Through Struggle, the Stars

by John Lumpkin

  “You’re twisted up over that?”

  After a long moment, Tom said, “I haven’t talked about it because it feels like admitting my dreams are screwed up.”

  Neil said, “I’m sure all the colonial worlds aren’t that bad. Then again, I’m pretty sure Commonwealth will be worse – basically one big civil war.”

  “I know,” Tom said. “I’m not looking forward to it.”

  Neil shook his head. “And here I thought your brooding had something to do with Erin.”

  Tom stared at him, shocked.

  “What?” Neil said, stifling a laugh as his reaction.

  “No, man, that’s not the problem,” Tom said. “Your relations are your own. She’s a great girl, but if you want my advice …”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Let it go,” Tom said. “She’s not available.”

  “Not available?”

  “I haven’t talked about you with her for a reason. She’s asked me about you, but it just ain’t my damn business. Erin grew up in a messed-up situation, parents dead, and her relatives weren’t that great to her. She practically raised her brother on her own. You see how she treats her gunroom crew? She spends most of her free time solving their problems … helping with schoolwork, family issues, that sort of thing. She’s a superkid, man. She’s only satisfied if she’s sacrificing herself for others. It’s all she’s done all her life, and she doesn’t know any different. She may actually be attracted to you, but she’s never going to take the time to do something she would enjoy, and you don’t need that much TLC. She’s got too many worse-off people to take care of. So my advice is to let that one go, pronto.”

  Neil’s jaw clenched. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  When they arrived in orbit above Commonwealth, Neil called up the live images of the planet on San Jacinto’s cameras. It was night over the only continent, a Pangaea-like beast in the early stages of breaking up. Twinkling city lights traced its outline, but few lights were visible in the icy inland regions. A green aurora slithered across the northern pole. Beyond the dayside terminator he could make out the white arms of one of the planet’s permanent hurricanes. Even on the projection from his handheld, it was awe-inspiring; Neil wished, not for the first time, that San Jacinto had a window.

  Orbit was a remarkably busy place. The detection unit counted 42 ships of various sizes and nationalities, including the fast courier Hanover Express, which had originated from Entente shortly before San Jacinto, passed the destroyer en route, and was now docked with an orbital transfer station. Only half of the ships in orbit identified themselves honestly to San Jacinto’s ping; the rest said they were from Mongolia or Bolivia or some other flag-of-convenience nation. Neil had found records in the ship’s database suggesting four of the freighters were suspected of involvement in weapons smuggling.

  Two warships, meanwhile, were genuinely worrisome. One was a destroyer of Russian manufacture, the other a frigate built at the drydock over Reunion, the oldest independent nation outside of the Solar System. Neither vessel bore the livery of any country.

  As an exercise, Lieutenant Commander Mendoza asked Neil to do an analysis on the two ships’ fighting capabilities and compare them to San Jacinto’s. Neil knew that Lieutenant Stahl would prepare the official analyses for the captain, based on whatever preexisting information on them was in the ship’s computer.

  Of course the ships were on some kind of covert mission; nations sought primacy among the mini-states of Commonwealth as they did on Entente. The lawless regions and lack of planetary satellite coverage – surveillance birds were often targeted by lasers on the surface – provided countries with areas to conduct clandestine training and research that would be all too visible on Earth. Neil wondered if the United States had any operations like that there … certainly possible, though Commonwealth was more the province of nations without large extrasolar holdings.

  Neil first wrote up the frigate, designated by San Jacinto’s CIC as “Victor-12.” Her hull lines showed she was one of Reunion’s unimaginatively named “N-7” class, built between 2118 and 2125 as an export combatant, although the republic operated a few of its own. Korea, Brazil, Leviticus and Australia had also bought at least one, though Neil was sure an Aussie warship would have identified itself to San Jacinto, covert or no. The ship’s transponder identified it as a vessel of the Republica de Nuevo Santiago, a nation on Entente run by a criminal syndicate, who would conveniently acknowledge ownership of any vessel that some paying customer wished to hide.

