Spoiler
Mark left the room feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline that he always felt when going into an action. Combat in space was chess at a thousand miles an hour. React to what your opponent did in space where projectiles flew at you at an appreciable fraction of the speed of light and you were already too late. The key was to predict it and in so doing out-maneuver your opponent before they ever made their move. As much of it relied on the planning of an engagement as the execution. A thousand considerations needed to be made before ever a shot was fired and a captain that failed to make them was already dead. Hypnotic indoctrination, endless lectures and classroom simulations could only take a man so far. Eventually it all came down to you and how you reacted to the imminent danger of what was to come. Some men fell apart and if all was right in the world would never see a captain’s chair. Most fell back to their training, applying the formulae and scenario reaction sequences that were drilled into them in the academy.
They were the work-horses of any fleet, solid, reliable but unimaginative. Mark was not one of them. He reacted to danger like a gambler to a deck of cards, the data trails of space combat sparkled in his mind like the rattle of dice on a gaming table. He knew he was not walking into combat as he entered the hidden lift and then moved through the command centre’s halls but at long last the paralyzing feeling of imminent destruction was gone. He was not some helpless commander stranded on planet by an uncaring admiralty, he was a Steiner and he was going to be taking a ship into combat.
There were two guards on the doors of the conference room as befitted a command meeting and they stamped to attention as he rounded the corner, snapping salutes as he approached. He acknowledged them and strode in, seeing the familiar faces of his father’s senior officers, men he had known from childhood now rising from their seats to greet their liege lord. His eyes swept over them to the high-backed black leather of the command chair, his chair. He had seen his father in it a thousand times as he steered his family and those who served them to greatness. For a moment he wished that his first time sitting in it could have come at a less tumultuous time but then crushed the impulse. Wishing on stars set you adrift among them. He was a Steiner. No one would make his wishes true but him.
He forced himself not to hesitate when he came to the head of the table and seated himself, swiveling the chair to face the men. They sat once more as he did so, four of them, each hardened by a lifetime of diligent duty. Mark placed his hands on the table and took a deep breath. ‘Let us begin.’ They listened intently as he spoke, respectful silence granted him by his rank but he could see in their faces that they were not simply silent for protocols sake. These men respected him and each had done so much already in the service of his family. He wondered if any of them would be unwilling to do this much more.
Dorn first, their family’s Seneschal, unbowed by age, hardened by a thousand fights on a hundred ships stations and worlds as much a father to Mark as any man. He sat beside Arnulf, their Master of Arms, the man who trained and when needed lead the squadrons of marines among the Steiner retainers. He was a bear of a man though only a fool would think him weighed down by his size for his hands were massive and powerful. His face was flat, chiseled and scarred beneath his crew-cut blonde hair, one eye a bionic replacement for one that had been shot away during a boarding action over ten years ago. Across from them the lead engineer Erill looked like a robotic priest, a thin, scholarly face on a guant, spare frame with his shaved head dotted with dozens of neural plugs, small grills set into the side of his neck and the one hand that rested on the table showing a tracery of wires beneath the pale skin. Lastly beside him sat Lieutenant Pieter, a baby-faced retainer his father had raised from the ranks and paid to have commissioned as a mid-shipman almost four years ago. He had worked off his debt as a mid-shipman over two years ago and had chosen to remain with the Steiners once he passed his lieutenant’s exam rather than throw himself into the jostling for rank and position that the Admiralty represented. He was older than Mark by ten years and Mark knew he was rock-solid under fire and as reliable an officer as they came.
Erill was the first to speak, sliding one hand forward slightly as a signal that he had a question. Mark nodded to him, ‘Black boxes from ships returned – doctored – understood. Scavenge battlefield?’ His voice was slightly mechanical, clipped and sporadic as was normal for a man who more frequently communicated in computer code than speech.
