Reclamation (Book One of the Art of War Trilogy), page 9
He sidelined the link again and quickly ordered ZEN to make a beeline for the mass. In seconds the VI had abandoned its current course and was making a calculated sprint for it, shadowed by one of Jarvin’s reconnaissance drones providing advanced topographical mapping of the route. Even so, it would still take precious minutes for the ZEN to cover a kilometre of jungle. He tracked its progress, briefly dipping into its optical band to watch as the dark foliage whipped past.
‘Gatekeeper,’ the comms controller cut in, ‘what is a zhahassi ZEN doing with you and why can you not recall it? Please respond with urgency, over.’
Vondur smirked. Whoever was ordering the controller about, they were getting agitated.
‘Thunderhead, the ZEN is mine, legitimately acquired on Tranquillity and commissioned into the squadron. It is zhahassi tech; sometimes the Goliath has trouble interfacing with it. It’s not a problem though. It’s an autonomous VI–’
Then he was interrupted by the comms controller – an unusual breach of protocol. He was really pissing them off now. ‘Gatekeeper, I have been asked to ask you to recall your drone immediately; please take all steps to recall the drone and report back when you have done so. Recall the drone physically if you have to. The mass is to remain unmolested, over.’
Vondur checked the ZEN’s distance to the target. It was still a minute away.
‘Elyan, is there anyone else on the grid making for our position? From Anternis,’ he asked.
‘Negative, Captain. Troops are preventing anyone moving north.’
‘Captain, I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ Jarvin said.
Vondur looked about him at the slimy, wet boughs of the trees, intermittently illuminated by lightning. The lieutenant was right, but he had committed now.
‘Thunderhead, I am having trouble communicating with–’
‘Gatekeeper, my diagnostics display your Goliath is functioning at triple redundancy on all comms and command substrates. Recall the ZEN immediately. That is a direct order, over.’
Just a few more seconds…
‘Thunderhead, I–’
‘Captain,’ ZEN interjected politely on the wideband, as only a zhahassi VI could. ‘I have located the mass. It is a human female’s head, encased within a Mantix helmet of unknown class or pattern. It is still alive. Shall I retrieve it?’
The net fell completely silent.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ Jarvin said.
The net fell completely silent again.
‘Thunderhead,’ Vondur said, trying to control the anger in his voice, ‘we need a medevac at my location. Immediately.’
The link fuzzed with static, then clicked a few times.
‘Copy, Gatekeeper,’ the comms controller said, exhaling loudly. ‘Medevac is on its way.’
NAVEM SIGMA
‘The political machinations of the UN Establishment are bewildering in their bureaucratic complexity. There is some semblance of democratic rule, but in most cases of planetary authority this process yields substantially to centrally installed governance. In real terms, the UN operates as what one could term a benign dictatorship, though I recoil slightly from the negative connotations of the latter word. Citizens of the UN, though by and large shielded from the many manoeuvrings of their political superiors, are remarkably well provided for.’ (trans.)
Extract from ‘Tier-Three Governance: A Comparative Study’, by celebrated zhahassi political commentator Zelkamar
The briefing had taken less time than he’d expected, given the apparent severity of the situation, though doubtless they’d be drip-fed more information once they got underway. He curled his lip in distaste. The unfailingly opaque meta-strategies of Solar Command irked him, as they did most captains who were not afforded the same galaxy-eye view as those on distant Vargonroth. The UN’s phobia of provocation led to sometimes staggering inefficiency in the conduct of operations, and not for the first time he considered penning an exposé and retiring on the royalties.
He looked up sharply as there was a knock at his door. ‘Enter,’ he said, and it slid open on its magnetic rails to reveal a young, red-faced ensign, holding his peaked and braided dress cap under his left arm. He snapped to attention.
‘Captain Rynn, sah,’ he said, saluting smartly with a white-gloved hand and staring at a point somewhere over the top of Rynn’s head.
‘Yes, sir?’ Rynn replied, stifling a smile. The enthusiasm of the recruits was relentlessly amusing. He wondered how smartly the boy would salute after three months in a cramped, gravity-free voidbreaker of the Fleet Auxiliary.
