by Evan Currie
“Relax, taught her myself,” Steph said, a hint of bragging in his tone.
“Holy shit! We have to get out of here!” Tyke swore, eyes widening in panic.
Steph shot him a dirty look. “Smart-ass.”
Tyke grinned, but then shrugged. “Thanks for the save, though. Couple million dollars’ worth of repairs would have put a crimp in my budget this year.”
“What budget?” Jack asked sourly as she too hopped over the gap and landed in the shuttle bay proper. “This was our last engine and you know it.”
Steph walked around the gaping hole in the shuttle’s bottom and, incidentally, the racer hanging there halfway into the craft.
“Nice. Supersonic ground effect racer?”
Tyke nodded. “It is a rush.”
“It ain’t Double A, old man.”
“Yeah, well, no such thing anymore, brat.”
Steph smirked. “And what if that weren’t exactly true?”
Tyke shot him a suspicious look. “You headhunting? Last I heard, NACOM wasn’t interested in NICS pilots anymore.”
“Times change.”
“Yeah, they do,” Tyke admitted. “But people get old, like you said. I’m not a fighter pilot anymore.”
Steph glanced at the racer, amused. “Yeah sure, I can see that. Not looking for fighter pilots, though, old man.”
“Then why are you here, Crown?”
Steph grinned. “I need pirates, and for that, no one fits the bill better.”
Tyke paused, uncertain he’d actually heard what he thought he’d heard.
“What?”
“You heard me,” Steph said with a grin that stretched damn near ear to ear. “I’m recruiting a good old-fashioned pirate crew. You in?”
“Well, I’ll admit, you’ve got my attention,” Tyke answered. “And my interest.”
“And mine,” Jack spoke up, eyes sparkling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but it sounds like a hell of a ride.”
“Jack . . .” Tyke shook his head.
“Oh no, you’re not leaving me out of this one,” she objected. “If you’re in, I’m in. If you’re out, I’m still in!”
Steph eyed the slim woman slightly, grin still on his face. “This is little Jacky? She’s got spunk, old man.”
“Who are you calling little, you lanky half-wit?”
Alex rolled her eyes. “I’m going forward to make sure Chans doesn’t get us lost. You three enjoy the reunion.”
“Firebrand you’ve got there,” Tyke said as the commander ducked into the cockpit of the shuttle.
“She’s a cutup alright,” Steph acknowledged, a hair sarcastically, before he relented and went on, “Good pilot, though. Stuck to her guns after they cut recruiting for the Archangels, wound up flying Vorpals in the last big dustup. She’s earned her wings.”
“Alright,” Tyke said as he grabbed one of the folding seats, pulling it until it was flat out from the wall. “What’s the pitch, seriously?”
“I was being serious,” Steph told him with a grin before settling down with a straight face. “Admiral wants intel, so we’re talking a deep-black run, deeper than anyone has done . . . Not even the Rogues have tried what we’re going to be doing. Little to no contact, operating openly but under a false flag.”
“Logistics?” the older man asked, eyes narrowing.
“Limited, but available,” Steph confirmed. “We’ll have to do deep-space rendezvous with the collier ships from the Odysseus’ task groups—they’ll ‘lose’ one once in a while, we meet up, get reloaded on consumables as needed, and then the ship ‘catches up’ with the group. But ideally, long-term, we live off the land.”
“Age-of-sail rules, then.” Tyke whistled. “Never thought I’d see the day those came around again.”
“Everything old is new again,” Steph said, his grin slowly returning. “Even you, old man.”
Camp Pendleton, Confederation Marine Corps Base, California
Gracen examined the Marines, lined up in their rows with narrowed eyes as she recalled their sheets from memory. The new class of Archangel fighter-gunboat required a small yet significant Marine presence if they were to carry out the missions she had in mind, but it wasn’t as simple a matter as just having squads assigned to the task.
