The Hope Island Chronicles Boxed Set

by PJ Strebor

“Why thank you, commander. Correct as always.”

  Waugh reached into a waistcoat pocket and removed the small shiny object. She stepped behind Nathan and pinned the silver star onto his left epaulet before returning to her seat.

  “I shall expect that back at the end of the cruise, Acting Ensign Telford.”

  Nathan gawked at her. His initial attempts to form words failed. Finally, he cleared his throat and addressed his running mate.

  “May I borrow that disgusting thing?”

  Leo handed him the monster cigar. Nathan inhaled a huge draught into his virgin lungs.

  Rusty grinned in anticipation of the inevitable outcome.

  CHAPTER 45

  Date: 13th August, 320 ASC.

  Position: Monitor Truculent, on station: Ibis Nebula.

  Status: Alert Condition three.

  Nathan strolled into the wardroom, his easy saunter reflecting a mood lightened by the previous night’s celebration. He received a prompt reminder that very little happened aboard a monitor without everyone hearing about it.

  “Atten-tion!” Meta ordered. The middies snapped to attention. “Good morning Acting Ensign Telford, sir.”

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  “Acting Ensign Telford, sir,” Ozzie said. “Permission to continue breathing, sir.”

  Nathan clamped his hands behind his back and ran a critical eye over the three grinning middies.

  “Your deportment is thoroughly deplorable middy.”

  “Yes sir, sorry sir, acting ensign, sir,” Meta replied.

  “Get a shine on those shoes middy.”

  “Yes sir, Acting Ensign Telford, sir.” Ozzie's grin underscored the absurdity of the moment.

  “And as for you Midshipwoman Okuma,” Nathan shook his head, “I don't see any hope for you at all.”

  “Whatever you say acting ensign, sir.”

  “I will now give you clowns my one and only order. Knock it off.”

  Too late Nathan realized his mistake.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Of course acting ensign, sir.”

  “Oh, my deepest and most profound apologies acting ensign, sir ensign acting, sir.”

  “Everyone's a friggin’ comedian,” he muttered.

  “Whatever you say, acting ensign sir.” Moe slapped him on the back. They all fell about laughing. Thankfully the novelty had worn off by the end of the day. They finally stopped the sir nonsense, even resisting the temptation to buff his new star. His friends were happy for him, which made the promotion all the more rewarding.

  Truculent departed the Ibis Nebula three hours later and for two days escorted League Trader toward Athenian space. Regardless of the relative capriciousness of League Trader’s temporary captain, Truculent left her within three hyper-transitions of the Oceanian System before altering course northward. I'm sure CPO Instelle will pull Tivendale into line if he tries anything stupid. Although the last time I saw him he looked like a whipped dog.

  Reliable scuttlebutt suggested that, on the captain’s most judicious recommendation, Tivendale would never again set foot aboard a monitor.

  The deployment was almost over. In nineteen days they would disembark at Sentinel Artemis and the great adventure would end. And with it Nathan’s hope for retribution. For the first time in thirteen years he made a wish. He shook his head irritably. Wishes are for children and dreamers. Even if, by some dark miracle, his wish came true, would it lessen his dreadful guilt?

  CHAPTER 46

  Date: 16th August, 320 ASC.

  Position: Monitor Truculent, running along the Fenchurch Depression.

  Status: Landing boat orientation.

  The tractor beam manipulated the small landing craft as if it were a black fish at the end of a high tensile line. The forward view-plate automatically tinted, adjusting to the beam’s glare. Chief of the Boat Scaroni had tractored aboard in this fashion so often she had little concern for having handed her life to another human being.

  “Landing Boat three, this is the LCC, I have you on the beam,” the Landing Control Officer said. “Sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  “Three acknowledges.”

  Truculent’s boat bay doors stood open, the fantail extended at a slight downward angle. The young man beside her revealed a glimmer of apprehension.

  “Mister Telford,” the Chief of the Boat said, “I understand you dined with our captain recently.”

