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Commander Hari Zabala, captain of the patrol frigate Garibaldi, shook off the usual nausea he and ninety-nine percent of humans experienced when shifting between hyperspace and normal space and turned his eyes on the primary display. The combat information center’s artificial intelligence, which didn’t suffer from human weaknesses, had already called up a live view of Keros.
“CIC, this is the bridge. Systems are nominal. Sublight drives are firing to put us on a course for Keros orbit as fast as safety protocols allow.”
Zabala glanced at the display embedded in his command chair and nodded at the officer of the watch.
“Thank you, bridge.”
“Sir.” The sensor chief raised his hand.
“Go ahead.”
“The navigation instructions for this system mention a geosynchronous orbital platform above Tyrell Station, but I cannot find it. There are, however, two civilian sloops without ID beacons in low orbit. Their emissions do not show weapons powered or shields raised.”
Zabala, a stout, dark-complexioned man in his early forties, sat back and rubbed his square jaw with a spade-like hand.
“Perhaps whatever made HQ send us here at maximum speed has already happened. Any sign of radio or subspace transmissions?”
“Negative, sir,” the signals chief said. “Shall I hail those sloops?”
“No,” Zabala replied after a brief moment of hesitation. “In fact, I believe we’ll rig for silent running the moment we’ve reached our target velocity. Did you hear that, bridge?”
“Rig for silent running the moment we reach target velocity, aye, sir.”
“And we’ll clear for battle stations as we come into maximum effective engagement range of those sloops.”
After a moment, the sensor chief raised his hand again. “I have a visual of Tyrell Station, sir. Looks like there are two sloops on the tarmac. Their configuration is similar to the ones in orbit.”
The view on the primary display zoomed-in until Tyrell filled it.
“What’s with the module on the upper left?” Zabala asked. “Looks like it suffered damage. And the one to the right.”
“The first would be the communications module and the other a hydroponics module,” the combat systems officer said after consulting a schematic of Tyrell. “Looks like they suffered from catastrophic decompression, perhaps because of an internal explosion.”
“Pan the entire area at this resolution. Let’s see if there’s more visible damage.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the sensor slowly swept across the landing strip, Zabala raised a hand. “Stop. What are those speckles lying haphazardly all over the place? Can we zoom in even more?”
After a moment, the sensor chief said, “Looks like pressure suits, sir.”
“With bodies in them, I presume, unless the Tyrell Marine garrison celebrated Farhaven Day in a novel fashion.”
“They’re scattered mostly in front of the shuttle hangar door, and if I’m not mistaken, those pressure suits appear to have small marks everywhere.”
“Punctures? Are those sloops part of the enemy force they sent us to intercept, and those suits lying around the result of Tyrell’s garrison stopping them in the shuttle hangar and initiating a catastrophic depressurization to clear them out?”
“Could be, sir. They don’t look like standard issue Marine armor.”
Zabala rubbed his chin. “What the name of all that’s holy happened down there?”
“Couldn’t say, sir, but we’re picking up plenty of emissions and life signs, which would indicate the station is still pressurized and its denizens alive.”
“Sir,” the sensor chief glanced over his shoulder. “We just picked up a series of minor explosions at the bottom of the rift canyon running south of Tyrell, approximately twenty-five kilometers due west. Our angle doesn’t allow us to see what’s there, however.”
“It won’t be anything good. You can count on that.”
**
“Oh, crap.” Hak exhaled slowly as a series of flashes lit up the darkness below the overhang, followed by a spray of shrapnel. “So much for the idea they might spot the anti-lift devices and back off until our help arrives. I wouldn’t want to be in the vicinity right now, getting my suit covered in whatever nasties were released from the warheads.”
“HQ won’t be overjoyed,” Testo said. “I’m sure of that.”
“It’s not the optimal outcome.” Delgado allowed himself a soft sigh. “Sergeant Testo, please log my intention to detonate the reserved demolition as of this date and time. We might as well seal everything in.”
“Let any live ones out first?” Hak asked.
“Sure. Let’s give them a few minutes to deal with casualties.”
They watched pressure-suited figures emerge from the shuttles and cautiously work their way under the overhang.
“I’d love to be on their radio frequency right now.”
Movane turned to Delgado. “Major, out of curiosity, why wouldn’t you seal the lot of them into that cave if they’re as nasty as you’ve described?”
