Starship Theseus (The Hive Invasion Book 3), page 1
STARSHIP THESEUS
Hive Invasion – Book 3
By Jake Elwood
Copyright 2016 by Jake Elwood.
This is a work of fiction. A novel. Totally made up. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, rebel colonies or alien invaders is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 – Hammett
Chapter 2 – Hammett
Chapter 3 - Bloch
Chapter 4 – Hammett
Chapter 5 – Kaur
Chapter 6 – Hammett
Chapter 7 – Carruthers
Chapter 8 – Bloch
Chapter 9 – Hardy
Chapter 10 – Carruthers
Chapter 11 – Hardy
Chapter 12 – Hammett
Chapter 13 – Vicente
Chapter 14 – Hammett
Chapter 15 – Hardy
Chapter 16 – Hammett
Chapter 17 – Kaur
Chapter 18 – Janice
Chapter 19 – Hardy
Chapter 20 – Hammett
Chapter 21 – Janice
Chapter 22 – Kaur
Chapter 23 – Bloch
Chapter 24 – Hammett
Chapter 25 – Kaur
Chapter 26 – Hammett
Chapter 27 – Bloch
Chapter 28 – Hammett
Chapter 29 – Hammett
Chapter 30 – Bloch
Chapter 31 – Carruthers
Chapter 32 – Hammett
Author Notes
Chapter 1 – Hammett
Richard Hammett stood in the bathroom of his villa on Ariadne, rubbing No-Beard carefully into his cheeks and trying to figure out who the hell was looking back at him from the mirror. The weathered face was the same, but he no longer knew who that weary-looking man was.
Washing carefully, he dried his hands and returned to the villa's tiny bedroom where the single biggest source of his disorientation lay draped across the narrow bed. It was a uniform, which was nothing unusual. Hammett had worn a uniform almost every day of his adult life. It had always been a Spacecom uniform, though.
This uniform was not the sober dark blue of Spacecom. It was green, the green of lush forests and the countless trees that filled Harlequin, the city that had become Hammett's new home. They'd promised him a jacket and cap, but for now his uniform consisted of a shirt and a pair of trousers.
He dressed reluctantly, fidgeting at the touch of unfamiliar fabric. Spacecom uniforms were made from a sophisticated synthetic. They were nearly impossible to tear, and you could wear them for weeks if you had to, day and night, without odor or much in the way of wrinkles.
This uniform was made of cotton grown not fifteen kilometers from the villa. The tailoring was hurried, the shirt looser than he was used to. Which might not be entirely a bad thing, he reflected as he buttoned the shirt across a stomach that was larger than it once was.
Instead of rank bars across the chest, the shirt had three fat stripes running the length of each sleeve. It marked him as an admiral, and he shook his head as he tucked in his shirttails. Never in his most grandiose dreams had he expected to reach the rank of Admiral.
No more than he'd imagined serving anywhere but in the Spacecom navy.
He checked his appearance in a wall mirror, decided he looked respectable, then turned away before the strangeness could overwhelm him. He buckled on a gunbelt, checked the safety on his rail pistol, tucked a small bundle under his arm, and headed outside.
"Good morning, Richard." Sinda Leitch, his next-door neighbor, could never seem to look at him without sadness in her eyes. She'd been friends with the villa's former resident, a man who'd died fighting the Hive invaders in the long weeks before Hammett's tiny fleet had arrived. All the Navy personnel were taking the places of the dead.
He gave her a distracted nod and moved past her, heading for Garibaldi Plaza. Once a lovely park in the heart of the city, the plaza now held a massive gun emplacement and an outdoor market where the colonists swapped or shared everything from bolts of cloth to electronics. Hammett passed a table with heaps of plums and cherries and a sign that said, 'Free'. Cooperation came as naturally as breathing to the people of Ariadne. Even before the alien invasion life had been tough here. They pulled together and helped one another when they could, and Hammett felt a familiar mix of pride and frustration that he was now one of them.