  “I was privileged to do so, COB.”

  “How was everything?”

  “Fine.”

  He kept his tone informal but his eyes remained glued to the steadily growing boat bay.

  “Now that you’ve broken bread with her, what do you think of our commodore?”

  “She was everything I imagined she would be.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’ve never met anyone quite like her. Sure, I’ve read everything written about her but no words can convey …” his eyes narrowed and stared into the starfield, “her sense of being. It’s as if the room isn’t big enough to contain her energy. You know what I mean?”

  Yeah, I know what you mean. “So, you shared your feelings with her?”

  “What? And sound like every other heroine-worshiping, gibbering middy?”

  The Chief of the Boat chuckled. “Well, you're not a middy anymore are you?”

  Telford sighed. “It's largely symbolic, COB.”

  Scaroni showed mercy and said no more on the subject.

  Truculent skirted the edge of the Fenchurch Depression, its mild interference helping to mask her signature. Fenchurch was a characteristically large hyper depression covering an area that lapped from Athenian space across the Rio Grande and into the north.

  “Mister Telford, have you tractored aboard a monitor before?” Scaroni had read his file but today’s exercise was about more than landing boat orientation. The middies, regardless of rank, came within her sphere of responsibility.

  “Yes COB, many times.”

  “In that case how would you like to try a fast trap instead of this boring old tractor nonsense? Hey? What do you say?”

  “Sure.” As with most grommits he employed the sort of false indifference that made Scaroni feel warm and fuzzy inside.

  “Good for you.” Scaroni keyed her larynx mike. “LCC, we’re going for a fast trap approach. Drop tractor on my mark.”

  “Roger that LB three.”

  “Three, two, one mark!”

  The tractor dropped. Scaroni pushed the LB into a tight three gee turn. Telford’s Adam's apple bobbed up and down appreciably. She could almost smell the salty taste in his mouth. She had seen this so many times before. His perplexed expression said much. Surely this should not be happening to him? No words escaped his slightly parted lips but she would bet a month’s pay he was reciting the academy anti-yack mantra in his mind: 'It's all in your head, all in your head, in your head, your head, head.'

  The slight nausea affected the best of the grommits their first time on Combat Interdiction Patrol. The environmental and gravity fluctuations took time to adjust to. Rusty Redpath had mentioned to her that one of the middies yacked in his helmet. Would this be the next candidate for the hall of shame? The others had managed to keep their lunch down, although Hayden was a close-run thing. He had been lucky that Doc Kelso prescribed medication to aid his equilibrium.

  Telford swallowed hard and stared past her through the starboard view-plate. At dead slow speed Truculent ran parallel to the depression with LB three matching her speed. She continued to prowl for business, stealth engines only. The power emissions from a single landing boat would not jeopardize the even running of her stealth patrol.

  Scaroni had received nothing but good feedback about this young officer. He had garnered a lot of supporters from within the ranks as word of his mismatched confrontation with Tivendale spread throughout the boat.

  Even Dearkov, usually too surly and self-absorbed to be interested,
had become a fan. Apparently, a certain senior rating, name withheld, had been informing Tivendale on Telford’s movements. Although no fan of junior officers, Dearkov chose to intervene. The multiple bruises on the anonymous rating's face suggested Tivendale's inside card had been removed from the deck.

  If Telford could get someone like Dearkov on side, perhaps miracles were possible.

  “Chief, is there any chance of …” Telford eyed the controls hopefully. He officially outranked her but in reality he knew better than to push his luck.

  Scaroni snorted. If he hadn’t asked to pilot the boat she would have been extremely surprised. She examined the external scanners and except for Truculent found clear space in all directions. “How many flight hours do you have?”

  “I have eleven hundred and fifty-two hours in sims.”

  No doubt he thought it would be extraneous to mention he had spent all but forty-nine of those hours in fighter simulations.

  “How many real flight hours?”

  “Nearly fifty.”

  “Do you believe you can pilot this craft?”

  “Not up to your high standards, chief,” he said.

