***
With all the recruitment work she could do on the ground completed, Jen paid off her bill at the Busted Flush and caught the mass transit to the orbital dock shuttle. She always liked to spend the last night before leaving port aboard the Fortune, starting to run system checks and take inventory, making sure she had her ear in to the noises of the hull and the systems. For someone who flew solo as often as she did, knowing the ship’s every behavioural tic, every little quirk, every dissatisfied grumble, could be the difference between life and death. And if she had no pressing business onshore, it was cheaper—a particularly strong argument given the current state of her finances.
The sight of the Fortune never failed to make her smile, and she found herself grinning as she walked down the dock ramp toward the heavily modified twin-deck frigate. Her home, her livelihood, her refuge: the ship was so central to her lifestyle and to her sense of self that she couldn’t honestly imagine what she would do without it. She ran a loving eye over the long, clean lines of the hull, mournfully noting every nick and scratch on the brightwork, every dent and depression, every scrape and scar on the hull that she couldn’t currently afford to have dealt with. “Soon, baby,” she promised in a whisper as she reached the airlock and stretched out her arm to run her fingers lightly across the cool, smooth surface of the hull. “Soon I’ll have enough credits to get you all fixed up and pretty. And maybe get you some of those cute new shield emitters the ercineans put on the market last month.”
Jen smiled to herself as she waited the customary half-second for the ship to fail to reply, then punched her access code into the airlock control panel. The door needed both the code and her biometric signature to open; she wasn’t really inclined towards trusting in the better angels of people’s natures when it came to her ship. Or anything else, for that matter. “Ready to get back out there?” she enquired rhetorically as the pressurisation indicator flashed to green and the hatch irised open with a hiss of pressurised air and a squeal of metal on metal that she didn’t like the sound of.
She stepped over the hatch lip and pulled in a deep breath, inhaling the mixed scents of metal, leather, and polymers overlying the faint ozone tang of the processed atmosphere. It was a comforting smell, more homely to her than fresh bread or sea air. Dropping her luggage and her coat at the foot of the ladder up to her private cabin, she headed forward through the crew wardroom to the cockpit and settled into the worn and threadbare cushioning of the pilot’s seat, warming up the central computer and bringing the ship’s internal systems online. One by one the status glyphs flicked reluctantly from red to green as the startup protocols ran, each system listing a number of complaints but, she was relieved to see, nothing that would necessitate remaining in dock to effect repairs. The gravity generator had been cutting out sporadically on the way back from her last run, but apparently the maintenance computer, Sprocket, had recalibrated it during its scheduled systems check. One less repair to make for now. Hopefully the adjustment would see them through the round trip, and then she could use her payout from Orden to get a full overhaul. Jen called up Sprocket’s report interface (double-checking that the irritatingly cutesy VI “helper” was disabled before she began) and read through the results, satisfying herself that everything was in working order, or at least working well enough not to present any risks. Reassured, she switched to the environmental systems menu and ran the commands to prepare both the forward and aft cargo holds for refrigerated transport. Then, with that done, she opened up her comms and placed a call to one of her more grisly employers, an undertaker’s service that specialized in discreetly clearing up the excesses of Hel’s Market’s more morally questionable forms of entertainment. She couldn’t afford to run with an empty hold, having received no advance from Orden, and for a trip to Korxonthos there was an obvious, if somewhat distasteful, way to maximise her income.
The call connected. “Mortalis Inhumations, Repatriation division. How can we help you?”
“Captain Jennifer Bronwen here, hi. I’m on your registry of approved hauliers.”
There was a brief pause as the clerk at the other end checked his records. “Yes, Captain, good to hear from you. Are you perhaps looking for a cargo?”
“I am, as it happens. Do you have any consignments for delivery to Korxonthos? I’m heading out there tomorrow and I have capacity.”
“One moment… yes. We have a standing deal with the Legislature of the Synergy, as I’m sure you’re aware, and there’s quite a backlog—for some reason we have difficulty finding freighters to haul for us.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Jen retorted dryly. The first time she’d signed on for freighting this kind of cargo, she hadn’t been able to sleep for the entire trip.
