“Lead remotes going to rapid-fire,” the
Thai-i
announced.
The flare of antimatter detonations began to spark in the darkness, almost lost against the fantastic roil of colors from the dust clouds. The
Naniwa
’s course shifted a point, driving hard against the edge of the Khaid formation, running in hot behind the glare of the sprint missiles discharged from the remote platforms. A secondary cloud of anti-missile munitions had also hared away from the remotes and these slashed into the midst of the Khaiden point-defense, confusing their targeting and ripping up their own counter-missile launch.
The wave of
Tessens
hammered into the most exposed of the Khaid battleships. A cluster of brilliant flares erupted, each shipkiller warhead separating into dozens of laser emitters. A stabbing white glare rippled from one end of the Khaid battlewagon to the other, shredding shipskin and gun nacelles, cracking open the hardpoints at each rail launcher. The ship shuddered, veering off, and then two of the big maneuver drives blew apart, disgorging clouds of debris.
“Secondary remotes going to full burn … now.”
The other Khaiden ships burst away from the impact point, assuming she was trying to catch them edge-on, where their own fire would be blocked by friendly ships. Missiles and beam-weapons licked out at the speeding Imperial ship. The
Naniwa
swerved, punching into the dispersing formation where the battleship had fallen from line. The battle-cruiser’s beam-weapons lashed across the nearest Khaiden battleship. Anion impacts rippled over the flank of the bulky ebon vessel, but Kosh
ō
had no interest in going toe to toe with such a behemoth. Instead, the
Naniwa
slipped past, spewing a tight cloud of decoys—the last of the scavenged remotes—that raced off at a sharp angle, breaking for open space, away from the Barrier.
The Khaid ships swung round, belching more shipkillers and penetrators, their formation coalescing again. The
Naniwa,
engines dead for the moment, plunged into the Pinhole along the drive-plume of the stricken battleship. Only moments from crossing the Barrier line, Kosh
ō
jerked back from her executive threatwell as the entire constellation of icons and designators shifted abruptly. Looking up at the main holocast, she saw the familiar symbols winking out, replaced by a crude new array of glyphs flaring to life in the holo.
“What—”
Holloway pointed at Gretchen, his face ashen. Most of the navigator’s v-panes now showed a stream of unintelligible symbols and distorted images. “Shift piloting control to console two,” Susan barked, startling the Command watch from stunned panic.
“No,” Gretchen choked out, barely able to speak. The information density flowing across her v-displays was so dense, even with the assistance of the
oliohuiqui
to focus her mind she could barely process a tenth of the flood of images, sounds, models, and diagrams rushing past. She was grappling with an overwhelming—and terrifying—sensation that node 3
3
3 had woken from some ancient sleep. That the interfaces she had discovered—and prodded and poked—had been operating in some quiescent, dumbed-down state. Now, with the flood of information rolling in from the
Naniwa
’s sensor array, the device had improved itself, or recalled capabilities long left idle.
Now she was giddily happy that the only communications method between her and the machine was a keypad—a stylus—what her visual perception could reveal. A more direct connection, she was sure, would have rendered her insensate.
And mad, very definitely mad.
“I can’t fly this thing,” Anderssen gasped. “I’ll draw a path. You’ll have to follow.”
“Piloting control to console one,” Kosh
ō
commanded, settling her shoulders. Holloway was frozen, agog at the transformation of his control surfaces. In the threatwell, patterns of constantly shifting veils were beginning to emerge from the confusion of symbols and diagrams. Susan tried to focus, finding the hubbub amongst the Command crew distracting and the gelatinlike fluidity of the new control surfaces difficult to grasp.
Despite this, the
Naniwa
plunged through the Pinhole and into the unknown spaces beyond. Kosh
ō
’s grasp of the new controls—and of the information contorting her threatwell—grew rapidly. Her hands light on the flight interface, she sidestepped past both a stricken Khaiden destroyer and the spray of filaments which had torn the warship to shreds.
To Susan’s right, on the second tier of Command, Anderssen was beginning to groan in a peculiar way, as though iron nails were being driven into her eyes.
* * *
Down in medical, Hummingbird opened one eye to a bare slit. He’d heard nothing for the past fifteen minutes, which augured well. The second eye opened and he turned his head gently. No one was in sight—not a marine guard, not a medical officer, not even his lovely assistant. Alone at last, the old Méxica sat up, moving slowly, letting his heartbeat return to normal, blood flow resuming.
The poor vitals showing on the med-panel ticked up to normal after a few minutes. The
nauallis
listened again—now hearing and feeling the vibrations of a ship operating at high velocity—ignored the warning lights blinking on the med-panel, and jacked his remaining comp into the nearest access port. Then he lay back down, clasped both hands on his chest, and closed his eyes again.
Streams of data played out on the inside of his eyelids, including a navigational feed of the various ships in motion around the periphery of the Pinhole. His t-relay—despite being bounced around a bit—was still in operation. A quick diagnostic check indicated the unit was receiving and transmitting.
Good.
Hummingbird gauged distances and times, then toggled open a subaudible channel.
Have done,
winged out into the night, directly to one of the Khaid command ships.
* * *
“It
is
ours,” Xochitl snarled as his exo whispered the name of the approaching Imperial ship and her commander, along with pertinent details of crew, tonnage, and weapons systems. “Set an intercept course, Engineer, and speedily, too. She’s faster than Lucifer himself and will not wait!”
He turned away from the engineer, his exo supplying a visual overlay for the communications controls in the capsule. Ghostly images emerged in his sight, highlighting the necessary mechanisms. The Prince keyed up a comm channel and sought handshake with the fast-approaching battle-cruiser.
