Bennett watched as his officers filed into the room. They all seemed apprehensive; concern was stamped on many of the faces that glanced toward him. Their worry was well founded; Bennett only rarely called for meetings of the entire command staff of his fleet. It was even more uncommon that he gathered them for good news.
Even if he hadn’t trained them to dread such gatherings, Bennett approved of a certain amount of fear in his captains. A bold commander might consider the possibility of taking his warship and setting out on his own. Captains free from worry would be left to plot for their own advantage and possibly even rise against the officer at their head. Such fear bred respect, and respect, efficiency. That principle, of course, was always the ultimate goal at Bennett Securities, and Liliburn Bennett never forgot it.
As the last of the captains entered, Bennett nodded to his personal guards. Two of them stepped up to either side of the doorway and touched the controls in a specific pattern. The door slid closed, effectively sealing the room from outside monitoring. No eavesdropping systems had been able to pierce the shell of countermeasures surrounding this space, and it was swept regularly, on the hour, by appropriately motivated guards whose families were in rather vulnerable positions aboard the Maximum Security. Nothing said or done in this room would ever be heard in the outside world.
Unless General Liliburn Bennett willed it, of course.
“Welcome, gentlemen!” Bennett spread his arms and smiled. “I hope your journey to the flagship was not too much of an inconvenience. Your time and effort is valuable to Bennett Securities, and to me personally. Therefore we will dispense with some of the grand overtures others might make and cut right to the heart of the matter.”
He let his arms fall to his sides and began to pace slowly around the room. Bennett was careful to drift close to each officer as he walked, as if he were some sort of rogue comet tempting the gravity of planets as it meandered through a star system. His smile did not lessen, though he allowed it to develop a sharp edge. “We are all working together to achieve a great purpose here in the Eris system. Our ships, rigs, and other resources have been bent to the task of destroying the Wayfarer cult that has built its stronghold here.” With a smile, he waved his hand in the air as if to shoo a fly. “But this, of course, you all know.”
Bennett halted near one of the captains, a man named Lawrence Essen, enjoying the slight widening of the man’s eyes in fear. “You know that we are employed, as a whole, for our reputation of efficiency. When a client hires us to defend him, not one threat makes it past. When a client hires us to destroy, not one trace is found. When a client hires us to kill, we do so. With gusto.”
To Essen’s obvious relief, Bennett turned away. He resumed pacing, raising his voice. “Unfortunately, some people have chosen to question that policy. You will notice the absence of one of your number. Captain Terrance chose to drag his feet when he was supposed to issue orders for a full bombardment of New Sonora by our forces at the launch site. He asked, rather rationally, whether the costs of our continued attacks were justified by the payment we received. It was all very reasoned and well thought out.” The head of Bennett Securities stopped, spun on his heel, and faced them. His smile was bright. “And wrong.”
He folded his hands behind him, resting them at the small of his back as he met each captain’s eyes. “I do not want accountants or lawyers on my battlefield. I need no actuaries or spreadsheet-watchers among my ranks. My captains do not lead, they do not weigh, they do not balance my checkbook. My captains kill. They enjoy it. And they do it when, where, and to whom they are ordered.”
At a gesture, the guards opened the door. Two figures were brought inside, each flanked by additional guards. One had been bound and was struggling. He wore the torn, abused uniform of a Bennett Securities captain, and a dark cloth bag had been placed over his head. The rank badges on his shoulders showed that the man had been the captain of the Maximum Security, though it was obviously not still the case. His movements were desperate, and he fought the iron grip on his arms.
By comparison, the second man was rather composed. He was middle-aged, and his hair showed traces of gray. Wariness filled his eyes, especially as his gaze fell on the gathered officers, but there did not seem to be any fear. It was curious how much the Wayfarers benefitted from indoctrination by their cult, but he did not intend to let it worry him overmuch.
