“They are aliens, Lieutenant. Applying preconceptions about their living spaces based on our lifestyle choices is a questionable approach.”
Rease paused and reprised her view of Lyle. However gregarious he might appear he obviously wouldn’t accept anything short of airtight logic.
“How about this then,” she said after she’d gathered her thoughts, “there are a handful munitions factories and food processing plants but no mines and no farms to explain where the raw materials came from.”
Lyle nodded. “Others have said the raw materials might be shipped in.”
“Then why build any factories here at all. Doesn’t matter what species you are, it makes more sense to build your production facilities near the sources of raw materials.”
“Which is what I said to my colleagues. What’s your conclusion, Lieutenant?”
“It’s a trap. Not just Box Grid, but all of Grimball. It’s more like a movie set than a real colony. What’s worse is we came here looking to take the fight to an enemy world, to go on the offensive. It would have taken time to build this place, which means they knew about our plan before the first scout ships were even dispatched.”
Lyle nodded, still typing away. “You know the Mauler aircraft are unmanned, yes?”
Rease nodded, wondering how that was significant.
“You’ve seen the disregard with which the Maulers engage on the battlefield. Why would their fighters be unmanned, obviously they have no concern for the well-being of their soldiers?”
“The Maulers are too stupid to be allowed to fly their own planes.” The Lieutenant felt like something cold and heavy had settled into her gut. “…which means someone else is.”
The Commander nodded again. “We have no proof, not yet. The reality is the Bugs and Scarabs are hardly aces, but combined with your own observations from Grimball, it lends itself to the theory that the Maulers are some kind of proxy army.”
“For who?”
“We don’t know, but Captain Pierman and I have a special mandate from within the Council to find out. Assisting the battle here is technically our secondary objective. This stays between us, of course.”
“You must know I’m not exactly notorious for my willingness to keep information from people who are expected to die as a result.”
“Well then you have a choice. You can tell everyone, and I’ll never help you again or you can accept that some people might die not knowing the full reasons why and console yourself that you’ll be able to save more if you know more.”
Rease eyed him. “You used to be a merchant of some kind, didn’t you?”
“I used to sell hats,” he answered without missing a beat. “Regardless, you now know that Box Grid, possibly all of Grimball, is enemy misdirection. What do you hope to learn from it before its rendered down to its constituent atoms?”
“The Maulers attacked us down there at regiment strength. Frankly the settlement was neither large enough, nor complex enough that we could have missed a unit that size. If we nuke it we will never know how they pulled that off.”
“The common speculation in fleet intelligence was that it was a cave system beneath one of the buildings. Even with their technology the maulers could have come up with something to shield against ground penetrating radar.” He pulled a data slate from beneath one of the piles on his desk and tossed it to Rease.
Catching it neatly, the Lieutenant looked down at the tablet. It was sub-orbital imagery taken from the Arcadia during the early stages of the battle. Three buildings were circled, each had large numbers of Maulers exiting them. Tabbing through the rest of the images Rease saw a constant flow from the buildings that lasted for almost ten minutes after the Arcadia had arrived.
“I have theories too,” the Lieutenant answered finally. “But this is too important to just guess at. If they can get that many troops in, undetected, we need to know how.”
“Agreed. You’re volunteering then to go down and perform reconnaissance on these three buildings in advance of the nuclear assault?”
Rease eyed he man suspiciously. “Why do I feel you were waiting for me to come and make this offer?”
Lyle shrugged. “I wasn’t waiting. I just hadn’t gotten around to asking anyone yet. You’ve saved me going searching for volunteers.”
“Alright, so you’ve got your candidate, but I can’t do this myself. I’ll need one other arcom, but more importantly I’ll need a damn good transport pilot, someone who can pull us out of the thick of it if the Maulers detect our presence.”
“You want Flight Sergeant Tarek, I presume. You are aware he’s in the brig.”
“The way I see it, that’s your problem. Last time I was in a fix on Grimball, he was the only person on this ship who was willing to pull me out. Without that guarantee again, there’ll be no mission.”
“And I assume, if I went searching for a different arcom pilot, I would suddenly discover that opinion had become very prevalent?”
“As prevalent as I can make it,” Rease promised.
“Alright, I’ll see what I can do, but there is a price for this luxury. I want a fresh Mauler corpse, in as good a condition as possible.”
“Well that’s… disgusting, but I can accommodate. Have we got any updated numbers on how many Maulers are still in the city?”
Lyle hit a few more keys. “I just uploaded it to that pad.” For the first time he looked up and met her eyes. “Given what you now know, we have to be very cautious about the possibility the enemy is privy to our plans. To that end, you are to share the details of this operation with no one. I will issue sealed briefing packets to the team you select, to be opened once airborne. Please have your candidates list to me by tomorrow.”
****
Constellation Carrier CNS Arcadia
Battlegroup Olympian
Grimball Local Sector, Bryson System
21 April 2315
After very little reading, Tarek had discovered that the operative word in the title Pilots’ Guide to Harnessing Precognitive Potential: draft 7 was draft. He could feel the writers, clearly technical and procedurally minded people, constantly fighting with the ephemeral nature of their subject matter. There were sections where it changed angle of attack with such immediacy that Tarek could practically feel the author throwing his hands up in the air in disgust.
