Starfarer's Dream (Kinsella Universe Book 4)

by Gina Marie Wylie

  One by one the civilian ships in space sent agonized calls for help, attempted maneuver after maneuver. The Fleet cruiser’s transmissions were clipped, precise, detailing this and that attempt to engage the other ships. Nothing worked; not even the multitude of prayers. Then a calm-voiced planet-side controller reported the number of missiles homing in on them, reported the initial detonations, stopped to take a ragged breath -- and never spoke again.

  Willow glanced at her father when he flipped the switch on the comms, turning them off. “If they come for us, they come for us,” his voice was a hoarse whisper. “There is nothing we can do. I do not see that the knowledge would be of advantage. Come, Willow, let us go and be with your mother and sister.”

  It was, Willow thought, more horrible than anything she could have imagined. Sitting, waiting for something to happen -- something that if it did happen, you’d never even know it had happened. One instant you’d be alive, the next not. The transition would be far too short to sense. After two more hours of waiting, her sister fell asleep. An hour or so later, her mother closed her eyes as well. For a while Willow and her father stared at each other, and then he too slept.

  Willow sat unmoving; unsure and afraid. Thousands of thoughts traced through her mind. Things she’d done. Things she’d wanted to do. Proud things and sad things. Good things, bad things. Where did she stand in the universe?

  She was Wilhelmina Wolf, a first name she detested. Her grandfather had laughed when she told him what she thought of her grandmother’s name and after that he took to calling her Willi.

  She loathed that name even more than her birth name.

  Now she was sixteen years old, nearly seventeen. She was tall, a half centimeter short of two meters. When she was younger, she’d had a weight problem but growing more than a meter in a year and a half had resulted in a rather dramatic rearrangement in her body tissue. However, the word petite would never apply to her.

  Homely. That applied.

  She looked at her face in the mirror as infrequently as she could and never dwelled on it. Her nose and lips were too big. Her eyebrows were too thin. Her ears probably knocked a meter per second off her terminal velocity at STP. A bosom that could only be detected with a sufficiently large microscope, hips that wouldn’t brush a narrow doorway, where her shoulders filled any doorway that was less than generous. When she walked, her elbows, shoulders and knees tended to hit anything even halfway close. An ugly duckling, by any reasonable definition.

  Willow loved her life aboard an orbital tug/cargo ship. The majority of her contacts with people outside her immediate family were limited to voice-over-data links, where the only measure of the person on the other end was what he or she knew and what he or she did.

  She did well in that world: no one had any complaints about Willow Wolf! More than once she’d helped work someone else’s problem; helped them through it. Everyone on the Agincourt Rim knew you could call Willow Wolf and get a helping hand. The price was right too! Her dad wouldn’t let her charge anything for her advice! There were people alive who wouldn’t have been if she hadn’t helped!

  That thought brought tears to her eyes. And now they were dead! All of them! No matter what she’d done for them, no matter how brave they’d been, no matter how smart she’d been -- they were all dead now!

  Tears filled her eyes, to be followed a minute later by fiery rage. How dare they! How dare they! Her fists clenched. I will do whatever it takes, she silently vowed to herself. Whatever I can do! And whoever you are, you’ll be sorrier than I am this day! I’ll never forget and I’ll see you never forget either!

  Eventually she couldn’t stand her own thoughts any more. She got up and walked the length of Wolfs’ Daughters and sat down in her accustomed seat and turned on the comms. She listened carefully, scanning the various stations.

  None of the automatic navigation beacons were still working and all the habitats were gone. So were all of the ships. She contemplated linking into the passive sensor net -- theory said no one could tell. Theory was mute about the possibility of someone coming out of the black of space and blowing up everything in sight with gigaton bombs. She thought long and hard, then reached out to a passive sensor sat with the smallest wattage comm laser they had.

  It required some patience, because the latch frame buoys were all gone as well. It wasn’t something she was used to -- waiting for the slow crawl of light to reach her target and then return.