The former Captain Terrance was dragged over to where Bennett stood. He gave the guards a nod, and they dropped Terrance to his knees. To his credit, the man tried to rise, but the hours of torture he had endured had robbed him of his strength. Bennett could hear Terrance’s breath coming rough and desperate within the bag, and watched the cloth flutter with each gasp.
Bennett turned to the other officers. “As I said, gentleman, what I desire is a weapon. A tool in my hands—nothing more, nothing less. Something like this.” He drew his sidearm, a plain, utilitarian Flarepulse 930. The black metal shone in the room’s lights. “The makers of this fine weapon did not include a safety. They did not give this weapon the ability to question me when I decided to shoot. They gave it a trigger, a barrel, and a power supply, so that when I shot—”
He leveled the pistol and pulled the trigger. There was a flash of light and heat, and then plasma burned a ragged hole in the cloth bag. Terrance collapsed like a puppet with its strings severed. Bennett tilted the pistol to display it to the captains again. “It kills. Simple, wouldn’t you agree?”
There was a half-hearted murmur of agreement from the gathered officers. A smell of burnt meat and scorched cloth started to fill the air, but the guards stepped forward and dragged what had been Terrance away by the heels. Bennett holstered his pistol and watched as the officers parted to let them though. The door hissed open, and then closed. A comfortable silence fell as Bennett considered his officers, studying their faces for signs of weakness.
Then he turned to the second man. The cultist’s face had gone pale, but he still met Bennett’s eyes. Bennett smiled. “So. On to our second point of business.” He approached the man. “Sir, we have not all had the pleasure of introductions yet. Can you state your name, please?”
The indulgent tone Bennett had used made the man blink in surprise. His brow furrowed in concentration, or perhaps suspicion. “My name is Elder Evans.”
Bennett half turned to his officers. “That’s right. Now I remember. Elder Evans is one of the leaders of the congregation in New Sonora. He had been sent, as I recall, to act as a liaison with the Eris Guard by the Speaker of the Way. Is that correct, Elder Evans?”
Still watching Bennett carefully, the Wayfarer nodded. “That is correct.”
“And as I understand it, you’re one of the Advisors’ Council for the Speaker, correct?” Elder Evans nodded again. “That’s fairly impressive, Elder Evans. I am very glad to have made your acquaintance.”
He glanced back at his officers and resumed pacing. “It pains me to question you further, but I have a few more things to cover before this meeting ends. You used to live on Rodeal, but traveled to Eris when the Speaker asked?”
Elder Evans nodded. “We believed the Lord wanted us to gather there.”
“That must have been difficult.” Bennett allowed some sympathy to color his voice.
Evans shook his head. “No. Not when we were following the Lord’s representative.”
“Well then, never mind!” Bennett smiled. “Do you have children, Elder Evans?”
“Yes, three. Two girls and a boy.” Elder Evans’ eyes grew distant for a moment. His voice shook slightly. “They must be missing me by now.”
“They must.” Bennett nodded. “Have your daughters married? I know you Wayfarers breed young.”
The man stopped mid-nod. His eyes widened and his mouth went slack. Bennett waited, but Evans made no sound. He smirked. “I apologize, Elder Evans. I did not mean to give offence. After all, we would be here without you and your fellow cultists.” Again Evans remained silent.
Bennett turned and started back toward one of his guards, walking with a slow and deliberate step. “Without your naïve little religion, there would have been no one willing to hire us to destroy you. Without your treacherous intentions, the government and the Directorate might have shielded you from our attacks. And without your willingness to follow the orders of your supposed prophet of the Lord, it would have been difficult to pen you in one place to slaughter, like cattle.”
Evans spoke now, his voice calm. “The Lord allows the righteous to fall for the wicked to be condemned, but He will not restrain His punishments forever. If you continue, you will fall. All of you.”
The pronouncement was followed with dead silence. Bennett paused, struggling for a moment to contain his rage. Such arrogance these pathetic fools had endorsed! After another moment, he reached out to the guard, who handed him a plain aluminum bat. He turned to find Evans still watching him. The Wayfarer’s face was calm, as if he expected God Himself to swoop down to his rescue.