  Regarded as underarmed for her 4,800-ton mass, Victor-12’s primary armament consisted of lasers and a single gun turret. No missiles: Reunion was deeply opposed to nuclear weapons and refused to build ships with missile launchers lest they be used to fire one.

  Neil had little doubt that San Jacinto could take her. Recommended engagement tactic: missiles from standoff distances, Neil wrote. Expected enemy response: Disengage and flee.

  The destroyer, Victor-9, was another matter. Neil stared at the readout, trying to absorb it into his subconscious. She was Paltus-class, which had been built at the Novaya Rodina shipyards since 2130. She looked like an upside-down bolt-action rifle.

  She massed heavier than San Jacinto. She was also slower, at nine milligees cruise thrust to San Jacinto’s ten, and lacked the American vessel’s range. Like San Jacinto, she was equipped with a dropship bay.

  Her main armament was frightening: She was one of the smallest warships to mount a no-kidding spinal gun. Called a “keel mount” by some navies, these weapons were heavy mass drivers that propelled a shell through a linear accelerator running the length of the ship. The longer accelerator meant the ship could boost larger masses to greater speeds than the turreted guns in San Jacinto’s main batteries. Standing in front of Victor-9’s spinal gun could put you in a very bad way.

  Beyond that, though, the destroyer’s armament was nothing impressive: 850 megawatts of lasers firing in either near infrared, blue-green or near ultraviolet wavelengths, with two medium-sized mounts forward and four smaller ones on turrets. Limited missile capacity, but a solid point-defense. The weak counterbattery marked a potential weakness to long-range laser strikes … too bad the San Jacinto’s primary laser armament was also pretty mediocre.

  How would she fight? Try to hit you with the spinal gun, of course. But gun shells had limited ability to maneuver themselves; Victor-9 would have to close range to ensure a hit. The information on the spinal cannon’s muzzle velocity was noted as uncertain, as was the maneuverability of its shells. So Neil couldn’t be sure how close the vessel would have to get.

  American combat doctrine relegated guns to secondary weapons, but important ones. As guns were unlikely to hit a maneuvering target, captains were taught to think of them as creating terrain on the space battlefield. Fill a section of an enemy’s sky with shells, and he won’t go there. Shoot at his nose if you want him to turn and expose his flanks; shoot to his flanks if you want to prevent him from turning in that direction. Your shells will miss, but you will be able to predict and perhaps control where your target will go.

  Neil supposed a really aggressive Paltus captain could use the main gun to create terrain and try to use his lasers to deal real damage, but that was contrary to the ship’s design.

  So how should San Jacinto handle her in a head-to-head fight?

  First, avoid the spinal cannon shells at all costs. Neil had no idea whether San Jacinto could survive a direct hit from one, and he didn’t want to find out.

  Beyond that, it seemed the best choice would be to try to remain at standoff distance, risking San Jacinto’s flanks by always turning perpendicular to the Paltus’ advance, using gun shells to herd the ship while peppering her with missiles, or to close quickly, dodging the inevitable spinal gun shots, and try to rake her at close range.

  The first option risked wasting all of San Jacinto’s missiles to the Paltus’ point defenses; the second risked destruction by the spinal
cannon.

  Can we deceive the Paltus’ captain somehow? The old space warfare cliché immediately popped into his head … You can run, but you can’t hide. Pretending damage, playing dead … none of those seemed like good options. A suspicious captain would just blast away with the spinal gun.

  Our advantage is our superior thrust. What about a hybrid of the two options? Point the nose toward the ship and accelerate, firing the main batteries to keep her from pointing her nose toward us. When the spinal gun fires, dodge, but dodge toward her, never countering the vector pointed toward the enemy, always closing the distance.

  The key was the San Jacinto’s missiles. Hold them back until about 1,000 klicks or less, then ripple-fire them. A few should get through.

  The only thing he didn’t like about the plan was its complexity. Skillful handling would be required to avoid the incoming cannon fire.

  Neil wished again that he knew who owned Victor-9. It would be easier to guess at her tactics. He scanned the production history of the class. Only 16 had been made, a first batch of 12 and a second batch, still being produced, with a more efficient drive and upgraded spinal gun. A dropship bay was an optional component for both batches. The list of who had bought each of the 16 was incomplete … Russia operated a few, as did India and Thailand. Korea was thought to have bought two, which was odd: They could build better ships than the Russians.

