Force Majeure
Michael Z. Williamson
Part 1
The base was a hollowed-out five-kilometer planetoid. It started as a project for a remote facility for austere support training, itself a training exercise.
Then the UN invaded, and the exercise became real. It was built out in a matter of days. The passageways, spaces, even the bays were roughhewn in the silicate, the precision-machined hatches in odd contrast to the blasted and burned gray material. It contained billeting with furniture, life support, limited vat and hydroponic food production, a power plant, docking pylons and umbilici, offices for staff, cargo bays and even rec facilities.
Factory ship FMS Force provided most of the tools, materials and labor to convert a barren rock lacking even a chart listing into a crude but functional dock for small boats to engage in low-level resistance of the UN invaders.
Force was five hundred meters of ugly, tubular hull, stuffed with every machine tool in existence, with the ability to fabricate as many more as it needed, or anything a fighting unit might require. With days or weeks between star systems, a war could be lost awaiting resupply. Force and her sister ships provided assets on location, from ammo to fuel to vehicles to custom weapons, replacement boots or armor, or even a ship. If a chemical analysis and blueprints existed or could be made, she could fabricate it, as long as there was raw material in her holds.
She could build anything, but she couldn’t fight. Her point defense was limited. She was possibly the best combat-support craft in human history—the base being evidence of that—but not a combatant.
Force was low on resources, and Captain Francis Yates wasn’t sure what the future held. Surrender was unpalatable, but might be inevitable. Without a fleet carrier, he was stranded in-system—neither money nor engineering had yet made it possible for Force to have phase drive. They were stuck supporting a tiny fleet of gunboats and stealth insertion craft, who were doing something he wasn’t told about, that seemed to be irritating the enemy. But he couldn’t offer them much more at this point.
He ran through a mental tally of the damage so far. It was depressing and terrifying. All three ground bases, bombed with kinetic kills. Jefferson, Marou, Taniville, Westport were all occupied. The jump points were all under UN control. Half the fleet weren’t accounted for. Several were IDed as lost, others as seized in-system, unable to escape. Most of those were known to have taken some level of damage in either combat or capture denial procedures. None were known to have been scuttled outright.
All this over a desire to be left alone, he thought. The videos didn’t show much detail, just dust clouds over the bases. The broadcasts from the habitats documented attack, concern, occupation, and then switched to cheerful UN talking heads insisting all was well.
Control the communications and the oxygen, he reflected, and you utterly control a space habitat.
The groundside broadcasts lasted a bit longer, but also switched to happy propaganda. That meant the ground forces hadn’t been able to stop occupation of media and presumably the minimal Freehold government.
* * *
Space Communications Tech 1 Gerry Mati broke his thoughts.
“Sir, message from Station Control for you.” Mati’s South Islands accent was fast but crisp.
“Got it.” Yates opened his display and pulled up a headset. One kept C-deck quiet, and it just might be a sensitive communication.
“Captain Yates, go ahead Control.”
The control officer said, “Captain, I have some news.”
“Good?”
“News,” the tech said evenly. “Sleipnir is coming in system to retrieve you. They have an operation.”
Sleipnir was a fleet carrier, intended to haul non–stardrive craft where needed. They had a large reactor, a huge frame, and a sizeable crew.
He noted, “I have almost nothing to support them with.” He settled his body into his couch. It would make working easier. Though he was broad enough across the shoulders the couch always felt snug, despite being programmed to fit him.
Control replied, “That’s understood. They have some resources.”
“Very well. I’ll need the data and orders. Is this immediate?”
“To reduce detection profile, yes. Less signature is better.”
“Then I guess action on the war is good. Shoot it over and we’ll get to work.”
The officer sounded wistful. “It’s been awe-inspiring to watch you and your crew work. Please relay our thanks and kudos to your crew.”
“I will. Thank you for giving us a mission and a purpose.”
He didn’t ask how the information got here. The boats carried some, and there were rumors of piggyback signals on the UN-controlled network and entertainment feeds. Low density, but apparently discreet and effective.
The orders and data had them reaching a point far out in the Halo in two weeks. That was a long, slow movement. It would minimize signature, though. If they boosted all out, the ship used continent-years of energy that would be easy to locate. There was nothing to hide behind in deep space.
By the end of the day, the crew detached for liaison, duty, and recreation were all back aboard. The ship unshackled and nudged free on maneuvering thrusters, then engaged drive to take them out. There were no signals, not even tightbeam. The base was as close to blackbody as possible. It was small, wrapped in a fluff of vacgel that absorbed radiation going in or coming out, and made as few transmissions as possible. It would be hard to detect or suspect, and the boat pilots would scramble the coordinates if threatened.
Force powered away gently, minimizing her own signature, bound for the war but at a very leisurely pace.
