Lines of Departure

CHAPTER 27





“Gordon is doing forty-eight hundred kilometers per second,” the tactical officer says. “Time to impact: three minutes, thirty seconds.”

“Do they not see us coming?” Dr. Stewart asks.

“Maybe not,” the XO replies. “Maybe they don’t care. I doubt anyone’s ever rammed one of theirs at relativistic speed.”

The Lanky on the plot still plods down the parabolic trajectory toward New Svalbard at the same one-g acceleration he’s been pushing for the last forty hours. Nobody knows how their tech works, or if they even have tech, but whatever they use to sense their environment seems to leave them completely ignorant of the kinetic projectile hurling its way toward them at planetoid-shattering velocity. Either that, or they are aware of us and don’t consider the Gordon’s stored-up hundreds of gigatons of kinetic energy a threat, which is not a happy thought right now. I know just enough about physics to know that I understand the subject very little, and I sincerely hope Dr. Stewart is right about the destructive potential of the Gordon.

“What if they have a close-in weapons system like our ships?” I ask.

“Won’t matter a bit,” Dr. Stewart says. “It would take terajoules of energy to break that freighter apart and boil all that water away. And even if they blew it up right now, all the debris would still hit them at the same speed. Physics,” she adds with a slight smile. “Nobody’s immune to physics. I don’t care how big and tough they are.”

I watch the icons on the tactical display, the kilometer scale contracting with every passing second, and the dread in my middle is almost balanced by the excitement I feel. If we miss, or the Lanky dodges the bullet at the last second, we are as good as dead. If we don’t miss, we will have pulled off something that has never been done before, and we will get to live on. Maybe only until we get back to the colony and decide to take on the SRA force that will be moving into orbit there soon, but at least we will be going out on our terms and while putting up a fight, not exterminated like a bunch of cockroaches at the bottom of a garbage collector.

The CIC now has all hands on deck. Most of us are standing in a circle around the holotable. Dr. Stewart looks like she wishes she had something a little stronger than galley coffee right about now. Colonel Campbell’s expression is unreadable as he stands motionless with his hands behind his back. The tension in the CIC seems thick enough to refract light.

“Two minutes,” the tactical officer says.

We all watch the holographic display like it’s the last minute of the last episode of the world’s most interesting Network show.

“Come on,” the XO says under her breath. “Come on.”

The Gordon is still visible through the optical feed, a tiny speck of glowing fusion-rocket exhaust streaking through the blackness of space over 150 million kilometers in front of us. The Lanky on a reciprocal course is all but invisible to us, his presence and position only guessed by the computer based on sporadic sightings of reflections on his hull, or the occasional blacking out of star’s light in the distance. Without the Russian cruiser making a futile run for New Svalbard, we never would have known about the Lanky ship until it showed up in orbit over the colony and started landing its advance party.

“One minute.”

The shot clock on the CIC bulkhead jumps to its final two-digit seconds readout. The tactical icons on the orb are now so close together that they look like they’re on top of each other. I hold my breath as I watch the optical feed where the Gordon hurtles toward her target like an angry firefly.

Don’t miss, I think. Don’t miss, don’t miss, don’t miss.

“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.” The tactical officer’s voice cracks with stress.

“…four, three, two, one. Impact.”

Nothing happens on the optical feed. We all still see the exhaust flare of the Gordon shooting downrange at close to five thousand kilometers per second.

“F*ck,” Colonel Campbell says.

Then the display turns white with noiseless fury. The computer kicks in lens filters to prevent frying the optical array and zooms out the scale automatically. Out in deep space, a white-hot sphere expands, much brighter and closer than the far-off sun.

The Gordon didn’t miss.

The CIC erupts into cheers and shouts.

“Impact,” the tactical officer calls out over the noise, jubilation in his voice. “One point one five nine AUs.”

Next to me, Dr. Stewart lets out a long, shaky breath and runs both hands through her hair. I grin at her, and she laughs.

“Science,” she says to me. “It works.”