  Maybe we can narrow down which batch this one is from.

  Neil punched up the recordings of Victor-9. No dice. San Jacinto had not seen her firing her drive.

  Was it worth bugging a sensor tech to keep a telescope on the ship? This was only an exercise, and he might get yelled at for wasting the tech’s time. On the other hand, the ship was clearly the closest thing to a threat in Commonwealth’s orbit, and Stahl may have already sought the same information. Why not? He keyed his handheld to activate a communications channel.

  “Sensor ops, Astronaut Apprentice Baker,” said a female voice.

  “It’s Ensign Mercer. Think we can keep a telescope on Victor-9? I’m looking for engine data if she lights her candle. Let me know when and if you get something.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Simple enough. He closed the connection. He checked his clock and was surprised to find he’d been working on the exercise for more than two hours.

  I must be enjoying this. Neil blinked, surprised at the thought.

  It took two days of communications with contacts on the surface, but Donovan and Huang Jin negotiated permission to land a dropship at an “Army of the Republic of China” guerrilla training camp in the southwestern reaches of Commonwealth’s landmass. Sun Haisheng was reportedly nearby. San Jacinto pointed a telescope at the provided coordinates, and, sure enough, its operators saw a large, fortified encampment. A rough landing strip long enough for one of San Jacinto’s dropships was a short drive away.

  The lack of refueling facilities, however, meant that the Sabre would have to carry extra juice to make it back to orbit. That left space for only 14 passengers. Donovan wanted to go down with as small a party as possible, but Captain Thorne insisted on a force large enough to provide security for the dropship and its personnel: six Marines, in addition to Neil, Donovan, Rafe Sato, Huang Jin and her remaining bodyguard, accompanied by Doctor Avery, a Mandarin-speaking astronaut named Rodriguez, and Tom, who would handle any surface-to-ship communications.

  Thorne surprised Neil by putting him in command of the military contingent making the drop.

  Half a day later, Neil strapped into his seat in the Sabre’s hold, with Tom on one side and Astronaut Andrea Rodriguez on the other. The Marines took longer to seat themselves; they were going down in light battle dress – vests and rifles, but no heavier weapons or combat armor – and they needed time to stow their gear.

  Their presence left the atmosphere in the dropship tense and quiet. The guerrilla camp was supposedly friendly territory for the Americans, but its inhabitants were considered outlaws and targets by the Chinese government.

  Neil took a deep breath and leaned his head back on the cold leather rest behind him. He could feel the vibrations as the ship powered up. The world was in sharp focus.

  “We ready to launch?” Tom asked.

  “Drop,” Neil corrected.

  “What?”

  “When you are going from orbit to the surface, it’s a drop. Surface-to-orbit is a launch. If you don’t go near a planet, it’s a ‘jump’ or a ‘shuttle,’ although people don’t always remember that one.”

  Tom rolled his eyes.

  Neil’s handheld beeped, signaling an incoming call. It was Baker, on duty in CIC.

  “Sir, Victor-9 just lit her candle. She’s moving into what appears to be an insertion orbit for a dropship.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Neil said. “Can you transmit me the data on her plume?”

  “Aye, sir.” He looked at his handheld and keyed an approval to receive the incoming transmission, intending to look it over when he got down to the surface.

  He wondered, briefly, where on Commonwealth Victor-9 had business.

  The first thing Neil noticed about the planet was, of course, the gravity. Commonwealth was a big world, and gravity was about four percent higher than on Earth. Smaller, less-dense Entente had been easier to bear; this was just oppressive.

  Getting off the dropship, Lance Corporal Guillermo Morales tripped over the last step and fell hard, prompting relentless heckling from the other Marines. He swore at them, and Lieutenant Sanchez commanded the entire group to please shut the hell up.