It was ten days since the showdown with the EDF when he'd renounced his rank in Spacecom and accepted a new role in the brand-new Colonial Forces. Ten days, but he still felt shocked, dislocated, like he was dreaming and waiting impatiently to wake up. He wondered if he'd ever get used to this new reality.
Ahead of him a plume of smoke rose skyward, and instinct made his arm tighten protectively on the bundle he held. He caught his first whiff of synthetic fibers reluctantly burning. I can't do this. This is wrong. I can't-
A circle of solemn figures stood around the perimeter of a dry fountain. It made a great site for a bonfire, he realized. The low concrete wall and tiled bottom would keep the fire from spreading. He recognized shipmates and fellow displaced officers in the circle, familiar figures made strange by their new green uniforms. Hayat Sanjari turned and gave him a smile as he approached.
She had family back on Earth, he remembered. Dozens of them, apparently. She could go on at length about siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins … His own discomfort was suddenly trivial as he realized how much more difficult this must be for her. For most of them.
Hammett had no real ties left in his former home. A younger brother he traded messages with once a year at Christmas, and visited every five years or so if he found himself planetside during December. Some old friends he hadn't seen in more years than he cared to remember. His life was the Navy, had been for years. If he couldn't go back to Earth, he'd barely notice the difference. What must it be like for the others?
Sanjari edged sideways, making room for him in the circle. Dozens of people ringed the fire. Scores. Even in the bright morning sunlight, firelight made flickering patterns on a wall of green uniforms. A pyramid of wood burned ferociously, the bones of a ruined building by the look of it. All over the timbers and scraps of lumber, dark blotches smoked and smoldered, burning only reluctantly.
Uniforms.
Ken Hardy, the fighter pilot who'd come over from the EDF fleet, stepped into a gap on the far side of the fountain. Hardy held a shirt in each hand. One shirt, impeccably tailored, featured a black band around one arm. That shirt had barely been worn, and Hardy chucked it on the flames without a pause.
He hesitated with the next shirt. Hammett had seen him wearing it, a baggy thing too short in the sleeves that Hardy had mooched from some other crewman. It lacked the damning stripe of the EDF. Hardy clearly saw it as a symbol of his inclusion in the rebellious fleet. He sighed, then tossed the second shirt after the first one. It landed on a burning timber, arms flung wide like a martyr, and the blue fabric slowly began to blacken.
A pair of dark blue uniform trousers lay draped over Hardy's shoulder. He balled up the trousers and tossed them after the shirts, then retreated.
A boy stepped into the gap. His name was Vicente Ramona, and he was all of sixteen years old. He wore a green uniform with self-conscious pride, and he squared his shoulders as he stepped up to the edge of the fountain.
Instead of a Naval uniform, Vicente held a set of coveralls in his hands, rust-colored fabric bright with reflective strips. By the look on his face, this ceremony was as significant to him as it was to anyone present. He hesitated, fingering the coarse fabric, then took a deep breath and consigned the coveralls to the flames.
Vicente was from Dryad, a much less hospitable planet sharing the Naxos system with Ariadne, the only planet in the system with breathable air – at least within one deep crater. A week earlier, the Colonial fleet had evacuated several hundred people from Dryad, where they had survived the invasion of the system in perfect serenity, ignored by the Hive. Now the boy was in the Naxos military, and he wasn't even the youngest new recruit.
Hammett pushed that unsettling thought from his mind as Sanjari nudged him with her elbow. He took his old uniform from under his arm. He'd worn it with pride, used it to define himself, and he desperately wanted to pause a moment, maybe unroll the shirt and look at the Captain's stripes one last time. His people were watching him, however, and he needed to send a clear message.
Without so much as a flicker of hesitation, he lobbed the bundle of fabric onto the fire.
After that he stood for a few minutes, watching as more uniforms fed the flames. He was careful not to overstay his welcome, though. He knew what sort of damper an officer could be at a gathering of enlisted personnel, and his new rank could only make things worse. Before long he edged back from the fountain, Sanjari following.