“That is the biggest f*cking fireball I have ever seen,” Colonel Campbell says. I look at the camera feed again. The Fomalhaut system now has two suns, however briefly. Even from 150 million kilometers away, the fireball from the released impact energy makes all the vacuum detonations of nuclear warheads I’ve ever seen look like someone briefly flicked on a helmet light.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I say.

“Nobody has,” Dr. Stewart says. “We just caused the largest man-made energy release in history.”

“It’s going to be hours before I can get anything on optics or radiation tracking again,” the tactical officer says.


“That fireball is fifty-five thousand Kelvins,” Dr. Stewart says. “We just caused a two-hundred-gigaton energy release. If there’s anything left in that area of space other than vapor, I’ll eat every last diploma on my office wall.”

Colonel Campbell sits down in his command chair and activates the Indy’s 1MC.

“Attention, all hands. This is the skipper. You are now crew members of the first fleet ship to ever destroy a Lanky vessel. Operation Doorknocker was successful. Our extermination has been postponed. Not bad for a little OCS, people. Carry on.”

Another cheer goes up in the CIC.

“I don’t suppose alcohol is allowed on military ships?” Dr. Stewart asks the colonel. “I could really go for a strong drink right now.”

“No, it’s not allowed,” he replies. “And of course we have some.”



It takes a while for the Indy’s sensors to poke through the noise from a two-hundred-gigaton explosion. All that’s left in the vicinity of the Lanky ship’s projected turnaround point is a superheated debris cloud that is slowly expanding. The light from the fireball gradually decreased after the collision, but even a few minutes later, it’s still impressive to look at.

“All right, people. Helmsman, bring us about and back on course toward New Svalbard,” Colonel Campbell orders. “Tactical, get me the word on our SRA friends. Weapons, check stores and warm up the nukes. We’re going stealth again.”

The thought of an imminent hopeless engagement with the far superior SRA force approaching New Svalbard is like a cold shower after the heated excitement of our destruction of the Lanky seed ship. We may have bought the colony some time, but if we have to take this ship into battle against an entire carrier group, there’s no question we’ll lose.

“There they are,” the tactical officer says a short while later. I watch as the tactical orb display expands in scale. New Svalbard is a hundred million kilometers away, and the SRA task force pops up on the screen almost a hundred million kilometers on the opposite side of the moon.

“We have the acceleration advantage,” the XO says. “We’ll be back over the moon before they get there, but not by much. For whatever good it’ll do.”

“This is odd,” the tactical officer says. On the plot, the tags for the tactical icons change as the computer starts to identify the first of the SRA units conclusively.

“What’s that, Lieutenant?” Colonel Campbell asks.

“Well, the ELINT profiles are strange for some of those ships. I know for sure that the lead ship is the Chinese 098D. That’s that Godavari right here.” He marks the icon on the tactical display briefly. “That third one there? The computer doesn’t have it yet, but I’m eighty percent sure it’s one of their older assault carriers. Maybe Kiev class.”

He highlights two of the ships in the back of the group.

“But those right there? I could swear that one of them looks like a Hammerhead cruiser.”

The display changes, and the icon he is pointing out changes to the pale blue of an “UNIDENTIFIED, PRESUMED FRIENDLY” contact as the computer appears to concur with the lieutenant’s assessment. It’s impossible for us to capture one of their warships in space, or for them to capture one of ours—there are multiple safeguards in place, right down to DNA locks on the control consoles—but seeing friendly units in a task force with enemy ones seems even less likely.

“Captured and forced to tag along?” the XO wonders aloud.

“Possible,” Colonel Campbell says. “That would explain why they came through our Alcubierre node.”

“But why would they have to set off the minefield on the way in?”

“Beats me.” The colonel scratches his chin as he watches the plot.

“Go to turnaround and decelerate for New Svalbard,” he orders. “We’ll see what’s going on when they’re in comms range. Any sign of our carrier group?”

“No, sir. They’re not within two AUs of us or the moon.”

“Smartest sons of bitches in the system right now,” the XO mutters.



