1
“All Special Operations personnel report to briefing room, level 17. All Special Operations personnel report to briefing room, level 17.”
The message came over audio in the pool area of Station 4’s recreational facilities.
In the main pool Commander Bryan Kelly had the wall lane. He broke his lap and heaved himself out, splashing pink-tinted water over 41, who had been watching him exercise with grave attention. Bronzed and lithe, with his blond mane of hair brushing his bare shoulders, 41 attracted plenty of attention from the female swimmers, but Kelly had yet to get 41 into the pool.
Now, he grinned in mock apology at his drenched friend. “Sorry. Hazards of sitting so close to the edge.”
41 slicked his dripping hair back from his face and rose to his feet. “Swimming by choice is a waste of time.”
Kelly stood up beside him and shook water from his ears. He felt sleek and warmed up from his exercise. “It’s good for you. Keeps you from getting space flab.”
41 squeezed his tawny eyes half shut in amusement. “There are other ways to avoid that. The summons sounded urgent.”
“They’re always urgent. Probably some report on a galactic invasion that we’ll have to turn back single-handed. Or a lecture on correct ship hygiene procedures.” Kelly jerked his thumb at the nearly empty pool. “It’s quicker to cut across. Care to race?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, 41! I know you can swim. What’s the problem?”
“I don’t like to get wet.”
Kelly grinned. “You’re already wet. I’ll bet you dinner at the Tokyo Club that I can beat you across.”
“If you lose, you will be angry.”
“No I won’t. Hawks honor.”
41 looked into his eyes a moment, then smiled. Without warning he turned and launched himself in a long, clean dive, shooting beneath the water like an arrow.
“Hey!” shouted Kelly.
He dived in, seeing 41’s churning wake drawing even farther ahead, and forced himself not to surface before he had used the last of his dive impetus. Then he curved to the surface and went to work, stroking long, smooth, and fast. He hadn’t been swimming champion of Buckstead and later of the Fleet Academy for nothing. And no amount of a head start was going to help 41 in this race.
41 had a peculiar stroke that Kelly had never seen before. It was choppy and looked like it wasted a lot of motion, but it was fast and it kept 41 ahead. Roughing it in 41’s wake, Kelly’s natural competitiveness made him draw on his kick although they were only halfway across the diagonal of the pool. He drew even with 41, keeping clear of those flailing arms.
A burn spread slowly through Kelly’s muscles. He began to drag for breaths, feeling the effort under his rib cage with every stroke. Keep it smooth, he reminded himself. Don’t start battling the water like 41.
But although he was giving his best, he couldn’t draw ahead. They fought neck and neck for several meters. Kelly glimpsed the corner of the pool as a vague shadow ahead. He reached deep for whatever he had left and pulled ahead of 41, sucking air on every other stroke, his body a machine on fire, his heart pounding like an engine. But he still had it, and he felt the high of winning kick in.
Then 41 surged past him by a full length and touched the corner. Kelly’s stroke faltered. He went under and came up again at the side of the pool, frowning as he slicked his black hair from his eyes.
41 was already crouched on the side, reaching down to give him a hand. Reluctantly, still not able to believe it, Kelly accepted the help. He sat on the side a moment, his legs dangling in the water, and panted for air.
Worse, 41 wasn’t even breathing half as hard. He crouched on his haunches, muscles rippling under the tawny skin as he stretched. His golden hair lay sleeked against his narrow skull. Water streamed off him, leaving a puddle upon the paving.
“You suckered me,” said Kelly between breaths. “I thought you could maybe dog paddle a little, but—”
“I knew you would be angry.”
“No!” Kelly caught his arm before he could move away. “I’m not angry, just surprised. Where did you learn to swim like that? Your stroke looks like a mess, but it works. I’d like to learn it.”
41 stared at him a long moment, impassive, summing him up. Then mischief lit his eyes and he cocked his head to one side. “Maybe one day I’ll show you. But you owe me dinner. A big dinner.” 41 smacked his lips. “I have an appetite for ... oh, twelve courses at least.”