‘Sir, Lieutenant Gross-vennor reports the UNS York will require another hour to prepare, sir.’
‘It’s pronounced Grove-ner, sir,’ Rynn said, rolling his eyes. He waved his desk terminal active and brought up a holo. ‘Lieutenant Grosvenor, please.’ Moments later, the face of the moustached second-in-command of the quick-reaction fleet appeared, a stubby cigar poking out of the corner of his mouth. He wore a grimace, and his forehead was smeared with what looked to be some kind of pink foamy grease.
‘Lieutenant, I have Ensign Hobbes here informing me the York will not be ready to depart for another hour. Somewhat contrary to the nature of a quick-reaction force, wouldn’t you say so?’
The lieutenant snatched the cigar from his mouth. It trailed a whorl of smoke that briefly obscured the feed. ‘Thirty minutes at most, Captain,’ he said, offering a grin. ‘Minor hitch with one of our Star Witch tubes. Latent vermin infestation, I’m afraid. Still, nothing a good hose down can’t fix, sir.’
Rynn’s nose wrinkled. The presence of vermin, even after exposure to hard vacuum, was an ever-persistent problem on the semi-lawless hellhole that was Navem Sigma, and a few fat golgronic rats nestled in an open weapons port would result in a misfire nine times out of ten. Still, one had to admire the tenacity of the little shits.
‘I expect you will act with all due expedition,’ Rynn said. He cancelled the feed and turned his attention back to Ensign Hobbes.
‘Was that everything?’
The boy saluted again. ‘Sir, aye aye, sir.’
‘Fine. Dismissed,’ Rynn said and waved the door closed. It sealed with a satisfying click.
A few moments later, his holo reactivated. His IHD automatically authorised the encrypted transmission, and he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his nose.
Captain Rynn. Quick-reaction alert force is to depart Navem Sigma with all speed. Target world is Uvolon, sector Upper Vadian Spiral [est. journey time 20hrs]. UNS Achilles will tow. Fleet is to hold orbit at geosync L1, equatorial planar. T3 forces present: 1, cruiser, provari, the Impraxes. Do not engage. Confirm by return.
Ft. Msl. Scarcroft.
He sighed and had his IHD provide a time-logged, triple-encrypted receipt confirmation. It was nothing more than a written rehash of the verbal briefing he’d just received. With a wave of his hand, he copied the message into his IHD and wiped it from his desk terminal.
He sat in quiet contemplation for a second, then stood up, pushed the seat neatly into its alcove under the table, and pulled his jacket on – a thick, midnight-blue coat bearing a number of honorifics and service medals. The ever-conspicuous UN Fleet insignia was also present, forming a blue-and-silver roundel on his left shoulder and bearing a stylised, star-surrounded frigate. He ensured the stock collars were stiff and upright, adjusted his white cravat slightly, and satisfied, made his way out into the corridor.
Navem Sigma was one of the few habitats in the galaxy shared by all six Tier-Three species. It had been constructed over several decades in the spirit of co-operation and mutual respect that had defined the early years of Contact, centuries before when the UN and the quorl had been welcomed into the Tier-Three community. Now, it existed as a multijurisdictional naval port and slovenly, lawless habitat, the source of an endless intragalactic game of cops and robbers.
To the outside observer it appeared as a thick gunmetal cylinder, encircled at both ends by two rotating rings joined to the spine with vast spokes and extruding vast arrays of solar power vanes which extended into space like the petals of a flower, soaking up the heat from the nearby M-class star. The whole structure performed one full rotation every ninety seconds, providing close to Terran-standard gravity, which all Tier-Three species found generally acceptable, and sat in one of the Lagrange points of a huge violet gas giant which the UN had called Gamma Serpentis. At last count, Navem Sigma housed over two hundred and eighty million residents, living in a vast, enclosed city broken only by the thousands of tiered kilometres of agricultural land that provided roughly half of the station’s food supply. The other half was supplied from local star systems, contracted lucratively to a handful of corporations whose methods were so underhand the resultant organised crime was the main reason for the station’s naval presence.
