“Indianapolis, Aegis. You pretty much are. We are in the outer picket line. What is your status and mission?”
“Aegis, we just had one hell of a run past Mars. We are part of a task force that sought refuge in the Fomalhaut system. We reentered the solar system about a hundred hours ago via the Alliance transition node. The space between the belt and Mars is crawling with Lankies. My ship has taken damage, and we are almost out of fuel. En route to Earth for refueling and emergency repairs. If it’s still there.”
The reply from Aegis takes quite a bit longer than what is warranted due to the distance between us.
“Indianapolis, affirmative. Earth is still there. You are to decelerate and rendezvous with the picket task force, to proceed to Earth under escort. Do not attempt to cross the picket line without clearance, or we will employ defensive measures. Acknowledge.”
Colonel Campbell and Major Renner exchange glances. I get that unwelcome feeling in the pit of my stomach again that sets in every time I see us heading for trouble. This is not the warm welcome I had expected, and judging from the expressions all around me, Indy’s CIC crew is just as taken aback as I am.
“Aegis, acknowledge receipt of order. Be advised that Indy has significant battle damage and is running low on reactor fuel. If I burn to decelerate now, we won’t have the juice to get back to Earth, and someone will have to tow us.”
The next reply takes even longer to get back to Indy. Whoever is in charge in Aegis’s CIC apparently has to phone home for orders.
“Indianapolis, acknowledged. Go for turnaround and deceleration burn as instructed. We have a supply ship on standby that will rendezvous with us as soon as feasible and refuel your ship. Keep comms traffic to a minimum and do not deviate from your current trajectory. Acknowledge.”
“What the hell?” Major Renner says. “We squeeze past the blockade and make it to friendly space, and they’re talking to us like we have half a dozen Lankies in the cargo hold.”
“We have the acceleration advantage,” the tactical officer says. “We can go a few degrees either way, and they’ll never catch up to us. They can’t burn that hard, not even a Hammerhead.”
“We don’t know how deep that picket layer is,” Colonel Campbell says. “No point in giving them a reason to shoot at us.”
He looks at me and smirks.
“Maybe that useless one-star desk pilot and the Midway group made it back to Earth, and word of our deeds on New Svalbard has preceded us, Mr. Grayson.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Can’t say I give much of a crap right now.”
“Neither do I. We always knew we’d eventually have to face the music on that one.” Colonel Campbell signals the comms officer.“Open the channel.”
“You’re on, sir.”
“Aegis, Indy Actual. Copy your orders. We will go for turnaround burn and rendezvous for escort and refuel as instructed. Just make sure you have the fuel truck waiting, ’cause our tanks are dry.”
“Acknowledged,” comes the terse reply from Aegis.
Colonel Campbell studies the plot, our little blue icon slowly moving toward the one marked “CG-760 AEGIS.” He exhales slowly and rubs his temples with his fingertips.
“Well, you heard the order. Prepare to flip the ship and go for turnaround burn. Get me a burn calculation and stand by on main engines.”
Aegis is true to her word. When we coast into rendezvous position a few hours later, there are three ships waiting for us. One is Aegis herself, one of the fleet’s advanced Hammerhead cruisers. The other two are the destroyer Michael P. Murphy and the fleet supply ship Portland.
“Looks like you had a rough day at the office,” Portland’s boom operator sends when we are alongside to take on reactor fuel. “Those are some holes you have there.”
“You have no idea,” our comms officer replies. “Nothing but category-five shitstorms all month.”
“Yeah, same here.”
“Indianapolis, keep nonmission chatter to a minimum,” Aegis’s CIC cuts in. “Finish refueling and prepare for course and burn instructions for Earth transit.”
“Aegis, Indy. Understood.” The comms officer looks over at Colonel Campbell. “What has gotten into their underpants this morning?”
“I don’t know, but I’m rapidly getting tired of it,” the colonel says. “Let’s stow the juice. Comms, keep your ears open on the passive gear. I want to know if there’s anything weird going on. I don’t have a warm and fuzzy feeling about this.”
It takes several hours to fill Indy’s dry reactor fuel tanks. During the entire procedure, we’re connected to Portland via her refueling boom stuck into the fuel receptacle on our port side, and Aegis is flying formation on our starboard, only a few kilometers in the distance. The Hammerheads are designated as heavy cruisers, the fleet’s main offensive space-control units, but everyone calls them “battlecruisers” because of their size. Only the carriers are bigger, and even then, Aegis isn’t much smaller than an assault carrier or one of the old Intrepid-class bird farms. Her flanks are lined with rows of hatches for her missile-launch system, and there are two batteries of twin rail guns parked on her dorsal armor. I study the immaculately clean, brand-new laminate armor with the fresh paint markings, illuminated by running and position lights from bow to stern. The missiles stowed behind those hatches can punch a hole of half a cubic kilometer into a Lanky minefield, and there are nuclear missiles tucked away in vertical launchers deep in the bow that can turn a small moon into radioactive slag. The Hammerheads are the apex war machines of humanity, all our best destructive tools put into a tough and sleek hull, and so far they’ve managed to accomplish nothing against the Lanky seed ships.
“Refueling operation complete, sir,” the XO reports. “We’re back to a hundred percent on main and both aux tanks. At least they’re not stingy with their juice.”
“Probably not too many ships left to pass the fuel on to, I imagine,” Colonel Campbell says. “Comms, open a channel to Aegis and let them know we’re standing by for instructions.”
“Aye, sir.”
Portland retracts the refueling boom back into her hull and fires starboard thrusters briefly to break away from the much smaller Indy. I watch through the external camera feed as the big fleet supply ship drifts back into the darkness, position lights marking her progress.
“Indianapolis, Aegis. Transmitting waypoint data. You are to follow Murphy back to Gateway. No course deviations are authorized for any reason. Keep your comms suite cold except for communications with Murphy. Acknowledge.”
“Aegis, Indy. Understood. Why the cloak-and-dagger stuff? We don’t need a chaperone to find our way back to Gateway.” Colonel Campbell sounds a little exasperated.
“Indy, there are new security measures in place. Trust me when I tell you that you do not want to get anywhere near the inner defensive perimeter without a chaperone right now. You will follow Murphy if you want to make it to Gateway in one piece.”