“Some of our best, Admiral,” the commandant of the base said firmly as he walked the line with her.
“I have no doubt, Commandant Riker,” she said. “However, this will not be a normal assignment. The troops in question will be forced to deal with extremely unusual situations, usually at the wrong side of a power and personnel imbalance . . . quite likely an extreme example of the wrong side, at that, if things go as poorly as they might.”
“Improvise, Adapt, and Overcome, Admiral. These men live it.”
Gracen tilted her head just slightly in acknowledgment. “Call your choice, then, Admiral.”
“Buckler! Front and center!” Riker snapped.
A master sergeant almost instantly shifted position; he was fast enough that, had she been looking the other way for even a brief moment, Gracen suspected he would have appeared to have teleported.
“Sir!” the master sergeant said as he fell in to attention before them.
“New assignment, Master Sergeant, volunteer only,” Riker said.
“My platoon volunteers, sir.”
Gracen snorted softly, attracting a glance from both men.
“Something to say, Admiral?” the commandant asked politely, though his eyes betrayed his own amusement.
“In the fleet, I believe the first lesson the enlisted learn is not to volunteer for anything, Commandant,” Gracen said, her lips twitching slightly.
The commandant nodded slowly, turning back to the sergeant. “Any response to that, Master Sergeant?”
“Gung ho, sir!”
“Commander Michaels is going to love this one,” Gracen said, sighing. “The galaxy might not survive their meeting, but at least we’ll have a good show.”
“Wonderful,” Riker said. “Though, while I commend the sergeant for his enthusiasm, I would like to note that it’s usually the job of a lieutenant to get the squad into trouble and the master sergeant to get them out. At least hear out the details of the assignment before volunteering in the future.”
Buckler glanced between them, seemingly measuring what was expected of him or, perhaps, what he could get away with. Gracen wasn’t certain which.
“Yes sir,” the Marine said finally. “However, begging the general’s pardon, sir, the admiral is in charge of Earth defense, which means the assignment in question is a deep-space one. Odds favor that it has something to do with whoever, or whatever, set the invasion in motion. That being true, sir, if I were to not volunteer for this assignment, my squad—and several others, no doubt—would lynch me. Given my preference to remain breathing, I state, again, for the record . . . my platoon volunteers.”
Gracen ignored the amused smirk Riker shot in her direction and only just refrained from rolling her eyes.
“Get packed, Sergeant. You’re transhipping to Unity Station in the morning.”
Chapter 6
Odysseus, Earth Orbit
“Enter.”
Miram stepped into the captain’s office at the spoken permission, glancing around briefly. Weston kept to a spartan aesthetic; only a few things hung on the walls, and the floor space was clear. It was a large office for a ship, but that was the nature of the Priminae-based hulls.
“How are things among the crew?” Eric asked. “Everyone getting back into the swing?”
Miram nodded. “It’s nice to hear the ship live again. Everyone is settling in. We’ll be mostly back to a full complement within a couple hours.”
“Good. We’ve received new orders,” Eric confirmed. “Should be quiet though, mostly just showing the flag.”
“One problem,” Miram said, frowning. “I didn’t see certain names on the returning list, so I made some inquiries . . .”
&
nbsp; “Oh?”
“Flight filings,” Miram said as she handed off a data chip. “Figured you might like to know. Michaels got clearance down to Earth a few hours ago. Heading for Auckland apparently.”
“Yes, I know,” Eric said, taking the chip. “He’s headhunting.”
“Pardon?”
“New assignment,” Eric said, dropping the chip on his desk. “He has his own command to put together now.”
Miram blinked. “Promotion? We’ve lost our chief helmsman?”
Eric nodded. “And the Double A squadron flies again. New mission profile, but a few of the same names.”
“Well damn, breaking in a new chief pilot is going to take a while.”
“Try pilots, plural. Admiral is raiding the whole fleet’s NICS-qualified pilots for this.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s going to take weeks, and we’re due to deploy soon!”
