Marko Kloos - Lines of Departure

In the middle of the third watch cycle, something changes. The SRA task force is a 150 million kilometers from New Svalbard, and their acceleration numbers are steady, but all of a sudden we’re gaining range again and pulling away.

“They’ve gone for turnover,” the XO says. “They’re not chasing us. They’re just going for the colony.”

Their turnover point means they’ll spend the second half of their approach to New Svalbard accelerating in the opposite direction, which means they’re definitely planning to coast into orbit instead of letting us lead them on a wild goose chase.

“Small consolation,” I say. “That’s too much combat power for our troops to take on. They want the place, it’s theirs already.” I have no doubt that Sergeant Fallon and her HD troops will extract a hefty toll for the SRA victory, but I know orbital assault tactics, and if the Chinese or Russian in charge of that battle group has been awake for just half his lectures in war college, they will take New Svalbard away from us.

“Two hours, sixteen minutes to impact,” the weapons officer says.

“Let’s see if all of this is even going to matter in the end,” the colonel says darkly.

“ Gordon is doing forty-eight hundred kilometers per second,” the tactical officer says. “Time to impact: three minutes, thirty seconds.”

“Do they not see us coming?” Dr. Stewart asks.

“Maybe not,” the XO replies. “Maybe they don’t care. I doubt anyone’s ever rammed one of theirs at relativistic speed.”

The Lanky on the plot still plods down the parabolic trajectory toward New Svalbard at the same one-g acceleration he’s been pushing for the last forty hours. Nobody knows how their tech works, or if they even have tech, but whatever they use to sense their environment seems to leave them completely ignorant of the kinetic projectile hurling its way toward them at planetoid-shattering velocity. Either that, or they are aware of us and don’t consider the Gordon ’s stored-up hundreds of gigatons of kinetic energy a threat, which is not a happy thought right now. I know just enough about physics to know that I understand the subject very little, and I sincerely hope Dr. Stewart is right about the destructive potential of the Gordon .

“What if they have a close-in weapons system like our ships?” I ask.

“Won’t matter a bit,” Dr. Stewart says. “It would take terajoules of energy to break that freighter apart and boil all that water away. And even if they blew it up right now, all the debris would still hit them at the same speed. Physics,” she adds with a slight smile. “Nobody’s immune to physics. I don’t care how big and tough they are.”

I watch the icons on the tactical display, the kilometer scale contracting with every passing second, and the dread in my middle is almost balanced by the excitement I feel. If we miss, or the Lanky dodges the bullet at the last second, we are as good as dead. If we don’t miss, we will have pulled off something that has never been done before, and we will get to live on. Maybe only until we get back to the colony and decide to take on the SRA force that will be moving into orbit there soon, but at least we will be going out on our terms and while putting up a fight, not exterminated like a bunch of cockroaches at the bottom of a garbage collector.

The CIC now has all hands on deck. Most of us are standing in a circle around the holotable. Dr. Stewart looks like she wishes she had something a little stronger than galley coffee right about now. Colonel Campbell’s expression is unreadable as he stands motionless with his hands behind his back. The tension in the CIC seems thick enough to refract light.

“Two minutes,” the tactical officer says.

We all watch the holographic display like it’s the last minute of the last episode of the world’s most interesting Network show.

“Come on,” the XO says under her breath. “Come on.”

The Gordon is still visible through the optical feed, a tiny speck of glowing fusion-rocket exhaust streaking through the blackness of space over 150 million kilometers in front of us. The Lanky on a reciprocal course is all but invisible to us, his presence and position only guessed by the computer based on sporadic sightings of reflections on his hull, or the occasional blacking out of star’s light in the distance. Without the Russian cruiser making a futile run for New Svalbard, we never would have known about the Lanky ship until it showed up in orbit over the colony and started landing its advance party.

“One minute.”

The shot clock on the CIC bulkhead jumps to its final two-digit seconds readout. The tactical icons on the orb are now so close together that they look like they’re on top of each other. I hold my breath as I watch the optical feed where the Gordon hurtles toward her target like an angry firefly.

Don’t miss , I think. Don’t miss, don’t miss, don’t miss.

“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.” The tactical officer’s voice cracks with stress.

“…four, three, two, one. Impact.”

Nothing happens on the optical feed. We all still see the exhaust flare of the Gordon shooting downrange at close to five thousand kilometers per second.

“Fuck,” Colonel Campbell says.

Then the display turns white with noiseless fury. The computer kicks in lens filters to prevent frying the optical array and zooms out the scale automatically. Out in deep space, a white-hot sphere expands, much brighter and closer than the far-off sun.

The Gordon didn’t miss.

The CIC erupts into cheers and shouts.

“ Impact ,” the tactical officer calls out over the noise, jubilation in his voice. “One point one five nine AUs.”

Next to me, Dr. Stewart lets out a long, shaky breath and runs both hands through her hair. I grin at her, and she laughs.

“Science,” she says to me. “It works.”

“That is the biggest fucking fireball I have ever seen,” Colonel Campbell says. I look at the camera feed again. The Fomalhaut system now has two suns, however briefly. Even from 150 million kilometers away, the fireball from the released impact energy makes all the vacuum detonations of nuclear warheads I’ve ever seen look like someone briefly flicked on a helmet light.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I say.

“Nobody has,” Dr. Stewart says. “We just caused the largest man-made energy release in history.”

“It’s going to be hours before I can get anything on optics or radiation tracking again,” the tactical officer says.

“That fireball is fifty-five thousand Kelvins,” Dr. Stewart says. “We just caused a two-hundred-gigaton energy release. If there’s anything left in that area of space other than vapor, I’ll eat every last diploma on my office wall.”

Colonel Campbell sits down in his command chair and activates the Indy ’s 1MC.

“Attention, all hands. This is the skipper. You are now crew members of the first fleet ship to ever destroy a Lanky vessel. Operation Doorknocker was successful. Our extermination has been postponed. Not bad for a little OCS, people. Carry on.”

Another cheer goes up in the CIC.

“I don’t suppose alcohol is allowed on military ships?” Dr. Stewart asks the colonel. “I could really go for a strong drink right now.”

“No, it’s not allowed,” he replies. “And of course we have some.”

It takes a while for the Indy ’s sensors to poke through the noise from a two-hundred-gigaton explosion. All that’s left in the vicinity of the Lanky ship’s projected turnaround point is a superheated debris cloud that is slowly expanding. The light from the fireball gradually decreased after the collision, but even a few minutes later, it’s still impressive to look at.