Too bad there were no such thing here.
Bennett shook his head. “I’m sorry you feel that way about us, Elder Evans. We are simple mercenaries—tools for people with greater motivations than ours, you could say. Bennett Securities only does what we have been paid to do, and in this case, we have been paid to kill you.” He shrugged and hefted the metal bat. “It’s nothing personal. Just like a game of tee ball back when we were children. Someone has to win and someone has to lose.”
He tilted his head to one side. “Perhaps a game might help you understand your place better.” Bennett nodded to his guards, and their rifles came down. Two shots rang out, and Evans screamed as the bullets struck his kneecaps. The Wayfarer fell to his knees and choked out another gasping scream.
Tempted to take the first swing himself, Bennett paused. He extended the bat, handle out, toward the officers. “Who goes first?”
Almost instantly, a hand grasped the bat. Bennett turned to find a young junior officer, Commander Heinrichs, at the other end. Heinrichs gave him a hard smile, then moved toward Elder Evans with a direct, deliberate gait. The bat rose in the chamber’s lights; to his surprise, Bennett could hear Evans gasping out a prayer, his hands clutched before him.
The first swing made a hollow, wet thunk. Evans rocked backwards, his face bloody. Heinrichs swung again, and again. By the third time, the Wayfarer slumped to the side.
The officer raised the bat over his head for another swing, but Bennett called out to him. “No, Commander Heinrichs. You don’t need to go so far.” Heinrichs turned toward him, his confusion plain. Bennett nodded. “We have to leave some for the rest, after all. Who will be next?”
Another officer stepped forward for a few swings. Then another. The bat rose and fell in the dim light long after the Wayfarer scum had fallen into unconsciousness. Bennett paid little attention to the cultist, however; even if he still lived by the end, he would never reach home alive. He took note of the expression of satisfaction on Heinrichs’ face. Such aggressive hostility could be molded and used as quite an effective tool, and he needed a new captain for the Maximum Security, after all. Perhaps Captain Heinrichs would not be nearly the disappointment his predecessor was. As Elder Evans bled and his officers struck, Liliburn Bennett smiled. It would be a rather effective demonstration after all.
An hour later, Bennett presented a copy of the recording of the event as evidence of Evans’ death to the client who had purchased it. Commodore Dubois was a man of very different tastes than Chancellor Ripley; while the chancellor might have viewed the recording with some distaste, the officer of the Eris Guard accepted it with relish. It made no difference to Bennett, really, but those small touches led to effective relationships between a mercenary and his client.
Dubois took a moment to watch the beginning of the recording. He chuckled for a moment before he switched it off. “You are a man of your word, General. Thank you.”
Bennett inclined his head slightly. “It was no trouble, Commodore, no trouble at all. I trust that our arrangement will continue as before?”
The Guard officer nodded. “Yes, it will. I am heartened to see that you are a man who shares our ideals, General. Some among us had begun to doubt.”
The last sentence had been given a slight hint of a question, one that Bennett had to restrain himself from answering with laughter. Commodore Dubois represented a sizable faction of industrialists, religious leaders, and other members of the Eris community who had grown markedly concerned about the migration of Wayfarers to their beloved planet. Theirs was the kind of mundane hatred that many backwaters shared, of the kind that ensured mercenary companies such as Bennett Securities would always find employment.
Which was why Bennett struggled so hard to keep any hint of amusement from his response. It wouldn’t do for the poor provincial mob-raiser in front of him to realize that Bennett’s sympathy for their cause was motivated more by profit than by idealism. Instead, he spoke smoothly. “You need not have worried, Commodore. Your…infestation of cultists has troubled many in this area. I am more than happy to lend our services.”
The corner of Dubois’ mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. “And I—and the Guard—will be happy to continue turning a blind eye to your activities here.” His lips bent into a frown. “Though I wouldn’t mind if your methods became much more direct, if you pardon my opinion on the matter.”