Kelly put his hand over his eyes with a mock groan. “Did I say the Tokyo? I meant the bar and grill down on level—”
“You said Tokyo. The most expensive place on this station.” 41 pulled Kelly to his feet. “I had to win the bet. I have no money to buy you dinner.”
Kelly snorted. “Sure you do. You never buy anything. What do you do, hoard it all for a rainy day?”
41 frowned. “What does rain have to do with money?”
“It’s just an expression. The way you save your salary, you’re probably the richest person on the Valiant.”
“No, it is Siggerson who hoards his salary. He even eats at the Commissary.” 41 grinned, showing a dangerous set of teeth. “I want my expensive dinner now.”
The lights overhead blinked twice, then a harsh klaxon sounded.
“Station Alert. Station Alert. Station Alert.”
A few desultory swimmers who’d been watching Kelly and 41 race now scrambled from the pool. The lights dimmed to a mere glow, causing Kelly and 41 to bump into each other as they reached for towels. A woman strode by, dripping water and cursing steadily to herself. Behind them, a steel deck began closing over the surface of the pools.
“Hell,” said Kelly, glancing around as they joined the small crowd exiting the area. “I’ve never seen a station under attack before.”
“What is our duty?” asked 41.
“Report to the Valiant.”
“And the order to go to briefing?”
Kelly draped his towel across his neck and began to jog down the corridor. “If we’re under attack, I’m not letting my ship be bottled up in the hangar. Come on!”
Station 4 was a miniature city, self-contained within a hull of pyrillium alloy. Possessing one hundred six levels in addition to its vast hangar facilities, it was fitted with free enterprise shops, casinos, bars, restaurants, concert halls, Sporting arenas, recreation facilities to suit the varied needs of the Allied Species, two museums, a library, sophisticated medical and therapy units, and five training centers. Civilians were permitted access to the station, but it remained a military installation, and housed the headquarters of the Special Operations branch of the Allied Intelligence Agency.
Most of the time the station looked like an attractive resort. Now, however, with battle lighting on and crimson warnings flashing at each corridor intersection, it was all business. Featureless walls became data screens. Computer optics flashed on. Personnel lined up at their stations, keying in commands that scrolled data.
Kelly paused at an unmanned screen and touched his hand to the square beneath it. A keypad lit beneath the heat of his fingertips. He tapped in a command for visual and a harsh beep canceled his command. The screen blanked and the keypad disappeared.
“Damn,” said Kelly. “I don’t know the approach range before the station raises its shields. Once they’re up, we can’t get out.”
41 tried to use a public comm, snarled something incomprehensible, and caught up with Kelly who was hurrying on. “Inoperable. What about the squad?”
“There’s no time to track them down now,” said Kelly.
The hangar area had been sealed, but Kelly’s IDent card, which he wore on a chain around his neck, overrode the lock and they got admittance. They hurried down the access corridor, which curved in a long semicircle around the docking facilities. The glass wall on the inside curve showed suited maintenance crews swarming over at least four of the half-dozen ships at dock. Crews in a myriad of uniforms swarmed the corridor, and there were plenty of glances at Kelly and 41 in their swim trunks.
Kelly didn’t see any Hawks in the crowd. Furiously he strode down an offshoot passageway to the minor berths where the Valiant rested, gleaming white from a hull bath and replating. He rammed his IDent card into the lock and fumed impatiently while the code cycled through.
“West and his damned briefings,” said Kelly. The light on the lock glowed green, and he jerked out his card. “Every Fleeter on this station will be out there in the action in a matter of minutes, and where’re Kestrel and Harrier? Sitting on their tails on level 17.”
The airlock opened and he strode inside, followed by 41. They were sprayed with decontaminants, then the inner lock opened and Kelly was aboard the Valiant, a trim little proto-class cruiser powered by photonic drive. The interior lights came on automatically as sensors registered their presence. 41 veered off toward the engine area. Kelly climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck.
Emerging from the turnaround, he saw his pilot, Olaf Siggerson, slumped in a chair with a complicated computer game displayed on the main viewscreen. Ouoji, the ship’s mascot, lay curled up in his lap. Her blue eyes opened wide at Kelly’s appearance, and with a graceful bound, she came running to bump her head against his leg in greeting.
