Chapter 5
Zuri Mikton tried to be a woman with proper perspective. During a career spanning decades of service to both Constellar and the First Families, she had learned to leaven her enthusiasm for fresh opportunities with a healthy dose of realistic expectation. Timetables were a guideline, not an absolute. Someone or something was always early, as well as always late. You would seldom have everything you wanted, but you could usually get what you needed—with a little creative fudging around the edges. And, most important of all, the requirements of the mission at the outset would never match the requirements of the mission at the conclusion.
That last axiom had bitten Admiral Mikton in the ass on more than one occasion. Most famously during the DSOD’s rout at the hands of a Nautilan invasion fleet, during the battle for the planet Cartarrus. It had been the one and only time then-Commodore Mikton found herself personally leading the defense, after the destruction of Fleet Admiral Hichel’s flagship. For a full week, Mikton had leveraged less than ten Constellar warships against twenty frontline Nautilan vessels. For her trouble, Commodore Mikton cost herself more than half her force—along with almost a thousand lives—while inflicting an impressive eight kills. And still she lost the system, eventually retreating through the Waypoint in her damaged prototype battlecruiser.
Just one more star crossed off the Constellar map. Another piece of free soil annexed during Nautilan’s bloated, monolithic march toward total Waywork domination.
Too many of the DSOD’s battles had gone like that during Zuri’s lifetime. The giant wall of names attached to the war memorial at Constellar’s capital spoke of numerous friends lost to the never-ending fight. And while Zuri’s remaining peers might have understandingly forgiven her for the defeat at Cartarrus, the Constellar Council’s ever-enduring War Directorate did not.
Thus Commodore Mikton found herself quietly promoted out of her extant command, and placed in charge of the DSOD forces watching over Planet Oswight, and the Oswight Family holdings in their system.
It was an auxiliary role, supporting the main effort to hold the line against more Nautilan incursions. Oswight didn’t have a lot of people, but its moons could build ships. Those ships were vital to bolstering Constellar’s combat assets in other systems. Presumably, Nautilan had its eye on Oswight. But there were other, more strategically important targets to be handled first. Thus Admiral Mikton had spent the last five years of her life as a planet-bound administrator. Making sure her Waypoint was effectively ready for an attack that never came. Knowing her days as a tactician—leading potential assaults which might liberate conquered worlds—were over.
Now?
The dice were suddenly being rolled again.
Admiral Mikton would not be present to learn about the strategic shifts DSOD would make, to deal with the unheard of manifestation of a new Waypoint in a new system. She would be on the other side. For better or for worse, this was her chance to once again do something. Put Constellar back on the advance. Take fresh ground. Hold it. Erase her failure at Cartarrus.
Not that her flimsy expeditionary force to the new system would match up against even half the number of Nautilan ships which had hit Cartarrus. There were new ships being brought online from Oswight’s yards every year, but they lacked both Keys and trained crews. Besides which, every day Admiral Mikton delayed acting was a day Nautilan might use to move people and equipment across their own Slipway to the new star.
It was a now or never proposition.
So, Zuri made do with the ships she had to work with, as well as the people attached to those ships. Many of them were gathered before her now. It was a quickly assembled briefing, just prior to departing for orbit.
The Antagean fellow seemed solid enough. He was a fish out of water in his ill-fitted uniform—one size too large, it turned out—but his eyes were sharp, and he spoke both intelligently and with the experience of a man who had done time traversing the Waywork in the service of his father’s company. She’d have taken him, on account of his authority over his father’s three starliners, even without Antagean’s reserve credentials. That he had DSOD military training was just a bonus. It meant he knew how to follow orders, and could also think within the DSOD’s operational framework. Would he be cool under fire?
The scion of Family Oswight was younger. But seemed able. She would double as the mission’s Waymaker expert. Lady Garsina did not travel in the resplendent gowns of a tourist. She wore clothing better suited to xenoarcheology, and had a tough-looking majordomo always at her side. The older man’s silver-streaked beard and mustache were trimmed military neat, and he was built like a rocket stack. He had the ceremonial sword of his Lady’s house strapped to one hip, and an outsized sidearm—with use-worn handle—riding on the other. Like his charge, the majordomo’s clothing was suited for austerity, though his shoulders had epaulets bearing the colorful crest of Family Oswight. Other handlers and servants obeyed the majordomo without question.