It was a far more respectful criticism than Ripley had given, but Bennett still felt a stir of anger. He kept that emotion from his words as well. “You understand how undesirable that would be. We need time to establish how much of a threat these intruders truly are. I trust you have heard of the arrival of their fleet?” Dubois nodded, and Bennett continued. “They are already showing their true colors. By the time my plans bring about their annihilation, I can guarantee that the rest of your world will not mourn their passing. When the truth of the matter comes to light—if ever—you and your compatriots will be hailed as heroes.”
Dubois was no fool, Bennett knew. He had been able to gain command in the Guard through long years of effort and considerable skill, but he had weaknesses. Vanity was one Achilles’ heel, and as the man hesitated, Bennett congratulated himself on the effective use of flattery. Finally, Dubois nodded a third time, the last remnants of his uncertainty only lingering long enough for one more question. “But what if their fleet stops your attack, General? I fear what these invaders would do to my planet in revenge.”
Bennett glanced away with an appropriate air of gravitas. The vain always appreciated that sort of theater. “Then I am afraid that we would have to resort to less...desirable methods, Commodore.” He returned his attention to the Guard officer. “I can trust in your continued support at that point.”
Then he shook his head and made a gesture, as if he could wave the possibility away. “But it should hardly come to that, my friend. Even with a fleet, they will not have the experience they would need to repel our assault. Their crews will be too new to their machines, and their commander cannot possibly have the knowledge they would need to stop us. If the worst comes, the Guard can prevent the remnants from harming your people.” Bennett paused. “As long as we stick to the plan.”
The Commodore smiled and extended a hand. “Of course, General. I should not have doubted you.”
Bennett shook it enthusiastically, with all the amiable bluster he could feign. His effort was helped by the triumph of knowing that his plans were still moving forward. One more ally reaffirmed, and one more step closer to his ultimate profit. “This time next month, the Wayfarers will be nothing more than a memory. I swear it for truth.”
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
Gabe again floated in the emptiness of space, the illusory wind howling around his ears.
This time he did not have to worry about incoming MSSRs or asteroids plummeting toward his home on the ground. The last attack had only been a day ago, and two flights of CSRs had been there to intercept it. The Four Horsemen and Terrible Swords Flights had driven off the escort with only two losses, and the asteroid had been stopped well short of the planet. Four MSSRs had been shot down in the process, so Gabe could hardly complain about the performance of his rig pilots.
He wished the fleet’s commanders had worked nearly as well. Delacourt and Mccalister had fought over nearly every aspect of the training regimen from the rig deployment to the ship formations. Every attempt he’d made to calm them down had only gotten him bogged down in their feud.
What made things worse was the fact that the fleet honestly needed the practice. Gabe winced as two escort craft nearly collided, barely missing each other by meters. The rest of the ships weren’t moving much better. One group of frigates was lined up in a row, exactly how Mccalister had ordered, while the other three were in a cluster, according to Delacourt’s previous plans. The rest of the fleet wasn’t much better off, their positions uncertain and confused thanks to the contradicting instructions.
The icing on the cake was the fact that the rig pilots had been assigned rigid patrol formations against his advice. Instead of forming a defensive screen for the bigger ships or sweeping out in individual flights for dogfighting practice, the CSRs had been locked into flight patterns that made them easy targets. Pretty as a picture, they would sweep through calm, predictable paths straight into whatever firepower the enemy shot at them. In actual combat, it would have been suicide.
With a sigh, Gabe activated his connection to the flagship. It couldn’t hurt to try to convince her again. “Stroke-Four to Command. Requesting permission for rig formations to break formation and begin dogfighting simulations.”
There was only a short pause before Admiral Delacourt’s voice came back. “Command to Stroke-Four. Request denied. Continue to maintain formation until otherwise instructed.”
Gabe tried his best to keep frustration from his voice. When was she going to figure out that he wasn’t trying to undermine her like Mccalister? “Admiral, our current formations aren’t going to help us train for the real thing. We would be sitting ducks out here if we tried this in combat. We need to operate independently.”