* * *
Fourteen days of her nineteen-day course elapsed. Somewhere ahead was the fleet carrier Sleipnir, ready to grapple them and depart system. They’d know when they got there.
Somewhere behind was a UN warship in a trajectory that didn’t match, but wasn’t far off. They seemed to be conducting search sweeps. The only option was to continue slow, steady boost and hope they couldn’t see Force against the background. Sudden variations would be more noticeable.
At this point, if anything had happened to the carrier, or they’d astrogated incorrectly, they’d have to find a way to evacuate the crew, scuttle the ship, and attempt to reach and hide in one of the habitats or on the ground.
We had our own nation, dammit. But we couldn’t accept the UN requirements for membership, and we couldn’t remain a colony. Now we’re an entire system of refugees and rebels.
Still, orders were orders, and he represented his nation. He’d do his damndest to be part of whatever was going on, whether it delayed the inevitable, allowed time for diplomacy, or just for residents to disperse away from the invaders.
The commo contact flashed. Tech Mati swiped to accept.
“Vessel identified as FMS Force, this is UNS Montevideo. You are ordered to proceed at best safe speed to Station Ceileidh and make orbit. All forces of the Grainne Colony will revert to UN control. Please respond and comply.”
The message wasn’t totally unexpected. But knowing all major Freehold Forces installations were smoking craters, it was iodine in an open wound.
Yates looked across the control center at his staff, arranged in a circle, each G couch in a pie-section-shaped block of controls.
“We can’t fight. Can we outrun them?”
Tactical Officer Lieutenant Rievley linked Astrogator Farana’s display to his. He scrolled, swiped, and sent something back to her. A moment later it popped on Yates’s display.
Farana replied, “Sir, Montevideo is a cruiser. She can chase us and eventually catch us.”
Yates looked at the curves and decided, “Wait for their warning hail, then respond. Then dial the thrust down slowly. How long can we reasonably delay intercept?”
“No more than three days. At least one,” she said, having already calculated the curves. She was tiny with a slim build. All her development had gone into her brain.
“That’s our strategy. Hopefully we can get close enough for Sleipnir to take us.”
As anticipated, the second hail was more sternly worded.
“Ship identified as FMS Force. Please heed previous transmission at once. Further disobedience will be considered a hostile act and grounds for engagement.”
“They won’t even allow us our own name,” he said in irritated amusement. “Comply as discussed.”
Farana touched controls and the thrust curve changed, imperceptibly at first, then just barely noticeably.
Mati replied, “Montevideo, this is FMS Force. We have received your transmission. We are reducing thrust and will make most efficient way to your stated position. We are a support ship on a deep-space training and provisioning mission. We presume there is a military emergency we have not been informed of. Please advise the nature of the situation.”
He watched across the arc as Farana furiously worked her screen, grid, touchpad, and even scratched some markings on a second screen with her fingertip. He knew she was plotting the best curves possible.
The transmission lag was thirty-two seconds. Thirty-two light-seconds was a good distance, but it wasn’t good enough to prevent interception.
“Ship identified as FMF Force, as stated before, all craft of the former Grainne Colony are reverting to UN control. This process began over a week ago.”
Lag.
Mati replied, “Montevideo, this is Force. Under whose authority is this change?”
Lag.
“Ship identified as FMS Force: This is UN authority.”
Yates tapped a message for Mati to repeat.
“Montevideo, this is Force. As we are an unarmed support ship, we are complying with your directive. Please officially note we do so under protest and expect a hearing at an Admiralty court.”
The awaited reply was, “Yeah, whatever.”
Mati snarked, “He seems nice.”
Farana pinged for attention. Important, not critical, or she’d have spoken. He looked over.
“Astrogator?”
“Sir, I have a trajectory. It will give us two days and some to deny resources to the enemy.”
He was about to reply when another message came in, coded.
“Force, this is Sleipnir. Immediately proceed to Plot Point Alpha. We will rendezvous.”
The message had cut through on priority.
Farana raised her eyebrows and said, “That’s a bastard of a trajectory change on their part. As in, I can see the trail. That means Montevideo can, too.”
“They have big reactors. Can we keep ahead of Montevideo?”
“For a while. Let me check drive efficiency.”
A seg later she said, “I’ve got our best plot. They can possibly intercept short term, though.”
He asked, “Can we release debris to delay them?”
Rievley shook his head a fraction and said, “Not enough to matter. If they go balls out, they can catch us, but then they have to call for recovery for themselves. I suspect they won’t. Your call, sir?”
“Let me see the plot.”
Farana flashed it to his comm, and he glanced over it. Montevideo would get within weapon range, but not reliably. Did they want to waste weaponry on a noncombatant support ship? That as far as they knew had no support? Probably not.
“I don’t see a way to do better. Proceed.”
Shortly, another message repeated, “Ship identified as FMS Force, stand down or be fired upon.”
“Ignore that. Can they hit us?”