Best of all, the entire entourage brought with them Family Oswight’s interstellar yacht. Which would nicely compliment the other civilian ships Admiral Mikton commanded. If the far side of the new Waypoint could be secured, the yacht was small enough to fit into the bays of some of the larger ships in Commodore Iakar’s flotilla. Thus allowing Mikton to begin shuttling Iakar’s assets across the Slipway, one at a time, while auxiliary ships from beyond could be brought in to reinforce the Oswight side.
A process which would have been much faster and easier, if Mikton had had more Keys to work with. But she didn’t. Ships—and commands—along the frontier with Nautilan took priority. So Mikton would have to do it the hard way. At least until the DSOD could mobilize at the strategic level. If they mobilized. A decision which would only be made once Mikton had returned a proper survey report.
To that end, Antagean’s starliners were going to be kept busy. Lacking armament, they would be used for two things: making detailed charting runs on the new system’s planets, and carrying DSOD troops and equipment—for an initial outpost—across the Slipway. As with the Family Oswight yacht, the Antagean starliners could eventually be used for piggybacking additional warships to the new system. But first came the chore of figuring out which of the new system’s worlds—if any—would be worth fighting to keep.
Everyone assembled seemed anxious to get moving.
Zuri climbed up on an interstellar modular freight crate, and cleared her throat.
“I’ll make it quick,” Mikton said loudly, so that the scrum of personnel occupying the small spaceport holding bay could hear her. “Once we reach orbit, my flag transfers to the frigate Catapult. All directives for this Task Group will be issued from there. You will take orders from me, or from my deputy, Commodore Urrl. If need be, the Task Group can also look to the Catapult’s captain as acting group leader. Many of you may be unused to taking commands from people in uniform. Try to remember that what we do, we do out of utmost need. You’ve all been previously briefed about the specifics of the Task Group’s mission. I’m here now to tell you that there’s far more to this expedition than simply laying claim to a piece of territory.
“For as long as any of us can remember, Starstate Constellar has been under threat from its largest neighbor. We’ve tried peace treaties, as well as alliances with the other Starstates, and none of it’s held back Starstate Nautilan’s relentless quest to consume our nation.
“We—the people in this room—cannot allow Nautilan to advance one light-year farther. There’s no clue, yet, to tell us what we’ll find on the other side of the new Waypoint. We’ll know more when we can rendezvous with the monitor Daffodil, which serves as our vanguard. Suffice it to say that we’re claiming the new system, not just for the Constellar Council, but for the future of liberty in the Waywork as a whole. The freedom of your children, and your children’s children, may depend on what we each do—in these next few days, or weeks, or even months.
“I therefore call on each of you to do your duty to the last. Not just as employees. Nor merely as paid soldiers of the state. But as patriots. Men and women who know what it means to serve a cause higher than themselves. If you believe you can’t do that—if you can’t look me in the eye and follow me over the Slipway—now is the time to raise your hand, and back out.”
Every head in the bay swiveled back and forth, waiting.
There were no takers.
“Very well then,” Admiral Mikton said. “Get to your clippers. Have a safe launch. And, may God favor the bold and the free!”
“VICTORY WITH HONOR, HURRAH, HURRAH!” every DSOD member thundered back at her, completing the time-honored Constellar military motto.
Some of the civilians shouted too, including the Lady Oswight’s majordomo—who hollered loudest of all.
The scrum immediately broke, with people going this way and that, all rushing to get to their respective concourses. Admiral Mikton’s deputy, along with their small cluster of staff officers, proceeded through the southeastern pressure hatch, which led into a long subterranean tube stretching out underneath the spaceport’s kilometers of tarmac. The tube flooring was a moveable beltway, split down the middle by a safety railing, with one half going out to the launch gantries, and the other half going back to the terminals. One by one, each of the staff stepped on and were whisked away, serenaded by the sound of humming machinery.
