The planet on the viewer was a mottled mess of red, orange, gray, and black now. It appeared that several massive fires were still burning on the surface…massive enough to encompass millions of hectares. Clearly visible as well were several enormous volcanic eruptions. The impact event had been powerful enough to cause a large disruption to the crust of the planet, which was simply amazing. The amount of energy that had been unleashed had to be staggering.
Pearce realized that it had been longer than three minutes promised by the ship’s computer and yet not a soul on the bridge had moved. Time was precious. “Captain,” he announced, shattering the silence. “I believe we are missing our scheduled turn and burn.”
The bridge crew, shaken from their moment of awestruck, quickly resumed normal activities as Pearce headed towards an acceleration couch next to the Captain, who sat down and began securing his harness without so much as a glance over. As Pearce sat down next to him to do the same, he quietly continued speaking.
“Now you see why I insisted that time was of the essence, Captain. How quickly can you rendezvous with the Scorpio?”
The Captain took a second to consult with his VIA before responding. “Three days, Mister Buxton,” he replied, using the alias Pearce had provided. “Sixty-eight hours give or take a few minutes, to be precise.”
The ASI gave one final warning as the standard maneuvering and thrust warning lights flashed throughout the nearly empty ship. Pearce was surprised at the response…he had been expecting more to the order of four or five days. Clearly, the Captain was going to take The Nightingale through a max burn run, which would use considerably more fuel and put a lot of stress on the ship and its occupants. Indeed, the Captain had seemingly been transformed from an opportunist to a willful helper with only a few seconds of staring at Armageddon.
“Mister Buxton, the Scorpio has queried us via the outer hypernet buoy and we have responded with the codes you provided,” the navigator announced. “They have approved our approach and we are good to commence our burn. Captain Lillywhite has granted you command view access and I’m sending your VIA the access now.”
Pearce nodded and thanked the Captain before closing his eyes and opening his mind up to the ship’s command computer. He quickly reviewed the course plot, confirming his max-burn hypothesis. All ships entering a star system with a PAN arrived in a safe corridor inside the local heliosphere, heading perpendicular to the local star so that the flash-in effect would be dispersed harmlessly into interstellar space and essentially in deep stellar orbit. The ship, usually travelling at high velocity, would then carry out a short calculated burn to head in-system in the most fuel efficient manner, and then spend much of the remaining time under slow but steady 1G deceleration to slow the craft enough to enter the orbit of whatever particular planet they were headed for.
The Captain had approved a max-burn, which was uncommon for civilian vessels but all-too-familiar to those in the space faring military. Rather than using a fuel-efficient Hoehman Transfer course and then simply shedding off velocity, a max-burn called for the most expeditious course plot. Using what was known as a one tangent burn, the ship would use a much tighter turn to drop into the solar system and actually increase velocity at max acceleration for the first portion of the trip. At the mathematically calculated “halfway point”, the ship would flip over and then use max deceleration for the remainder. The max acceleration for The Nightingale was likely around 5Gs, so it wouldn’t exactly be a walking around kind of trip. Gravity plating could only negate about half of that.
As the acceleration seat reclined back and the ship began to accelerate with a steady thrumming sound, Pearce used the ship’s computer to link directly to the Scorpio via the hypernet, which allowed him near realtime access. He used his Omega command codes to stealthily gain entry into the secure command interface of the USC warship. The system architecture was intimately familiar to him from his days in the actual command structure of the Fleet. He quickly began copying all of the secure contents of the investigation to review during the journey in system. The Scorpio had arrived three days earlier and their team had a hefty head start.
It was time to get to work
***
Ten seconds to pressure lock, Pearce’s VIA notified him. It began ticking down the time unobtrusively in the corner of his OHUD.