  None of the active emitters were still functioning, but many of the passive gravity wave detectors were. It was bizarre! After an hour with no detectable activity, she queried another of the passive systems and got a message back. Five unknowns had jumped into the system hours before. The computer had tracked them all. Four had jumped away. The computer painted a big red ‘X’ on the location of the one who hadn’t jumped out. There was no doubt one of the unknowns remained, the passive detectors could “see” it running its fans. Willow shut down everything, except an once an hour inbound burst from the passive arrays.

  More hours dragged by. Nothing moved in the Agincourt system but the planets in their courses.

  Her father appeared, bleary-eyed and silent and sat down at the captain’s console.

  “One of them is still here,” Willow reported, pointing it out. Her father glanced at the data and then shrugged. Willow continued her report, “Nothing else is on the screens. No ships, no habitats, not a peep from Agincourt.”

  “Did you look at Agincourt?” he asked and she nodded.

  “Not going to be anything from Agincourt, not ever again,” Willow told him, trying to sound like it was like a weather report. Her voice cracked; she couldn’t help the tears.

  Joachim Wolf’s fingers played over the boards, doing this and that. Two hours later Alma and Dee Dee joined them.

  “The best news,” her father said to all of the assembled members of his family, “is that we’re alive. There is one bad guy ship left. They are oddly passive, with their fans on, but not accelerating. Think of it as a spider in its web.

  “That’s the bad news. The good news is that if they knew we were alive, they’d have come for us. So they don’t know about us. More good news: we have 142 days of consumables aboard; that is, the lowest value of any item, in this case, oxygen. If we electrolyze water, recirc everything, we can stretch that to 325 days.

  “As currently configured, we can’t go to High Fan. Yes, if we spend two days stripping ship, we can do it, if we can get out of the fan well. We would then be eighty-nine days from Earth, the closest place I’d feel comfortable jumping to. We will probably have to consider that at some point, if the unknown ship should leave. Also, there are a number of emergency shelters out here we can visit for supplies. I’ve checked -- none of them seem to have been hit. Willow, what have you learned from the sensor net?”

  His daughter blushed, a little surprised that he knew about her hacking the nets.

  She reported quietly, “The passive sensor net is relatively intact, although some of the inner system controlling nodes were destroyed. I have been discreet in my contacts with it. None of the sensors know our ship’s name, nor where we are located. I access through a passive sensor sat and it thinks it’s getting an automated bounce from a distant node for a complete update on the system.

  “The sensor system has records of the attack.” She resolutely looked at her father, not at her mother or younger sister. “In general, they attacked shipping outside the fan limit first, then ships closest to the fan limit. Then they attacked everything else.” She swallowed, looked at her father who nodded slightly.

  “They attacked everything else,” Willow repeated. “I have not been able to hear a single habitat, mining station or ship. There was a Fleet cruiser at Agincourt, and they put out to engage, but the unknowns fired many missiles at them; in excess of sixty. The cruiser was never in range of the unknowns. They used counter-ship missiles against their attacker's missiles -- some of the inbound missiles were destroyed, but
most were not.

  “Agincourt was heavily bombed.” The words hung in the air; no one said anything, although all of them were pale.

  Joachim Wolf nodded and said quietly, “Thank you, Willow. I know this has been difficult for you. It’s been difficult for all of us.

  “A great many friends and acquaintances are dead. A mind-numbing total of those we don’t know, but who we can’t forget either. We must not try to lie to ourselves, to pretend that it’s not so. It is so; it has happened. They are dead. All of them.

  “We, though, are alive. And, if we are careful, we can stay that way. Right now, we have to play possum. Hide. We must be as careful as we can be. There is a chance that someone will arrive in-system, someone able to deal with the stay-behind. There is a chance the stay-behind will get up and go and then someone friendly could arrive. Until that alien ship leaves or is destroyed, we can’t move or make a peep. If it leaves, then we’ll have to face the choice of waiting for someone to come, or attempting to flee on our own. For the time being, we will simply have to be patient.