  The second thing Neil noticed was the flora that lined either side of the landing strip. Commonwealth was one of the few planets that had evolved a complex ecosystem, with animals as well as plants. The big ones resembled giant ferns, except they were black and plasticky, with the odd tinge of red. He remembered Ensign Mike Hayes saying something about this, that black was actually the best color for plants, because it didn’t reflect any sunlight. He claimed Earth was anomalous in that it developed green plants.

  Tom took one look and said, “I guess black is the new green.”

  A small armed party from the training camp was waiting to meet them. Donovan and Huang Jin exchanged a few words with them, and motioned for the Space Force personnel to board an idling bus. Sanchez and the other Marines remained behind with the dropship and its flight crew.

  As they rode over to the camp, Neil stared out the window at the sky. It was a brilliant blue, with the big moon Rodrigo pallid but visible to the south.

  The camp itself was large and busy. Several permanent cinder-block structures made up the center. They were surrounded by rows of white tents.

  Rafe Sato, sitting next to Neil, snorted as they rolled through the camp. “Talk about leading with your chin,” he said, quiet enough so the guerrillas on board couldn’t hear him.

  “What?” Neil said.

  “This place. This is a great big ol’ target for Mister Han. Surprised they haven’t hit it already.”

  “There are probably several dozen camps like this on Commonwealth. Maybe they don’t know it’s here.”

  “Oh, come on, Neil, of course they know it’s here. Nobody, I mean nobody, does internal security as well as the Hans. They probably decided to leave it alone until they needed to paste it. An enemy you can find is better than one you can’t.”

  Neil nodded. The bus drove between a line of permanent buildings, and something caught Rafe’s eye. “Oh, now, look at this bullshit,” he said, louder than before.

  Neil followed his glance, and saw an oversized mural of Sun Haisheng’s head. Beside it were images of happy, well-fed Chinese children.

  “Bizarre,” Neil said.

  “It’s cult of personality crap. Our boy Sun is trying to venerate himself. He didn’t used to be like this. Christ, he’d take Taiwan back to the stone age if he ever got in power.”

  Neil looked at Donovan. The old spy’s face had taken a hard set.

  The bus rolled to
a stop.

  Donovan went into conference with the guerrilla camp leadership, trying to negotiate a visit with Sun Haisheng, who lived about an hour’s flight away. Avery, meanwhile, had taken one look at the open sewage ditches and disappeared into a tent city, with Rodriguez in tow, intending to treat whatever illnesses he could find.

  Neil, Tom and Rafe were left to sit in a windowless office. Rafe complained about the smell, then switched to complaining about the gravity; he had been skipping workouts in San Jacinto’s gym. Tom mocked him with sarcastic sympathy. Neil stared at the wall before remembering the new Victor-9 data, and he pulled out his handheld to look it over.

  Sure enough, the Doppler shift of the ship’s emission lines gave away the ship’s fuel efficiency – what gearheads call “exhaust velocity.” Victor-9’s identified it as one of the newer, more efficient members of the Paltus class.

  That worried Neil. Of those four ships, two had been sold to India, and two most recently to “unreported buyers,” according to his intelligence file. Some analyst had tacked unsourced rumors onto the file: One said the buyer for both was Kazakhstan – a nation with deep ties to both China and Russia, and one that played the same shady flag-of-convenience game as Nuevo Santiago. Another rumor said the buyer was none other than the People’s Republic of China. Victor-9’s transponder claimed it was a Kazakh ship, though Neil knew the ship could probably shift its response to state it was from any of a half-dozen countries.

  Whatever the case, the unreported transactions, lack of livery and false flag probably meant an intelligence agency or secret police service had wanted some firepower independent of the national military.

  So how to narrow down Victor-9’s identity further? Given this was an exercise, he needed more information before he bothered Mendoza with his findings. He had one idea: Search the internet for logs of starship watchers – space travel enthusiasts who recorded when certain ships arrived in orbit around their planet. Although the military’s intelligence arm didn’t like to admit it, these reports were, Neil knew, a significant source of information on foreign ship movements. But Neil wasn’t sure how well Commonwealth’s poorly run internet would have archived other planetary internets, and when he tried to log into the internet with his handheld, he found he couldn’t get into even the camp’s local network without a password, and there was no one around to ask for one.