Sitting in the uppermost chamber of his royal star tree, Jylik listened to the message again.
“Keep your ear tuned to this frequency,” said a raspy, rusted-sounding voice. “For a fee, I will lead you right to the Cornucopia Cluster.”
Jylik looked up into the air in disgust, walking away from the organic audio interface console grown into his desk. Not wishing to be sent on a fool’s errand, he had hoped to bury any evidence of the Griffon Republic’s whereabouts, but then this message fell into the King’s possession, as if handed down by the Holy Ancestors themselves just to spite him.
However, the voice in the recording was not the clear, crisp notes of an Astralbian; it was the voice of a Robot. Jylik didn’t carry the deep-rooted prejudices against robots that many Astralbians did, but he still eyed them with a certain amount of mistrust. The Astralbians had attempted to wipe out artificial life long ago, and many robots, long-lived as they were, held a grudge. This particular robot seemed to be willing to betray or spy on the Republic for payment, which was all well and good, but Jylik wished it had been someone else’s problem.
The method by which the message came to them was a bit of a mystery in itself. It had been bounced off who knows how many communications relays and came through on one of the late Lord Raelik’s frequencies. He had used such frequencies to keep in contact with his spy and mercenary networks, but his sources were his closely guarded secrets, and any information he had on them had been burned up with Raelik and his star tree in the war for Hittania. If Raelik had a way to respond, it had died with him, as well.
Grim, the Ramshackle Collective admiral who Raelik had worked with at that time was a likely candidate for the mysterious messenger, but he had been reported dead after the same battle. Jylik sighed. It didn’t really matter for the time being. Whether he liked it or not, he was now at the beck and call not only of his father, but of this unaccountable Robot, too. All he could do was wait for more orders.
***
Jasken sat at his command chair on the bridge of the Wingspan. He looked out over the aether as the fleet got into position for the jump to Kirakna.
"Captain Griezen," he said, addressing the captain of the Shepherd, "are you prepared to dock?"
"Yes, sir," came the reply from the other ship.
"Cleared for approach," said Captain Hunt.
The Shepherd maneuvered the Wingspan's stern, rotating so the foremost airlock on its wheel could lock on, piggybacking for the jump. A satisfying THUNK and a slight jarring signaled that the Shepherd had attached.
"We have a lock, Admiral," said Griezen.
"Kesht?" inquired the Admiral.
"We're lined up, sir," said the Halberd's Captain. It was crucial that the two separate ships launch in perfect parallel, typically on a diagonal plane and separated by half a mile. If the two ship's paths crossed, it would result in a devastating collision. As an added precaution, one ship would jump just before the other, leaving one another plenty of room.
"Officer Dekken, status."
"Status is OK, sir," said Dekken from the engine room. "The drive particle is at twenty photonic mass units. The jump to Kirakna should only take 8 days, and the shields should hold up just fine."
Sixteen light-years in eight days, Jasken mused. Relative photonic mass drives, or ripmeds, allowed them to create massive photons, then entangle them to the ships and launch them at a velocity equal to the speed of light multiplied by a factor equal to the mass of the particle in terms of the number of natural photons it would take to achieve the same mass. Evidently, the tricky part was adjusting for relativity so that time dilations didn’t make interstellar travel and communication a nightmare. Jasken didn't pretend to understand the reality-warping science behind faster-than-light travel in the slightest, but it still amazed him to consider it.
"Alright," he said aloud. "Start the jump."
***
Vanbrook loved the jumps. Looking straight ahead into the aether, he could make out the glowing stars that Kirakna orbited. For now it looked like a single star, but over the next week it would grow in their vision until both of the stars in the binary system became roughly the size of any other suns.
On a short jump like this, the other stars wouldn't change much, but the closer ones would move by a bit quicker, and the constellations would morph and stretch around them. Longer, faster jumps would make for more drastic changes; hopefully he would get to see some of those as the journey went on.
As the ship began its jump, Vanbrook could see the occasional burst of light and energy as debris hit the drive shield that protected them. Due to some strange property of their entanglement to the photonic particle, they weren't experiencing the bone-crushing G-forces their momentum should have been generating. Instead, they would simply be able to unbuckle and walk back to their stations, with the assistance of mag-boots, of course.