  “Willow and I will go over our budget; we’re going to assume the worst, starting forthwith. Everything will have to be recirced. Everything. Alma, I want you and Dee Dee to start work on the emergency hydroponics plan. We have tankage and conduit to double the current volume. I have already closed off and have begun pumping down the cargo volume. Sometime tomorrow, we’ll begin disconnecting it, once I’ve reviewed the cargo manifest and had a chance to salvage anything that might be useful.”

  Twenty-six hours later, Joachim Wolf was sneaking a catnap, tired to the bone. Willow shook him awake. “The other ship left.” He rubbed sleep out of his eyes and sat up, contemplating what they should do next.

  There wasn’t much, just the passive sensor notification that the other had jumped and that no return had been noted. He talked with Willow then, about what they still had to do to be able to go to High Fan. When they were fully ready, they’d hit the fans hard for a few seconds, enough to put them on the way outside the fan limit. Then... well, that would be then.

  III

  The computer counted down towards the tick; Bill Travers, Naomi, and two others of Starfarer’s Dream’s regular bridge crew, Commander Hoyt plus a dozen Marines were on the bridge, Jake and Lieutenant Jerial were in Engineering, along with another dozen Marines. More Marines were distributed throughout the ship.

  The low level nausea of running on High Fan vanished and outside the ship space had returned to its usual self, black velvet scattered with pinpoints of light, rather than the absolute blackness of running on High Fan.

  “Navigation reports emergence on the tick,” Captain Travers reported, “now firming our position.”

  The bridge navigation screen showed a bright white spot, which is where they’d hoped they would return to normal space, and a larger blue sphere, the current best estimate of their position. The blue sphere shrank and ended a few seconds later nearly touching the original target.

  “A third of a light second,” Bill said smugly. “A hundred thousand clicks or as close as makes no never mind.” That wasn’t a bad margin of error over 450 trillion kilometers. His eyes continued to scan the screens; after a moment his eyes stopped on one, where he paused, looking long and hard.

  After a long five count he spoke again, this time his voice formal. “Commander Hoyt, as Master and Commander of Starfarer’s Dream, I, Captain William Travers, officially notify you, sir, of a possible anomalous situation.”

  Everyone on the bridge turned to look at him, surprised. Then their eyes went back to their screens. Nothing looked obviously wrong.

  “We have not acquired the Agincourt Navigation Station’s beacon. This is a significant anomaly but may simply represent a malfunction of the beacon or of the Dream’s receivers.” All straight out of the book, then he went elsewhere. “However, I am detecting no latch frame from any source. The ship reports 99.999% confidence each of our three receivers is functioning properly. I hereby declare a flight emergency.

  “Captain,” one of Dream’s regular crew reported, “We’ve been painted by someone’s lidar, the beam contained the IFF code for Sword Dancer. We returned our IFF code.” Sword Dancer was the senior frigate of the escort.

  Captain Travers nodded. “If any ship is detected exiting from High Fan, I am to be made aware at once.” He flipped a switch. “Starfarer’s Dream, this is the captain. Emergency stations! Stand by for a possible random, uncomputed transition to High Fan.”

  “Message coming in, Captain,” the communication’s tech said. “It’s encrypted, on the Fleet Channel.”

  Captain Travers spoke firmly and confidently. “Computer, all orders are henceforth to be authenticated and verified as to proper authorization. Poppa Mike Tango Victor.”

  “Confirm.”

  “Decode the message. Put it on the main bridge screen.”

  The screen lit up. It was Lieutenant Commander Dampier, the captain of Sword Dancer. “Sir, if you would, authenticate with the current day code. The challenge is Zulu Fox Seven Nine Alpha.”

  “My reply is Tango Golf Zebra Eight Two One.”

  “Commander Hoyt, I need your code as well.”

  “Charley Whiskey Fox Golf Eight.”