Mark shook his head, ‘No, there’s been a salvage fleet on scene for four days now. The senior captain is an ally of Gedderen. He will have long since ensured that any evidence that could have been found there is long gone. Hartford’s father has managed to retrieve the logs from the ships that have already returned. His engineers are working to find evidence that the data has been altered and they are hopeful but even it is not enough to show that the logs have been falsified. It would weaken his position but it would not damn him. We need data that provides a base from which to attack him, a story to combat his own. The Lawsons are leaning the officers that were there. If we can secure this evidence then they will convince them to come forward and testify. Gedderen is powerful but he is not popular. If the other admirals smell blood they’ll close on him and tear him apart. They just need an opening and we can give it to them.’
There were other questions but no objections, as Mark outlined his plan the men in front of him leaned forward eagerly, their eyes alight with interest and pleasure at the thought of fighting back against this tragedy. Not one of them seemed daunted by the idea that they were volunteering to become hunted fugitives and Mark felt his heart swell as one by one they promised their loyalty. They sat in conference for hours before the meeting ended, Mark clapping his hands together,
‘Good, to work then, we have much to do and little time to do it in. You all know your business. Let’s be about it.’ There were nods from each and then they stood and dispersed leaving him alone in the command chair. As the door shut behind them he took a deep breath, they had believed in him, trusted him, agreed to follow him even though it meant leaving behind everything they knew here.
He looked down and saw his reflection in the polished surface of the table, ‘Now make it happen.’ He ordered the young face before him.
-
‘Now make it happen.’ Mark muttered the words that he had spoken to himself two days ago as he stared at his reflection in the mirrored metal of the docking station elevator. He was wearing his service uniform, the slate grey broadcloth jacket trimmed with the blue and green facings of his family’s livery, service pistol and saber strapped to his belt. Behind him were half of the volunteers whose loyalty or ambition had out-weighed the fear of what lay ahead, all dressed in the drab overalls of a station work crew. Erill and two of his best had spent almost a full twenty four hours using the access codes Hartford had given them to create the work-orders and cargo bills that had moved them through the security checkpoints below. The rest had been a matter of bluff and grit, marching among the busy maintenance and repair crews that swarmed through this station praying that no security officer would be too attentive or that one of his men would betray them through nerves or folly.
He had not felt much fear of that. These were no raw recruits, green and fresh to the void. These were Steiner trained and experienced, volunteers to a man, eight hands, and two bosuns under Pieter, three engineers under Erill and Arnulf with his four marines. He knew each man by name, had spoken to each in turn to ensure that there were no illusions and no hesitation. He was about to turn them all into wanted fugitives, hunted by the Hegemony wherever they went with a fury that would not abate until he was able to succeed and clear his father’s name of disgrace. As powerful as the Lawson’s they would not be able to help them if they were caught before then. To a man they would be put against a wall and shot. Some had grinned and shrugged, what was one more threat added to the dozens that were routine to a sailor in the void? Others had been grim and serious, prepared to risk everything on this endeavor rather than start their careers over under some new contract. Each had accepted the risk however and so here they were on the first step of their road as wanted men, the first step and potentially, the most deadly.
Dorn had stayed behind with his mother and sister, smuggled off world with the families of those retainers that had volunteered to accompany Mark and his officers on this mission. Hartford was seeing to them, secreting them among the dozens of Lawson mining stations that dotted Hegemony space. Mark would have dearly liked to bring the aged Seneschal along, with his depth of experience and sharp, insightful mind. But Dorn had insisted that he stay. As much as Mark would miss his advice he knew that he could not strip his mother and sister of every resource. Though they were among friends their future was by no means certain and they would need to navigate their path every bit as carefully as he.
The elevator reached their destination and the heavy doors opened with a hiss to cover them in the industrious tumult of a navy work crew in full swing, the grind of machinery, the hiss of welding torches and the bark of orders blending into a roar as familiar to any navy man as his own voice. Mark stepped out to be greeted by the sight of the rest of his chosen crew filing into the cavernous dry-dock from their own elevators, his officers nodding to him as they chivied their men into order, each struggling not to show the strain of the moment. They glanced up at the ship that dominated the hanger, two dozen men already aloft in the scaffolding that surrounded the lasher-class hull, a dozen small drones darting about like feeder fish under the belly of a shark, hauling the final layer of ablative armor into place under the careful guidance of the engineers.
