by Evan Currie
Captain Roberts settled into the command station of the Bell, checking the reports from the previous watch as a matter of routine. A priority transmit intercepted from the Rogues caught his eye, flagged red as it was. He opened it up, and his deep-brown skin turned ashen as he read the contents.
I wonder if this is what Custer felt like?
“Read the report, sir?”
“You’ve seen it, Commander?” Roberts asked Lieutenant Commander Little as the man walked softly over to his station.
“Yes sir, I decoded it.”
Roberts twisted his lips up. “Anyone else?”
“No sir, your eyes and mine, no one else.”
“Well, I suppose it wouldn’t matter much if someone had,” Roberts said, considering the information and how he was going to disseminate it. “Everyone is going to find out soon enough.”
Little hesitated but finally nodded. “Yes sir.”
“This report puts them about a week out, at their current speed,” Roberts noted. “Not a lot of time.”
“No sir.”
It left him with a significant problem, as his orders were to buy time. He wasn’t sure what he could do that might accomplish that mission, however, not with two Heroics and a handful of Rogues. Honestly, even with every Heroic and Rogue in the current fleet, the time he could realistically buy would likely be measured in hours, not days.
“EARTHCOM will likely be sending updated orders in the meantime,” he said, “but for now we’ll proceed as planned, adjusting to . . .”
He shifted his station, bringing up a stellar map of the region as he considered the local stars, and finally pointed to one.
“We’ll meet them here,” Roberts decided.
Little leaned over to examine the map briefly, noting the Priminae colony called Marta. “Why there?”
“It’s the farthest Priminae colony still active. Given the Imperials’ current course, I’m guessing that’s their beachhead. I don’t know what we can do, but if nothing else we’ll be able to observe their protocol for entering a potentially hostile system.”
“I’ll load the nav data,” Little said. “We can be there . . . well, almost six days and twelve hours ahead of them.”
“Time enough to lay a trap, if we can figure one out I suppose,” Roberts said. “I want coordinates to transition to the new target system within the hour.”
“You’ve got it, Captain.”
Roberts activated the general quarters alarm. “All hands, we will be transitioning within the hour. Secure all stations and stand to general quarters. That is all.”
Lord’s Own Dreadnought, Empress Liann, Deep Space
Jesan Mich looked over the relay reports, most of them fed from the long-range scouts that were moving on ahead of the main force, some from the Imperial capital and other key planets of the Empire.
All things appeared to be proceeding as expected, but of course they had yet to actually encounter the enemy. That would be where the wave met the hull, he expected.
There were already some reports filtering in that were . . . concerning.
Not worrying, and he would deny any who even suggested as much, but scanner ghosts were being reported more often than he would consider normal. Whether that was because there was something out there, shadowing them, or because the scanner technicians were seeing things due to the warning that someone might be out there shadowing them . . . well, in either case he didn’t believe it mattered.
Let them watch, if they’re there. We are an Imperial Fleet and we will do our duty. The more eyes that witness it, the better.
This sector was beginning to become known to the Empire’s civilian population as one that had successfully resisted multiple Imperial excursions, and that could not be allowed. Revolutions were normal, and controlled. The people could not be permitted to believe that they might be able to have a successful revolution.
That way lay chaos, and order was the cornerstone of Empire.
Jesan looked out on the endless black of the expanse between stars, wondering what there was out there that the Empire had yet to uncover. What horrors and wonders remained, now that the Drasin had been exposed as reality instead of nightmare fantasy and the Oathers and their heretical adherence to the literal interpretation of ancient scripture had been shown to exist?
The times were becoming truly fascinating, and Jesan felt blessed to be living in such a period in the history of the Empire. There were great things to accomplish, tasks to complete, and enemies to vanquish.
A lord of battle could ask for little more.
He was tired of putting down staged revolts to keep the populace in their place, tired of executing fools and peons who didn’t have a chance of fighting back.
The Empire needed a true enemy, in his opinion, a force that could stand up and be a real threat. A force that could be paraded in front of the populace and used as an example of why they should continue to work and sacrifice for the good of the Empire.
Fear was functional, but Mich wanted more from his people.
He wanted eager sacrifice.
The lord in him sighed, saddened, though, as he was well aware that he would not find that great opposition yet. Even if their intelligence was badly off, there was just no possible way that the Oathers and their odd allies would have any chance against even a single Imperial Fleet, let alone the rest of the power that could be brought by the empress’ own Home Fleet.
It was . . . almost . . . a pity.
Still, it was a thought.
If such an enemy does not exist yet, perhaps we might create them?
A good thought, Jesan felt, and one he would seriously consider bringing to the Imperial Court in the near future.
Perhaps the Drasin themselves? They hold some power in the imagination of the fools who form the lower castes. Stage an attack on a rebellious world, Jesan supposed idly as his crew worked around him. Leave a few million dead. We could even blame it on the Oathers. The irony in that is rather delicious actually.
Mich smiled, amused by the poetry of his musings.