  “Commander Hoyt, when we arrived forty-one hours ago, we failed to detect the beacon from the navigation station, nor could we detect any latch frame transmissions. Commander Lestonte is junior and I ordered him to close with the station and report. Sir, Commander Lestonte reports that the nav station has been destroyed, and that, further, Commander Lestonte reported that nuclear weapons had been employed against it.”

  There was silence on the bridge; even the ventilation fans seemed muted. “Per standing emergency orders, Sword Dancer returned to this location to await your arrival. Sword Bearer is lying doggo, elsewhere.”

  Or, the other frigate was docked with one of the million large rocks this far out-system, almost certainly on one large enough to completely shield it from detection from Dream... or anyone else. Captain Travers glanced at Commander Hoyt to see how he was dealing with the situation.

  “Commander Dampier, please add Commander Lestonte to the link,” Commander Hoyt ordered, coming to his first decision.

  “Aye, aye, Commander Hoyt.”

  Another face appeared, sharing the link from Sword Dancer.

  “Be advised,” Captain Travers said, “that it is my intent to go to High Fan on detection of any other ship entering or leaving fans or on detection of any vessel attempting to close this formation by any means.”

  “We will set an emergency rendezvous as our first order of business,” Commander Hoyt said, his voice firming a little. “The nav point at Gandalf.”

  Captain Travers reviewed the local area in his mind, but he knew it like the back of his hand. “I disagree. Fleet World.”

  “Fleet World is nearly halfway back to Earth!”

  “Six weeks of inaction is preferable to a major mistake. Dream will go to High Fan for Fleet World in the event of a catastrophe and where we have no means to consult prior to bug out. The decision is non-negotiable.”

  Commander Dampier said quietly, “I concur. I suggest further that Sword Bearer be sent in-system to investigate. We are too distant here to detect anything from closer in; I would suggest a cautious approach. We can reevaluate at any time. Commander Hoyt can set up a series of code words for alternative destinations.”

  Captain Travers shook his head. “We’ll use the Fleet Standard Reference Codes for a system. Rendezvous will be twelve light hours to galactic north of the star. Not, repeat not, at a nav station.”

  “Agreed,” Commander Hoyt stated firmly. “I hereby detach Sword Bearer to go further in-system, to see what, if anything, is wrong there. It is always possible this was a malf.”

  “Negative, sir,” Commander Lestonte replied. “We detected evidence of at least three weapons used against the facilities at the nav station. The computers say the attack took place
less than a week before our arrival. A malf might have destroyed the station, sir, but could not have also taken out the power plant and the antennas. And sir, the hole where the station was located, is nearly a hundred and ten clicks in diameter; it came close to breaking up the rock. My computer says that gigaton thermonuclear weapons were employed.” He looked away for a second, and added, “We’re transmitting our data to you now.”

  “Commander Lestonte, how long will it take you to compute a course and be able to proceed in-system?” Commander Hoyt asked.

  “Sir, the course is computed. Further, we disembarked the passengers we had for the nav station, and they are now aboard Dancer. We are, sir, fully ready to go to High Fan on your command.”

  “Proceed, Commander.”

  “Aye, aye sir. Expect us back in no more than six hours.”

  A moment later the sensors beeped. “Vessel detected going to High Fan, one point six light seconds,” the sensor tech reported.

  Captain Travers grinned. “Mister Dampier, very good! You built in an extra half second delay into their transmissions! Outstanding!”

  To say the next hours aboard Starfarer’s Dream were a strain was a gross understatement. A minute or so after Sword Bearer departed, a ship emerged in-system, obviously Sword Bearer, fifteen light minutes above the ecliptic. Twenty minutes later, another transition to High Fan, and then, almost at once, off the fans. Three light minutes from Agincourt, eight light minutes from the star. Close, very close to the fan limit, but where one could safely still go to High Fan.

  The more time that passed, the slower it seemed to go. At four and a half hours, the Fleet lieutenant queried Commander Hoyt from his station in Engineering, “How long are we going to maintain action stations?”