“Mum, can you take a look at this?” Mattu said from the Drone Integration Station. “It’s … weird.”
“I don’t like weird,” Susan said. “Our Xre friends acting out?”
“No, mum. It’s Grendel. An unscheduled skip drone just popped its bubble really close to the planet.”
By just, Susan knew Mattu meant almost ninety minutes ago with the light-speed delay from their drone platform tasked with keeping an eye on Grendel’s high orbitals, but one learned to think in four dimensions after spending enough time in the fleet.
“How close?”
“Its gooey zone took out a GPS sat.”
“Holy shit,” Miguel said. “That’s thousands of klicks inside the safety margin.”
Susan got up from her chair and went to inspect the raw data. “Navigational error?”
“From a skip drone?” Mattu said. “When was the last time one of them screwed up that badly? Thirty years? Forty?” She dialed in a new information screen for Susan to look at. “Besides, it didn’t act like it screwed up. Didn’t go into shutdown, or start a diagnostic. It went straight into transmission mode and dumped whatever messages it had.”
“Well? What were they?”
“That’s the thing, mum. They’re encrypted. Heavily. And not with any mil-spec encryption Ansari’s AI can recognize.”
“What are you saying, Scopes?” Miguel pushed.
“You want my speculation?”
“Yes, out with it.”
“I think that skip drone was told to pop bubble inside Grendel’s safety margins and deliver that message, whatever the hell it is, as close and as quickly as possible and damn the consequences.”
“What kind of out-of-system message can’t stand a second of light-speed delay?”
“Whose drone is it, Scopes?” Susan asked.
“I don’t know, mum. It’s a standard Marathon unit, but it’s not squawking ID. Could be fleet, could be one of the transtellars, or even a UN boat. No way to know.”
“A skip drone running dark, flouting safety protocols, and throwing around non-CCDF message encryption?” Miguel held his palms up. “Who does that?”
Susan returned to her full height. “I don’t know, but I’m sure we won’t like the answer. Call for Condition Two.”
“Condition Two, aye mum,” Miguel said, then opened the 1MC. “Attention all personnel. Set Condition Two. Condition Two. This is not a drill.”
The unease in the CIC ratcheted up with the order to GQ, which was only natural. Nesbit, cleared for duty after their little … misunderstanding, would doubtlessly be along shortly. Susan was actually glad for it. He was the proper intermediary between her command and Grendel’s planetary governor, after all.
“It’s all right, everyone,” Susan cooed. “Governor Honshu just needs a few minutes to digest whatever message she received and her staff will send us an update. You know how much those pampered autocrats in their boardrooms like to play at being secret agents.”
This was met with a round of laughs from the bridge crew, but in point of fact, it was another hour before they got any sort of update for the situation on Grendel, and it wasn’t from a coms laser or high-gain radio transmission.
“Surface launches,” Mattu shouted. “Multiple signatures. Counting eleven … scratch that, seventeen. No, twenty-nine civilian boats burning for Grendel orbit.”
“What the actual fuck?” Warner cursed from the weapons station.
“Where do they think they’re going?” Nesbit asked. He’d turned up eventually, but had remained quietly in a corner up until then.
“How many boats does that leave?” Susan asked, trying to get ahead of the news.
“None, mum,” Mattu said. “That’s every registered transport on the planet. They’re evacuating.”
“In an hour?” Miguel said. “They organized a colonywide evacuation in an hour?”
“Whatever that skip drone had to say, I don’t think they took much care packing.”
“Charts,” Susan said. “I want to know their heading as soon as they settle into a course to bubble out. Extrapolate and—”
“Contacts!” Mattu shouted. “Three contacts just popped bubbles three AU out from the system primary. Confirmation by recon platform seven. Wait one. Second platform concurs. Verified three bogeys in system.”
Susan’s nostrils flared. Someone was throwing a party in her backyard and didn’t bother to invite her. “Scopes, talk to me. What are we looking at?”
“Can’t tell, mum. They’re running low emissions and their adaptive camo and jammers are hot. I have approximate mass on two of them from their bubble energy. Four hundred thousand tons and…” Mattu swallowed. “Million-and-a-half-ton range. Plus or minus a hundred thousand. Best I can do. Designating the big bastard Bogey One, the heavy-cruiser range Bogey Two, and the frigate Bogey Three.”