Mark briefly inspected the ranks, as much to meet the eyes of the men he was about to turn into fugitives as to ensure that they were properly turned out for this final step in the ruse that had carried them from the docking bay concourse twenty floors below to this hanger bay. This station had sixteen frigates docked here in various states of refit, hulls captured in battle and destined for re-launch under Hegemony colors. Following the destruction of so much of the Fifth Fleet the work had been re-doubled. Hundreds of extra hands shuttled onto the station to speed the work. It was the chaos of so many new faces that had allowed them to come this far without discovery, Mark was certain.
Their small convoy began to move towards the rear of the ship, captured two months ago from a pirate raider and in the final stages of retro-fitting. Her weapon mounts had been replaced, internal systems stripped and re-built from the ground up, her med bay and built in auto-factories replaced with the latest models the Hegemony’s UAC archive had to offer. She had been chosen with care for the fact that she was space-worthy but had not yet been declared ready for launch and so was still in the hands of the general maintenance crews rather than occupied by a crew who would complete her refit as preparation for deployment in her. The Lawson’s influence was at work there.
A blue-overall clad engineer with the stripes of a senior on his sleeve emerged from the open cargo bay as they approached, pausing for a moment as he took them in before stepping down from the ramp to salute. Mark returned it, his heart hammering in his ears as he proffered his data slate. For all of Hartford’s assurance that there would be no trouble in the dry-dock itself he was not the one who would face the firing squad if they were caught now. The engineer accepted the data-slate, casting over it only the most perfunctory of glances before nodding in apparent satisfaction and pressing his thumb to the scanner. He was a minor cousin who had been promised that overlooking his duty to the Hegemony on this day would mean greater standing among the Lawsons tomorrow and was only too happy to accommodate.
He tapped a toggle on his belt and raised his voice, ‘Relief’s here lads. We’re knocking off early. Down tools and let’s scarper.’ He made for the elevators, carefully not looking at the grav-pallets the new crew had brought with them, pallets loaded with fuel and auto-fabrication mass, loads no maintenance crew would be carrying. His crew followed him with equal care, they were all Lawson men and though they had been told even less of what was to transpire than the man they followed from the dry dock they each knew better than to question orders from those who owned their contracts.
Mark did not watch them go but turned to those that followed him and nodded once, ‘Go to work. Full systems check but don’t go to power until my say-so. Get as much auto-fab and fuel aboard as you can safely fit but make sure the auto-cannons are where we can get to them once we’re afloat. We’ll want to mount them as soon as we’re clear.’ Each of his officers nodded and at their orders the crew that followed him split, racing to their work now that they were released from the nerve shredding tension and discipline that had carried them this far. They moved with the hurry of men who knew that a firing squad could well await them if they were too slow.
Mark watched them work and could not help but feel a glow of pride. Despite the tension, despite the danger they worked with all the speed and efficiency of an elite crew. Erill and his apprentices took only moments to reach the bridge and hard-plug into the systems, Mark seeing the sparks of light race along the hull as the targeting lasers and sensors test-fired. Pieter stood in the open cargo bay as the deck-hands raced by in a relay of grav pallets and loading exo-skeletons, materiel stacking up in the cargo hold with practiced, profession ease. Mark felt a small shiver of anticipation run through him as he watched them work. The product of the same training that had sculpted him into the man he was they were the base upon which the Steiner star had ascended. What a crew, what a weapon to have at his disposal. Even hunted by the Hegemony he would be able to forge a path of fire across the system.