  “Very well, Mister Telford, the boat is yours.” Scaroni leaned back and folded her arms.

  Telford pounced on the controls and adjusted for the expected shift to port. He made small experimental adjustments to pitch and yaw. A curious expression crossed his face when he glanced out the starboard view-plate. Truculent had disappeared. He checked the sensors and found her, two point seven kilometers astern.

  Running parallel to a hyper depression created some interesting conditions. Such as encountering a hyperspace fluctuation while still in normal space.

  “Was that a class four hyper eddy?”

  “No Mister Telford that was only a class three. Interesting sensation isn't it.”

  “Ah, yeah. Permission to come about, chief.”

  “Granted.”

  Telford glanced at the COB, noted that she stroked her chin with a rabbit’s foot, and snorted.

  Scaroni braced herself. Telford would have few opportunities like this during the remainder of the cruise. He would undoubtedly push the envelope.

  “Coming about to port, now!”

  Scaroni’s chest compressed as the weight of the four gee turn pressed against her. She showed no outward signs of concern and continued to stroke her chin with the rabbit's foot. She loved messing with a grommit's head.

  “Chief, permission to barrel-roll the craft.”

  “Granted.”

  Telford kicked the boat onto her side and held it for a count of two before rolling onto the topside and holding it for a count of two. Telford’s anguished growl accompanied the third maneuver. As he slid the boat onto her starboard side she slipped off the line. Half inverted he over corrected. The boat dropped onto her belly with a decided bump.

  “Shit!” His eyes dropped to the sensor readouts. The landing boat had slid off course and was now two kilometers closer to Truculent. Although still within safety tolerances he should not have allowed it to happen. Scaroni knew he had studied, in minute detail, the effects of flying this close to a depression, knew how they could push a vessel even the size of Truculent off course, had trained like a demon to avoid and counter it and still failed to correct for the variation. Telford pushed the LB back on course, irritation written across his face.

  “Have we learned something today, Mister Telford?” The COB asked.

  Telford gritted his teeth. “As exacting as simulators are they cannot prepare a pilot for every contingency.”

  “Wonderful, straight out of the manual. But what have you learned?”

  “I have learned that flying this close to a hyperspace depression takes hands-on practice and should never be underestimated.”

  “And?”

  A sickly smile formed as he glanced at her. “Don't fuck with the Chief Of the Boat?”

  “There is hope for you yet. Head for the barn and take it easy.”

  “Roger.”

  Telford brought the landing boat about, setting course for the landing pattern. Five clicks from the boat he faced her. No, you can't land the boat.

  As he opened his mouth to speak, Scaroni heard the flight deck alarm blare Alert Condition one.

  CHAPTER 47

  Nathan pressed his back firmly against his chair. The burble from Truculent’s engines vibrated through the seat of his v-suit. Scaroni’s face remained rigid as the landing boat hurtled toward the boat bay. Nathan fought against the instinct to avert his eyes.

  The landing boat breached the environmental force field. The skids struck the boat bay deck with a bone-jarring jolt. Heartbeats later it slammed into the arrester field. Nathan’s seat belt dug painfully against his shoulders and chest. He unbuckled, opened the hatch and jumped from the craft. With the COB on his heels he raced for the drop shafts. Nathan felt the boat's acceleration building.

  The COB took the starboard drop shaft to her combat station in maneuvering. Nathan swung into the drop shaft and passed through two pressure hatches before swinging onto deck one. A short walk brought him to the final hatch. He punched in the code before stepping onto the bridge. While he strapped into his jump seat he quickly scanned the crew. No joking today. A glint of excitement sparked in Leo’s eyes. He motioned Nathan closer and whispered into his ear.

  “We’ve received a distress call from the Francorum freighter Genevieve. She claims to be under attack by a headhunter.”

  “A Franc?” Nathan said in an incredulous tone.

  Leo’s face hardened. "Ensign, she is a civilian craft with a crew of eighty-seven and the capacity to carry thirty passengers. You of all people know what headhunters do with captives."