AEV Autolycus, Deep Space
With the passing of the Imperial Fleet, Morgan and crew had forged deeper into the black, looking for where the enemy had come from rather than where they were going.
There were nearly uncountable stars in that general direction, and with warp drives allowing incredible speeds, the Empire could reach out from literally tens of thousands of them. It would be worse, of course, if they had anything remotely close to the transition drive, but even without it things were going to be difficult enough.
“Have we finished calculating the likely origin points?” Morgan asked as he drifted across the bridge and grabbed a hand grip near the navigation station.
“Narrowed it down to a likely cone about fifty light-years across, sir,” the lieutenant standing station at navigation answered. “With the data we have, I doubt we’ll get it any narrower.”
“Fifty light-years across, a hundred and fifty times light-speed cruising speed,” Morgan said. “So, conservatively, we’re looking at maybe a cone four light-years deep. How many stars? Hundred and fifty?”
“A little less.”
“It’s a start. Break them up among the Rogues, start plotting hyperspectral scans, and look for any signs of planets and habitation.”
“Yes sir.”
He watched the work begin before pushing off from his location and drifting away. The crew would expand the cone outward if nothing showed up in the initial scans. Given what they knew from the Priminae, it was unlikely the hyperspectral scans would turn up anything similar to Earth, whose environment was still heavily scarred from wars, pollution, and unregulated population growth. Yet the Priminae had signs of habitation that they were unable to fully mask even given their extreme deference to the natural order of things.
Morgan highly doubted that the Empire would be nearly so . . . neat about things.
We’ll find them for you, Admiral, Morgan thoug
ht grimly. I just hope you have a plan for what to do with them when we do.
AEV Bellerophon
The task group exited transition well outside the heliopause of the small Priminae colony system, running dark as soon as they secured from transition and immediately turning to circle around the edge of the elliptical plane.
On board the Bell, Roberts stood his watch silently as he observed the data coming in across all their passive scanners.
Technically, stealth wasn’t yet necessary, as the enemy had been observed a week out. Nothing the Imperials had would be able to pick out targets as small as ships at that range, especially not ships that had just literally appeared from nowhere with no real light trace to follow. Still, the moment they had appeared near the system, the task force had begun leaving a light trace that could be tracked. Better to minimize it, just in case.
While they were circling the system on warp drive, Roberts turned the bridge over to Commander Little and made his way down to the engineering sections, where the chief was working on a little project at his request.
“Chief . . .” Roberts greeted the woman as he walked onto the open deck that was littered with components and automated fabrication systems as well as people all working furiously. “Give me some news.”
“We barely got started, Captain,” Chief Winnona Criff said, not bothering to look up from the coding she was handling. “Give us a couple shifts and maybe I’ll have something for you.”
“I don’t need anything yet, just an idea of whether you can do it.”
“Of course I can do it,” she grumbled. “I told you I could, but we’re going to strip the Bell and the Bo of most of our logistical materials. If you scuff the ships up after this, don’t come crying to me for repairs.”
“Keep enough back to patch a few holes,” Roberts countered wryly. “But I’m hoping to avoid any direct fighting this time around.”
“Would be nice,” Criff said sourly. “We should be able to cover a few light-seconds across with what we can build in the next few days. Not much more than that, however, so wherever you’re going to put these things, you better be sure the enemy is sailing through.”
“I’ll handle that side of things,” Roberts confirmed. “Just make certain we can recover these if needed.”
“I’m fully aware of how valuable this kit is, Captain. If the enemy doesn’t vape the lot, we’ll be able to pick them up.”
“Alright. I’ll leave you to it, then.”
She didn’t bother to acknowledge him as he left, both amusing and irritating Roberts, but he was used to engineers and their occasional periods of distraction.
Buying time . . .
CHAPTER 12
AEV Odysseus, Ranquil System
Steph glared at Eric through bleary eyes, wondering how the hell the old fart he called boss managed to look clean and composed after the previous night.
Oh sure, they hadn’t drank that much. Eric would never actually get drunk while on his own ship. That was just not on. They had been up late, the initial bitching party morphing into reminiscences about old war stories and the like. Morning shift felt like someone had poured sand in Steph’s eyes, and while the painkillers had taken care of the headache, he still felt like he was on the wrong side of a three-day shift.
Eric, meanwhile, had been on the bridge when he arrived, despite Steph being almost half an hour early for his shift. Worse, Eric looked like he’d been working furiously for hours, judging from the state of his station, and still looked fresh, as though he’d just waltzed onto the deck.
Just not right, that’s what it was.
“Steph,” Eric called. “We’ve got a rendezvous with a transport from the Forge in three hours. Coordinates are at your station.”
“You got it, sir,” Steph said as he crossed over immediately. “What are we picking up?”
“Everything they had in stock to make t-cannons,” Eric responded, “along with as many laser capacitors as they could spare. I couldn’t get any magnetic containment units out of them, but engineering is putting a bunch of bare-bones gravity containment units together, which will double as drive mechanisms.”
Steph had to blink, trying to process what he’d just heard. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Your idea, Steph, we’re going to give it a shot.”
