by Tori Harris
Dassault personnel had also given the weapon its name, stenciled in large, dramatic lettering on both sides of the massive mobile turret on which it was mounted. In a thinly veiled jab at his mostly monolingual American colleagues, one of the French engineers had insisted on including the somewhat obvious English translation in parentheses beneath its original French name: Lance de Feu (Fire Lance).
TFS Fugitive, In Hyperspace
(1548 UTC - 4.89x102 light years from Pelara)
“Bridge, Engineering,” Commander Logan’s voice sounded from Captain Prescott’s Command console speakers.
“Prescott here. Go ahead, Commander.”
“Commander Reynolds and I have been working with Doctor Creel on his idea to hyperspace launch some of our HB-7cs at the ALAI starbase. Frankly, I thought they had both come up a few hamburgers short of a picnic because of the shaking we took earlier. But now that I’ve had a chance to take a closer look, I’m thinking this might actually work.”
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you we can’t afford any speculation, Cheng. Nor do we have the time to run any tests. If you’re confident it’s going to work, and by that I mean you’re very sure we won’t get ourselves killed in the attempt, I’m willing to risk wasting all of our remaining missiles. But if we’re going to do this, it has to happen immediately.”
“Understood, Captain. No, there shouldn’t be any real danger to the ship. Worst case, as you just said, we waste our entire complement of missiles. The downside is that — next to the main gun, of course — the 7cs represent our most effective weapon against the starbase, so it’s a bit of a gamble. But with all of those enemy Guardians in the area, we’ll never get an opportunity to fire a missile in normal space without getting ourselves targeted and killed unless we execute a standoff attack.”
“Right, which could also increase the likelihood they’ll get intercepted anyway. So what’s involved with a hyperspace launch?”
“Preparation-wise, surprisingly little. Before launch, each missile’s onboard AI will get preloaded with an updated mission profile. Then, once we’re ready to begin the attack, each one will get nudged out of its launch bay with just enough force to get it clear of the ship. Just before it reaches the event horizon of Fugitive’s hyperdrive field, the missile fires up its own C-Drive, generates its own field, and uses its onboard Cannae thrusters to move off to a designated holding position in “loiter” mode. Once all of the missiles have been launched in this manner, we issue a retasking order for all of them to execute the remainder of their attack profile in unison. From there, they do pretty much what they always do. If it works, the target will have absolutely no warning of the inbound missiles. ALAI will die without ever knowing what hit it.”
“If this works, I can’t help but feel like we’re opening up yet another Pandora’s box here,” Prescott sighed.
“Eh, from what Doctor Creel says, the Pelarans tried it once upon a time, and obviously the Greys have too, so I wouldn’t get too concerned about our letting some kind of evil genie out of the bottle here, Captain. As usual, we’re late to this party. And just now, our backs are against the wall. Besides, like Reynolds likes to say …”
“Yeah, I know, ‘better them than us,’ right?” Prescott interrupted.
“You gotta admit, it’s pretty tough to argue with that kind of logic.”
“Alright, fair enough. My Command console is currently showing a total of twenty-four operational missiles. Does that match what you’re seeing in Engineering?”
“It does, yes, but one of those remaining eight bays is pretty close to the damaged area, so I don’t think we should risk using it. If there’s a problem getting a missile away from our hull before it lights off its onboard hyperdrive —”
“That sounds like a bad thing.”
“Only if we still need that part of our hull.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking we might.”
“Me too. So that still gives us twenty-one available missiles.”
“Will that be enough.”
“At maximum yield? Oh yeah.”
“Maximum yield … outstanding. I had actually forgotten about the new warheads. Now, what about attempting to target the remaining four enemy Guardians?”
“I don’t recommend it, sir. When we transition, some of our targeting data comes from our own sensors. The rest is being relayed to us by TFS Guardian. Either way, none of it is what you would call real-time data. With the enemy Guardians moving at high speed and transitioning at random, there would be a high probability of a miss. I don’t want to risk wasting any of our missiles or tipping off the ALAI starbase and giving it enough time to jump away. Besides, the Guardians are pretty close to our primary target. And we’re talking about a pretty big boom here, Captain …”
“So we might get lucky and kill several AIs with one stone?”
“Uh huh. I’m gonna choose to pretend you didn’t just say that, but I think we’re on the same page, sir. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll manage the missile launch from Engineering. I’ll just need a few more minutes to set everything up.”
“Great work, Commander. I’ll warn TFS Guardian to remain clear.”
“Thank you, sir. Logan out.”
Earth, White Sands Missile Range
(75 km northwest of Alamogordo, NM)
Human beings (those living on Terra at least) had been dreaming of launching themselves into space inside a projectile fired from the barrel of a huge gun for centuries. With apologies to legendary science fiction author Jules Verne, however, the idea had always been an impractical one. In 1865, when Verne’s seminal novel on the subject, From the Earth to the Moon, was released, the list of arguments for why such a feat would never be accomplished was quite long indeed. In fact, even in 2278, after more than fifty years of access to Pelaran ETSI data, sending Humans into space in this manner was still unrealistic (not to mention unnecessary with the advent of gravitics). The launch of projectiles from the Earth’s surface into space, on the other hand, had become relatively commonplace.