Pearce stood in the Nightingale’s main airlock, waiting for the Scorpio’s docking umbilical to finish pressurizing so he could transfer over. He was wearing formal business attire, a dark grey one-piece jumper complete with epaulets, pleats, and dynamic leg piping currently set to a dark red color. Instead of a carrying a space duffel he had a small luggage drone hauling a simple suitcase. The entire ensemble screamed low-end, which is exactly what the government spy whose cover he had assumed would be traveling with.
As the timer counted down to zero, the airlock indicator flipped from yellow to green accompanied by a loud buzzing klaxon. As the auto-locking door began to open with a series of loud clanging noises, the voice of the Scorpio’s Petty Officer of the Watch came though Pearce’s VIA. “Sir, we’ve been informed you have null-g training. Proceed directly to the Scorpio’s main hatch with haste.”
The abrupt tone of the spacer wasn’t just for show; there were few routine things more dangerous than tethering one ship moving at several hundred megameters per hour to another via a fragile pressurized umbilical. Pearce would have just spacewalked over as he had done hundreds of times in his younger years but that would have given away his military background, which was not called for.
Pearce hated being treated as a civvie, but he would at least attempt to act like a well-learned and competent one.
As soon as airlock door slid out of the way, Pearce grabbed the handrails on either side of the hatch and effortlessly shot himself feet first through the hatch. The maneuver was tricky even for seasoned soldiers, as the airlock door marked the transition from artificial gravity to micro-gravity, and it was entirely too easy to send yourself crashing into the sides of the umbilical tunnel. Civilians and soldiers of lesser confidence would instead use the handholds which peppered the entire length of the tunnel to slowly “crawl” to the other ship.
Pearce’s execution was flawless. He flew like an arrow down the center of the umbilical, landing with bent knees on the Scorpio’s closed hatch and quickly reorienting himself before he could rebound away by grabbing the Scorpio’s handrails and rotating his body “upright”, which was actually upside down to the Nightingale’s airlock. The disorientation was a favorite trick to play on civvies, especially government pukes.
“Ready for the port-forward scuttle, spaceman,” Pearce casually announced over the channel. As the door cycled open he imagined the junior spacer sharing a bewildered glance with the Petty Officer, and was rewarded when the hatch opened and he saw the slightly widened eyes of the two enlisted men manning the station.
He gave himself a very gentle push forward and landed softly with both feet. The two spacers, who had been moving forward to assist him stopped short and then snapped to attention. Pearce quickly appraised his greeters, a Spaceman and Chief Petty Officer whose nametags read Cordello and Nimith.
“Welcome aboard CNS Scorpio, Mister Buxton,” the Spaceman snapped off, referencing Pearce’s given alias. He continued, slightly out of regulations. “If I may say so, that was one hell of a pile-driver.” Pearce saw the Chief frown and glance at the Spaceman, and interrupted before a chewing out could commence.
“Thank you Spaceman Cordello. It’s not my first rodeo.” A quick raise of his head and eyebrows while making contact with the Chief generated the desired response when the senior spacer stood at ease and motioned towards the next compartment.
“If you will follow me Mister Buxton I’ll show you to your quarters, and then bring you to the wardroom which has been temporarily converted into a meeting area.”
“We can skip the quarters, Chief Nimith. Just send the info to my luggage,” he said, jerking a t
humb back towards the tunnel where the drone was still only halfway across. “And bring me to the others in the wardroom.” The Chief nodded and motioned for Pearce to follow.
It felt wrong to ignore Fleet regs and forego the traditional salutes and circumstance usually observed when boarding a ship, but he had a cover to portray. He quickly glanced at the Colors displayed on the rear bulkhead of the airlock before following the Chief Petty Officer through the hatch. As they started down the passageway, Pearce struck up a low and informal conversation.
“I bet the command staff aren’t too happy about being kicked out of their mess, Chief.”
The Chief let out an honest to god guffaw in response before responding.