Kelly petted her briefly. “Hello, Ouoji. Siggerson, I’m not even going to ask you what you’re doing spending your leave on board. Get the engines wanned up double-speed.”
Siggerson—lanky, balding, and freckled—frowned and canceled his game. He moved to his master station and activated the boards.
“What’s up?” he asked. “New orders? I need to cancel a dinner appointment—”
“Haven’t you kept a line open to the station?” asked Kelly, calling up data reports on the ship’s status. She’d been overhauled and refitted. She was ready. “We’re under a station alert. All hell’s breaking loose. And I want to be out of here before the shields go up.”
Siggerson blinked, and his usually unshakable calm broke. “Station alert? Do you mean we’re being attacked? Here? By whom?”
“I can’t find out,” said Kelly in frustration.
Siggerson activated the viewscreen and observed the chaos raging outside. Audio brought in the calm computer tones of the hangar: “Attention. Hangar doors now opening. Attention.”
“I can’t get anything beyond the station. Too much interference,” said Siggerson. “Engines almost ready for cast off.”
“Good.” Kelly paced around the quarterdeck. “I want to be ready to move the moment we can.”
“Requesting cast off now. It’ll take a minute or two for the request to be routed.”
“Forget normal procedures! Can’t you override and give the cast off order from here?”
“No,” said Siggerson. “It’s a security feature, to keep the ship from being stolen.”
“Oh, for—”
“There are ways around security features,” said a crisp, feminine voice.
Phila Mohatsa emerged from the turnaround, garbed in a crimson jumpsuit. Her black, curly hair flowed loose over her shoulders. She took a second look at Kelly in his swim trunks, and smiled in approval. To his embarrassment he felt his face flush.
“I figured you guys would come here. Vita mandate, right?” She laughed, tossing back her hair, and took her station at communications. “Let me see what I can do that’s illegal.”
“Give me a call the minute we get clearance,” said Kelly. “I’m going to check stores.” And get some clothes on, he added mentally.
“Right,” said Siggerson without looking up from his work. “By the way, Commander—”
“Yes?”
“If Mohatsa gets us loose, I’ll have to do free piloting out through this traffic. That means about thirty violations slapped on us, providing I don’t have a wreck.”
Kelly met Siggerson’s eyes. Siggerson was always a stickler down to the last detail. He also happened to be one of the best pilots in the business.
“You won’t have a wreck,” said Kelly with a smile. “Leave the violations to me.”
“Kelly charm, I suppose,” said Siggerson grouchily.
Phila laughed. “No, his daddy is an admiral, remember? I just severed the security code. Stand by for your cast off order.”
“Standing by,” said Siggerson.
Kelly let the gibes pass. He’d asked for them when he gave the orders to cut security. Heading down the ladder with an ever-curious Ouoji draped upon his shoulder, he met Caesar coming up.
Warm relief flooded Kelly. For a moment he was simply grateful to his squad. Starting nearly a year ago as a mismatched bunch of arguing operatives, they’d molded themselves into a crack team that knew what to do and when. Best of all, in an emergency they all came home to the Valiant.
He gripped Caesar’s shoulder, unable to speak for a moment.
“Boss, hold up old Siggie for a few minutes, will you?” said Caesar, puffing. His red hair was dark with sweat at the roots and his eyes were bloodshot. He reeked of liquor and smoke and Othian musk. Kelly didn’t even want to imagine what kind of den Caesar had been socializing in. “We’re trying to get the stores loaded, but it’s damned hot in the hold with the engines on warm up and I figure Siggie’s going to blast out of here any minute without checking his hatch closings.”
“You figured right,” said Kelly as Ouoji transferred herself to Caesar’s shoulder with a wipe of her long, bushy tail under Kelly’s nose. She sniffed Caesar and chittered angrily.
He clamped a hand on her muzzle. “Yeah, yeah. I been having a good time, and I don’t need you moralizing to me, fur face.”
She clamped her ear openings flat to her round skull and jumped down in a huff.