Sigma had originally been purposed as a civilian galactic waypoint, a useful refuelling and resupply centre for trading missions to some of the more obscure astrographic worlds – Uvolon being among them. The provar had been the first to use it as a naval base, albeit briefly, to service the Ascendancy’s Sixteenth Crusade Fleet. The UN established its own voidbreaker waypoint a few months later, and the quorl, who at the time believed themselves to be the UN’s civilisational equals, were quick to throw in their lot.
The provar abandoned Sigma as a naval base only a handful of years later, preferring their purpose-built waypoints and navy yards established along the crusade fleet lines. The UN, in counterpoint, expanded its naval presence to include comprehensive docking facilities and a dedicated command station, and tasked itself with policing piracy in the Coriolanus Sector. The zhahassi were quick to join that enterprise, as were the quorl, whose citizens by that stage formed the largest proportion of the station’s inhabitants by a significant margin.
Slowly and steadily, the naval facilities of all three species increased to the point where it became an intergalactic fleet muster, and thereafter a vast black market for arms dealing which had, by the present day, become so ingrained in the legal economy that many subsector governments were entirely dependent on its income.
Still, it would always be little more than a shithole to Rynn, he thought, as he strode down one of the corridors of the Fleet headquarters. He looked around disdainfully at the damp, dark metal walls, the flickering light panels above, and the jingoistic oil paintings which depicted modern naval combat as akin to that of the mid-19th century. He snorted; if an artist wanted to really capture the essence of space combat, they needed only paint an empty starfield. Nearly all engagements took place at ranges of thousands, if not millions of kilometres.
He sighed, grateful that tours at the Sigma muster lasted only a year. He found it odd that so many craved an operational deployment here. Of course, anti-piracy work was fun, if not easy; even the quarters were pleasant in places. The officers’ mess in particular was delectable, a vast hall replete with wood panelling, more oil paintings, old flags and – most significantly – a large bar. But it just wasn’t… important enough. Sigma was old news, routine, dull. It was no Fleet Command Halo Arch, or Merisgard. Hell, even Earth had juicer roles.
He rounded a corner and continued on, footsteps ringing dully against the metal grilling of the floor. To his left, a line of holos gave the impression of windows, and he could see out across the dockyard itself. It was actually rather bland when one got used to it, despite its impressive size: just rows of vast gantries, engineering hubs and docking proboscises, thrown into sharp relief against the gigantic violet orb of Gamma Serpentis. At any one time, the Fleet maintained a hundred ships of varying classes there, with the quick-reaction force making up a tenth of that number, though Scarcroft had only ordered three destroyers to Uvolon – the Seraph, the Retribution and the York. If it had been up to him, Rynn would have taken the Trafalgar, a monolithic, thousand-metre capital ship with three rotating life-support modules (absolute extravagance by Fleet standards) and enough firepower to reduce an entire planet to a bubbling sphere of radioactive slag. That would have had any Tier-Three cruiser running for cover, provar or not.
But, three destroyers it was, and Rynn was nothing if not unquestioningly dutiful.
‘Lieutenant Aulden,’ he said, spying the man at the end of the corridor. The commanding officer of the Seraph looked across and snapped smartly to attention.
‘Sir,’ he said. He was wearing standard operational, non-vacuum-capable garb: a pair of light grey boots, cream breeches and a tight-fitting blue jacket with all the usual rank and insignia decorations. In his right hand was a black holdall, and in his left was a book which Rynn’s IHD revealed to be a work of historical fiction.
‘On your way down?’ Rynn asked, catching up with him. Aulden nodded.
‘Aye, sir. Got the word from Vargonroth. Although I hear Grosvenor is having problems with the York.’
Rynn nodded and summoned an elevator, which dutifully acknowledged his senior rank and prioritised his request. It whooshed up to meet them, and its doors opened with a pleasant chime. Rynn gestured for Aulden to enter, then followed, authorising the elevator to take them to the restricted quick-reaction force dock.
‘Vermin in the Star Witch tubes. Nothing a good hose out won’t fix. It’ll add forty minutes to the journey time, but the fleet marshal has given us twenty hours – and even then instructions not to engage on the other side.’ He shrugged, and a familiar – somewhat signature – look of distaste creased his features. ‘Doesn’t seem that pressing to me.’