They strolled away from the fire, and he heard a gradual rise in volume behind him as crew began to relax and talk. He headed toward the tower-like structure of the alien gun emplacement, now a hodgepodge of alien and human technology. Christine Goldfarb and her team of scientists had all but rebuilt the thing from the ground up.
A handful of figures waited near the base of the tower, each one with rank stripes along their sleeves. They were captains and commanders and lieutenants from Spacecom, with one exception. Ronald Faraday, lean and middle-aged, was one of the shortest people in the group, but he had an aura of quiet authority that made him seem larger than he was. His brand-new title was Military Commander of Colonial Forces, and his sleeves had the same three stripes as Hammett's, plus an additional pinstripe.
The tall, craggy man at Ron's elbow gave Hammett a nod, murmured, "Admiral," then smirked. James Carruthers, captain of the Indefatigable, had served with Hammett for far too long to be in awe of his new rank.
Hammett grinned back, grateful to his friend for taking some of the starch out of the air. He joined the circle of officers, looking around at the familiar faces in unfamiliar uniforms.
"The evacuation of Dryad is complete," Ron said. "We've pretty much scouted every piece of rock in the system, and we've got the Theseus ready to launch. All our ships are back. We need to decide how to deploy them." Ron had an excellent leadership style, in Hammett's opinion. The man owned up to his lack of military experience and listened carefully to his officers, but he had no trouble asserting his right to make final decisions. He'd been a colony administrator before the invasion, and it showed.
Lieutenant Nicholson cleared his throat. "We could blockade the Gate, but I'd advise against it." He tilted his head, pointing at the gun emplacement beside him. "This is our biggest advantage. This, and the other ground guns, and the new satellites, once we launch them. We'd be fools to fight anywhere else but above the planet."
Ron nodded. "What's the status of the new weapons?"
A young lieutenant named Krill spoke up. "All four guns on the north polar ring are online. The south polar ring needs at least another week." She made a face. "That's pretty optimistic, actually. A month might be more likely. We put everything into the north ring. I think they've barely started on the south."
The gun emplacement beside them was a powerful weapon, but it could only cover a limited area. The colony was installing similar guns near the north and south poles, where they could cover every side of the planet.
Ron nodded. "How about the satellites?"
Krill gave him a helpless shrug. "They thought the first satellite would be good to go three days ago. Then they were going to launch last night." She shook her head. "I really don’t know when they'll be ready."
Ron flashed a gallows smile. "Well, let's hope the EDF and the bugs give us a little more time." He looked around. "Anyone else?"
No one spoke. Ron turned to Hammett. "Admiral? What are your thoughts?"
It was a subtle bit of political handling, Hammett thought. Let the other officers speak first, then the admiral, with Ron speaking last. That way, no one would be contradicted or corrected by a subordinate. He wondered if the man had done it consciously. Not that it mattered too much, not with this group. These were seasoned officers with a high level of professionalism. Still, every little bit helped.
"It's high time we scouted the enemy," Hammett said. He gestured upward. "We know they're out there. We even know roughly what direction. We don't know what they're up to, and we should." He folded his arms. "It would also be nice to take the fight to them for a change. I'm tired of scrambling around, reacting to whatever they throw at us. Let them react to us for once."
Ron nodded. "Makes sense to me." He swept his eyes over the gathered officers. "I hesitate to send too much of the fleet into deep space. The Theseus, though, is far more effective against Hive ships than EDF ships."
Several officers nodded. The Theseus, a converted freighter, was covered in heat-shedding hull plates that made her all but impervious to the Hive's favorite weapon. She wouldn't fare so well against the missiles and rail guns of Spacecom, though.
Ron's gaze landed on Jean Harrington. She commanded the Gideon, a Jumper designed to generate wormholes. "The Gideon is the obvious ship to send on a scouting mission. You can open wormholes for the Theseus." He glanced at Hammett. "One more ship, do you think? A corvette, perhaps?"
