Marko Kloos - Lines of Departure

“Not Lankies,” the tactical officer says. “Too small for that.”

“I’m not sure that having to face an entire SRA task force would be a great improvement,” Colonel Campbell replies. “But I’ll take small blessings right now. Get me an ID on those guys the second they get close enough for an IFF ping.”

A short while later, we’re all congregating in the CIC again, watching the holographic orb projected above the tactical table like some sort of high-tech fortune globe. The icons for the newcomers are the pale red of “UNCONFIRMED, PRESUMED HOSTILE” contacts. They are steadily accelerating away from the Alcubierre transition area and straight toward New Svalbard.

“Still too far away for comms, but I’m getting some optical recognition matches now,” the tactical officer says. Both the XO and Colonel Campbell step over to the tactical console to look over his shoulder.

“It’s a whole mess of ships. System’s still drawing a blank on most of them. But the computer says the lead ship is definitely a Chinese 098D-class destroyer. There’s a seventy percent certainty the second is an Indian Godavari-class frigate.”

“Well, great ,” Colonel Campbell sighs. The icons on the tactical display turn from faded red to the bright red of “HOSTILE” contacts.

“New contacts are designated Raid One. Two point five AUs, proceeding in-system at two gravities and accelerating.”

Colonel Campbell glances at the shot clock on the CIC bulkhead. “They’ll be in range right around the time the Gordon is at the turnaround point for the Lanky,” he says. “This will not do.”

“Can we explain the situation to them?” Dr. Stewart asks. “Surely they’ll see that blasting us out of space just when we’re about to take out a seed ship isn’t exactly in their best interests.”

“Maybe,” the XO says. “But I’d rather not reason with a Chinese task force commander right around the time we need to be glued to the remote in here.”

“If they don’t just blow us out of space the second we enter their long-range-weapons envelope,” I say.

“As long as we’re sitting here and maintaining telemetry with the Gordon , we can’t even go stealthy again,” the XO says.

“They’ll see us from a long ways off with our active gear running,” Colonel Campbell concurs.

“Then we need to run,” the XO suggests. “Follow the Gordon ; keep out of range of the SRA task force as long as possible. At least until we’ve hit or missed our target.”

“You want to leave our troops down there without orbital cover?” I say, a flash of anger welling up in me. “Run like the rest of the task force?”

“If we had the Midway and her escorts here, we may have a chance,” the colonel says. “Against nine ships, maybe not a realistic one, but at least they’d think twice before taking on a carrier group head-on. With one OCS that can’t go into stealth? Forget it.”

He studies the plot for a few moments, lips pursed and hands on his hips. Then he shakes his head.

“Helm, get us out of here, flank speed. Same trajectory we sent the Gordon .”

“They have the acceleration on us, sir,” the tactical officer says. “They’ll overtake us sooner or later.”

“We’re not running indefinitely,” the colonel replies. “We’re just keeping out of reach until the Gordon does her job. Then we can drop off the plot again and figure out something else.”

I know he’s right. The combat power bearing down on us is far too much for one orbital combat ship to handle, even one as new and capable as Indianapolis . But I know what we’re leaving behind down there: three thousand troops without air/space support that will be easy pickings for a spaceborne regiment of Chinese marines with a full battle group in orbit.

I walk over to the comms console and tap into the network to raise the ops center on the moon.

“Colonial Ops, this is Staff Sergeant Grayson on Indianapolis . Do you copy?”

“Loud and clear, Sarge,” someone replies. “What gives?”

“Get me Sergeant Fallon. It’s urgent.”

There are a few moments of silence on the line, and then Sergeant Fallon’s voice comes on, sounding slightly out of breath.

“Fallon here. Go ahead.”

“We have an SRA task force headed our way from the Alcubierre node,” I say. “They’ll be on top of us in less than a day. Nine ships at least.”

“Goddammit,” she says, with what sounds like annoyance in her voice, and I smile. “Can’t catch a break, can we?”

“Not lately,” I say. “ Indy is bugging out for a while, which means you’ll be without spaceborne cover.”

“Guess I’ll be sounding the alarm early after all. Where are you going?”

“We need to stay out of their range until we’ve hammered that Lanky, or everything is fucked to hell. Once that’s done, we’ll come back around and see what we can dent.”

The hull of the Indianapolis vibrates ever so slightly as the nose of the ship swings around and the engines go to maximum acceleration. Even with the artificial gravity compensating for the sudden three gravities of acceleration, I still have to hang on to the side of the comms console for a moment.

“They’ll find this place a tough nut to crack,” Sergeant Fallon says. “At least our guys have weapons for the job.”

“You don’t have any air support except for three Dragonflies,” I reply. “You may just want to negotiate terms with them.”

“That doesn’t sound like you at all, Andrew,” she says flatly. “POW orange doesn’t go well with my complexion.”

“Hold out one way or another. Until we’re back. Last stands, and all that.”

“We’ll be here,” she says. “One way or another. Just kill that alien son of a bitch.” She cuts the comms link.

We speed away from New Svalbard at flank speed, which is pretty swift for a warship of Indy ’s small size. The guilt I feel when I watch the dirty white globe of the ice moon recede behind us is almost debilitating. I should be on the ground right now with Sergeant Fallon and the rest of the troops, and dig in for the inevitable battle with the SRA landing force. I try to recall how many troops a Chinese or Russian carrier has on board. They like to stack their marine regiments troop-heavy, so if they come equipped for a spaceborne assault, they probably have four thousand troops getting into combat armor right about now. And that’s if they didn’t bring along a second carrier, which is very likely considering the size of their task force. We have four thousand troops on the moon, but they’re split up into two factions, and ours is split up over several dozen terraforming stations. We are in a horrible tactical position, but we will fight if we are attacked, and I should be with them. Instead, I am running away from the impending battle. I know that the Indy ’s mission is vital to our survival, but I still feel like I made a terribly wrong call by coming up here.

The tactical display is a conga line of icons—the Gordon in the lead, with the Indianapolis behind, and finally the cluster of SRA fleet units bringing up the rear. We’re all headed right for the Lanky, who has been on the same stubborn course and acceleration since we first spotted him against the exhaust flare from the now-dead Russian cruiser. I take turns standing watch at the neural-networks station with the Indy ’s administrator. The display in the middle of the CIC changes its resolution and scanning range automatically to keep the units in sensor range in their proper spatial relationships on the tactical orb, and the kilometer scale next to the sphere shrinks with every passing hour. The Indy is running, but the SRA task force is slowly gaining because of their acceleration advantage. The shot clock on the CIC bulkhead is ticking down, but it seems like the minutes and seconds take much longer to pass than usual.