Federation chronicles th.., p.67
Federation Chronicles: The Complete Series, page 67
“They’re making their final approach, Captain,” Ensign Ovano replied.
“Captain, there isn’t enough time,” Kinton said.
Maelyn stood up and went to the tactical workstation where she brought up multiple holoscreens. She initiated a data connection to the mines nearest the away team.
“You’re accessing their control system,” Kinton said.
Maelyn nodded. “Comms, tell the away team to get a move on it. Enemy ships incoming.”
“Are you activating the minefield?” Kinton asked.
“No. That would make them attack the spaceport.”
Someone from the spaceport had detected her access and was attempting to block it.
Maelyn looked at Kinton. “Give the techs on the spaceport something else to do.”
“My pleasure,” Kinton replied.
Maelyn accessed several of the mines' flight control systems and had them fly toward the away team’s location. She didn’t arm them yet. If the Sentinels were monitoring, they’d know the mines had been activated.
“Captain, Weyman Spaceport is trying to contact us,” Ensign Ovano said.
“Don’t acknowledge,” Maelyn replied.
She watched the icon for the away team’s combat shuttle on the main holoscreen. It had an amber color to it, meaning that they hadn’t retrieved the PMCs yet. The mines were closing in on the location.
“Captain, perhaps I can be of assistance if you share what you’re doing,” Kinton said.
“Once the away team retrieves the PMCs, I’m going to initiate a little diversion. Something the Sentinels will be sure to see,” Maelyn said.
The icon for the away team became green.
“Captain, successful retrieval of the PMCs,” Ensign Ovano said.
“Excellent. Tell them to get out of there because I’m going to blow up that whole area,” Maelyn said.
She watched the clock in the upper right corner of her data window. The combat shuttle was quickly moving away. “There, they’ve jumped,” she said.
The mines flew toward the small moon and detonated.
“Antimatter explosion detected, Captain,” Kinton said.
“Helm, execute jump. Let’s go get our team,” Maelyn said.
“Aye, Captain. Execute jump coordinates bravo,” Lieutenant Centrich replied.
The Rubicon micro-jumped away from the spaceport.
“Comms, thank the Weyman Spaceport for the use of several of their mines. The Sentinels will assume the PMCs were destroyed,” Maelyn said.
While they waited for the combat shuttle to dock with the ship, the Sentinels closed in on their location.
She listened to Ovano speak to the spaceport official, after which she closed the connection and turned toward Maelyn. “They’re a little upset.”
Maelyn smiled. “They’ll feel better when the Sentinels follow us out of here.”
“Combat shuttle is aboard, Captain,” Lieutenant Flanagan said.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Maelyn replied and watched the tactical plot.
Sentinel destroyers used powerful particle beams as their primary weapons. They weren’t in range yet.
“Helm, plot a course away from here. Best speed,” Maelyn said.
“Aye, Captain, course programmed into the nav computer,” Lieutenant Centrich replied.
Maelyn needed the Sentinels to chase them, and she silently urged them on. Two of the destroyers disappeared from the plot and emerged farther away. They were attempting to cut off her escape.
“Let the chase begin. Execute jump,” Maelyn said.
7
Quinton couldn’t stop the Sentinels from discovering the massive PMC retrieval mission he’d dedicated almost all of his resources to achieving. That had never been his plan. He just hoped his forces could retrieve the PMCs before the Sentinels could organize a response. More than half the retrievals had been achieved without incident. The problems came from inhabited star systems. Local authorities slowed the entire mission, denying access to regions where PMCs were located. Some ship captains weren’t equipped to deal with this, while others found a way to negotiate for access to the areas they needed to reach. But the delays in mission execution brought the Sentinels into star systems. The Sentinels must have some kind of listening posts designed to detect PMC activation signals. There was no other explanation that made sense. They hadn’t found any of these listening posts, and Quinton didn’t have the resources to search for them.
“That’s the last of them, Admiral,” Captain Martinez said.
“How much damage did they do?” Quinton asked.
He was integrated with the ship’s computer systems that maintained a subspace comlink to CENTCOM on the Salvation. The Fortitude was a leviathan class battleship cruiser, one of four in his battle group, along with destroyer and cruiser escorts.
“The Sentinel heavy-cruisers did direct some of their fire at civilian targets in the system before they focused their attention on us,” Martinez replied.
Civilian crossfire was something Quinton needed to avoid. They were vulnerable to attack, and his mission wasn’t to create a situation where spacers’ lives were put in danger.
“We need to draw the Sentinels away from the inhabited systems,” Quinton said.
“I might be able to help with that,” Radek said.
A glowing, silvery holographic orb materialized nearby. The globe pulsed as Radek spoke.
“What have you got?” Quinton asked. He had hundreds of analyses going on to give them an edge at squeezing every bit of success from the mission.
“Several mission reports have come into CENTCOM where the commanding officer lured Sentinel ships away to designated ambush sites. This allowed some of the smaller groups to whittle away Sentinel numbers, but those ships have limited fire power,” Radek said.
“No, the concept is good. I should have thought of it. We need to coordinate with the teams who need support to do our own ambush sites,” Quinton replied.