“And this fleet needs to learn how to coordinate their efforts, Stroke-Four.” He could hear anger in her voice, despite her efforts to control it. “Maintain formation until otherwise instructed.”
The unchanging response started to crack Gabe’s resolve. “Look, this just isn’t a very good idea. Trust me.”
“Then maybe you can come up with a better one, Stroke-Four. Command out.” A moment later, Delacourt’s voice again came over the communications network, this time over the fleet channel. “This is Command to all rig pilots. Return to hangers immediately. Your participation in the exercise is now over.”
Gabe sighed. Apparently she had tired of hearing from him. He turned his CSR to face the Deliverance, where the Divine Strokes had been quartered. His flight-mates, including the five new pilots who had taken the place of the previous members, followed him in. As they drew closer to the cruiser, he simmered a little, brooding over her last words. Then inspiration struck, and he smiled. Come up with his own idea? She would regret those words.
“Stroke-Four to all rig flights. On my signal, this is what I want you to do…”
Delacourt leaned back in her command chair as she watched the units of the fleet move. Around her, the bridge of the Deliverance buzzed with activity. It was a close, confined area, almost on the border of being cramped, and every report tended to blend in with the background hum of work as the crew went about their business. Buried safe within the rear portion of the cruiser, between the tetherdrive and the annihilation reactor, there was little chance of an enemy hit destroying the bridge, and the thrum of the ship around the room gave it a comforting feel.
That comfort was sorely needed as she studied the hologram in front of her. The fleet had been practicing one of the basic formations she had developed to fight the pirates during her taskforce’s journey through their systems. The cruisers made up the bulk of the center element, with the weaker frigates clustered among their stronger brethren. Escort craft formed five different flanking elements that could be swept across their opponents, bringing their weaponry and speed to bear. It had been an effective formation, and one she remained convinced had led her and her fellow Directorate officers to victory.
Rigs, however, had never been a part of that force. Faced with the unfamiliar unit, she had fallen back on placing them alongside the escorts for formation runs. The criticisms of Captain Miller notwithstanding, she had believed in this sort of context the smaller craft would be useful. After seeing the machines in practice, though, she had begun to second-guess her initial impressions. The movements of the small craft were fluid enough, but she could see how fragile they would be in such rigid maneuvers, even with the escort craft to provide cover. Perhaps a looser adaptation of those formations would be necessary.
As she considered the plot, she turned to the captain of the Deliverance, a tall, quiet woman named Erin Ndigwe. She had chosen the Deliverance as her flagship since it was the original example of its class, and had hoped that the most senior and experienced captain would be found there as well. So far she had not been disappointed. “Captain, what do you think so far?”
Ndigwe hesitated. “The fleet is maneuvering much better, Admiral.” It was a neutral statement, but it left unsaid the obvious. The formation had been relatively simple, but there were still an embarrassing number of ships out of position. Still, it was a good sign that her flag captain neglected the opportunity to criticize her opposite numbers among the rest of the fleet. Perhaps Mccalister didn’t have as much influence as she had feared.
“That is true, Captain.” She paused. “What do you think of my deployment patterns, then? Do you believe they will be effective against the Outriders?”
The question could not have been an easy one for Ndigwe to answer, and she looked suitably reluctant to do so. She glanced around at the various watchstanders as if to gage how many eavesdroppers she could count on having to lecture. Susan smiled. “Please, Captain, speak freely.”
Ndigwe sighed. “As you please, Admiral Delacourt.” She met Susan’s eyes firmly. “I believe that for the most part, it will be effective. The formation would allow us to concentrate our fire very well against enemy targets. Unfortunately, the rig units have been left in a poor position, and it would cost the fleet dearly in an actual engagement.”
Susan raised her eyebrows. “Is that so, Captain?”
