Marko Kloos - Lines of Departure

“All right, people. Helmsman, bring us about and back on course toward New Svalbard,” Colonel Campbell orders. “Tactical, get me the word on our SRA friends. Weapons, check stores and warm up the nukes. We’re going stealth again.”

The thought of an imminent hopeless engagement with the far superior SRA force approaching New Svalbard is like a cold shower after the heated excitement of our destruction of the Lanky seed ship. We may have bought the colony some time, but if we have to take this ship into battle against an entire carrier group, there’s no question we’ll lose.

“There they are,” the tactical officer says a short while later. I watch as the tactical orb display expands in scale. New Svalbard is a hundred million kilometers away, and the SRA task force pops up on the screen almost a hundred million kilometers on the opposite side of the moon.

“We have the acceleration advantage,” the XO says. “We’ll be back over the moon before they get there, but not by much. For whatever good it’ll do.”

“This is odd,” the tactical officer says. On the plot, the tags for the tactical icons change as the computer starts to identify the first of the SRA units conclusively.

“What’s that, Lieutenant?” Colonel Campbell asks.

“Well, the ELINT profiles are strange for some of those ships. I know for sure that the lead ship is the Chinese 098D. That’s that Godavari right here.” He marks the icon on the tactical display briefly. “That third one there? The computer doesn’t have it yet, but I’m eighty percent sure it’s one of their older assault carriers. Maybe Kiev class.”

He highlights two of the ships in the back of the group.

“But those right there? I could swear that one of them looks like a Hammerhead cruiser.”

The display changes, and the icon he is pointing out changes to the pale blue of an “UNIDENTIFIED, PRESUMED FRIENDLY” contact as the computer appears to concur with the lieutenant’s assessment. It’s impossible for us to capture one of their warships in space, or for them to capture one of ours—there are multiple safeguards in place, right down to DNA locks on the control consoles—but seeing friendly units in a task force with enemy ones seems even less likely.

“Captured and forced to tag along?” the XO wonders aloud.

“Possible,” Colonel Campbell says. “That would explain why they came through our Alcubierre node.”

“But why would they have to set off the minefield on the way in?”

“Beats me.” The colonel scratches his chin as he watches the plot.

“Go to turnaround and decelerate for New Svalbard,” he orders. “We’ll see what’s going on when they’re in comms range. Any sign of our carrier group?”

“No, sir. They’re not within two AUs of us or the moon.”

“Smartest sons of bitches in the system right now,” the XO mutters.

A few hours later we’re in communications range with the colony again, and I contact Sergeant Fallon as soon as I can get a stable comms link. At this range, the signal takes five minutes to get to New Svalbard, and my excitement over the news makes the wait for a return reply agonizingly frustrating.

“The Lanky ship is destroyed,” I send. “Fine stardust. We are coming back to the barn to assist with the defense.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all month. Hell, year. Make that ‘decade,’” she sends back. “I’d buy that science crew a shitload of drinks if they had any to buy down here.”

“Dig in and hold on. We are coming. We’ll get there before the SRA battle group.”

“Hope you like Chinese rations,” she sends back. “The civilian admin wants to surrender the moon rather than risk destroying half his terraformers. I’ll be the first to pick a fight, but on this one I think he’s on the right track. No point winning if we have no infrastructure left.”

In Indy ’s CIC, everyone looks as if Sergeant Fallon has just voiced some particularly offensive sacrilege, but I know that everyone present also understands that the admin is completely right. For better or worse, we subjected our little force to his control, and I realize with some shame that I am actually relieved at not having to fight yet another hopeless battle.

“We’re getting IFF transponder signals,” the tactical officer says. “Computer is sorting them out.”

The display on the holotable shows a flurry of activity as the computer updates the icons of the approaching battle group with names and hull numbers. One assault carrier, three supply ships, two frigates, and one destroyer, all SRA. One of our Hammerhead cruisers, the NACS Avenger . And one of our supercarriers—NACS Regulus , CV-2154, sister ship to the Polaris , the ship I pulled out of the hat in the assignment lottery at the end of Neural Networks School. I traded that assignment off to a fellow graduate so I could be on the Versailles with Halley, five years ago when all this started. The Navigator-class supercarriers are prized fleet assets, the biggest and most powerful units we have, and I can’t conceive of a scenario where one of them would be flying around with an SRA battlegroup escort. In the Indy ’s CIC, everyone just gawks at the tactical display, trying to make sense of it.

“Get me the Regulus on tight-beam,” Colonel Campbell finally says to the comms officer.

“Aye, sir.” The comms officer plays his console for a few moments. “Go ahead, sir. You’re on tight-beam package.”

“ Regulus , this is the NACS Indianapolis , Indy Actual, in deep space beyond New Svalbard and under stealth. We show you in the middle of a shitload of confirmed SRA warships. What gives, over?”

Under normal circumstances I’d have to chuckle at Colonel Campbell’s cavalier radio etiquette, but under the current ones, I almost have to laud his restraint.

We wait for the reply from Regulus , almost ten minutes delayed because of the two hundred million kilometers between our ships. It’s a gamble to be sending at all, but with a tight-beam link, the SRA ships shouldn’t be able to pin down our transmission, especially not at this range.

“ Indianapolis , this is Regulus . SRA units in our company are not hostile. Repeat, SRA units are not hostile. Do not take offensive action. Proceed to New Svalbard and rendezvous with the battle group.”

“ Regulus , Indy Actual. Like hell . I won’t do any such thing until I know that you don’t have a squad of Chinese marines in your CIC and rifle muzzles pointed at your heads.”

The next few minutes are almost unbearably tense as we wait for Regulus to reply to the colonel’s declaration. When the transmission arrives, it’s a different voice.

“ Indy Actual, this is Regulus Actual, Colonel Aguilar. We are not compromised. I understand your concern, but you’ve been out of the world for a little while, and you’re unaware of the latest developments.” There’s a pause in the transmission, during which my heart pounds like it wants to leap out of my chest through my ears.

“We have a truce with the SRA units in our attendance,” Colonel Aguilar continues. “They are not a belligerent task force. They are refugees. And so are we. The Lankies are in our solar system.”

“First time I’ve ever seen one of those this close,” I say as we watch the SRA drop ship come in for a landing on the colony’s repaired drop-ship pad. The Sino-Russian designs are bigger than our Wasps and almost the size of a Dragonfly, but they look much meaner, all angles and armor plates and cannon muzzles. The SRA drop ship carries no attack ordnance on its wing pylons, but it’s still a little unsettling to stare right down those autocannon barrels. I’ve spent the last five years fighting the people who crew those ships, and now the moon is crawling with them.