  “Yes,” Nathan said. “Sorry.” Even Franc civilians don’t deserve that fate.

  Nathan examined his readouts and nodded to himself. Genevieve's captain had foolishly chosen to enter the Fenchurch Depression. At its narrowest point a fast ship could cross it in thirty-two hours. For the dubious benefit of saving a day's flight time the Franc captain had exposed his ship to indefensible risk. A headhunter had run her down and attacked. Within the hyper depression Genevieve stood no chance of escape.

  “Helm, report,” Waugh demanded.

  “Reactor is at eighty-seven percent and climbing, captain. Primary engines are increasing to flank speed,” O'Donnell said. “ETA with Genevieve is five point three minutes.”

  “Damn,” Nathan whispered, “we’re that close?”

  “The boat’s been overdue for a change of luck,” Leo replied.

  “Captain,” the D-O said, “I have comm from Genevieve’s captain.”

  Her bearing reminded Nathan of a badly beaten dog.

  “Captain,” Waugh said, “what is your status?”

  “We’ve been boarded, captain.” Her glassy eyes reflected terrible misery. “We fought them but were overwhelmed by their numbers. Ten of my crew are dead. They detected your approach and fled.”

  “What is your ship’s condition?”

  “Our shields are still down, one engine is damaged. Both are repairable. But there is something else." The Francorum captain paused, as if dreading her next words. "They have taken my passengers, captain. Twenty-three men, women and children.”

  “Do you require our assistance, captain?” Under space maritime law she had to ask.

  “Thank you captain, but no.”

  “Then I will bid you good day, captain. Truculent out.” Waugh swung to the Tactical Station, expectation burning in her eyes.

  Lt Hookes kept her eyes fixed on her readouts. “I have her, captain. I confirm she is a headhunter.” Her eyebrows arched. “Badger class. She’s running for the Rio Grande at top speed. Feeding course and speed to the helm.”

  O'Donnell's hands flew across his console controls. “Course set, captain.”

  “Both ahead flank at your earliest,” Waugh barked.

  Na
than sensed an inner suspicion about their luck. The Badger class ship is one of the weakest assets available to headhunters. What would it be doing this deep into league space? Even though he knew Waugh would be thinking the same thing, the spot between the shoulder blades began to ache.

  Within twenty minutes Nathan felt the slightest of vibrations through his console.

  “Captain,” O’Donnell said, “we are about to hit the compression barrier.”

  “Very well, helm,” Waugh said, “maintain speed.”

  “Aye, captain.”

  With each passing minute the vibration increased as the monitor fought against one of Tunguska’s most challenging anomalies, the compression barrier. In Tunguska it caused similar problems as old Earth’s sound barrier.

  Minute by minute they gained on the enemy ship.

  The chase continued for five more hours, with the monitor shaking vigorously as the strain on her systems increased. Finally the gap between the two vessels closed.

  “The enemy ship is at extreme torpedo range, captain,” Hookes said, breaking the long silence.

  “Very well.” The captain straightened her back and unknotted her neck. “Helm, time to optimal range?”

  “Nine minutes, captain.”

  “Very well. Shut down the primary engines.”

  As soon as the engines stopped pushing against the compression barrier the vibration stopped. Nathan’s ears popped.

  The captain addressed the Auxiliary Operations Station.

  “Feel like getting your feet wet, Ensign Saunders?”

  Leo's face lit up like an aurora. “Yes, ma'am.”

  “You observe on this one, ensign. Do not leave the landing boat. Clear?”

  Showing far less enthusiasm, Leo said, “Aye, ma’am.”

  “On your way.” Leo sprinted for the hatch as the captain’s eyes settled on Nathan. “Do you think you can handle Auxiliary Ops, Mister Telford? Or should I get CPO Cairns to assist you?”

  “I'm familiar with the systems, captain.”

  “So I've been led to believe.” She paused for a moment, her inscrutable gaze unblinking. “But how will you react when they start shooting at us?”