Outside of her small security valise, Admiral Mikton carried nothing. She’d previously packed all of her duffels, and sent them ahead to be stowed with the bulk cargo. It had been a long time since she’d been to space. As the motorized beltway carried her closer and closer to the clipper which would take her into orbit, Zuri felt a small thrill of excitement.
“Quite a thing to be witnessing fulfillment of the Word,” said the officer standing on the beltway directly behind the admiral.
Zuri turned and looked at the short man, who wore a DSOD uniform similar to her own, but with the frocking of a priest draped around his neck. Chaplain Ortteo wasn’t considered mission-essential for this expedition, but DSOD policy said flag officers conducting field operations had to carry at least one. So Ortteo was it.
In truth, Zuri didn’t have much use for men of the cloth. She’d been a skeptic of organized faith most of her adult life, and didn’t believe in the literal truth of the Word—though the Word was invoked numerous times in both Constellar law and DSOD doctrine. As to the specific part of the Word which Chaplain Ortteo was citing, Zuri could not guess.
“You’ll forgive me if I am not up on scripture,” she said.
“Eighteenth Prophecy,” Chaplain Ortteo said with a smile. “The fifth passage reads, ‘When men have dwelled long enough in darkness, God shall open a doorway through the loneliest wall of heaven.’ Later in the same Prophecy, the thirteenth passage says, ‘Going forward on ships of fire, the wicked and the righteous will each claim dominion over hallowed soil. And the bones of the dead shall rise and speak, passing judgment.’ There’s a lot more in the Eighteenth, but you get the idea.”
“Do you believe that’s what’s happening now?” Zuri asked.
“I think it’s a distinct possibility,” Ortteo said enthusiastically.
“The Prophecies have all been interpreted and reinterpreted to mean many sorts of things,” Zuri reminded him. “A lot of the time, whether the specific interpretation is correct or not depends purely on how willing the listener is to subjectively ignore the parts in the passages which don’t fit our present reality.”
“Quite true, Admiral,” Ortteo said. “But I remain an optimist. After all, we are participating in something historic, are we not? A doorway has been opened, yes? I can’t ignore the similarities and still call myself faithful to the Word. On some level, it all has to be true somehow. Regardless of whether or not our interpretation is correct.”
“So,” Zuri said, “does that make us the ‘righteous’ from that story, or do we get to be the other guys?”
Chaplain Ortteo laughed heartily.
“I am hoping God is charitable with Starstate Constellar.”
“Let’s both hope that,” Zuri said, and patted the religious officer on his shoulder.
Arriving at the beltway’s end, Admiral Mikton led the way to the third of five different lifts, each ascending up a separate clipper gantry. The lift car was vacuum-proofed, its double doors opening with a slight hiss—as the pressure in the car equalized with the pressure at the gantry’s base. The lot of them could squeeze into the car, but just barely. When the doors shut, Admiral Mikton felt her stomach jolt, as the lift car shot upward. Her stomach jolted again when the car quickly stopped, and then she was exiting through the double doors into the pressurized gangway leading across to the hatch of the clipper itself.
A space-suited orderly was waiting for them, and saluted as the admiral approached.
“We’re fully fueled and ready to fly, ma’am,” he said.
“Any problems with the clippers which have taken off so far?” Admiral Mikton asked.
“Not so far as I know, ma’am. We’re coming up on our window for launch, so if you’ll allow me to show you to your seats, we’ll be on our way.”
Like almost every spacecraft in existence, both large and small, the clipper was constructed in the manner of a building—its decks stacked perpendicular to the engines, like the floors of a skyscraper. When under thrust, the ship and its crew would experience a comfortable facsimile of gravity. For launch, however, both crew and passengers would be restricted to gee chairs. In the case of passengers specifically, those gee chairs were equipped with quick-deploy shrouds, so that no one catching a lift to orbit need bother with a clumsy suit. If the clipper depressurized, the shrouds would deploy and maintain individual atmosphere for every occupant until help arrived, or the crew—who were in suits—could get the clipper to a safe harbor.