“It is, Admiral.” Ndigwe’s eyes did not flinch away at her questioning tone. Susan kept herself from frowning as the captain continued. “They are relatively easy to destroy when kept in formation with other units, Admiral. If not permitted to move freely and independently, they should at least be allowed to move at their own pace instead of staying with the escorts. Otherwise, they lose both the effectiveness and speed they would otherwise have.”
Susan heard echoes of Gabriel’s indignant tirade in those words, and wondered if the rig pilot had managed to corrupt her flag captain as well. “Might I ask how you are basing your observations, Captain?”
The other woman nodded. “I had some experience in the rig corps. Not much before I transferred over, but enough to understand how to employ rigs effectively.” She gestured to the central hologram, which showed Gabriel’s rigs on approach. “They might not be particularly effective against escort craft, and they might not seem to have a lot of firepower, but in close against larger ships, a flight of rigs can cause quite a bit of chaos. Your formation might have been more effective if our enemies lacked rig capabilities themselves, but as it is, we are open for that sort of attack while we deny ourselves the opportunity to respond in kind.”
The argument was delivered in a calm, even tone, and her words soothed away the bitter remnants of Susan’s latest conflict with Gabriel. It was nice to hear logic and reasoning rather than a heated exchange of insults. “Very well, Captain. I will consider your advice in the future as I create new formations.” Ndigwe inclined her head slightly before returning her attention to the activity around her. Susan redirected her focus on the incoming rigs. She picked out Gabriel’s signal and sighed. No matter what justification she used, the pompous fool would assume he had won their argument. It would be painful to watch the man strut, but at least they might have avoided a disaster in the offing.
Then Gabriel’s signal disappeared.
She blinked and felt a slight tingle of worry. Had Gabriel’s rig shorted out? Surely he would not have been disabled by some momentary contact with debris or some such nonsense. Susan’s confusion grew slightly as she realized that all forty-eight contacts representing the fleet’s CSRs had suddenly disappeared. Even if Gabriel’s vanishing act could be explained away by a malfunction, the odds of the same problem happening with every single rig were incredibly unlikely.
Then Captain Ndigwe straightened from where she had bent over her communications watchstander’s shoulder. She looked back at Susan with a somber face. “Admiral Delacourt, I have a recorded message from Captain Gabriel. Would you like to take it in your quarters, ma’am?”
The implied suggestion to view it in private could not have been put more clearly—or tactfully—but Susan shook her head. “Thank you, Captain, for your concern, but I will view the message here. Forward it to my console, please.” Ndigwe nodded, and the watchstander tapped a few keys. Gabriel’s message arrived a moment later.
There was no visual component, for obvious reasons. Gabriel’s real body was suspended in a near-coma, and she doubted any commander would want to converse with the steel visage of a combat rig on the other end of the line. Even so, she could almost hear the smirk in Gabriel’s voice as he spoke.
“This is Captain Gabriel of the Wayfarer fleet with a priority message for Admiral Delacourt, commanding officer of the Wayfarer fleet. I feel the rigs under my command require a bit more specific training in order to prepare them for future operations, and as a result, I have called an emergency training drill.”
Susan felt her stomach sink as the rig pilot continued. “As part of our operations protocol, we have disengaged our identification signals and beacons. The drill will last for thirty minutes, and then we will all return to our designated positions within the hangers of the fleet. Gabriel out.” There was a slight pause, and then he spoke again. “Oh, and I would instruct the fleet to maneuver very carefully and not to fire on anything anytime soon. We don’t want any unfortunate accidents, after all. Gabe out.”
She sat back in her chair, slightly stunned. From the sound of the last part of the message, he could be planning anything from a run back to the Defense Station on the other side of the planet to a mock revolt against her authority. The sheer gall of it astounded her. He was an idiot, and a pampered one at that, but she had expected that even he would not take foolish risks with the fleet’s rig compliment.
Shock soon gave way to cold, calculating fury. She felt her hands clench in her lap as she studied the hologram of the fleet. Whatever Gabriel was up to, it was obviously something she would oppose. His decision to blank their signals by deactivating their beacons was a clear attempt to keep his orders from being superseded or anticipated. Despite that clever little ruse, she still had options available to her.