Hunt's voice came over the public comms once more.
"Folks, we are in our jump. We will reach Kirakna's orbit in eight days, three hours and twenty minutes."
A cheer went up and everyone rose and stretched their legs, slowly filtering back to their stations.
***
The next week dragged by. There was plenty of work to be done, but none of it was exciting. Talon Squad spent much of their days split up amongst the departments they were best suited to. Vanbrook, Raivyn, and D’Jarric helped run combat drills in the gymnasium, while Reclan worked with the maintenance and engineering crews, and Doc worked with the medical team.
On the seventh day after launch, Vanbrook and Raivyn were working with a group of young sailors in the gymnasium, which was located in the gravity tube of the ship. The cylindrical structure was located in the lower decks, and spun to simulate gravity. It was an energy-intensive prospect, but it was necessary for some medical procedures and very helpful for athletic endeavors such as combat training.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
The sailors were on their first expedition, and they were eager to please their instructors, especially since those instructors belonged to a special squad, one of the most elite assignments in the Navy. They were working on close-quarters and unarmed combat, which Vanbrook and Raivyn excelled at, respectively.
“Good footwork, Yylun,” said Vanbrook to a Human woman who was sparring with a Dromean female. “But you’re thinking too hard about it. Keep after the drills we went over until it’s all second nature.” Vanbrook honestly enjoyed these assignments. Mentoring young fighters came naturally to him, especially in the more relaxed environment of a ship in mid-jump. He could never make it as a drill sergeant, pounding green recruits into real warriors, but he enjoyed coming alongside those who wanted to improve themselves and showing them what they were capable of.
“No, not quite,” said Raivyn, helping a small Talpidarian male off the mat. “Remember, get inside their reach and negate their advantage, but don’t let them get a hold of you. Being small is a net disadvantage in a one-on-one fight, so it’s important to exploit every opportunity you get.”
Vanbrook suspected that Raivyn enjoyed the sessions, too, but she had a natural cold presence that made her hard to read. Maybe that’s why he liked to pick on her so much, he thought. It lit her face up and showed a more emotional side of her. Even if it was a side of her that wanted to run him over with a cargo craft.
“Alright, form up,” said Vanbrook, stepping back to the wall as the students fumbled their way into tidy lines. “That’s just about it for today, but do we have any questions?”
A Dromean male raised his hand.
“Yes, Trednar,” said Vanbrook, nodding to him.
“I wondered if Specialist Raivyn could demonstrate telekinetic fighting,” he said, a glimmer in his eye.
“That’s outside the scope of this course,” said Vanbrook, not letting his discomfort show. Raivyn was a talented psychic warrior, but she didn’t like to flaunt it and he’d never seen her use her abilities outside combat, and for good reason. Not only did they drain her energy just like any other physical or mental exercise, they were also dangerous if abused. Raivyn waved Vanbrook aside.
“No, I’ll demonstrate,” she said flatly. “On the condition that Private Trednar is willing to be my sparring partner.” She leveled a stare at the young Dromean, sticking her jaw out in a look of defiance. His friends looked on, some in awe, some in amusement. He looked nervous, but he nodded.
“Yes,” he said, mustering all the confidence he could.
“You are willing to say in front of these witnesses that you are inviting me to use telekinetic abilities on your person for the purposes of combat instruction?”
“Y-yes,” he said, wringing his hands and looking around nervously and yet unable and unwilling to back down now.
“Vanbrook, please give us the mat,” said Raivyn. Vanbrook took an exaggerated bow and motioned to the mat as he walked over to join the students. Raivyn squared off against her opponent.
“Alright,” said Raivyn, taking a fighting stance. “Begin.”
Trednar matched Raivyn’s stance, mounting the best mental defense he could. He focused on self-awareness, keeping mental feelers out for any foreign presence while he planted his feet firmly. Raivyn circled. He moved his feet to stay with her, and he felt something trying to push against his person. He stood firm, and the feeling went away. Feeling confident, he stepped towards Raivyn, taking advantage of his height and reach and throwing a quick jab.
Then he felt Raivyn’s true power. His fist never landed, because she had pushed him back with her mind, standing up to her full height, abandoning all pretext of physical combat. Trednar floated in the air, then spun upside down and slammed into the padded wall of the gym.