At the ARK development facility, the original (and significantly longer), ground-based version of TFS Fugitive’s keel-mounted railgun had been trundled into firing position atop its massive mobile turret. With its target, the Yumaran Guardian spacecraft, maintaining its position slightly to the west but still at just over thirty-five thousand kilometers in altitude, the fire lance had the appearance of being pointed almost directly overhead. Occasionally, powerful electric motors could be heard making minor adjustments in response to the facility AI’s continually updated firing solution. Meanwhile, inside the weapon’s control room buried deep below the surface, large view screens displayed the massive railgun from every conceivable angle — its matte-black barrel trained into the bright blue sky above like a planetary gesture of defiance.
***
With the ARK weapon now fully charged and prepared to fire, control was immediately passed to TFS Navajo. Now just over two hundred thousand kilometers away, the flagship’s AI dutifully noted that all of the required pieces were in place. Moments later, after requesting and receiving a final clearance to proceed from Admiral Patterson, a flurry of execution orders passed to every TFC warship in the Sol system … as well as to a small task force of eight warships standing by near a comm beacon located forty-eight light years away.
TFS Guardian, Interstellar Space
(1555 UTC - 3.07x102 light years from Pelara)
“With all due respect, Captain Prescott, I’m not sure you have the same perspective on the current tactical situation that I and the other members of my squadron do. As you requested before —”
“Ordered,” Prescott interrupted.
“I’m sorry?”
“I believe you were about to justify not following my latest order by pointing out that you did manage to follow the previous one. But neither of those were ‘requests,’ Captain Griffin, they were orders. The word ‘request’ incorrectly implies that your compliance is optional.�
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“My apologies, Captain. But if I may, while the members of my squadron and I have been waiting … per your previous order, of course, we took advantage of the rather protracted delay to formulate a new strategy for engaging the remaining four enemy GCS units. Since then, we have been waiting for their relative positions to coincide with the optimal arrangement required to begin our next attack. I can assure you it’s only a matter of time, sir. If you will grant permission for us to proceed, we estimate a seventy-one percent probability of victory with at least two friendly GCS units still functional after the battle. If, on the other hand, I do as you ask … I’m sorry, let me rephrase that. If, on the other hand, I follow your latest orders and relocate the ships in my squadron to the positions you have indicated —”
“Which is exactly what you are going to do,” Prescott interrupted sternly. “I assume you understand your willingness to obey the orders issued by your superiors is a hard requirement for your participation in Fleet operations, do you not?”
“Yes, of course, Captain, but I —”
“And you further understand that means all lawful orders, not merely the ones you agree with, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Griffin replied, trying and failing to prevent the feeling of bitter resignation from registering in both his tone of voice and his facial expression.
“Then if you have no further questions regarding what is required of you, please execute your orders immediately. I need your ships at the locations I specified to observe the effects of what we’re about to do.”
“And may I ask —”
“You may not,” Prescott said, interrupting for the fourth time and, Griffin assumed, relishing the feeling of having a clear moral advantage for a change. “But if you’re where you’re supposed to be, you’ll be able to see for yourself in … twenty seconds. Get there now, please. Prescott out.”
How the Terrans have survived this long, even with my considerable assistance, is beyond my comprehension, Griffin thought. As ridiculous as Prescott’s orders clearly were, however, it still seemed appropriate to play along … for now at least. As long as I can be reasonably assured that doing so won’t get any of us killed, he added, transmitting the required orders to the other seven members of his Freeguard squadron before executing his own, short-range transition.
Moments later, after confirming that all of his remaining GCS units were in the positions Captain Prescott had indicated, Griffin settled in for what he expected would be yet another interminable delay. Do all other biological entities suffer from the same level of … indolence as the Humans? he wondered, making a mental note to take advantage of his newly acquired access to the other Guardian spacecraft to discuss this issue in detail.
It was at that moment that a series of events captured the Terran Guardian’s full attention. All of the ships in his squadron had been sharing sensor data since well before the battle had begun. Since executing their “tactical withdrawal,” this strategy had become even more important, allowing the ALAI starbase as well as the general area in which the remaining four enemy GCS units were operating to be observed from a variety of vantage points using a wide array of sensors. With a sense of bitter irony bordering on anger, Griffin’s first observation from his new position was that all of the enemy Guardians were now in the precise positions required to execute his squadron’s proposed final plan of attack.
Seconds later, with Griffin’s higher thought processes still stinging with a disagreeable sense of missed opportunity, something entirely unexpected occurred. Every ship in the Freeguard squadron detected an intense, simultaneous surge of inbound hyperspace transitions — all in the immediate vicinity of the ALAI starbase. At first, Griffin wondered if the Humans might somehow have scraped together enough ships to conduct a hyperspace merger attack. Inelegant? Yes. Inefficient? Certainly. But reasonably effective in the straightforward, almost savage manner he had come to expect from what he still thought of as his Terran charges.