“Siggerson and Phila are working on getting us cast off,” said Kelly. “There isn’t much time for loading. What do you have for stores?”
“It’s a grab bag. I just appropriated a grav-flat full of stuff on the way. No one is watching anything right now. All the technicians are running their butts off trying to get the battle cruisers ready.”
Caesar led Kelly down the ladder with a grin. Only a slight unsteadiness in his walk betrayed that he was less than fully sober. They went into the minuscule hold where 41 was heaving canisters and boxes around in an effort to make everything fit.
“Mostly weapons and some food,” said Caesar in satisfaction. He tapped a crate stamped private stores. “What’s this? Got the Jefferson’s emblem on it. Guess all this belongs to them.”
41 paused in his work, sweat oiling his bare torso. “It’s brandy, Earth manufacture.”
Kelly and Caesar stared at the crate, urgency momentarily forgotten.
“Brandy,” whispered Caesar in reverence.
Kelly recovered first. He glanced up. “You don’t manufacture brandy. It’s—”
“It’s the breath of the gods,” said Caesar, his green eyes aglow. “Oh, boss, what a haul.”
“You’d better haul your—”
An entry request came from the airlock. Caesar and 41 resumed work and Kelly touched the comm.
“Somebody let me in!” snapped Dr. Beaulieu’s voice. “I don’t have my IDent with me and two hulking brutes from security are coming my way. If you don’t—”
Kelly hit the release, and she abruptly cut off. Seconds later she was inside, looking unexpectedly beautiful and exotic in a flowing caftan that set off her coffee-colored skin. A cap of purple silk trimmed with gold perched atop her close-cropped hair. Gold bracelets covered her forearms and she carried a pouch bag of supple purple leather.
“That was close,” she said, and hit the lock. Like Phila, she took a second look at Kelly. “Well, I guess I don’t have to worry about being without my uniform.”
Before Kelly could answer, 41 appeared, bronzed and sweaty in his trunks.
“Everything is in place,” 41 said, oblivious to Beaulieu’s stare. “Siggerson flashed a request for you on the quarterdeck.”
“That means he’s got cast off.” Kelly glanced around at them.“Everybody, upstairs. Get strapped in. I don’t know what we’re getting into, but it’s going to be lively.”
They filed down the corridor, and Kelly added, “Sorry about the end of your leave.”
41 went into his cabin without comment. Caesar looked rueful, but Beaulieu said briskly, “To be frank, Commander, anything has to be better than dying of boredom at a Brahms concert with an elderly escort who gropes.”
“Was it the music that was boring, or the escort?” asked Caesar with a wicked grin.
“Both,” she retorted. She fished in her pouch and brought out a small packet. “Chew up this tablet. It’ll get you sober.”
“Who wants to be—”
Kelly ducked into his cabin and grabbed some clothes. By the time he reached the quarterdeck, the viewscreen showed that they were moving. Everyone quickly strapped themselves in place, and Kelly glanced at Mohatsa’s station.
“Are we being hailed, Phila?”
“Insistently. They’re also trying to beam a scrambler into our systems and stop us.” Phila’s dark eyes flashed. “It’s a good thing we rigged our own security codes into this baby.”
“Clearing berth,” said Siggerson without looking up.
The large astrogation screen in the center of the horseshoe seating area lit up. Against the soft green backdrop, white blips appeared. Kelly studied it a moment.
“You’ve got the whole hangar graphed out.”
“Don’t want any collisions,” said Siggerson.
“Commander,” said Mohatsa. “We’re being hailed by the ESS Jefferson.”
The big starship was coming into range on their view-screen now. She was already halfway out the hangar doors, and from this angle Kelly could see the blackened side of her lower decks where she’d taken Salukan fire in a recent skirmish. Her captain had reported casualties. She must be going out at half power, with half a crew’s complement. But she was going.
Old pride in the fleet caught Kelly in the throat. He said, “Respond to their hail.”
“Yes sir.”
The viewscreen changed to show them the bridge of the Jefferson. Captain Lewis, craggy-faced with bristling eyebrows and eyes the color of steel, glared at them from the screen.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Valiant! You can’t pilot free through this traffic.”