“Not nearly as mad as the Bastard Chief is, cause they went and took over the goat locker. Now we’re stuck in the JV mess with a bunch of crows, and the officers are spittin’ piss because they are getting fed galley food while their chow goes to the investigative team back in the wardroom.”
Pearce smiled, instantly taking a liking to Chief Petty Officer Nimith. The fact that he was being so candid with him meant that he had guessed at Pearce’s prior Fleet experience. As usual, Fleet NCOs were as sharp as nails.
“I take it that means that the Chiefs cuisine has migrated along with the senior NCOs?”
The Chief glanced back over his shoulder with a furrowed brow. “Mister Buxton, as I’m sure you know, nobody messes with the Chiefs cuisine” The added emphasis confirmed that the Chief was no fool and was pegging him for at least a former NCO himself.
“Is all that good officer’s food going to good use, Chief? They find out anything yet?” Pearce asked as he ducked through yet another compartment door, already knowing the answer but wanting to see what the ship’s morale was like.
“Officer’s food never goes to good use Mister Buxton,” the Chief replied, chuckling again. “Nobody knows exactly what the fuck all happened here, and every hour that ticks by without answers has everybody freaking out just a little bit more.” He paused at the base of a ladder leading topside and glanced back at Pearce again. “May I assume that you are here with the benefit of many rodeos to finally get to the bottom of all of this?”
Pearce took a deep breath before answering. “Never assume, Chief, but I’m going to be all assholes and elbows until we figure it out.”
The Chief smiled, catching both of the highly overused fleet sayings and leading Pearce up the ladder and through several more compartments and passageways. It felt good to be on a Fleet Destroyer again, even under cover. The ship’s interior was even more utilitarian than the Nightingale, and yet somehow more clean and polished than the VIP starcruiser. As always in the Fleet, that was due to the hard work of the enlisted and NCOs.
They had passed no one else during their journey, but as they neared the wardroom Pearce spotted two USC Marines standing guard outside the main door who stiffened at their approach. They saluted the Chief, who returned the salute and ordered them to let Pearce pass.
“Good luck Mister Buxton,” he said to Pearce as he spun about and headed back to his duty. Pearce nodded to the Marines and stepped inside the room.
It had been a few years since he had been in a USC wardroom, but as he crossed the threshold it felt like no time at all had passed. As a USC officer he had eaten thousands of meals in identical settings. The three standard long tables usually hosting food and drink were here instead covered with dozens of portable terminals, holographic displays, and other electronic equipment. Crowded throughout every available space was certainly the most interestingly diverse cast of characters that Pearce had ever seen aboard a USC ship.
A group of naval officers, most of them wearing the insignia-free uniforms of naval intelligence, conversed with a group of suits that Pearce pegged for the Confederation Investigation and Enforcement Division, or Space Cops as Confed military referred to them. They would be technically “running” the operation here as the primary law enforcement arm of the USC, but Pearce knew that their role was largely perfunctory and would consist of administrative and logistical concerns that they excelled at. Together they both claimed the entire first table to the left side of the room.
The center table was where the real intelligence work was currently being done. Two dozen younger men and women crowded around it, intently pouring through and comparing intelligence from a dozen different agencies. Pearce knew that the usual walls between them had been dropped in the face of such an enormous threat, which was an unprecedented effort that wouldn’t last for long.
On the long deceleration in-system Pearce had been shadowing their work, which had managed to rule out quite a lot of potential responsible parties but in his opinion had not yet begun to narrow in on the true culprits. As Director Allard had mentioned in his briefing, the investigation seemed to be irrationally focused on the Separatist Front movement. Every piece of intelligence was first checked for connections to them before moving on. Pearce agreed that it suggested a pre-disposed bias and would be looking for where it was coming from.
The third table was less chaotic than the first two and represented yet another type of people. A handful of military science experts worked with top scientists and engineers in the aerospace and superluminal physics fields on figuring out what the hell had actually happened, and more importantly, how. This table was also where the representatives from Galaxy Travel Systems were working, and it was for this reason that Pearce approached them rather than the others.