Susan refused to let a single muscle in her face move lest she betray her emotions to the crew. Someone had sent an entire offensive task group into her system. There was a planetary assault carrier out there. And she had no idea whose flag it was flying.
“XO. Action Stations. Right fucking now.”
“All hands. Action Stations. Action Stations,” Miguel yelled into the 1MC without bothering to remind everyone it wasn’t a drill.
“I want four dozen ship-killers on the float toward those bogeys at max EM dark burn,” Susan said unfeelingly.
“Weapons, launch four-eight ship-killers at maximum clandestine burn on a direct intercept heading for Bogeys One through Three. Target priorities to be assigned.”
Warner was already three screens deep as she echoed the order. “Launch flight of two-four kill birds for dark burn for the bogeys, aye sir!”
“Scopes,” Susan continued calmly. “The heavy cruiser, is there any chance it’s the Chusexx?”
“No, mum. Our Xre friends are in the opposite direction, but still closer than the bogeys. If they’d bubbled out to go deeper in system, we’d have seen it six minutes ago. Unless they can travel through time now.”
Of course, Susan admonished herself, feeling stupid for having asked the question in the first place. The deck swayed underfoot as two dozen seventy-ton missiles ripple fired out of their launch rails.
“Do we warn the Chusexx?” Miguel asked, surprising her. “They’re still making repairs.”
“Are you quite mad?” Nesbit said. “They’re still an enemy ship, even if they did sing you some pretty songs.”
“I have to agree with our CL,” Susan said. “Besides, warn them of what? We don’t know what this is. For all we know, they sent a hidden skip back to base and this is their task group come to finish us off.”
“That doesn’t explain the mystery Marathon drone.”
“No. I suppose it doesn’t.” Susan bit her lip. “If Thuk is at all competent, which he is, he’ll have a recon drone or two shadowing us. They’ll know as much as we do in a few minutes. And warning an enemy vessel, even a hospitable one, could be construed as treason. So I think we have to let the Xre connect their own dots on this one.”
“Agreed, mum.”
“Scopes, transfer your drone network feed to the main plot, please.”
“Done.”
In the blink of an eye, the entire star system’s tactical situation sprang to life between the deck and the ceiling, everything the Ansari’s multilayered, overlapping shells of recon drone platforms saw from one side of Grendel’s treaty line to the other, pinned with IFF icons, range, relative velocity, heading, and light-speed-delay figures highlighted next to them.
The neighborhood had gotten crowded. A cluster of two and a half dozen blue civilian icons huddled in low Grendel orbit as they sorted themselves out for a departure order. Each one would need to be at least five hundred klicks away from the rest when they bubbled. With that many ships sharing an orbit and launch window, the jockeying would take a while.
Then there was the trio of unidentified warships between Susan and the civilians she was tasked with protecting, warships whose intentions she couldn’t begin to guess.
Then there was Ansari, the only green “friendly” icon on the board. Further out still was the blazing red icon of the Chusexx, which under any other circumstances would unquestionably be the most serious threat, but thanks to the events of the last few days, actually concerned Susan the least. Strange times.
“Has the bogey task group made any moves toward the civilian ships?” she asked.
“No mum. They’ve spread out a bit, and Bogey Three is burning harder than the others, but they’re not heading down-well for Grendel. If anything, it looks like they’re starting a search pat—” Mattu stopped. “Hang on, those are CCDF jamming frequencies and rotation algorithms.”
“Are you sure?” Warner said from the weapons station.
“Spot me on it. Transferring feed from Platform Seven to your station.”
Warner dug into a fresh screen to inspect the raw data. Mattu was officially responsible for managing the Electronic Warfare suite aboard ship, but it was Warner’s job to defeat the enemy’s EW capability with her beams, bangers, and booms, so both women had an excellent working knowledge of the systems and could back each other up in a pinch. Skill set redundancy was always a good thing to have on a ship of war.
“I’ll be whipped, she’s right,” Warner said. “Not only that, but that little frigate piece of shit is running the old K-7 suite. It hasn’t been in for refit yet. Probably a Zephyr.”