The clerk was unperturbed by her sarcasm. “You should be grateful for the shortage, Captain, as it means that not only do I have a cargo for immediate dispatch, I can offer you a bonus if you can take more than five hundred units. Let’s see, I have your lading and tonnage capacity on file, are we talking about a full hold?”
“Yeah. Call it nine hundred units—from experience that’s about as much as I can manage.”
“Excellent. All right, nine hundred units for delivery to Korxonthos, for that we can pay you… twelve thousand credits. Do we have a deal?”
Jen frowned. The standard price for a full hold shipment was ten thousand. “That’s not much of a bonus, is it? Considering I also have to be one of the fastest boats on your books and you get incentives from the cyborgs if the meat is fresh. I want fifteen thousand.”
“Thirteen. I can’t go higher than that.”
“I can’t help you, then. How much are you going to lose in profit for every day those caskets sit in your storeroom and putrefy? Fifteen.”
“Fourteen,” the clerk parried.
“Done.”
“Excellent. I’ll set up the contract and you can sign it when you receive the cargo. If you let me know your dock registration, I’ll make arrangements for delivery and loading.”
“Orbital kappa four, K deck, berth seventy-five.”
“Got it. Thank you, Captain, I’ll get that sorted for you. Have a lovely evening.”
Jen hung up the call and settled back in the seat with a contented sigh. Cargo secured, a good start made on the crew, and the run to Korxonthos would give her a good few hours to think and plan. It was all starting to come together.
KOHATH
Aboard the NPS Audacious, Near Mendillo Prime, Mendillo System, Contested Space
“Enemy target destroyed! We’ve broken their formation!”
Rarely in his long and distinguished career had Fleet Admiral Kiith Kohath been less satisfied to hear the words that heralded an imminent victory. He did not allow the exultation to break his concentration, continuing to study the tactical display before him with the precise attention to detail encoded in his protocols. “Come about to a new course, Captain Praesius,” the cyborg instructed his flagship commander crisply. “Vector zero four seven, declination zero zero five. The Dauntless requires our assistance to repel the enemy flagship. If we can destroy that vessel, hostilities will be concluded swiftly.” Activating the fleet-wide comms, he issued his orders. “Admiral Kohath to all commands. Concentrate your fire on the dreadnought engaging the Dauntless. Once she founders, the remaining enemy vessels will disengage.”
A flurry of acknowledgements confirmed his orders had been received, and within seconds the icons on the display began to shimmer and shift, converging on the targeted vessel, indicating that his orders had been understood. Satisfied with the crews’ impeccable execution, he clasped his hands at the small of his back, an affected gesture he knew to signal calm confidence, and settled himself to wait for the inevitable.
It didn’t take long. For all that the leviathans were superior to the neomorphs in terms of physical prowess—exceptionally so in the case of the giant variant of the species they faced here—they were average at best in their shipbuilding, and te
chnological proficiency was usually a key to winning battles in space. In essence, the more enemy fire a ship could withstand, the higher the chance it would prevail. Not that this petty skirmish could truly be considered a battle: five further cruisers and dreadnoughts per combatant would have been required to qualify for Kohath’s definition of the term.
The enemy flagship’s glyph duly turned red, indicating critical damage, and mere moments later the wounded warship wrestled its way clear of the fray, beating an undignified retreat under sustained bombardment toward the comparative safety of the fortified planets further rimward in the system.
“They’re pulling back,” the warfare officer reported, verbally confirming the display.
As Kohath had anticipated, the surviving leviathan dreadnoughts and their escort battlecruisers did not prolong proceedings, providing merely a token gesture of further defiance in order to screen their crippled command ship as it limped clear. As soon as she was out of range, they too disengaged in turn.
“Enemy comm protocols indicate a full retreat order has been issued,” the officer at the signals station reported. “The enemy flagship is broadcasting a distress signal. Hull breaches on multiple decks, fuel core containment failure imminent. She’s done for. The crew are evacuating.”
Taking a slow, reflective breath, Kohath turned to his aide, Champion Drassus. “No pursuit. All ships are to hold position with shields fully engaged. Recall all raider squadrons to standard combat patrol.”
Drassus stared at him in hostile confusion. “But, sir, we have them on the run! And Champion Kronosius’s instructions were explicit. We were to wipe them out to the last raider.”
