If he refused, Sierra would lack competent leadership when the time came. If he said yes, and he failed…
“No,” said Clarke, at once. “No lone man can take a planet. But Hawk can. Your sailors can. I can show you how.”
I hope. Oh, Reiner, don’t let me be wrong.
“But,” whispered Alicante, “you’re not EIF.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Pascari. “I’m putting him in command of Task Force Sierra.”