“So they’re friendlies? Confirmed?” Susan pressed.
“Yeah, they’re CCDF hulls all right.”
“Oh thank God,” Nesbit said from his corner.
“Well, then why the hell are they running dark and throwing out jamming in the first place?” Miguel said.
Susan rubbed her chin. “This is damned peculiar.”
“Wait one,” Mattu said. “They’re dropping stealth systems. Okay, getting IFF ID on the bogeys and receiving challenge codes now.”
Susan looked back to the plot. Bogey One’s icon flipped green to the CCDF Paul Allen, a Mjolnir-class planetary assault carrier and one of the newest, baddest ships in the inventory. It was flanked by the Mosaic-class heavy cruiser CCDF Carnegie and, just as Warner had said, a familiar, venerable Zephyr-class fast frigate, the CCDF Halcyon, serving as a screening element.
“We’re getting a coded hail from Admiral Perez on omnidirectional. She’s asking us to drop our stealth and send our coordinates, heading, and velocity. She wants to rendezvous as soon as possible with urgent new orders.”
Susan leaned back in her chair and glowered at the main plot. A hand rested on her shoulder. “Centi for your thoughts, mum?” Miguel whispered.
“I think the map I’m looking at makes no goddamned sense.” She pointed at the two clusters of ships. “An unscheduled, unannounced, planet-wide evacuation begins an hour before an unscheduled, unannounced PAC task group shows up in my system. No one dirtside bothers to tell us anything, and the task group which you would assume is here to give cover to the mystery evacuation takes no notice of the civvy ships at all and instead pokes around dark for a while before deciding it wants to chat. I mean, what the hell? How many regulations and procedures were just ignored? Eight, nine?”
“Eleven, mum.”
“See, that doesn’t sit super well with me.”
“It makes sense if we’re the objective,” Miguel said just above a whisper.
“Veering into tinfoil-hat territory there, XO,” Susan said. “It’s probably just an overabundance of caution. They know Chusexx is around here somewhere. They’re probably just spooked.”
“Then why tell the civilians but not us? The skip drone could’ve sent us the same coded burst. We were deliberately kept in the dark.”
Susan had to admit, she didn’t have a good answer for that.
“Regardless,” Nesbit inserted himself, “we have to answer the hail, unless you want to make it twelve?”
“Quite right, CL.” Susan turned to Mattu’s station. “Scopes, send the Paul Allen our current coordinates, heading, and velocity in a coded omnidirectional burst.”
“Yes, mum. Burst away. They’ll have it in”—she checked the distance—“eighty-seven minutes.”
“Excellent. Charts?”
Broadchurch perked up in her chair. “Yes mum?”
“In ten minutes, go to flank speed until we’ve added twenty-thousand kph to our delta-v, then throttle back to standby and flip the ship to face opposite our current heading.”
“Wait ten, flank speed, add twenty k, Crazy Ivan. Got it.”
“Ah, mum?” Mattu said. “Do you want me to update the Allen with our, er, course correction?”
“Not really, no.”
“Understood.”
“Cap,” Miguel leaned in. “What are we doing?”
“We’re putting a respectful distance between us and our guests. Admiral Perez’s command is brand new and I wouldn’t want to scuff her paint. It hurts the resale value, you know.”
“Ah, okay. Because it sounded to me like you just ordered your navigation officer to put thirty-thousand kilometers or so between us and where our newest flagship expects us to be an hour and a half from now, which just happens to be outside its effective weapons envelope, but too close to make a safe micro jump, forcing them to close the distance with fusion rockets before they could engage, and then casually told your drone integration officer to lie about it.”
“You have a very suspicious mind, Miguel. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“It’s been mentioned, yes. So we’re not standing down from battle stations, then?”
“That’s a hard no.”
“Aaaaand I’m not recalling the flight of missiles we just floated,” Warner posited.
“I don’t see the need. Spin them around and put them in a parking orbit at zero-zero relative to our current position. We’ll come back and get them after Admiral Perez has finished.”
“Right.” Miguel stood up to address the rest of the CIC. “Somebody get a pot of square dog going. We’re going to need it.”
“I’m going to need something stronger than coffee,” Nesbit said.