Steph racked his brain, but honestly couldn’t think of anything he’d said that might have kicked off this particular ants’ nest.
“Idea, sir?”
“Drones, Steph, drones. We’re building drones.”
Oh. That idea.
“Do we have time for that?” Steph asked, mostly because it seemed more polite than asking his friend and CO if he’d lost his Goddamn mind.
“Mostly off-the-shelf parts,” Eric replied in what he assumed was supposed to be a reassuring tone.
Frankly, Steph felt anything but reassured. Raze had a way of becoming manic when he snapped his jaws down around a new idea, and this was looking more and more like one of those moments. Steph just hoped this episode wasn’t going to come back on them like it had when they went after the Block’s submersible carrier.
Fighters weren’t supposed to engage from below sea level, never mind what tricks they could pull with counter-mass generators.
Steph shuddered.
Damn it. And I’d managed to suppress those memories. I need more liquor.
“Have you been up all night?” Steph asked suspiciously.
“Working, Steph,” Eric responded, not looking up from his station. “We’re on a clock.”
Ah crap. He’s definitely in that manic mode again. This is gonna suck.
On the bright side, though, Steph was no longer feeling that impending sense of doom from the approaching Imperial Fleet. Of course, it had now been replaced by the impending sense of doom from his own captain. Troublesome though it was, the circumstance was still an improvement.
Milla stepped on the deck and the captain instantly shifted his focus.
“Lieutenant Chans,” Eric called, “I have a job for you.”
She looked around, suddenly nervous as the captain’s wide-eyed grin settled on her.
“Yes sir?”
Poor girl, Steph thought. She really has no idea what she’s about to be immersed in.
Welcome to Wild Weston’s Flying Circus, Milla. It’s about to get hot up in here.
Chief Garrick stared, slack-jawed, at the piles of gear that were being unloaded onto his once-pristine deck. Just pallets by the dozen and more of replacement parts for gear that didn’t need replacing and could be fabricated on their own if they did.
“Tell me again who signed off on this,” the chief said quietly to the young lieutenant he was shepherding through the process of managing the logistics side of a Heroic Class vessel’s engineering department.
The job wasn’t as glamorous as maintaining the engines but was every bit as necessary to the proper running of a warship, though few people seemed to realize it.
“Commodore Weston, Chief,” the lieutenant said grimly, though completely lacking the deep-seated horror the chief felt at seeing the sheer mess splattered across his deck.
Garrick sighed. “I suppose that means I don’t get to gripe about this shit, then.”
“Please, Chief,” Lieutenant Chin said wearily, “try to keep the swearing down, or at least in my direct company. It’s harder to ignore the ‘unmilitary’ attitude when you’re swearing in my face.”
“Whoever put that in the books as unmilitary must have been a civilian.”
“More likely an admiral with fuzzy memories of his time in the lower officer ranks,” Chin corrected, “but it’s still on the books, so if you’d please not test my selective hearing so blatantly, I’d be most appreciative.”
“You’re not bad for a butterbar, Chin,” Garrick said, amused, as he grabbed an order sheet on a digital flimsy and looked over the inventory. “Okay, what do we have here. Over one hundred transition wave guides, tachyon reactors, and .
. . is that three thousand supercapacitors?”
“Looks like,” Chin admitted, checking the numbers on his own flimsy.
“Damn. I didn’t know anyone had that many stockpiled. Why aren’t they already in a hull?”
“At a guess, I’d say that the Priminae ran out of hulls before they ran out of supercapacitors.”
“Right. Fair point, I guess. Do you have anything on your sheet that says what we’re supposed to do with all this junk?”
The “junk” was likely worth a fair chunk of Earth’s conventional military forces in terms of pure value. However, as Chin flipped through the reams of data on his sheet, he had to shake his head.
“Nothing. No packing orders, no tranship number. Nothing. We don’t even have inventory reference on any of this stuff. Are we supposed to leave it sitting here on the deck?”
“Like fu . . . hell we are,” Garrick said. “This junk is not cluttering up my deck if I have anything to say about it!”
“Luckily, Chief”—a new voice startled them into turning around—“you do have something to say about it.”
Both lieutenant and chief snapped to attention as the commodore approached them, another young lieutenant walking uncertainly at his side.
“Chief, Lieutenant,” Weston said, “allow me to introduce Milla Chans. She’s on loan from the Priminae fleet, one of their weapon specialists.”
Garrick shifted his attention just slightly to the woman standing at the commodore’s side. She had dark hair and pale skin which, coupled with her small stature, made her look far younger than she had to be. Normally Garrick might have written her off for that alone, but there was something about the glittering, shadowy look behind her eyes that spoke of depths, so he withheld his opinion and shifted back to look at the commodore.
“Begging your pardon, Commodore, sir,” he said politely. “But what are we supposed to do with all of . . . this?”
“You’re going to build drones for me, Chief.”
Chief Garrick thought those were the very last words he’d expected out of the commodore’s mouth at that time.