Over the next forty hours they established ambush sites in the dead space between stars. Quinton divided his battle group into multiple task forces and redeployed them as necessary.
Sensors showed Sentinel ships entering a region of space where they expected a small frigate task force to be. Instead, they were met with hyper-capable antimatter missiles that obliterated their forces as soon as they transitioned into n-space.
“Two more Sentinel strike forces have transitioned in, Captain,” Lieutenant Weston said.
“Range?” Martinez asked.
“Five hundred thousand kilometers out, sir.”
Martinez looked at Quinton.
The newly arriving ships weren’t where they expected them to be, which meant that the Sentinels were finally adapting their tactics to stop the ambush.
“We’re well beyond their dampening field range. Shall I order our ships to leave?” Captain Martinez asked.
“Wait,” Quinton said.
He accessed the comms systems. The Sentinels communicated their standard broadcast as if they were operating from a set of parameters that hadn’t been changed. He took control of a single comms array and transmitted a signal to the Sentinel ships.
Authenticate.
Quinton Everett Aldren, Acheron Confederacy Navy.
Unknown Personality Matrix Construct.
ACN Rank?
Quinton considered this for a few moments. He’d tried to initiate contact with Sentinels before.
Admiral.
He sent his PMC identification to the Sentinels. The Sentinels seemed to consider this as if they were reviewing his authentication.
Confirmed.
Threat anomaly confirmed.
Prevention of spread is required.
The Sentinels tried to infiltrate the data comlink session, but Quinton blocked their attempts.
Hostile PMC host detected.
Prevent the spread.
Targets must be destroyed.
Quinton killed the comlink. It was always the same. The Sentinels viewed him as the enemy and would keep attacking until he was either killed or had destroyed their ships. Having no interest in dying, Quinton ordered their withdrawal from the area. They were getting low on ammunition, and he didn’t need to engage the Sentinels without the element of surprise. Choosing when to fight was just as important as choosing where.
“Tactical, deploy the decoys,” Captain Martinez said.
“Aye, Captain, deploying decoys now,” Lieutenant Weston said.
Decoy jump drones flew out of the ship, and their jump drives synchronized with the ships in Quinton’s battle group. The ships and the decoys executed their jumps, and the Sentinels would be hard-pressed to figure out which direction they’d need to follow to pursue him. Quinton knew it would be next to impossible.
“Successful jump, Captain,” Lieutenant Pitts reported.
“Excellent. Helm, execute the next series of jumps just in case the Sentinels get lucky,” Martinez said.
“Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant Pitts replied.
Martinez looked at Quinton. “I think our estimates of Sentinel forces need a serious adjustment.”
Quinton nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”
He’d underestimated how many ships the Sentinels could devote in their response to the mission. He’d relied on data provided by Brandt’s people from the DUC, which used their own intelligence apparatus to make the estimate.
“Admiral, the comms logs indicate that you tried to communicate with the Sentinels?” Martinez asked.
“I did. I’m not compromised,” Quinton replied.
“I know that, sir. Your VI reports nominal PMC integrity checks. If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why were you trying to contact them?”
“I wanted to see if their response had changed.”
“Had it?”
Quinton shook his head. “No.”
Martinez nodded once. “I’ve heard of spacers over the years who tried to initiate contact with the Sentinels. None even got a response, not even through a data comlink. Nothing. It’s like they’re not equipped to engage in communication with anyone but themselves.”
“I don’t pretend to understand it. The Sentinels were created to hunt PMCs by Miles Harding. Why wouldn’t he equip them to communicate with the remnant federations?”
Quinton’s consciousness had been uploaded into a PMC before the Federation Wars. He predated the creation of the Sentinels, which he used to think was a serious liability but had later thought to be an advantage. His lack of knowledge about the Sentinels enabled him to ask questions that others took for granted. Spacers assumed they understood how the Sentinels worked, but they didn’t.
“I don’t know, sir. I wish I did, but I just don’t know. The Sentinels were always there, always a potential encounter, and our response was to be compliant with them,” Martinez said.
He was well aware of how spacers had been forced to comply with the Sentinels. “Hope and pray they left you in peace,” Quinton said.
Martinez nodded, looking away for a second as if he was ashamed. “It’s not like there weren’t attempts to resist what the Sentinels did. There were, but the cost was so high, and they were relentless.”
“I understand,” Quinton replied, even though he didn’t. Not really… That wasn’t right. He understood the situation, as it were, but still struggled to wrap his mind around a galaxy that was so different from the one he remembered. Spacers reacted differently to him when they learned of his origin. Some treated him as if he were to blame for what had happened over the last century. Others, who were old enough to remember the Federation Wars, sometimes looked ashamed. Martinez wasn’t old enough to remember the Federation Wars, but he’d been raised by parents who did. They’d taught their children what had been lost. Quinton tried not to judge the spacers too harshly. The current climate of the galaxy hadn’t happened in one day. It’d taken years and decades for the galaxy to descend into its current state. He wished he could just fix everything, make things how he remembered them, but he was starting to believe that those were fools’ errands. The galaxy needed to change, but it might not ever go back to what it had been. The question remained as to what the galaxy would become and whether he would survive to see it.