“Her instructions were very clear,” Kohath agreed. “But they are also not practicable, and so I repeat: all ships are to hold position. I want a damage assessment report from each vessel within half a standard hour. Battle readiness conditions are to be maintained.”
The neomorph regarded him balefully. “You are letting our enemies escape. We will not forgive this,” he half-protested, half-threatened.
“Of that I have no doubt,” Kohath agreed neutrally. “However, final authority over this fleet and its dispensation is mine and mine alone, is it not?”
Drassus nodded curtly. “As is the responsibility for your failures.”
“What failure?” Kohath enquired coolly. “Our objectives have been met. We have struck at the enemy pre-emptively and interdicted a planned strike to retake control of Mendillo Prime. The outcome of this skirmish was never in doubt, Drassus.” Kohath expanded his explanation patiently, ignoring the puerile attempt at emotional manipulation. “There is no further threat from the leviathan battle group. The only risks now lie in our current unknowns, namely, the damage sustained by our vessels, the casualties suffered by our crews, and the point of continuing this useless crusade against an enemy who outmatches you.” He held up a hand to quell the imminent retort. “I believe I have made my instructions quite clear. We will hold position, assess the damage to our vessels and our casualties, and report in to headquarters command when those assessments are complete. We will not risk additional loss of life or ships by provoking the Giants into further engagements by slaughtering their defenceless comrades. You have my orders, Champion Drassus.” He met Drassus’ heated gaze with a direct, unflinching stare. “Carry them out.”
Drassus’ scales mottled to a dark burnt orange shade, a sure sign of fury, but obedient to his code of honour, he dipped his head in a curt acknowledgement and glided away, barking orders over the comm as he went. Captain Praesius, a professional naval officer who’d cut his command teeth under Kohath’s tutelage, rolled all six of his eyes at the departing warrior’s back and shot Kohath a look of understanding commiseration. “Champions,” he muttered with faint derision. “Never happy unless they’re killing something. I’ll have a damage report for you within ten minutes, sir. From information received so far, we seem to have been lucky.”
“Good,” Kohath approved.
The neomorph officer nodded. “Might I be the first to congratulate you on your victory, sir? Since I fear you will find little gratitude elsewhere.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Kohath accepted. “But I have no need for gratitude.”
Praesius smiled faintly. “I’d keep that firmly in mind, if I were you.”
Kohath nodded and turned back to his tactical readout, dismissing both his aide’s wrath and the captain’s well-meaning support from his thoughts. Analysing the labyrinthine, inconsistent complexities of neomorph emotions could wait: his receiving a summons to account for his actions in light of the end of the battle was practically a certainty, and he wished to be prepared for the inevitable accusations of malfeasance that would follow.
From a tactical perspective, the encounter had proceeded flawlessly. Kohath’s reputation as a peerless strategist had been forged in the heat of over a thousand battles. Coupled with five hundred years of first-hand experience and a knowledge base of the archived tactical wisdom of every civilisation’s greatest military commanders, there were few combat scenarios he hadn’t encountered before. Certainly the leviathans and their outsized cousins, tradition bound and hierarchical in their thinking to a fault, presented little possibility of surprising him, particularly when he was the hunter and they were the prey.
The skirmish had been straightforward, if not without its elements of risk. The leviathan battle group had been conducting routine patrols along their edge of the border, a predictable series of routes that they repeated once every ten days as they rotated through the different sectors of the system. Kohath had set his trap carefully: of all the routes the Giants utilised, this was the one that came closest to the asteroid belt that demarcated the edge of the system, a perfect hiding place for the bulk of the battle group under his command. The neomorphs had arrived in system one day ahead of their planned ambush, giving them time to cool off their engines and minimize their power outputs, and making their inherently energy-efficient vessels even harder to detect. Then, when the moment was right, he had deployed four of his dreadnoughts in open space, impeding the patrol route. It was a big enough force to present a tangible threat, a challenge to territorial dominance that any leviathan Giant would be unable to disregard.