As he weaved his way through the crowded room he had a moment to reflect on the one group of people that was conspicuously missing; search and rescue staff. It was a testament to the severity of the disaster that they didn’t seem to have a single token representative left in the makeshift command center.
The three GTS employees were positioned near the end of the row on the far side of the table. As Pearce focused on them his VIA automatically identified them by placing a text blurb near their heads. The immaculately groomed man leaning back against the bulkhead with a bored expression was the company lawyer, and not worth speaking with. A grey and portly man bearing the harried expression of middle management amidst disaster paced behind an intensely focused woman who was seated in front of a terminal and working at almost a frantic rate. She had a lengthy and important sounding title that essentially meant she was the head hacker and resident GTS code genius. And she was the one that Pearce needed to speak with.
Just as he approached the trio and prepared to speak, Middle Management halted his stereotypy and barked out a question.
“Did you cross reference the QCOM logs with the security update timestamps?”
The woman did not reply nor deviate from her furious interaction with the terminal. She appeared so absorbed that it would be easy to assume she simply hadn’t heard the question, but Pearce’s thorough read of her file suggested otherwise. This woman was as smart as a whip and could juggle a dozen complex tasks without breaking a sweat. Her silence was intentional.
Middle Management obviously shared Pearce’s conclusion because he grabbed the back of her chair with both hands and leaned over her shoulder to say, “Jula, don’t ignore me when you don’t like the question I ask.”
“I checked the logs against the security updates, maintenance logistics, ammo inspections, and every other form of logged event that could have indicated an intrusion three days ago,” came the icy reply. “The report I filed with that update and sent to you is marked as read and I’m busy enough not to waste extra brainpower answering your desperate attempts to do anything useful here.” The young woman hadn’t slowed down or diverted her attention in any appreciable manner as she threw the verbal jabs at her boss.
Middle Management himself was about to reply with what would likely have been a long-winded admonition when Pearce took the opportunity to make his presence known.
“Frustrations are clearly running high all around here today. I swear one of those CIED guys almost took a swing at a Lieutenant Commander over there
before.” The lawyer leaning against the bulkhead spared a glance at the newcomer before going back to whatever virtual information he was reading. Middle Management glared for a moment before his VIA identified the speaker as a VIP, and then looked sheepish. Jula didn’t flinch from her work.
“Can I help you, Mr. Buxton?” Middle Management was the model businessman now.
“Yes. You can take a walk with The Suit. I need to speak with Ms. Rivis.”
Middle Management looked at the lawyer, who shrugged and started walking away. He got one more flash of annoyance from the man before he flashed a brilliant fake smile and spun to follow.
“I hope you aren’t here to waste my time,” the young woman said in the same frosted tone she had chewed out her boss with.
“No Ms. Andes, I’m here because you are going to help me solve this thing.”
Using her real last name finally sparked a reaction. The woman froze for a moment before spinning around in her chair with the look of a cornered animal. A dangerous one. She stared at Pearce with narrowed eyes, the color of plum with tiny green starbursts, her jaw set. Her rounded face was framed by garnet colored hair cut to the length of her chin in a modern fashion. Each ear bore conspicuously prominent bio-tattoos from helix to lobe, currently pulsing a fractal-like pattern of various colors. She was pretty but not classically beautiful, yet commanded intrigue through her confident and wise demeanor. Her jacket said she was only twenty-seven, but Pearce could detect an old soul in the young woman before him.
“Relax Ms. Rivis. Yes, I know exactly who you are and everything that there is to know about your past. I don’t care about any of it other than the fact that your past has made you into the extremely competent expert sitting in front of me.” Pearce considered smiling but his innate people reading skills as well as the VIA personality matrix analysis program running told him it would be a bad move.
“How did you…” she began.
Impact Event (Dargo Pearce Chronicles #1) Page 9