Turning to Ndigwe, she caught the captain’s eye with a gesture. “Captain, signal all fleet ships to begin active scans of the surrounding area. Instruct them to attempt to pick up any sign of the CSRs and make contact with them.” She paused, remembering Gabriel’s last request. It irked her, but it was likely something she did not want to ignore. “Tell them to be conservative in maneuvers and to hold their fire.” Ndigwe gave her a questioning look, and Susan shook her head. “Apparently, our fleet maneuvers were a bit too dull for our dear Captain Miller, and he has decided to spice things up by improvising.” Susan nearly spat the last word, her anger rising to the surface for a moment before she could submerge it again.
Ndigwe grunted. She glanced back at the main holographic display. “This should be interesting, Admiral.” Susan raised an eyebrow, and the flag captain shrugged uneasily. “I told you, I have experience with rigs and rig pilots. When they decide to make things a bit more exciting for everyone, they rarely fail.”
“Well, hopefully this time they do.” The words had barley left Susan’s mouth when proximity alarms started to wail and chaos flooded the bridge of the Deliverance.
Gabe swept past the sensor array mounted on the Deliverance’s hull. His course took him nearer to the ship for only a moment, but it was enough to trick the onboard computers into sending off another flurry of alarms.
To be truthful, it wasn’t really the fault of the sensor systems. The main sensors were complex to the point of being a work of art. Their mission was mainly to detect other ships at incredibly long distances, even through the combined interference of both the host ship’s defensive shields as well as the target’s defensive screens. They were built to accomplish that task through the use of heat signatures, direct light capture, or traces of gravitic tethers. Each artificial intelligence was designed to help their officers filter false positives from the mess of data and narrow the possible enemy contacts down until the position of the enemy was revealed. It resulted in a system that allowed a cruiser to put a plasma cannon shot into an opposing vessel at distances even light struggled to travel quickly, and the fine-tuned operation of those systems was key to victory in modern space warfare.
A second group of sensors built into each station was far less complicated. Built to provide detection at short range, these sensors were mainly meant to provide last-minute warnings of debris or hostile weaponry on collision courses. The function of those sensors was handled by a secondary array of programs that had been left excruciatingly simple. If an object without proper identification, scheduled approach, or other circumstance came close enough for the projectile to be seen through the screens, they sounded the alarm.
A rig gave off only a small amount of heat compared to the larger ships; power was provided via power cells rather than an annihilation chamber or fusion reactor. Gravitic traces left by the tetherdrive, while strong enough to propel the rig much faster than ships, were not nearly as significant as the tetherdrive on a cruiser or frigate. Even visible light was usually unreliable, since the armor of a rig was modified to either reflect it at odd angles or to absorb it. At close range, even a cruiser’s complicated tactical sensor stations would catch only tentative glimpses of rigs if they moved fast enough. Combined with the difficulty of seeing through the shields, most ship sensors were lucky to catch a flicker of a rig at close range.
Those tentative glimpses gave the proximity sensors more than enough time to recognize the rigs simulating dives toward them, however. Reading them as suddenly obvious projectiles, the proximity sensors triggered alarms through the cruiser, attempting to warn the crew that something was about to ram them. To reset the alarms and quiet the system, the crew would have to work for thirty seconds to a full minute. By the time the simple programs had recovered, another rig would dive-bomb another station, setting the programs off again. Properly done, the chain of alerts and alarms would leave quite the impression of the rig’s ability to harass a larger ship. Hopefully the demonstration would be enough to convince Admiral Delacourt to take him seriously.
Even if she didn’t, though, at the very least he would have fun.
He watched as the sensor station tried to track him through his flight, but he dodged to the side and raced along the Deliverance’s hull, flashing past it and looping around under the edge of the ship. Sprinting past the tetherdrives in Deliverance’s stern, he came back around toward the front and began a run at the sensor station mounted just behind the double row of plasma cannon turrets on the cruiser’s underside. The station was sending out signals, questing for the trace of Stroke-Five, who had shot past it and looped around toward the top of the ship. It had only a moment before Gabe made another run, probably setting off another wave of alerts through the system.