He fought his way through solid theories about neural activation, heuristic projection, and reflex action, but each time they seemed to trail off into theory so flimsy it sounded purely fictional. Some sections described the power he might have as a sense in the Willmet-Erikson lobe of the brain, which when consciously activated would allow one to observe events that hadn’t yet occurred. Of course, the existence of the Willmet-Erikson lobe was not yet proven because no neurologist had ever found one.
Another section postulated that a gifted pilot’s brain was capable of generating ‘complementary parallel pathways’ which could process tremendous amounts of observational data, analyse it, and predict the most probable events to follow, transferring the information directly through ‘reflex pathways’ to provide a ‘subconscious predictive reaction’. That section seemed very reasonable until it ended with a line saying it failed to explain pilots who had demonstrated the ability to evade attacks from unobserved sources. It made no attempt to provide a counter theory – it was just a road sign sentence to let you know you’d probably just wasted half an hour’s reading.
All in all, it was the sort of book you would only read if you were in prison and would only learn from if you were completely insane. The only thing Tarek gained was the knowledge that an entire board of erudite writers believed in the collected evidence and examples of pilots, and some others, who had displayed precognitive tendencies. If they could, then perhaps what happened to him at Box Grid was not so much a mix of luck and skill as the manifestation of some special and largely unknown ability.
That meant he should be able to learn to control it at will, though the discursive
draft 7 gave him no concrete guidance on how he might do so.
He was digging into the section ‘Afterword Addendum III’ when the door to his cell opened with the usual deafening buzz and the clank of a steel bolt shifting out of place. CAG Jenson briskly entered with Lieutenant Walters on his heels, crowding the small space before the door closed behind them. Tarek knew he wasn’t considered a dangerous prisoner, so the theatrics of sealing them in together felt very out of place, not to mention a little claustrophobic.
“Flight Sergeant Tarek,” Jenson said, “circumstances have come to pass leaving your assigned ship in need of a pilot. With the rest of the air wing engaged in more pressing tasks, I find myself forced to allow you a temporary release from confinement.”
Tarek stood, trying to keep his sudden burst of enthusiasm hidden behind a simple “Yes sir.”
“Do not be mistaken, your punishment is far from complete, and further insubordination during this operation will result in the most extreme repercussions I can employ. Upon completion of the mission, you will return to the brig.
“Further you are being released only to complete this operation and are to make no contact with the crew or air wing besides that which is absolutely necessary for your mission. Understood?”
“Yes sir.” It didn’t matter, Tarek would have agreed to anything. He could see through Jenson in an instant. They didn’t just need another pilot, they could find those easily. This was something special, this would be more than ‘fly, wait, land, wait, fly back.’ This was something only Silver could do, and that meant he was in the right place.
“Good. You will now proceed directly to the pilots’ ready room, equip yourself and report to your ship.”
****
Despite Tarek’s perfect willingness to comply with the CAG’s strict instructions regarding communication, Walters had been detailed to follow him the whole way.
It wasn’t until after he’d changed into his flight suit and collected his gear that Tarek finally asked the question that had almost burst from his lips the moment they left the brig. “So the CAG didn’t mention anything about the details of this mission.”
“No. It’s some secret op,” Walters said, characteristically frugal with his words.
Walters was perfect for classified operations, Tarek decided as they headed out onto the hangar deck. The man wouldn’t volunteer information about things that made him exuberant, if you actually instructed him to keep something quiet, he might just forget how to talk altogether.
As they made their way up the gantry stairwell, Tarek noticed Ucoo standing by one of the repair alcoves, ushering several of the other Undying inside. As they disappeared behind the raised welding screens, Tarek did a quick count on the hangar deck and determined all thirty-five of the Arcadia’s Snowhawks were accounted for which begged the question, what were they working on?
The mystery played around in his mind until his attention was pulled elsewhere as they came across a woman wearing an engineering cap in the spinal corridor heading to the Warhorse.
“Lieutenant I just ran a final maintenance check, I need to discuss some things with your pilot,” the woman said.
Walters raised a thick eyebrow, paused, and then with a grunt and a nod continued on towards the ship.
“Incognito?” Tarek asked.
Kelly shrugged, docking the cap under her shoulder. “Well, apparently no one’s supposed to be talking to you.”
“Yes, but you’re still wearing a flight suit, you look as much like a technician as my helmet.”
She shrugged again, this time sheepishly. “I figured your LT would find my attempt at subterfuge endearing. Seems to have worked.”
“So what’s going on? I’m apparently on some secret op, and the CAG says the whole air wing is committed to other missions.”
“Another day in paradise,” Kelly smiled wanly. “I’ve been reassigned to Bravo, and we’re running as an independent flight, escorting that limping cruiser to the nearest hyperspace beach.”
“They’re only committing one flight to guard a crippled ship?”