He gave her a faint smile. “Just because we’re SOCOM doesn’t mean we kill people indiscriminately. Their mission has failed, and that’s enough for now. Subjecting them to a slow death by collapsing the entrance comes under the heading of cruel and unusual since they do not present an imminent threat.”
Hak let out a grunt. “What the Skipper means is that it would be a war crime.”
Movane’s eyes widened. “Oh. I hadn’t thought of it that way. I guess my ignorance of your rules is showing.”
“Mercenaries are human too. Now, if they climb aboard those shuttles and come at Tyrell guns blazing to avenge themselves, my people crewing the weapons aboard the grounded sloops will take pleasure shooting them down, which, in this environment, means killing them outright.”
Moments after entering the depot, the mercenaries came back out, dragging injured or dead comrades with them.
“By my count, everyone is out, sir,” Testo said.
“Blow the reserved demolition.”
Before the intruders even closed their aft ramps, let alone lifted off, another flash lit up the underside of the overhang, and it collapsed in what seemed like slow motion at first as the rock cracked, then all at once.
Testo whistled softly. “Nobody’s going back in there without serious excavation gear.”
“Yep. And now we wait for their reaction. Pass the word to close up pressure suits and hang tight. Delta Troop may power weapons but not targeting sensors yet.”
**
“Four shuttles lifted out of the canyon, sir, near where we picked up the explosions,” Garibaldi’s sensor chief reported, “and the ships in orbit are powering weapons.”
Zabala tapped his fingers on his command chair arm and nodded to himself. “Time we made our presence known. Bridge, up systems.”
“Up systems, aye,” the first officer responded.
“Guns, target the ships in orbit and those shuttles and ping them mercilessly. Let them feel our presence.”
“Targeting, aye, sir.”
“Communications, open the emergency radio frequency, and route to my chair.”
“Opening emergency radio frequency, aye,” the signals petty officer replied. Then, “You’re on, sir.”
“They noticed us, sir,” the combat systems officer said. “Powering weapons and raising shields.”
“Unknown vessels in orbit around Keros, this is the Commonwealth Navy frigate Garibaldi. Shut off your weapons and drop your shields. I will construe any attempt to fire at Commonwealth Armed Forces Station Tyrell as an act of war, and I will destroy you without offering quarter. The same goes for your shuttles, who are ordered to rejoin their ships without making a detour for Tyrell. Your cooperation means you will live. Disobey my orders, and I will erase you from the universe. We will entertain terms once you’ve obeyed. Otherwise, there will be no point in discussing anything because you will be dead. Garibaldi, out.”
A minute passed, and another, before a reply finally came.
“Frigate Garibaldi, this is the private military corporation ship Utrecht. We don’t want any trouble and will power down weapons and shields. But so you understand, I have casualties aboard those shuttles stemming from illegally laid improvised explosive devices and suspect the guilty parties are in Tyrell Station.”
“Perhaps you wandered into something you should have left alone. Such as a planet under Fleet control that’s out-of-bounds to unauthorized traffic.”
“We know nothing about that, Garibaldi. Our contract merely stipulates we were to retrieve items from an ancient, unclaimed supply depot at a given set of coordinates on Keros.”
At that moment, a fresh voice broke in.
“Garibaldi, this is Tyrell Station. I’m the interim commanding officer. The ships in orbit are here to steal a cache of warheads belonging to the Fleet and know full well this planet is a military reservation. Because of circumstances, I will discuss later and not over an open channel, they forced me to deny them access using explosives. Word of warning, Utrecht, your people in the shuttles are covered in very nasty substances, which will activate the moment their pressure suits come into contact with a normal atmosphere. As in, they will kill everyone aboard your ships. Since you know what was in the munitions depot and that your people triggered anti-lift devices causing warheads to rupture, you will be aware of this. If you plan on recovering those shuttles and the crew aboard, you’ll need to run them through a Class One decontamination protocol.”
Zabala sat up. “What?”
“Sir, I’ll explain later. Right now, the situation is a bit messy, especially for Utrecht and the other PMC sloop.”
“Her name is Anvers,” the merc captain said.
“Do you know how to set up a Class One decontamination protocol?” Zabala asked.
“I’ll sort it out. Once I’ve done so, may we leave?”
“No. You’ll stay in orbit until I confer with Tyrell’s commanding officer.”
“Understood. Utrecht, out.”
Zabala turned to his communications chief. “Arrange a secure link with Tyrell.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”