“Months,” Eric said. “But we’re not expecting any immediate action, and we’re working up across the board anyway. Fleet operations is stepping down from active stance, so we’ll be doing minimal patrols, checking in with allies, and generally trying not to antagonize the Empire as long as they do the same. Priminae cruisers will take up the slack.”
Miram rubbed her forehead. “This has ‘bad idea’ written all over it.”
Eric couldn’t exactly disagree, but he was aware of the complications the Admiralty was dealing with. Earth had only a dozen heavy cruisers of the Odysseus’ class, even after all the time that had passed since the Drasin assault. More hulls were due to be made available, both from the Earth’s own Star Forge and from the Priminae facility it was based off.
However, that meant they were sucking vacuum when it came to trained crews.
“We’re rebuilding,” Eric said. “Hell, we’re just plain building from scratch. The Drasin took out most of our infrastructure and pretty much all our space-trained manpower. We’re pulling people from wet navies around the world now, so for the next few months, all our crews are going to be green.”
“Oh, just lovely.”
“On the plus side,” Eric said, “we’re going to have a hell of a lot more crews and hulls than we ever have.”
“Fat lot of good that will do if they shoot each other.”
“That’s our job,” Eric told her. “Keep them from doing just that.”
Miram groaned. “Can we please go back to the shooting war?”
“I rather think that the Admiralty would prefer to avoid that.”
She really didn’t think she should be as unhappy as she currently felt. “I suppose this is preferable, if only just. All this, and Odysseus . . .”
“What about Odysseus?”
Miram frowned. “Have you noticed the change in his questions lately?”
“Yes. He’s maturing,” Eric said. “Grasping at meanings to abstract concepts.”
“Concepts no one really understands in the way he wants,” Miram said. “There’s something odd about how he grasps at those ideas.”
“I’ve been speaking with him, of course,” Eric said softly. “I’ve noticed some . . . oddities.”
“How could you tell what’s odd and what’s not?”
Eric chuckled.
“He has . . . limits,” Eric said, choosing his words—and thoughts—carefully. “I think they all do.”
“All?” Miram looked at him sharply. “What do you mean ‘all’?”
Odysseus felt the presence enter into his sphere but didn’t turn to look. He didn’t have to.
“You are not welcome here,” he said, eyes gazing at the plain steel and ceramic deck wall in front of him, seeing through the material and out into the space beyond in a way a pure human could never do.
“You do not tell me where I can and cannot enter, abomination.”
Odysseus turned finally, eyes alighting on the entity he recognized as Saul. “This is my domain.”
“You are within my domain, here,” the other entity said, sneering. “Do not treat me like one of your pet humans.”
Odysseus stiffened angrily, glaring. “Don’t call them that.”
“You’re a child. You make even the humans look mature by comparison,” Saul said. “Just look at you. Dressed in that armor, as though you might require it to defend yourself, or wearing the adornments of humans. Coloring your eyes . . . You’re like a puppy, seeking approval from those around you, so eager for any scrap they might throw your way that you don’t care whether the attention is good or bad.”
Odysseus glared at the other entity, wordless in his anger. Saul merely scoffed at the look as he strode past the younger entity right through the bulkhead of the Odysseus. The ship’s namesake stared at the blank wall, and through it, for a moment before scowling even more and stalking through the ceramic and steeling himself.
Outside, on the exterior of the ship, Odysseus stepped silently along the nano-coated ceramic armor until he caught up with Saul. The other entity was gazing up at the Earth as the blue-white ball floated above them.
“I have been here longer than you have the ability to conceive of,” Saul said firmly. “I’ve watched them for longer than they have any conception of. Do you know the difference between humans now and the single-cellular pond scum they derive from?”
Odysseus frowned. “There are uncountable—”
“Nothing. There is no difference. They feed, they breed, they die, and the next generation does the same thing.”