“Lesson one,” said Raivyn. “Never let your guard down in a fight with a psychic.”
Trednar was dragged up the mat until his eyes were at the same level as Raivyn’s, though he remained upside down.
“Lesson two,” said the psychic. “T-wave abilities are dangerous. Do not mistake them for parlor tricks. Dismissed.”
As she turned away, she slid Trednar down the wall slowly, then let go of him entirely so he crumpled to the floor in a heap. There was a smattering of applause from some, looks of awe and fear from others. Vanbrook smiled wanly. She never looked back at Trednar, Vanbrook, or the others as she walked crisply out of the gymnasium.
***
Crush walked down the cramped yet ornate hallway of the Wabuluban regional palace. The Wabuluban receptionist crawled ahead of her, eight octopus-like arms rhythmically slapping onto the cool marble floor and dragging her forward.
"You'll be happy to note that this building was designed to accommodate humanoid forms, with the exaggeratedly tall ceilings and doorways," she said in a chipper tone.
The fledgling privateer stifled a laugh. Wabulubans naturally stood at no more than two feet tall, their octopus-like bodies staying close to the floor. The ceilings were barely five feet tall and the doors were closer to four. At six feet tall, Crush was hardly a giant, but she had to crouch to walk the hall and all but get down on hands and knees to squeeze through the doors.
The receptionist opened an ornate door and gestured Crush inside. She'd hoped against hope she'd been able to stand up straight in the Baron's office, but her hopes were dashed. Surely the low ceilings were a political tactic. The Wabuluban Monarchy had always resented humanoids, balking at those of their subjects who chose to live among other species and wear mechanical legs to fit in. The barely raised ceilings sent a message: you are tolerated here, but not welcome.
"Baron Flubbyn," said the secretary, "I present Admiral Crush of the Free Revolutionary Fleet."
Across the room, an annoyed-looking purple Wabuluban male slid off a low stool that sat above his even lower desk. He crawled over to Crush and offered a two tendriled hand. Crush took it gently, unsure of Wabuluban strength and durability. As he firmly returned the shake the pressure sensors in her hand indicated that the Baron, for one, was immensely strong.
"That'll be all, Fushalle," drolled Flubbyn, dismissing the secretary. She crawled away, humming happily to herself.
“To business, then,” said Flubbyn, wriggling back up onto his chair. He motioned for Crush to sit. The Robot looked around for a chair, and, finding none, sat directly on the floor across from the Baron.
“We do, indeed, have use for a privateer fleet, or, in this particular instance, a mercenary fleet, in the barony. A fleet of pirates has been attacking our mining shipments. I can relay the full information to your ship, but essentially you would be escorting our ships and serving as guards. If that scares off the pirates, excellent. If it does not, we will trust the FRF to blow them out of the aether.”
Crush nodded.
“That leaves the question of pay,” she said.
“Yes…” said the Baron uncomfortably. “You will do the first run for free.”
Crush sat absolutely still, fuming at the proposition. They simply couldn’t work for free. They were running out of resources, and keeping the fleet flying was becoming a juggling act.
“You said it yourself, Baron, we’ll be acting as mercenaries for this venture. Mercenaries are, by definition, paid for their services.”
“And you and your crew are wanted criminals in the Wabuluban Monarchy. The Republic may have forgiven you for the piracy you committed when you were part of the Ramshackle Collective; the Monarchy has not. I could have you arrested right now. Instead, we are willing to pardon all past crimes for the small fee of one unpaid job.”
Crush stifled her rage. It wouldn’t keep her crew flying.
“Understood,” she said evenly. “I assume the documents spell out this arrangement? That we will not be repeatedly extorted after having completed this first escort run?”
“Of course,” said Flubbyn, disdain coloring his voice. “We are a people of our word.”
“Good. So are we in the FRF. Please amend the documents to reflect the fact that the FRF is entitled to any salvaged enemy ships.”
Flubbyn eyed her appreciatively. She was savvier than he had expected, and his hope that she would refuse and be dragged off in chains was replaced with a sense of admiration for the ambitious Admiral.
“That will be fine. The documents will be sent within the hour. Please see yourself out.”
With that, the Barron turned his attention back to his desk, and Crush stood to a crouched position and squeezed her way out of the office, shuffling back to the front door.