A few hours later we’re in communications range with the colony again, and I contact Sergeant Fallon as soon as I can get a stable comms link. At this range, the signal takes five minutes to get to New Svalbard, and my excitement over the news makes the wait for a return reply agonizingly frustrating.

“The Lanky ship is destroyed,” I send. “Fine stardust. We are coming back to the barn to assist with the defense.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all month. Hell, year. Make that ‘decade,’” she sends back. “I’d buy that science crew a shitload of drinks if they had any to buy down here.”

“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.

“Must really be the end of the world if we’re taking warm showers with these people after beating the shit out of each other for fifty years,” Sergeant Fallon says. Down below us, the tarmac is crawling with activity as ground crews unload cargo holds and refuel spacecraft.

The reports we got from the crews of the newly arrived NAC ships have pretty much announced the start of the apocalypse. The Lankies showed up in orbit around Mars, our main fleet yard in the solar system aside from Earth. The Battle of Mars ended in a total defeat. The fleet yards are gone, and so is the entire colony—twenty-five million people. What’s left of the fleet is scattered all over the solar system. The Lankies aren’t advancing for now, but they’ve blockaded the Alcubierre nodes, and the task force that made it through to us had sixteen ships in it before they battled their way through the node past half a dozen seed ships. There are no SRA or NAC fleets anymore, just small groups of humans on the run. At least we’ve finally stopped shooting at each other.

“What are you going to do?” I ask her. “Stay here or join the counterattack?”

“I don’t know yet,” Sergeant Fallon says. She takes a swig from the coffee mug she’s been repeatedly draining and refilling for the last few hours. “They say it’s a crapshoot whether any ship will be able to run that blockade and make it back to Earth. I’d like to have a fighting chance, not get blown out of space with no way to shoot back. Maybe I’ll stay here and wait for them to come to me.”

She puts down her mug and leans back with a tired sigh.

“What about you?” she asks without taking her eyes off the SRA drop ship settling on its skids outside.

I consider her question—not that I hadn’t made my decision pretty much the moment they put the options in front of us. We’re free to decide whether to stay part of the garrison force on New Svalbard, or join the combined NAC/SRA ragtag battle group to go back to the solar system and try to force the blockade.

“If any ship can make it through to Earth, it’s the Indy,” I say. “Colonel Campbell says we’re welcome to tag along for the run. Stealth dash back to the inner solar system.”

“You’re going back there?” Sergeant Fallon smiles. “Whatever happened to wanting to breathe the free air of the colonies? I thought Earth’s a shithole?”

“You’re staying here?” I say, aping her tone exactly. “Whatever happened to sticking with the shit you know? I thought the colonies are desolate wastelands?”

She rolls her eyes, but the smile doesn’t leave her face.

“Last time I tried to do my job right, they shipped me off into exile. They’ve been barely holding it together as it is. What do you think Earth’s like right now, with the Lankies on our doorstep?”

I try to imagine the PRCs, perpetually in unrest anyway, gripped in end-of-the-world hysteria, hundreds of millions of frightened and hungry people aware of their imminent extermination. I know that that’s about the last place in the universe I really want to be right now. But I can’t help thinking of Mom and Halley and Chief Kopka, and my former squad mates in the 365th AIB at Fort Shughart. If our species is going to end anyway, I want to make my stand with the few people I care about. I want to be in charge of my own fate, not wait for my death in a frozen hole at the ass end of the settled galaxy.

“Earth is a shithole,” I say. “But it’s our shithole. And they can’t f*cking have it.”

Sergeant Fallon looks outside again and picks up her coffee. She takes a long, slurping sip.

“Come to think of it,” she says. “The apocalypse is at our door. The survival of our species is in doubt. That’s going to be one bitch of a fight. I’d hate to miss it.”

Outside, the snow flurries have stopped. As we watch the latest arrivals swoop in low over the runway and set down on the snow-swept concrete with blinking position lights, there’s a sudden break in the cloud cover, and the light from the distant sun paints the mountaintops on the horizon in shades of pale blue and white.

“Let’s go and pack for one bitch of a fight, then,” I say.