Lines of Departure

“Dig in and hold on. We are coming. We’ll get there before the SRA battle group.”

 

 

“Hope you like Chinese rations,” she sends back. “The civilian admin wants to surrender the moon rather than risk destroying half his terraformers. I’ll be the first to pick a fight, but on this one I think he’s on the right track. No point winning if we have no infrastructure left.”

 

In Indy’s CIC, everyone looks as if Sergeant Fallon has just voiced some particularly offensive sacrilege, but I know that everyone present also understands that the admin is completely right. For better or worse, we subjected our little force to his control, and I realize with some shame that I am actually relieved at not having to fight yet another hopeless battle.

 

“We’re getting IFF transponder signals,” the tactical officer says. “Computer is sorting them out.”

 

The display on the holotable shows a flurry of activity as the computer updates the icons of the approaching battle group with names and hull numbers. One assault carrier, three supply ships, two frigates, and one destroyer, all SRA. One of our Hammerhead cruisers, the NACS Avenger. And one of our supercarriers—NACS Regulus, CV-2154, sister ship to the Polaris, the ship I pulled out of the hat in the assignment lottery at the end of Neural Networks School. I traded that assignment off to a fellow graduate so I could be on the Versailles with Halley, five years ago when all this started. The Navigator-class supercarriers are prized fleet assets, the biggest and most powerful units we have, and I can’t conceive of a scenario where one of them would be flying around with an SRA battlegroup escort. In the Indy’s CIC, everyone just gawks at the tactical display, trying to make sense of it.

 

“Get me the Regulus on tight-beam,” Colonel Campbell finally says to the comms officer.

 

“Aye, sir.” The comms officer plays his console for a few moments. “Go ahead, sir. You’re on tight-beam package.”

 

“Regulus, this is the NACS Indianapolis, Indy Actual, in deep space beyond New Svalbard and under stealth. We show you in the middle of a shitload of confirmed SRA warships. What gives, over?”

 

Under normal circumstances I’d have to chuckle at Colonel Campbell’s cavalier radio etiquette, but under the current ones, I almost have to laud his restraint.

 

We wait for the reply from Regulus, almost ten minutes delayed because of the two hundred million kilometers between our ships. It’s a gamble to be sending at all, but with a tight-beam link, the SRA ships shouldn’t be able to pin down our transmission, especially not at this range.

 

“Indianapolis, this is Regulus. SRA units in our company are not hostile. Repeat, SRA units are not hostile. Do not take offensive action. Proceed to New Svalbard and rendezvous with the battle group.”

 

“Regulus, Indy Actual. Like hell. I won’t do any such thing until I know that you don’t have a squad of Chinese marines in your CIC and rifle muzzles pointed at your heads.”

 

The next few minutes are almost unbearably tense as we wait for Regulus to reply to the colonel’s declaration. When the transmission arrives, it’s a different voice.

 

“Indy Actual, this is Regulus Actual, Colonel Aguilar. We are not compromised. I understand your concern, but you’ve been out of the world for a little while, and you’re unaware of the latest developments.” There’s a pause in the transmission, during which my heart pounds like it wants to leap out of my chest through my ears.

 

“We have a truce with the SRA units in our attendance,” Colonel Aguilar continues. “They are not a belligerent task force. They are refugees. And so are we. The Lankies are in our solar system.”

 

 

 

 

 

“First time I’ve ever seen one of those this close,” I say as we watch the SRA drop ship come in for a landing on the colony’s repaired drop-ship pad. The Sino-Russian designs are bigger than our Wasps and almost the size of a Dragonfly, but they look much meaner, all angles and armor plates and cannon muzzles. The SRA drop ship carries no attack ordnance on its wing pylons, but it’s still a little unsettling to stare right down those autocannon barrels. I’ve spent the last five years fighting the people who crew those ships, and now the moon is crawling with them.

 

Sergeant Fallon pulls up another chair and plops her boots down on them. We are sitting in the control tower of the airfield in front of the patched polycarb windows. In the last hour, we’ve watched a highly irregular mix of SRA and NAC drop ships, ground-attack birds, and civilian craft land and depart.

 

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