“I’m Commander Kelly. We have the capability, and we can be of assistance. Are you registering what is approaching the station?”
“Not yet,” said Lewis. “These damned Minzanese engineers have us jammed with all their infernal shielding. My science officer assures me that we’ll have full sensor capabilities in about twenty-five seconds. In the meantime we have to sail out of here blind. Damned stupid arrangement. Whoever designed this station ought to have his butt kicked to Boxcan.”
“Will you transmit that sensor data to us?” asked Kelly.
“The hell I will! You’re not even in the Fleet—”
Something broke up the transmission. Lewis’ face became dancing black dots. Then the screen blanked. Mohatsa put the hangar visual back on.
Kelly set his jaw in irritation. “Phila, can you pirate off his sensors? He may be willing to go out of here blind, but I’m not.”
She grinned at the challenge. “Can do.”
Beaulieu leaned forward with a small frown. “Isn’t that illegal?”
Kelly shrugged and Caesar said, “After the little stunt we’re doing now, what’re a few more broken laws going to hurt?”
In a few moments the data came in. Transmission was patchy, but as the Jefferson cleared the station and switched to long-range sensors, the Valiant’s viewscreen showed hazy, distorted space.
“I see it!” said Caesar, pointing at the top left corner of the screen.“Formation. Enemy ships approaching.”
“What’s their speed?” asked Kelly.
“I can’t read it,” replied Phila.
Magnification improved as though the people on the Jefferson were trying to refine their data. Kelly leaned forward, squinting at the tiny blips. Too far for positive identification. But there was something odd about them. He frowned. Where had he seen a formation like that before?
“Alien formation. Not Fleet,” said Caesar.
Kelly glanced at Siggerson. “Get us out of this hangar.”
“I’m trying,” said Siggerson, glued to his instruments. Droplets of sweat shone on his forehead. “Those two frigates are being tractored out. If we cross one of those beams, it could crack our hull.”
The strut of a starship passed in front of their sensors, blurring on the main viewscreen. Kelly looked hastily away. They were taking a horrible risk of collision. Probably every captain present was cursing them.
“The station is sending out a powerful hailing frequency to those ships,” said Phila. “They do not respond.”
“No wonder the alert went up,” said Caesar. “I’d better check our bomb hatches. We’ve never used them, and this is a hell of a time to find out if they work.”
“I will help,” said 41, following him off the quarterdeck.
The Valiant suddenly lurched, flipping Ouoji off the helm console. She twisted deftly in the air and landed on her feet, switching her tail angrily. Kelly glanced at Siggerson, who said, tight-lipped, “Had to apply the brakes. Continuing.”
Beaulieu turned away from the viewscreen. “I can’t watch this.”
Kelly turned his attention back to Phila’s small viewer and those enemy ships. They were much closer now, yet not close enough for a visual identification. If she wanted, the Jefferson could deploy extended-range missiles within another minute.
The second starship in the hangar had cleared the doors. Siggerson lined up the Valiant between the second frigate and a scoutship, nudging too close for safety margins.
“Do you think the Salukans would dare penetrate this far into Alliance space?” asked Phila. “Risk all-out war? Those ships are too large for anything the Jostics have. And they’re showing too much discipline to be a raid.”
“They aren’t Salukans,” said Kelly. “That isn’t a Salukan formation. It’s ... Damn! I’ve seen that somewhere before. I know I have.”
“Look how they’re bunched together. I count six ships, destroyer-class size at least,” said Phila, tapping the screen with her finger. “Everything else is too muddy. As soon as we’re clear, I can use our own sensors. The Jefferson has muck for equipment.”
“Hang on,” said Siggerson. “This is going to be dicey.”
Kelly glanced over his shoulder at the main viewscreen in time to see them suddenly jockey past the scoutship that was trying to cut them off. The Valiant turned on her side and shot through the hangar doors with less than a meter to spare.