Hammett remembered Ron's words before the last battle. The Theseus is immune to heat weapons. Your corvettes are not. If you launch with us, you'll die. The problem was, the Hive had a nasty habit of adapting. The Theseus, alone, had prevailed once. The Hive would have a strategy by now for dealing with the refurbished freighter. A corvette, its fighting style so different from the Theseus, would mix things up. He nodded reluctantly. "One corvette."
"Right." Ron turned to a dark-haired, fierce-eyed woman with a silver bracelet on her wrist and a small knife at her waist. "Captain Kaur."
Meena Kaur nodded. She'd held the rank of Commander in Spacecom, but Ron had made her a captain.
"What's the status of the Tomahawk?"
"She's ready to fly," Kaur said promptly. "The heat plating isn't complete, but it covers the most vital areas." Crews were coating the ship with a fine mesh of Fourier metal to spread and dissipate heat.
"Good," said Ron. "Is there any reason not to launch immediately?"
Hammett said, "I'd like an hour or so to get the crew aboard and bring in some fresh produce." The ship was stocked with a week of food, but Hammett, after a lifetime of dried and processed rations, was now accustomed to having fresh fruit every day. He was getting spoiled, he realized. He didn't care, though.
"That works for me," Kaur said. Jean Harrington, captain of the Gideon, nodded as well.
"Good." Ron nodded. "You can launch at eleven hundred, then."
Sanjari headed for the bonfire to spread the word among the crew. Hammett moved away from the group, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting. The familiar knot of fear and anticipation stirred in his belly, and he was grateful that he had so little time before he launched. He'd be too busy to fret.
Maybe we finally get to call some shots. If only they'll wait for us to get there. He looked around at the city that had become his unexpected new home, the stone buildings and the lush profusion of plants, the colonists who just kept plugging away without complaint in the face of adversity and terrible danger. The colony seemed so homely, so quiet and safe, but one big rock from space could turn it all into a lifeless wasteland in the blink of an eye.
If the Hive came to Ariadne while Hammett was on his scouting mission, the battle would be over before he even knew it had begun. And the Hive wasn't the only danger.
Maybe you shouldn't leave. Tell Ron you think the whole fleet should stay here to defend the colony. He shoved the thought to the back of his mind. The scouting mission was his own idea, after all. You have your orders, and it's the right thing to do.
I just hope there's still a colony here when I get back.
Chapter 2 – Hammett
"We're through. Looks like it worked." Eddie Walsh, helmsman of the Theseus, looked over his shoulder and gave Hammett a strained smile. Eddie had been a freighter pilot for more than a decade, but wormhole jumps were still pretty new to him. He seemed astonished and relieved every time a jump succeeded.
"Thank you, Eddie," said Hammett, suppressing a grin. He looked at Sanjari.
"All clear, Sir." She leaned back in her seat and sighed. "Nothing to do now but wait for the Gideon to recharge."
Hammett nodded. The Gideon would need fifteen minutes or so before she could generate another wormhole. The Tomahawk could also generate wormholes, but they were saving the charge in case they needed a quick retreat.
Hal, the co-pilot, swiveled his chair around. His fingers drummed on the arm of the chair. "I don't know you stand the tension. Nothing's even happened yet, and I'm wired like I drank a pot and a half of coffee."
Hal wore a green uniform shirt, but he wore it unbuttoned to display a bright red singlet underneath. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, and he had yet to use the words "Sir" or "Ma'am" when addressing the officers. Eddie had his shirt buttoned up, but he showed no more concern for traditional military protocol than Hal did.
That was just fine with Hammett. Neither man had asked to join the Colonial Forces, but here they were, in uniform, flying into mortal danger without a word of complaint. They knew the Theseus backward and forward, and they knew their duty. Hammett was glad to have them, and he wasn't about to pester them for salutes or any of the other trappings of military life.
No rank stripes decorated their sleeves. They held the rank of Private, not a traditional Navy designation. The Colonial Forces were all of ten days old, though, and entirely free of the weight of tradition. Ron wanted a unified military, with ground forces no different from shipboard forces.