Rievley replied, “Not reliably. Five percent chance.”
“Well, this is a war. Five percent is better than fifty. Keep running.”
Rievley corrected, “They might actually make ten percent.”
“Still worth it.”
“And they’ve fired.”
He felt a ripple of shock. This was it, because obviously the pursuers thought it was worth wasting a missile.
“Bastards. Track?”
He could just see the man’s head shake as he replied, “Not defined at this point. Other than it’s in the right cone.”
“Yes, please update.”
“Will do.”
Moments later, Farana said, “I don’t like the plot curve. We’re safe until recovery, but we can’t drive hard enough to get away. They can keep shooting and may get a cleaner shot, especially if telemetry from this one helps their placement.”
“Overboost. My order. You may go to Never Exceed power level if you need to.”
“I need five percent over that to make it work, and one twenty-five percent of boost.”
And that’s why I’m Captain.
“Do it. But ease off as soon as you can.”
“Will do. Stand by for power.” She sounded the emergency klaxon and boost alert, waited barely three seconds, and eased the engines up, .5G, 1G, 1.5G, 1.8, 2.3…
The entire spaceframe hummed with vibration as material was stressed beyond intended limits. His screens showed reactor temperature rising, containment holding but taking wear at a dangerously accelerated rate, driveline temperature getting into the red, and the driveline losing efficiency as he watched. Days of fuel were disappearing in seconds.
Then the boost cut.
Rievley advised, “Interception definitely below fifty percent.”
“Well, that’s good to know.” On the one hand they wanted to avoid capture. On the other hand, marooned in deep space was only a moral win by denying the ship to the enemy, which they had much more survivable means of accomplishing.
He added, “Ignore all further transmissions. That is, I don’t need to hear them unless it’s a game changer. Log them for later intel.”
Mati said, “All they’re doing is repeating their orders and shouting.”
“Well, good.” If they were talking, they weren’t sure of their intercept, either.
Five segs later Rievley announced, “Interception below forty percent.”
“Noted.”
Shortly he added, “Interception below forty-four percent.”
Yates prickled. “It’s up?”
“Better readings. I’m still confident.”
He didn’t say, I hope so. “Thank you. Accuracy is appreciated.”
There was a long, tense pause as they awaited more data.
Eventually, Rievley noted, “Below thirty-eight percent.”
“I like this trend.”
Nothing happened for a long time. That was space. You tried to guess what was happening at a distance with light lag, and waited to see if you were correct.
Near the end of the div the tactical officer spoke with a much brighter tone.
“Sir, it’s below thirty percent, and I’m going to state I don’t think they’ve got a shot. Professional estimate.”
“Thank you.”
“In fact, I’m calling it under thirty percent on a near miss, no chance of a hit.”
One-third chance of a near miss could still wreck them badly. Under these circumstances that would be as lethal as a hit, and in fact potentially worse if it was a slow death.
Long segs went by with normal watchstanding, but everyone was aware of the risk behind.
Mati reported, “Sleipnir wants an update.”
“Give them one.”
“Yes, sir. Sending them our plot curves.”
“How is pursuit?”
Rievley was already replying, “Their missile just lost boost. I expect readings on an abort detonate momentarily…and there it is.”
Yates let out a breath from his tight chest. “Good. That’s one threat taken care of.”
They still had to dock with Sleipnir.
They had two days and change before they reached it. He ordered repair to all damage, minimum power to nonessential services, and asked if Sleipnir needed anything.
Long segs later, there was a reply.
Mati said, “Sir, they say they’re fine but other elements will need whatever we can spare.”
“Noted.” The war didn’t sound promising. He wasn’t going to say that aloud. But perhaps some neutral system would give them asylum? Though the number of non-UN systems was few, and those who could ignore a UN order…that was pretty much Govannon only.
Well, Sleipnir obviously had some kind of info and a destination in mind. For now, he and his crew were alive, had support, and there was still some sort of chain of command. The only news came from a very biased UN source, but seemed to show a pretty complete takedown and a lot of deaths of the ground forces, occupation of everything. There was no way to know what the rest of the Space Command looked like.
The insults from Montevideo tapered off to notional “official” sanctions that meant nothing unless they were captured, though at that point, they’d claim all kinds of theft and misappropriation of a ship they claimed title to without occupation.
“—Command crew, you are ordered to seize control from the captain, who is committing piracy and mutiny of a UN vessel—”
“—Crew of the ship identified as FMS Force, under instruction of the UN Military Bureau, you are ordered to apprehend the command crew, hold them under arrest, and contact us for instructions on repatriation. Compliance with this directive will exempt all parties from any criminal charges—”
He wondered what repercussions Montevideo might face for not apprehending them. Force was not a warship, she was an ungainly pile of machinery, holds and spare parts.