Sometimes it paid to be the guy in charge after all.
Susan watched in horror as the rigs continued their simulated attacks on her cruisers and frigates. The little craft skittered through her holographic depiction of the formation, ducking and rolling out of the range of the sensors attempting to track them. Alarms continued to wail at an almost constant pace. Each time the crew managed to quiet one frantic, throbbing assault on her ears, another would screech to life a moment later.
Gabe’s intent was now obvious, and Susan gritted her teeth as another rig flashed by the ventral sensor station behind the Deliverance’s gun banks. He had managed to prove his point, though she would exact a high price once he and his pilots came in from his “drill.” That would not be enough to keep her in control, however. She needed some way to restore order, or she would risk losing the respect of the fleet.
Unfortunately, the rigs were going to make that task very, very difficult. She watched in frustration as the formation she had so carefully organized unraveled. Cruisers and frigates, desperate to end the assault on the eardrums of their crew, were taking evasive action without regard to their position within the fleet. Whatever support they might have lent each other against an actual opponent was gone now—their fire would be haphazard and uncoordinated, likely allowing whatever enemies they faced to escape with minimal damage. How was she supposed to teach these Wayfarers how to fight as a unit if Gabriel insisted on opposing her?
Susan blinked as her next moves fell into place. She straightened up, as if the world was not filled with noise and chaos around her, and smiled. Captain Ndigwe glanced at her and raised her eyebrows. The alarms made it impossible to be heard without shouting, but that was a small price to pay. “Captain Ndigwe. I want you to send a signal to the rest of the fleet. I want the cruisers to return to their formations immediately and begin to employ the following orders…”
Gabe laughed to himself as he dove in at the Deliverance for yet another attack. It had been nearly twenty minutes, and not a single one of his rigs had been pinged by the larger craft’s sensors. Had they been actually attacking the fleet, he would have bet even odds that they would have scattered and picked apart the entire force, ship by ship. Surely by now Admiral Delacourt would have to listen.
Then suddenly Stroke-Two reported that he had been hit by a sensor ping and dropped away. A moment later, Horseman-Five reported a similar contact. Sword-Three and Pilgrim-Six called in almost on top of each other, and then an avalanche of rigs began to fall away, their rigs suddenly clear to the fleet’s sensors. Gabe felt his jaw drop, even though the motion was obviously not recognized by the interface. How had they done that?
He came around for another run against Deliverance’s topside, determined to avoid the suddenly effective sensor sweeps. Punching his speed up to maximum, Gabe dove through space toward his target. The simulated wind howled in his ears as he picked up speed, and he added a slight rocking motion to keep any lucky sensors from maintaining a solid contact. Below him the sensor station was swiveling frantically, trying to lock on to his position. Its efforts were in vain, and he once again swept past it with only a momentary blink of contact to reward their efforts.
His satisfaction disappeared a heartbeat later as the indicator suddenly turned a solid red. They had him.
Utterly baffled, Gabe braked until his rig came to a relative halt. He turned back to find the sensor station behind him still swiveling in disarray, its attempts to detect him as futile as ever. A whisper brought up a seldom used part of the interface that told him the source of the scanning. Gabe looked up, and to his chagrin found the Foundry sliding through space above him. Its sensors were locked onto him with apparently little difficulty. Despite himself, he gave a small nod of respect—the admiral certainly thought fast.
The call came a heartbeat later. “Control to Stroke-Four. Drill is now over. Please return to the hanger.” A check showed that only a handful of the rigs were left, and ships were already chasing them down with their sensors. Gabe sighed as he started back and wondered for a moment how long he would avoid the lecture he already knew was coming. It likely would not be possible to dodge it completely, but a shower would be nice before the yelling began. Perhaps the Lord would be merciful this time.