“The rest will be on fleet CAP, so I guess somebody figures this should be a milk run.” She paused to fiddle with the pressure seal on one of her cuffs. “Feels like bad luck, going out without Eternity.”
“Well let me see…” Tarek took a step back ran a hand through his hair and then struck a dramatic pose. “Humans were made to break the rules, Pilots. You can’t be killed by a number or a percentile in a statistic, and I know that because I’m really, really old. We aren’t the best yet, Children. But we will be and we will be…” He looked into the nearest light for added effect. “…together.”
Kelly stifled her laughter. “You’re the worst.”
“You mean the worst at not being super inspiring.”
“Sure, why not. But maybe you should listen to that ‘humans were made to break the rules’ part a little less.”
“Hey, don’t worry about me. I’m technically still in the brig. Pretty sure if I step wrong now the CAG will just take the deck guard’s rifle and shoot me.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll be careful if you be careful.”
Tarek held a closed fist out towards her. “We will endure.”
She bumped her gloved knuckles against his. “Till all others fall.”
****
Leaving Kelly behind in the corridor, Tarek jogged up to the personnel docking collar for the Warhorse and quickly scaled the ladder. As he pulled himself into the Warhorse, he glanced over his shoulder to see two of the massive arcoms crouched against the walls deeper in the hold. Both pilots were fussing over the racks that held the weighty machines in place during the flight, and one was easily recognisable as the Wolf-Lieutenant. A part of him wanted to speak to her, but he had nothing poignant to say, and certainly nothing worth getting shot by the CAG over.
Compared to the last time he’d seen it, the cargo bay was almost impossibly serene, and for a moment he had a flashback to what he’d seen then. A flood of people had filled the bay, vehicles and arcoms crammed in at odd angles were like unmoving rocks above the slosh of bodies. Blood had been everywhere, smeared on a tank here, matting someone’s hair there, and welling from injuries of unimaginable size. The wailing of the wounded had been an unbearable din, but by some trick of timing, there were moments of silence where you could only hear the tick of cooling metal, and suddenly you wanted those pained screams back because at least they meant life.
The place was clean now though – hosed and sterilised of everything but the smell of ash and fire which somehow still lingered in the air. Suppressing a shiver, Tarek held his thumb against the panel by the hatch. The ladder slid into stowage before and the heavy seal closed and locked with a final hissing clank.
Tarek touched the intercom on the panel, but it took him two tries to speak as he found his mouth was suddenly dry.
“We’re sealed,” he said finally.
Nerves, he decided, looking down at his helmet, and why not? His first ‘real world’ mission had been anything but a milk run. As he heard the main engine power up and the lights dimmed with the switch to internal power, Tarek pulled on his helmet seeking out the identity of the pilot, not the person. Of Silver who on his first mission had saved lives that no one else thought could be saved.
But Silver was nervous too.
****
Rease hung with one foot lodged in her arcom’s knee and one hand bearing her weight on the cargo rack. She’d looked up when she heard the hatch close and watched Tarek staring into the depths of his helmet. He didn’t seem to notice her as he pulled it on and made his way portside and disappeared into the hanging cockpit.
“Passengers please secure yourselves,” the voice of the ship’s skipper called out on speakers across the cargo bay.
Dropping to the deck, Rease gestured for her fellow pilot to follow those instructions, even as she herself headed for the cockpit. This was exactly the sort of mission she’d have chosen Connor
for because he was dependable and not stupid.
But Connor wasn’t here, and so, with no one she could trust, she chose someone she could lose. ‘Twos’ – so named because he had signed up at twenty-two – was old enough to be sensible but only ended up in an arcom company because the technology was so new that the trainers had yet to figure out how to sift out the chaff. If they got into a little trouble, he’d be enough of a distraction that she could get them both out, and if they ran into a lot of trouble, then it probably didn’t matter who he was.
As Rease reached the command station, she glanced up the stairs to the pilot’s seat and was about to make her way up when a hand dropped in front of her, barring her way.
Looking down, she saw Lieutenant Walters regarding her impassively from the command station.
“Don’t bother my pilots while they’re flying,” he gestured to the two chairs racked against the back wall of the cockpit, immediately to the right of the skipper’s station. “Sit.”
They were both lieutenants, but there were two grades of the rank and as the higher one, Rease was within her rights to tell him to go stick his head in a toilet – or his head in a head if you went with the Navy lingo. Still something about his dour manner stilled even her tongue, and she obligingly sat.
After that, he said nothing, tearing open the envelope that contained his copy of the mission brief. Having helped write it, Rease didn’t need to waste time reading the sealed packets, so instead, she glanced out the small porthole over the skipper’s station. In the distance, she made out the bleak shape of another aircraft, far smaller than the Warhorse but with a pointed cylinder silhouette beneath that made it far more sinister.
Rease immediately tried to pay it no mind, but a twenty-kiloton nuke demands a certain amount of space in the mind of anyone who will be operating within its planned blast radius. Eighty-three trillion joules of energy would be released in an instant, and that was a number so large it sounded made up.
Threshold of Victory Page 8
