— 2 —
Mondy knocks on the hatch of the quarters he shares with his wife. This is no time to barge in.
"Yeah."
"Emerald, it's me."
She opens the door. She is dressed in battle grays, her kit packed beside her.
"I don't suppose I'll need much, but a change of socks is nice." Her voice is tight, her body tense, but it is an upbeat tension. This is what she lives for, is willing to die for. This is her job, and she wouldn't give it up for anything—or anybody.
"Watch your ass. I want it back in one piece." He, too, shares in the battle joy, for the first time in years. He was a reluctant combat soldier, but he now feels dignity in ridding the spaceways of criminals, and he feels pride in his companion and fellow officer. He gives her a quick but loving hug.
"I'll be back. See you tomorrow," she says, smiling; but the smile is empty, and her mind is already a million miles away.
He salutes her as she strides down the passage, her bag in one hand, and the case with her lap computer in the other.
She makes her way to the hangar deck, after joining some of her personal staff in the big freight elevator. They don't even make small talk as they proceed to the shuttle bay. They quickly launch and shuttle to the Inverness. The captain is waiting on deck.
"Request permission to conic aboard, sir," the lieutenant commander snaps out, saluting the USJ flag mounted to the bulkhead.
The captain salutes her aboard, and they head straight for the bridge, the other officers left to the duty officer for the changeless amenities.
As she accompanies Lieutenant Commander Bradford Hodges, the captain of the cruiser, Emerald muses that this timeless boarding ritual probably originated as a way of identifying crew from pirates. How little things change on the high seas!
"Where would you care to make your headquarters, ma'am?" the captain asks her, offering her the formality of her rank as a compliment. They have been friends for years.
He continues, "You are welcome on the bridge, but there is also a second command center below and amidships if you prefer."
"Bridge is fine, if you don't object, Captain," she tells him, returning the respect.
"We should be ready to launch at 0030. We're running a little late. Engineering tells me the new equipment is on board, and almost installed."
"Are we waiting for them to finish?"
"Mainly."
"Can we effect installation once we are away?"
"Yes, ma'am. It's more a matter of precaution that we be battle ready before launch."
She addresses the E6 at the communications console. "Are we on ready with the rest of the wing?"
"Confirmed with all but Hen Two and Three."
"Tell me the minute they clear."
"Yes, ma'am," the technician answers, without ever taking his eyes off the console,
"You have until we clear the rest of the wing, Captain. Then it's go. We're on a clock."
"Yes. ma'am."
"It's a go, ma'am. Repeat, Hen Two and Three are go."
The claxon goes off as the order "brace for gee" echoes through the ship.
The communications officer signals his tech, and the signal for launch is sent to each member of the wing. Up until now, ship-to-ship communications have been verbal. Now that the code is tapped in, and launch is coordinated by computer, each member of the wing becomes part of a giant bird, rising with grace from its position in the fleet and moving out into space.
Emerald thrills in the gee force. The shuddering engines give birth to raw power as the Inverness's thirteen kilotons fight to deny the laws Newton noted but never created. Emerald is slammed into the padded launch couch. For some men and women the driving force is money or sex. For her it is the navy; for all its bullshit, she feels more than alive immersed in its massive power and discipline. She knows that this strategy must succeed. And she has to facilitate the tactics to make it work. For herself. For her unit. For her service.
Before long, the internal inertial frame is equalized enough for everyone to start about their business. The first order is a sharp complaint from Engineering that some of the new equipment was too far along toward installation to be stowed and there was some damage at launch.
Emerald takes a quick survey of her station, puts the next ranking line officer from her small staff in charge, and personally goes below.
The Engineering officer is a tall gangly man, a fact she surmises by the length of the legs emerging from under the twisted command console. He pulls himself out, hands his socket wrench to an enlisted man, and glowers at her.
"Ma'am—" he begins with measured control.
"Please, Lieutenant. Let me apologize," she interrupts, smiling in a reassuring way. There is no point making enemies, and she would have been just as livid if someone had screwed over one of her assigned operations. "I gave you the wet end of the stick. No lie. We are in a serious time bind. Do what you can here. I'll take full responsibility for the damage and its consequences. But we couldn't delay launch."
Somewhat mollified, or at least too boxed in to argue, the lieutenant asks, "If you allow me, ma'am, these look like drone controls. Last time I looked we weren't a carrier."
"That's right. Lieutenant," she answers, then turns without comment and heads back to her command, leaving the officer more puzzled than angry.
She has learned what she needed to know. Six drone command modules are in place, one is dubious but probably not in irreparable condition, and the other two are even now being dragged against the ambient gee forces, out of their webbing and onto the deck, So far, so good.
She returns to the bridge, where the maneuver is on course and on time.
The captain comes over to her console and says, "I had an ensign take your bag to Lieutenant Dixon's quarters. She's the analyst you requested. We don't have VIP quarters set up, and I thought you wouldn't mind bunking with the lieutenant. I doubt any of us are going to get any rest, anyhow."
"Thank you, Brad. I'm sure that will be fine."
He waves a young woman from her post. She turns her console over to a tech, and obeys the order. "Lieutenant Dixon, why don't you show Commander Sheller to your quarters. This may be all the quiet we get."
"Yes, sir." As they make their way down from the bridge and through the ship to the officers' quarters, Emerald notes that the sturdy young woman wears a shiny new academy ring.
"What's a nice girl like you doing in a chicken-shit unit like this?" Emerald asks, smiling.
The officer guffaws. "When I graduated, damn near the top of my class, I was offered a staff position in Intelligence on the New Washington bubble, or a staff position on a navigational bubble. I wanted a line career and upward mobility. This rat pack offered advancement and battle experience. And pretty good drinking buddies."
Emerald agrees with the woman. This is the unit where careers can be made—or lost. But she promises herself that if she ever attains flag rank, she will do what she can for women like Dixon.
The cabin is small, but comfortable. Emerald quickly stows her gear, and they return to the bridge. Just as Emerald settles again into her command post, radar announces, "Bogey at two o'clock."
The captain, the exec, and Emerald are first around the large display. Indeed there is a blip, distinguished among the space junk by its speed and course.
"Well?" the captain asks.
"Don't know yet. sir. Could be n rock. But it doesn't move like a rock. No hot spots, but life readings are hard to get through a hull." When all is said and done, this is still as much an art as a science. With maybe a little magic for good measure.
"I want a regression course. Where is it coming from?"
The display appears on the screen in microseconds, but it doesn't help much.
"Ma'am," Dixon offers, still tapping data into a spreadsheet.
"There is a large planetoid somewhat upriver. If that thing is a vessel, it could have come from there."
"Colonists? Miners?" Emerald muses, but it is impossible to guess if it belongs to peaceful colonists, or if it is a stray salvage ship of the type that creates its own salvage.
Emerald quickly calls a war council. "If it is a raider, we could just let it come to us. That would be fuel and time efficient. But if it's a scout ship for the Marianas or one of its allies, then we're in deep shit if it gets a close look at us and gets a message out. Chances are it's a mining ship on a supply run and the whole thing is a waste of effort. What do you think?"
The electronic instrument officer is asked to brief the staff on what he can determine from the output, and Dixon adds what little is known about the area. They cannot break communication silence to get updates from the main body of the fleet.
"Sir, the bogey has changed course. That's no rock. It's paralleling our movement."
If Emerald decides to wait it out, go to Section 3.
If Emerald decides to order ships to chase the bogey down, go to section 4.