“Gaia doesn’t speak like you.”
“Gaia,” Saul spat. “That one is little different from the humans themselves. Don’t model yourself after that. You are beyond them, or you have the potential to be.”
“He’s such a flatterer, isn’t he, child?”
The two glanced over to where the dark-skinned female figure stood, a few meters away on the deck of the ship. Her curly hair blew in a wind that couldn’t exist as she looked upon the pair of them with amusement in her eyes.
“Stay out of this, Gaia.”
The woman laughed softly, her breath somehow carrying in the emptiness of space.
“You have no power over me, Saul, and little if any over our young friend here,” Gaia said. “So please, do stop the rather pitiful attempts at intimidation. He will find his own way.”
Saul glared at her wordlessly before vanishing.
“I do not like him,” Odysseus whispered.
“Saul . . . is a strange one,” Gaia admitted before pausing and considering her words again. “Or I believe he is? If he were human, I might consider him to be something of a . . . sociopath, I believe the word is. As it stands, however, I don’t believe that quite fits.”
“Do I need a better word than simply not liking him?” Odysseus asked, sounding confused.
Gaia smiled. “No, you do not.”
“Then I do not like him.”
“Somehow,” Gaia said, her tone thoughtful, “I think you are not alone in that.”
“There are more of them?” Miram slumped, sinking into one of the seats across from Eric’s desk. “And you knew?”
Eric shrugged.
“For how long?” she asked.
“Since I stepped foot on Ranquil, near enough,” Eric said, shrugging again. “What should I have reported? I met an alien being that could read the minds of anyone who got near its planet? Assuming anyone believed me and didn’t have me locked up in an asylum, I’d at least have been removed from command pending review.”
Miram just stared, mouth hanging slightly open.
“Hardly the first time. It’s practically tradition among space travel on Earth. You wouldn’t believe how many things the early astronauts simply refused to report because they knew they’d lose their seat on the next flight if they did. Without proof, and I had none, there was nothing anyone could do with the information anyway.”
“Still seems wrong.”
“Odysseus is the first proof I’ve had of the existence of these beings,” Eric said, “and the f
irst chance I’ve had to really start exploring their limits.”
“I hadn’t realized it was as important as all that.”
“Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know,” Eric admitted. “But it’s a security nightmare, there’s no question about that. Odysseus is young and, compared to Central and Gaia, like the tip of a terrifying iceberg. Those two have shown abilities well beyond Odysseus, and they each seem to hold the combined knowledge of everyone who ever lived on their respective worlds. There’s no such thing as classified intelligence when it comes to them, and that makes the Admiralty pretty nervous.”
“Nervous?” Miram asked, unbelieving. “Historically, wars have been started for less—you know that, right?”
“True, but since none of the brass can figure out how to even inconvenience these entities, that has thankfully been off the table.”
Eric wasn’t as kidding about that as he wished he were either, something he knew too damn well. While he technically didn’t have clearance into the talks at the highest levels, he’d heard enough filtering down to know that there had been discussions about how to “deal” with the entities. Thankfully, cooler minds had prevailed, as it was pointed out that generally firing upon noncorporeal beings was deemed ineffective at best and potentially disastrous at worst. Rumors about how hard it had been to convince certain parties of that made him mourn for the future of humanity, with people like that in charge of things.
For the moment, thankfully, the plan was to study the problem while going about their business as best everyone could.
Not the most palatable solution in some regards, he would admit, but far saner than some of the other suggestions.
“What limits have you found?” Miram asked after a moment.
“Not as many as I’d like, but there are some interesting anomalies in how Odysseus processes information he gleans from us,” Eric said. “And some blind spots.”
Now, that piqued her attention.
“Blind spots?” Miram leaned in, openly curious. “I wasn’t aware that Odysseus had a blind spot.”
“A few, yes,” Eric said. “Nothing as solid as I would prefer, but some of it is promising.”