Aulden nodded thoughtfully. ‘Still, sir, provar. Not had a run-in with them in decades.’
‘And I intend not to have a run-in with them now,’ Rynn remarked drily. ‘Not with an entire crusade fleet in the next sector.’
‘Mm,’ Aulden grunted. There was a brief silence until Aulden, clearly uncomfortable, filled it. ‘Do you think anyone outside the Ascendancy will ever know what the crusade fleets are for, sir?’
‘Christ, Lieutenant, keep calling them the Ascendancy and they’ll start to bloody believe it,’ Rynn said. The elevator arrived at their destination, and both men exited into another dim, metalled corridor, this one bathed in red, rather than white, light. ‘Quite frankly, as long as they keep pouring their endless military strength into the next galaxy over, they can do what they like.’
They walked in silence down the corridor, a thick metal tube sprouting fifteen proboscises accessed via large, evenly spaced airlocks, each surrounded by a host of gaudy warning markers. They were now at the lowest point of the muster, almost half a kilometre below the rest of the dockyard, where the QRF ships were docked in silent vigil.
‘The Retribution is at fifteen,’ Rynn said, gesturing ahead. ‘I’m going to take the express.’ To his left was a trackway which ran the length of the corridor, powering a number of small platforms to facilitate rapid transportation.
‘Aye, sir,’ Aulden said, inclining his head. ‘I’m at four, so I’ll walk, I think.’
‘Fine,’ Rynn said and nodded. ‘I’ll be in touch. Lean on Grosvenor. I feel we should at least try to act with some semblance of quickness, given that we are the muster’s quick-reaction alert.’
‘Aye, sir,’ Aulden replied, smiling.
Rynn activated the throttle with his IHD, and the platform accelerated smoothly down the corridor. He gripped the railing, relishing the breeze against his face. The journey was brief, and in less than a minute he was undergoing the rigorous IHD identification process that would enable him access to the Retribution. A few microseconds later there was an audible hiss, and the airlock’s display panel flashed green. Beyond was a small tube into which he climbed, and he felt the door lock and seal shut behind him. The air was noticeably colder inside the lock, and not for the first time in his long career he was thankful for his thick, standard-issue overcoat.
‘That you, sir?’ came a voice over the small terminal bolted to the Retribution’s entry hatch. There was another hissing noise which made Rynn’s ears pop, and the hatch smoothly recessed into the secondary life-support capsule of the destroyer.
‘Indeed it is,’ he said, stepping inside and using the grab hoops to steady himself.
The secondary life-support capsule was a cramped, roughly cube-shaped hold, lined with lockers housing the crew’s vacuum suits and personal weaponry, quarters for three of the ship’s ten-marine garrison, and the usual paraphernalia which was stuffed into every available recess and alcove of an operational warship. Currently it was occupied by four UN Marines dressed in full Mantix, reclining on makeshift seats and either reading or eating. In the centre of the floor was a hatch that led directly below into the deployment chamber, a small hangar which housed the destroyer’s planet-based equipment – vehicles, one-man rapid deployment pods, drones, deployable satellites, and heavier weaponry than the standard flechette-loaded railguns which the marines carried.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, nodding to them. An assortment of grunts was all he received by way of reply. UN Marines were a separate breed, quite unlike their planet-bound counterparts. Quite what would possess someone to spend an unbroken six months on a warship, often without gravity, in some of the most cramped and claustrophobic conditions known to UNAF, was beyond him. Not only that, but they almost invariably lacked respect for any senior, non-marine officer, were insatiably bloodthirsty, and spent all of their off-duty VR sync exclusively in Ultraporn.
On the bulkhead opposite Rynn was another sealed hatch, which connected the secondary life-support module to the primary via a tiny crawlspace. He made for it, stepping over Mantix-clad limbs and eyeing the food wrappers lying on the floor with a mixture of disgust and resignation.
‘Can we please ensure all rubbish is disposed of before we break gravity?’ he asked, opening the hatch via his IHD. Again, a chorus of grunts. It was like being stuck in a prison for murderous teenage convicts.