8
Becker watched as Oscar weaved his way through the crowded, dimly lit bar on some spaceport that he couldn’t even remember the name of this time. He’d lost count of how many of these places they’d been to, trying to recruit spacers to join the new United Federation Alliance.
Oscar carried a full mug of dark beer with a frothy top and kept one of his hands in front of it, shielding it from harm. He raised his chin without really looking at Becker and sat on the stool next to him.
“How’d it go?” Becker asked.
Oscar drank from his mug and gave a contented sigh. “You wouldn’t think it by the looks of this place, but they have the best dark beer I’ve ever tasted. I had a few cases sent to the ship.”
Becker arched an eyebrow. “How many cases?”
Oscar stared into his beer and mumbled something that Becker couldn’t hear as the lively music rose. Hordes of people now had to shout to have a chance at being heard.
Becker leaned forward. “What?”
Guttman joined them. The pudge of his belly shifted from side to side as he part walked and waddled at the same time.
Guttman looked at Oscar and smiled broadly. “Did you tell him?” he asked, tilting his head to Becker.
The song ended, giving them a few seconds of silence.
“I was just about to,” Oscar replied.
“We’ve got five hundred cases of that stuff heading to the ship,” Guttman said.
Becker blinked a few times. “Five hundred cases!”
Guttman grinned and nodded.
Becker looked at Oscar. “What were you thinking? I’m not bringing five hundred cases of beer on my ship. I don’t care how good it is.”
“Technically, it’s our ship,” Oscar replied.
“We’re all part owners. That was the dealio,” Gutmann said.
Becker shook his head. He knew if he allowed that beer on the ship, he’d have a crew of drunk spacers to contend with. “We don’t have room for it.”
Oscar shared a look with Guttman. “Yes, we do. I got the aft storage area repaired. The door mechanism had to be replaced. We’re all good. Five hundred cases of the good stuff will fit in there, no problem. And the cases are able to interface with most food fabricators on the ship. It’s not going to be imitation stuff, so we can sell each case at a premium.”
Becker frowned in thought, trying to remember the size of the storage area they were referring to. “So, you’re not going to drink it all?”
Oscar shook his head. “No way. Do you know how much each case is capable of creating? It’s all compressed. Each case can fill a few thousand of these mugs.”
“Three thousand, five hundred to be exact. So, we’ll only really need to keep one case for ourselves. The rest we can sell at a profit. It seems that they’ve had problems getting reliable transport for their products,” Guttman said.
Becker’s gaze went to the ceiling while he pleaded for patience. “If we were only involved with shipping and receiving, I’d say this was a good deal, but we’re not. You guys know it. You know what we’re doing out here.”
Oscar looked away and took a swig from his mug.
“Becker, come on, man. This is a good deal. Something normal. This is what we should be doing,” Guttman said.
Somewhere over the last few months, Becker had become the sane one of the group. He had no idea when it’d happened, but it had. They were preparing for war, and there was no hiding from that fact, no matter how many side jobs they did.
Becker sighed and gestured toward Oscar. “Let me taste it. See how good this stuff is.”
Oscar smiled and passed the half-full mug toward him.
Becker took the mug and sniffed. Then he took a big sip, holding the dark liquid in his mouth. Tasting the malty sweetness and hoppy bitterness, along with hints of coffee and chocolate, he swallowed and nodded appreciatively.
Oscar gestured for him to return the mug. “Give it back. If you want more, you’ll need to go get your own. Come on, give it.”
Becker smirked and handed the mug back.
“It’s good, right?” Guttman said.
“It is. I don’t know how much I could really drink, but I can see why you like it,” Becker replied.
He’d learned over the years that there were times to pick his battles, and if he chose to fight this one, he’d probably lose. “All right, but we’d better make a serious profit on this stuff. And I won’t have a crew of drunk spacers on the ship. Understood?”
Both men nodded vigorously. Well, Guttman nodded vigorously, and Oscar just raised his mug up a little.
“Okay, what about the real reason we came here?” Becker said.
“Right, the never-ending task of recruitment,” Oscar said and proceeded to give him an update.
“Fourteen groups are more than I would’ve expected from a place like this,” Becker replied.
Oscar shrugged. “These are fringe groups. They’re desperate enough to take on most work.”
“We need more than just informants. Quinton needs people who can be trained,” Becker replied.
“There are some of those,” Guttman said. “Three groups agreed to send a few hundred spacers to evaluate the training being offered.”
“That’s right. It’s a tough sell. Most of them don’t believe the UFA is real,” Oscar said.
“They’ll learn,” Becker said.
A message appeared on his internal HUD. “We’ve gotta get back to the ship.”
Guttman shook his head. “Why so soon?”
Becker scrolled through the message and felt his gut clench for a moment.
“What is it?” Oscar asked.
“Crowe wants to speak to us,” Becker replied.
“Us?” Guttman asked.
Becker should have expected that Guttman’s first reaction would be to clarify whether Crowe’s summons would affect him. He wasn’t sure what annoyed him more, the fact that Guttman wanted to know if he was in trouble or the fact that Crowe had asked for Becker specifically.