Admiral Mikton took her seat with the rest of her staff, buckling herself in tightly. Each gee chair was angled forty-five degrees to the plane of the deck, ensuring that when the engines kicked off, blood would not rush dangerously from any heads. Small lap tables, with attached display screens and keyboards, could be deployed from the sides, swinging around to rest over a passenger’s knees. Zuri used hers to call up a real-time chart showing the number of clippers which had already departed, and those yet to go. Inquiries from the ships in orbital dock had already begun to funnel into the Task Group command team message queue. While the rest of the passengers got settled, and the countdown to liftoff wound down, Admiral Mikton flagged those items she needed to attend to personally, and deferred the rest to her deputy, who would answer as he was able.
For the first few minutes of flight, there wouldn’t be much to do except hang on tight.
Just before the flight deck signaled the all clear to light the engines, Zuri switched her screen to show a perpendicular view out the side of the clipper’s nose. She could see the other clippers being readied in their gantries, and the smooth surface of the tarmac terminating in the far distance, against a backdrop of jumbled rock, further backed by jagged hills. The sky over those hills was beige, fading to rust red, which faded to black—with Planet Oswight’s main sun casting stark shadows to one side of the irregular mountains. For a brief moment, Zuri wondered if she would ever return to see that barren landscape again.
Then the clipper was shaking and roaring—its cluster of fusion-rocket motors blasting a mechanized dragon’s breath down into the ducted baffles beneath the clipper’s launch stand. An audible thunk-a-thunk announced that the clipper’s gantry had cut loose, and the clipper began to rise. Slowly, but only for the first few seconds. Then, with increasing vigor—the acceleration pressing everyone aboard into the ample cushioning of their gee chairs.
In her officer candidate days, Zuri would have given a whoop and a holler. Now, she simply smiled to herself. Enjoying the muscular, robust feeling of the clipper defying Planet Oswight’s gravity, as the ship climbed faster and faster for orbit. The view on her screen gradually revolved and tipped over, until the landscape was gone altogether. Just the stars showed—bright and perfect.
Zuri had experienced such launches countless times, but she never ceased to wonder how it must have been for the first human beings—far back in the mists of a different age—who’d gone into space. Had they been terrified? Exhilarated? A combination of both? How had the gravity of ancient, lost Earth compared to the worlds people now inhabited? The modern clipper used a hydrogen-fusion powerplant design which had not changed in hundreds of years. What had the very first spacecraft used? Chemical rockets? Solid fuel? Had the first spacefaring human beings, cocooned within the earliest spacecraft designs, been confident that their vessels would survive launch, and return?
So much about that era was eternally buried behind the wall of ignorance known as the Exodus. The home world of all humans, their star, and the other planets which surrounded it, were phantoms of legend—sources of endless speculation, some of which ran wild. Had the people of Earth been supremely long-lived and intelligent, possessing unfathomable wisdom and technology?
Or had they been more like the humans of the Waywork?
The fact that the Exodus had happened at all seemed to be ample evidence for the latter scenario. The war which had driven humanity from its birthplace must have been terrible indeed. Though very few details of that war remained. The survivors had escaped in slower-than-light arks—mammoth vessels more akin to mobile asteroids than the spacecraft used in the Waywork today. With no Keys nor any Waywork to utilize, the arks crept through interstellar space at a snail’s pace. For generations. Desperately seeking clement shores, on which to build new lives, and new civilizations.
All the arks which had eventually reached the Waywork had been subsequently cannibalized or destroyed. Like Earth, they lived now only in legend. As did the other arks which had presumably gone wide of the Waywork. Stranded forever in the vastness of interstellar night? Settling isolated colonies forever cut off from the rest of those who survived? Perishing—voiceless—amidst the timeless immensity of the galaxy itself?
The new system, waiting for Zuri’s Task Group, would hopefully answer some of these questions.