As soon as the leviathan force had detected the decoy group, events had unfolded with machine precision. The enemy battle group’s capital ships had drawn up into a standard triple echelon to starboard, lining up in a horizontal plane to minimise their cross-section to the enemy waiting dead ahead. The escort cruisers were deployed aft of the main formation, and their raider squadrons were launched far in advance, racing to intercept the dreadnoughts and set up an interdiction zone where they could harass the neomorph vessels and prevent them from bringing their weaponry to bear as the main fleet closed to within gunnery range.
On Kohath’s command, as soon as the raider squadrons had reached the threshold of their firing range, the four dreadnoughts he’d baited the leviathans with executed a battle jump, flaring their FTL engines just long enough to traverse the distance to the enemy capital ships in a split second. It was a delicate, precision manoeuvre, only made possible by the neomorph’s advanced abilities with faster-than-light drive technology, but the crews had performed it flawlessly, seeming to appear out of nowhere directly in the path of the forward echelon of the enemy battle group.
Chaos had ensued as the leviathan vessels backed their engines and broke formation, desperately trying to avoid a collision with either the enemy at their bow or their comrades at their stern. All they achieved was to fatally slow the ships behind them. The protective spacing between the ranks contracted as the dreadnoughts tightened their formation, presenting a solid wall of a target for Kohath’s main force, advancing line abreast from the asteroid belt, to shoot at. The starboard flank ships had been destroyed before the leviathans had truly grasped what was happening, and the two wings of the neomorph fleet had swung in, snapping shut the jaws of the trap and forcing the Gi
ant vessels into the starship combat equivalent of a melee. With their escorts confined to the trailing edge of the combat zone and their fighter squadrons screened by the neomorph’s own raiders and escort cruisers, it hadn’t taken long to open a path to the leviathan flagship, and the battle had been concluded less than thirty minutes after the first leviathan vessel had appeared on the sensors.
A resounding victory, then, but not one without cost for Kohath’s command. They had suffered the loss of one dreadnought from the jump group, and one escort cruiser that had gotten too close to the aft of the leviathan formation and been swarmed by its counterparts. The leviathans had lost three dreadnoughts, not counting the dying flagship, and two cruisers, and looked to have sustained heavy damage to all their surviving ships.
Everything had gone according to plan. Kohath knew he should take some sort of positive feedback from the outcome, but in truth, he was dissatisfied with having been asked to execute the engagement in the first place. When he had accepted the contract of employment with the neomorph government three years ago, it had been a mandate to evaluate the state of their fleet, suggest reforms and overhauls, and oversee the training and development of a new generation of command officers to lead the neomorph military. A routine engagement for him, but one of mutual benefit—the Synergy had long been impressed by the advanced technological abilities of the neomorphs, and the opportunity to work with them, developing new tactics based on those capabilities while learning more about them, had been appealing.
Kohath cared nothing for the politics of why the neomorphs wished to conduct their war—he considered himself, as he had relayed countless times to countless employers, to be simply a wielded weapon—but recently he had begun to observe a pattern of increasing aggression, at the expense of caution, in the Authority’s decision making. At first he had attributed the change solely to the increased influence of the Champions as the conflict lengthened. The warrior caste had been vocal in their disapproval of the Authority’s measures ever since Kohath had accepted his command, and in spite of the solid, careful consolidation the fleet had achieved, the Champions, as Praesius had so astutely observed, were dissatisfied with the type of war being fought. It was not in their nature to feel content with anything less than outright subjugation of the enemy, and against a foe as formidable as the leviathan Giants, that was a dangerous predilection to possess.
Up until fairly recently, the Authority had been successful in checking that impulse, but in the past few months, the appetite to restrain the Champions had begun to wane. Not being privy to the neomorph government’s deliberations, Kohath could not definitively determine why the change had been enacted, or even if it was a deliberate alteration, but one thing was certain. The neomorphs had no hope of conquering the leviathans, so continuing to push the war beyond their borders made little strategic sense. And that being so, his continued employment would quickly become undesirable.
“Admiral!” Drassus snarled the rank as though it was an insult. “Champion Kronosius demands your report at once.”
Perhaps even more quickly than he had anticipated. Kohath gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. “I am on my way. Captain Praesius, command of the fleet is yours.”
“Yes, Admiral.”