Behind the
Naniwa
, the Khaid fleet—now minus another battleship—had regrouped again. This time they did not speed in pursuit, but watched with interest, waiting for the reckless Imperial commander to obliterate his ship in the same spectacular way that had consumed so many of their fellows. The Khaid destroyers were already beginning to withdraw to a safe distance.
* * *
“Incoming comm,”
Chu-i
Pucatli blurted in surprise. “Flash traffic from the Flag!”
The corner of Kosh
ō
’s lip curled up. Her whole attention was devoted to gentling the battle-cruiser through the drifting shoals of threads as fast as Gretchen could pump navigational data into the threatwell. Holloway—the only officer now at loose ends on the bridge—was obliged to take the call and blanched to find himself face-to-face with a ragged-looking Imperial Prince in smoke-stained combat armor. A cluster of other faces peered over the
Tlatocapilli
’s shoulders, and none of them looked at all well.
“Slow and take us aboard,
”
the Prince demanded. “I’m transmitting our coordinates now.”
A winking dot appeared in the threatwell, drifting steadily towards an effusion of threads.
“We’re maneuvering to intercept you.…” Xochitl continued, pausing to wipe his forehead. He was sweating profusely.
“No!” Holloway turned, staring hopelessly at his captain. “
Chu-sa
… it’s the
Gensui
! He’s on that evac—”
“Tell him to
stop
and wait.” Kosh
ō
’s patience had long since reached its limit. In her hands the battle-cruiser jerked and jumped from side to side, swerving around individual threads. Her nerves were stretched tight, tensed for the instant when she missed one of the deadly filaments and the
Naniwa
squealed in agony as armor and shipskin parted before an unbreakable razor. “
Thai-i
, if you can devise a way to bring them aboard at speed—I’m open to suggestions—but I am
not
slowing down. Not for him.”
THE
WILFUL
Well away from the Khaid squadron concentrated at the Pinhole, the little freighter went about her salvage work. She loitered amongst the dust clouds, letting the dim violet glow wash over her, while the passive sensors on the hull boom listened hopefully for the sound of Imperial distress beacons, or the drive signatures of shuttles or other Fleet boats.
On deck two, the pair of Fleet ratings arrived at the medical closet, their companion unconscious between them. Captain De Molay was standing at the entrance to the medbay, one hand clutching the edge of the platform, the other resting on the grip of her Bulldog. Her pallor matched theirs, though she was in better color than the man who’d lost his foot.
“Stop right there,
Sho-i
.”
All of the
Falchion
crewmen halted, their eyes fixed on the remarkably steady muzzle of the Webley. The ensign managed a “
Hai, kyo!
” and the start of a salute. The other
Joto-hei
just stared, struggling to support the wounded man.
“At ease, gentlemen,” she said, lowering the pistol. “And raise your faceplates. I’m breathing decent air. Let your recyclers take a rest—you may need them again! I’m not going to shoot you. At least, not yet.”
The two able-bodied men opened their helmets. Together, they hoisted the wounded sailor into the med-bay, though his limbs were limp and difficult to manage. De Molay examined the severed foot, which was tightly bound in someone’s shirt. The fabric was caked with blood. Her lips drew into a tight, pale line. “Has this man had treatment?” Her sharp gray eyes raked over each of them in turn.
“Only the tourniquet,” the
Sho-i
said wearily. “I lost my medpack and trauma kit when we blew atmosphere. There were only the most minimal supplies on the shuttle.…”
“You’re a medic, then?” De Molay took the opportunity to slide to the floor, breathing fast, and get her back to the wall. “Your name, please.”
“
Hai, kyo
. I’m Ensign Galliand,
gun-i
from the
Falchion
and this is Gunner’s Mate Tadohao.”
“Well met, gentlemen,” she said, then gestured weakly at the med closet controls. “Do what you can for him.…”
Galliand wiped his face, which was caked with soot and sweat, then began unsealing the injured man’s z-suit. Tadohao joined in, holding the man steady. After a few moments, medpacks were secured to the damaged leg and their status lights were winking amber. The corpsman paused again, using some antiseptic towelettes from the bay to clean his hands and the rest of his face. Tadohao didn’t seem to mind the grime, hunkering down beside De Molay with his head in his hands.
“I am Captain De Molay,” the old woman said. “Your z-suits are severely damaged. The
Falchion
was destroyed?”
Galliand nodded. “She’s gone,
kyo
. We were in the throughway between the forward magazines and the gun-deck—Tado and I were clearing out some men wounded when one of the launch rails jammed with a sprint missile in the tube. No one noticed it had hung fire, and then the weapon blew—taking out the whole rail and an adjacent compartment. Then we got hit by something big and the throughway was engulfed in flame. The
Thai-i
dragged us out—I must have been unconscious for a bit—but we made it to a cargo shuttle.” He shook his head, only just beginning to grasp what had happened. “Risen Christ, that was close!”
De Molay nodded, and then patted Tadohao on the shoulder. “
Joto-hei
, can you help an old woman stand up?”
Both men moved to assist her, and the freighter captain took a moment to look them over carefully.
“You need new z-suits. If you look through the cabins on this deck, you’ll find something that fits—but hurry.
Sho-i
, I need you to prep this whole area for multiple injuries and the swiftest triage you can manage. I believe there are more paks for the cabinet in those bins down there. We will be recovering more evac capsules and who knows how many more wounded.”
Galliand nodded and began stripping off his z-suit, which started to disintegrate as soon as he released the seal. De Molay dug in the pockets of her jacket, finding a threesquare. She broke the peanut-flavored ration bar in half, giving each of them a section.