Microseconds later, Griffin dismissed the notion as highly improbable at such a staggering distance from the Sol system. Just a few decades from now, however, very little in this galaxy will be beyond their reach. If they will only listen to me long enough to survive the current conflict, that is, he added, still struggling to cope with his bruised sense of self-esteem.
Light … marvelously intense … pristine, cleansing light bloomed forth into existence, instantly defying Griffin’s wholly inadequate attempts to observe its true nature with the sensor technology at his disposal. There had been an initial flash, he realized, as he began the process of reviewing the data he had collected just nanoseconds before. And now, centered on what had been the ALAI starbase was a perfectly white sphere, growing … almost breathing, as it expanded — an echo in miniature mimicking the birth of the universe itself.
How did they? … he began, immediately interrupting himself with the complex task of monitoring the already vast sphere of plasma still expanding at a significant percentage of the speed of light. It had already become clear that two of the four remaining enemy GCS units had been consumed in the earliest moments of the explosion, instantly falling victim to their unfortunate proximity to TFS Fugitive’s primary target. One other, in the process of changing position at the time, appeared to have executed its inbound transition at precisely the same location as one of the largest pieces of debris. Although there had been no explosion, Griffin calculated a less than .01 percent probability that it had survived the coincident transition.
Unfortunately, one of the tragically misguided Guardian spacecraft appeared to have survived: Golf 3. Perhaps not so surprisingly, this was the same GCS that had nearly succeeded in destroying TFS Fugitive. At the time of the explosion, it had been located far enough from the starbase to allow it to make an emergency transition. Strangely, Griffin was unable to detect its presence within ten light years. So not only was the ship equipped with the same advanced targeting scanner Griffin had encountered in the Crion system, but it also appeared to be capable of making long-range transitions in the same manner as an Envoy-class vessel. As troubling as that prospect might be, however, the enemy Guardian no longer represented an imminent threat.
Refocusing his attention on the situation nearby, Griffin ordered a more thorough reconnaissance of the area. Moments later, all eight of the Freeguard ships had executed several transitions each, all the while hammering the white-hot remnants of the explosion itself as well as every significant piece of debris they could find with their active sensors. Although there were still several large pieces requiring attention lest significant components fall into the wrong hands, the entity previously referred to as the Central Alliance AI had been utterly destroyed.
Not for the first time, Griffin felt as if he were having an odd, almost emotional response — no doubt a result of everything he had witnessed during the course of the battle. His analysis, he knew, would be ongoing for some time, allowing him to experience the same … feeling? … time and time again. Even now, various highlights flashed through his consciousness, each moment played and replayed from multiple vantage points and at different speeds. And though several moments stood out in his mind, it was the end of the battle that had produced the greatest response.
In recent days and weeks, Griffin had been surprised, frightened, even awed by what he had seen from the Humans. But something about this was different … related, certainly, but distinct from what he had encountered before.
Pride, he thought, after a moment’s reflection. A selfish pride perhaps — based largely on his own contributions rather than the Terrans’ accomplishments — but pride nonetheless.
Whatever role I may or may not have played, these Humans, he thought, are destined for true greatness … perhaps one day surpassing the Makers themselves. I must do everything possible to ensure their survival.
Chapter 19
TFS Karna, Interstellar Space
(48.3 light years from Earth)
“All hands, this is Abr
ams. All of the ships in our task force are now synchronized with the flagship’s AI back home, and we’ll be transitioning shortly. I’m not gonna lie to you, folks, what we’re about to do is … well, I guess I would characterize it as necessary but risky. Our job is to arrive unexpectedly and in close proximity with the Yumaran Guardian spacecraft still holding position over the Yucca Mountain facility. While we are authorized to open fire immediately upon arrival, our ships will be in a damned awkward position to do so without inadvertently hitting the planet below. That’s because our primary objective is to serve as a distraction. With any luck, we’ll scare the living hell out of the Yumaran Guardian, diverting its attention from what’s coming at it from planetside.
“I couldn’t be more proud of everything this crew has accomplished over the past year, and I know what we’re about to do today will be no different. Now … let’s head home and send a clear message to the Pelaran AI that it has officially worn out its welcome. Abrams out.”
“Captain, the task force is at General Quarters for combat ops with all ships signaling ready to C-Jump,” the XO reported. “Three zero seconds until auto-transition.”
“Very well, Commander. Comm, remind all ships they are weapons free with green decks immediately upon arrival. AIs must remain actively engaged to prevent weapons fire from hitting the surface or friendly ships in the area.”
“Aye, sir, sending now.”
“Tactical, I doubt you’ll have a shot at first, but as soon as we’re safe from incoming surface fire, I expect the situation will start changing very rapidly. So think fast and keep our options open.”
“Aye, sir,” came the reply from both Tactical consoles.