He felt like he was already in combat, floating on the familiar cloud of adrenaline and excitement, his mind crackling with thoughts that were etched with the clarity that is only achievable when death is one miscalculation away. He could almost feel the lasher’s helm beneath his hands already, feel the solid, reliable systems that made her class such a common sight throughout the sector tick and turn in tune with his thoughts. Already his mind was calculating how the cargo bay loading would affect her gravometric mapping, rough calculations of acceleration adjustments and flux vent trim scrolling through his mind. He heard Erill’s confirmation of system readiness at almost the same time that Arnulf announced his marine’s had completed the stowage of the armory equipment and were now armed and armored for duty and still the loading continued.
They were so close to finishing when they heard the cry ring out. ‘Who’s in command here?’ Men froze in their work, all eyes swiveling to take in the black uniformed marine officer that strode furiously from the elevators. Pieter’s voice rang out, ‘What are you all gawking at? You’re supposed to be working here!’ His voice snapped the crew from their moment of fear and they hurried back to work, Mark among them as he felt his heart begin to beat again and reminded himself to breath. The office was along, no security squad behind him, he was here to scold a work-crew not arrest a gang of rogues. Mark suppressed his relief, painted a frustrated scowl on his face and marched to meet the man.
‘I am. What of it?’ He barked the question, putting the man on the back-foot so that he could string out the conversation, give his men as long as possible to complete their work. As he moved he tapped the microphone built into his collar in a series of swift code taps, a simple signal in Steiner battle-code. His officers would understand the simple order. “Deploy.”
The lieutenant faltered, pausing to glance at the data slate in his hands, not expecting to be confronted by a fleet officer in full Captain’s regalia. Mark blocked his path and the lieutenant saluted him as protocol required, confusion showing on his face. ‘Uh, I’m sorry Sir, but I’m not sure what’s going on. Uh, you’re here under work order BB-7756 right?’
Mark waved a dismissive hand ‘Sounds right, and?’ As he spoke he began moving back towards the elevators, pulling the man along in his wake, away from the ship and crew.
The lieutenant slowed again, wanting to double check his data but not wishing to seem ill-prepared in front of the navy captain that was glowering at him. He was an administrator, used to overseeing the security clerks that tabulated and cross-checked the hundreds of work-orders and crews that filled the orbital station. Normally he dealt with bosuns or the occasional green Navy lieutenant, not a full captain, and an angry one at that. ‘Well, that’s showing on our screens as a refit progression order, but it’s also shown under a cargo transition order for auto-fab and fuel from the deployment stores. The authorization mis-match just showed up on our screens and I uh…’
‘You what Lieutenant?’ Mark put a deal of stress on the man’s lower rank. Behind him he could hear the clanks and clicks of storage pallets locking into place, the hiss of airlocks closing and the low, rising hum of the lasher’s power-plant cycling up.
The Lieutenant straightened as the last caught his attention, ‘Wait, that’s main power coming online. What the hell is going on here?’
Mark shrugged, he had seconds before the ruse would be over, ‘What do you mean? We’re doing a full check before handover, of course we would bring main power online.’
Certainty was coming back to the security officer now and he stashed his data-slate, one hand moving subtly to hover over his side-arm. ‘That’s completely against regs! Who authorized that?’
Mark shrugged again, ‘Not sure, it was on the work-order.’
This time the voice was emphatic, ‘Bull! What the hell is going on here? Who are you?’
Mark felt a small smile creep onto his face. "So it begins." He thought to himself and half turned away to stare at the lasher for a moment. ‘My name is Captain Mark Steiner.’ The security officer frowned in confusion then went over backwards as Mark whipped back around, one hand moving in a blur to thunder into the officer’s jaw. Mark gripped his collar as he went backwards, yanking him forward and punching him heavily in the stomach to double him while he triggered the elevator doors. He booted the lieutenant in as he choked for breath and hit the button for the concourse before turning and dashing back for his new ship as the doors closed behind him. Triggering his throat mic he spoke his first words as a renegade Captain as the dry-dock erupted with the urgent blare of alarm klaxons. ‘Full power! Weapons live! Prepare for launch under fire!’