He followed their track, and that of Sleipnir. They were closing as planned, but he’d never done a deep-space docking before. No one had. Fleet carriers held orbit or station with known coordinates. Matching two orbits wasn’t that hard in near space. Out here, they’d need precision measurements to get close, and then have to treat it as a single movement to intercept between them.
“I think we can resume normal watches, with an alert and sensor crew keeping an eye on the Montevideo’s movements. Stand by for normal rotation.”
At the top of the div, First Officer Ship Commander Roy Brody came in to relieve him. Yates noted his concerns and status.
“I will be resting, but do not hesitate to call me if there is an issue. Note that you have full authority for emergency and combat orders in my absence. Use it as needed.”
“Understood, and aye, sir. Rest well.”
“I will.” He’d try at least. Brody was very competent, but letting someone else have command authority was always like letting someone else steer you downslope on skis.
* * *
Late the next day they were close enough to match with Sleipnir. It was actually anticlimactic. The carrier had had three days to assume a workable position. Farana brought them up from astern. There was one long thrust correction to match orbits, and they drifted closer over two divs. One short thrust brought them almost parallel, a few hundred meters apart, Force a stubby tube next to the giant gantry of Sleipnir. A nudge closed that gap. One more slowed that and they eased into the framework.
“Force, stand by for rendezvous and docking.”
The entire ship clattered as it always did on hookup. It went a lot faster, though. Neither wanted to remain where enemy ships might pursue a known location, and there was a war to fight in some fashion, somewhere else.
Typically, hookup took about twenty segs. It was barely over twelve when the connection crew leader called via wire and advised, “Force, we are engaged. Your drive is locked. I am relaying to you that phase drive is imminent. CiC should contact you momentarily, but I request you make ready.”
“Acknowledged, Sleipnir.”
“Also, we’ll need your fuel to reach destination.”
“We can transfer when you are ready.” Gods, that meant things were tight. Sleipnir wouldn’t have made it out. They’d apparently come in-system short of juice, just to catch Force.
Mati relayed, “All hands, stand by for phase entry. All non–phase crew make immediate restraint.”
Through their network, the carrier’s C-deck announced, “Stand by for phase entry.”
There it was. Thrust first barely felt, then increasing to full drive, likely 1.7G standard, with oscillations and vibrations as the docking hardware shifted under stress. That was followed by the shivering twists one felt as the universe changed its entire shape around one.
There had been no courtesy call or official contact from the Sleipnir. Just “Hurry and we’ll need your fuel.”
Once safely in the phase field, both ships extended fueling umbilici, connected, and Force also became an external tank. That was one advantage of the fleet carrier. Any resources and personnel could be easily moved between other vessels.
Shortly they were transferring fuel, what precious little they had.
It was only then the expected command call came.
“Captain Yates, this is Captain Kacito.” Her sharp face was familiar and a relief. They weren’t alone in the dark anymore.
“Captain, first, thank you very much for assisting in our escape. On behalf of my crew and myself. And then, pleased to see you. I’d request permission to dock, but…”
“Yes, no niceties, for which I apologize, but we are bound for an emergency point. How up to date are you?”
“Ah, we’re at war with the UN, and the Freehold has been hit hard. We were supporting several smaller boats and helped fit out a remote base in-system.”
Kacito frowned. She replied, “That’s all correct, but doesn’t begin to cover the magnitude. I’ll dump the entire known SitAn, and you should probably join me for a face-to-face summary.”
“Yes, Captain. At your convenience.”
“As soon as we reach destination.”
Watchstanding was easy in phase drive. Sleipnir handled everything related to the mission. All the crew had to do was maintain shipboard operations.
Three days later, they had most of their repairs accomplished, though some tweaking would take external analysis which the carrier could do for them in normal space.
Which could be soon. They were warned of phase exit, and shortly precipitated.
He decided he’d better wear Class A instead of a shipsuit, just to maintain decorum and etiquette. He rose from his couch and stretched, awaiting Third Officer Alito to relieve him.
Astrogator Farana had a quizzical look on her face as she checked her screens.
“This is interstellar.”
“Farana?”
She elaborated, “Sir, we’re nowhere. Not in any system.”
“I see.”
“But there’s a facility here. A very rough one, with a single dock port. Three ships are in slow parking orbits. Jack Churchill is one, and two smaller craft, heavily stealthed.”
“I will inquire.”
A query to Fleet provided an explanation.
Command Navigator Morales came on view and said, “Yes. Only astrogators know the location. And until the UN gets their phase drive ships online, they can’t get here anyway. Though they could infiltrate or charter, buy, or steal a craft. Sorry, ‘commandeer.’”
“Well, we’re in. What are we doing?”
“You’ll be fabbing everything with what material you have. Should I tell the captain to expect you, sir?” he asked, reminding Yates there was a process.
“Of course, I’m on my way and available at your captain’s pleasure.”