“Warning!” said the computer’s voice. “Craft is too close to hangar doors. Warning! Craft is—”
“We’re through!” said Siggerson, and the Valiant swooped up and over the top of a frigate so close Kelly had a dizzying view of its upper running lights before they cleared.
“Good work!” said Kelly, and turned back to Phila’s screen.
She cleared the pirate link off the Jefferson’s sensors, and the quality improved at once as their own, longer-range sensors took up the job.
“Those are Fleet destroyers,” said Phila in puzzlement. “I don’t understand. What are they doing, approaching us from that direction, without standard hailing procedures, in an unknown formation? Can the Salukans have designed them as a trick?”
Kelly didn’t answer. He was staring hard at the screen. He had seen that formation before. Long ago, when he was a child.
The answer snapped into his mind. Kelly straightened. “Those are our ships,” he said. “They must be disabled, their communications cut off. That formation is their way of telling us they won’t attack.”
“How do you know that?” said Phila, glancing up at him. “Looks pretty cosquenti to me.”
“My father and I used to play strategy games when I was a young boy. I had an old discarded military mapboard that lit up with about six fleets. So I could have hundreds of ships in motion if I chose.” Excitedly Kelly pointed at the screen. “That formation was one we invented. Broken wing formation! It meant we were coming in wounded, without communications, and needed help.”
“Are you sure?” said Siggerson doubtfully.
“Yes, I’m sure. My father must be out there in that squadron. It’s coming from the direction of Nielson’s Void, isn’t it? They must have been on maneuvers, and something’s gone wrong. Phila, get me a line to Captain Lewis.”
“You’ve got it, Commander.”
“Kelly!” shouted Lewis in a fury. “You damned fool! You’ve broken every regulation in the book, and I don’t care which book it is! What the hell are you doing out here in the way?”
“Captain, those are not enemy ships,” said Kelly ur-gently, gripping the back of Phila’s chair until his knuckles turned white. “It’s a Fleet squadron—”
“Nonsense. Fleet squadrons have five destroyers apiece. We’ve identified six ships. They’re Salukan mock-ups, designed to fool us into letting them approach. But I—”
“Sir, you must listen to me. Don’t fire on them. They’re ours—”
“Have you established contact with them?” asked Lewis.
Kelly frowned. “No, sir.”
“Then don’t tell me how to do my business. They are coming down a closed space lane. They have answered no hailing frequencies. They have not identified themselves to Station 4 or made approach requests. They are not flying in a specific Fleet formation. Therefore, they must be stopped. Regulations—”
“Don’t quote regulations,” snapped Kelly. “I’m telling you that I recognize this formation! It’s used for—”
“Son, I’ve been in the fleet for forty years,” said Lewis. “Now shut up and get out of the way.”
“Jefferson is preparing to fire long-extensions,” said Siggerson.
“They’ve broken contact,” said Phila.
Kelly punched the back of her chair with his fist. “Damn! Can we override their weaponry systems?”
Phila’s eyes widened. “Negative.”
“Firing ... now,” said Siggerson.
Kelly whirled. Feeling sick with helplessness, he watched the astrogation board chart the missiles’ trajectories.
Extended-range missiles were antiquated and not expected to achieve much damage in delivering fire to the enemy. They could be easily destroyed in mid-flight before ever reaching their target. However, they were used primarily as warnings off or as a means to draw the enemy’s fire and thus gauge the range and power of the enemy’s weapons. But if their target was disabled and could not fire back ...
“Intercept those missiles and destroy them,” said Kelly.
For a moment only silence answered him. Beaulieu, Phila, and Siggerson all stared at him.
Phila reached out. “If you’re wrong, Commander, you’re finished.”
“We’ll all be finished with you,” said Siggerson. “Charges of treason will be the least of—”
“Damn it! Do you trust me, or not?” shouted Kelly. “That’s a direct order, Mr. Siggerson. You can protest it and stand down from your station, thus giving the controls to me. Or you can carry out your orders. But do one or the other now.”
Siggerson’s angular face looked bleached under the lights. He hesitated one second longer, then brushed his hand over his controls.
“Plotting an intercept course now. Prepare for distort. ETA six minutes at TD 7.”