Serengeti (7 page)

“Pointless,”
Serengeti
said. “All of it.”

“No argument here.” Kusikov studied the information scrolling across the bridge’s windows, shaking his head. “Look at ‘em. It’s like a museum out there. The greatest hits of junk transport.” He leaned forward, squinting his eyes as he focused on one shape in particular. “Is that an
Aphelion
?” he asked, pointing at an elongated vessel with a forking metal rod protruding from its nose.

“Can’t be,” Finlay told him. “Aphelion’s are ancient. First generation AI. Minds are based on chip sets rather than the crystal matrix standard they introduced with the fifth generation AI. Totally inefficient. They retired the last of that class a decade ago.”

Kusikov gave her a haughty look. “Oh, so you’re an AI mindset expert now, huh?”

Finlay glared at him across the bridge and then pointedly turned away, adjusting the settings on the Scan station to add yet more data to the front displays.

Serengeti
almost laughed, watching the two of them. Kusikov’s know-it-all attitude got under most people’s skin, but he and Finlay has a special relation. Those two were forever arguing and never quite seemed to get along. Today was worse, though. The arrival of those DSR ships made everyone nervous and snappish, Finlay and Kusikov included.

Finlay fiddled with her display for a few seconds, pointedly ignoring Kusikov at Comms. Curious,
Serengeti
tapped into her station, found she’d focused in on the ship in question and pulled its data feed onto her screen so she could parse through the ocean of information it had on offer.

“See? Like I said—not an—” Finlay blinked and leaned forward, taking another look. “Ho-lee-shit,” she breathed. “He’s right, Captain. That’s an Aphelion out there, alright.”

Kusikov smiled in victory. “Told you.”

Finlay gave him a dirty look.

“Focus, Finlay,” Henricksen growled.

“Yes, sir.”

Finlay flushed and faced around, tapping busily at her station, sneaking glances now and then at the windows in front of her.

Quite the collection out there—a hodge-podge of vessels of various classes and designations that bore only a passing resemblance to a military fleet. Oh the Aphelion—
Parallax,
its beacon named it—had been built as a ship of war. An ancient one admittedly, and severely outclassed by the Valkyries and Dreadnoughts the Meridian Alliance brought with them. Even the Titans and Auroras were better equipped, their guns more powerful, their AIs several generations newer than what the Aphelion had on board. And
Serengeti
spotted Sunstorms and Scimitars scattered throughout the fleet, even a few Cyclone-class cruisers sprinkled here and there, but the bulk of the fleet had never been designed for combat. Merchant ships and retrofitted passenger vessels floated alongside ore haulers, canister containers, and other working-class ships.

“Jesus,” Finlay breathed, panning Number Four’s camera around. “Look at ‘em.” She zoomed in on a slab-sided rectangle off
Serengeti’s
port side. “Where’d they find
that
hunk of junk?” She frowned at her panel, tapped in a few places and then looked up at the schematic showing in the window. “Huh. No name.”

Just a series of numbers and letters repeating over and over again in the feed it threw at the stars.

“What do you suppose it is?” Finlay wondered, pulling the camera in tighter. “I’ve never even
seen
a ship like that.”

“Golem,” Kusikov told her, nodding at Number Four’s feed. “Major throwback. Long-range hauler, probably built a couple of centuries ago. Thought they were myth, honestly.” Kusikov rubbed his chin, devouring the Golem with his eyes. “It’s got jump drives, though. Looks like early plasma burners—buggy as hell.”

They were also pre-AI. The Aphelion was a wonder of modern technology compared to that Golem out there.

“Heard rumors the DSR was running cloned copies of those glitchy, gen seven AIs. But
pre
-AI?” Kusikov shook his head in disbelief. “Never imagined they’d resort to something like that.”

“Scrounging up non-AI ships to fill out their ranks. Foregoing ship’s intelligence entirely and relying solely on human crews.” Finlay shuddered. “Scary. Truly scary.”

“Finlay!” Henricksen smacked the panel in front of him. “What did I say?”

Finlay flinched and whirled around, eyes wide, a spot of color blooming on each cheek. “I—I—I—”

“What did I say?”

“I—Focus. Sir.”

“Right. Focus. Do your damn job. But instead you and your boyfriend over there are mooning over that collection of scrap heaps the DSR calls a fleet.”

“I didn’t—He’s not—” Finlay stammered.

“Look. We’re not dating, we just—”

“Shut it, Kusikov!”

Kusikov froze, mouth hanging open beneath the comms visor covering his eyes. A flush of anger crept across his cheeks, suffusing his face. “Like I’d waste my time—”

“You wanna think
real
hard before you finish that sentence,” Henricksen said quietly. “
Real
hard.”

Kusikov ignored the warning. Either that or he just didn’t get it. “I’m just trying to explain—”

“I can relieve you if you want,” Henricksen interrupted. He cocked his head to one side, giving Kusikov an icy-eyed look. “I can bring someone else up here who can take this situation seriously if you can’t. Someone who’ll treat this crew with the respect they deserve.”

Kusikov licked his lips, eyes flicking to Finlay. “No, sir,” he muttered, stabbing surlily at his station. “I’m on it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can see that,” Henricksen grunted. “Alright. Everyone—eyes front. Things are about to get nasty and I need my bridge crew focused and dialed in tight, you hear me?”

A chorus of ‘ayes’ spread across the bridge.

“Good. Sikuuku—”

“Weapons signature,”
Serengeti
cut in.

Sikuuku swore softly and yanked hard on the joystick in his left hand. The gimbaled artillery pod swiveled, motors whirring softly as the gunner reoriented, data scrolling in long strings across the targeting visor obscuring his face. “
Parallax,
” he called. “The Aphelion’s powered up that big gun stuck to its nose.”

Serengeti
turned the Number Four probe toward the Aphelion to get a better look. A cobalt blue charge crackled up and down the length of metal rod sticking out from its bow. A ball formed at the end closest to the ship’s hull and quickly spread outward, expanding until it measured nearly a meter across. It hovered there, sparking wildly and then crept forward, growing larger, brighter as it went.

“What the hell is that?” Henricksen asked.

“Forced ion cannon,” Sikuuku told him. “All the rage a hundred years ago. Awful thing. Massive amounts of damage. Slow as hell, though. Takes a good three minutes to recharge between shots. And from what I hear, they have tendency to overload. Design’s all wrong,” he explained. “See that?” He released one of the pod’s joysticks and pointed to where the charging gun connected to the Aphelion’s
nose. “Too much energy too soon and the charge arcs backward. Take the whole ship out, neat as you please. That’s why we stopped using ‘em. Too chancy. Not worth the risk. Give me one of these babies any day,” he said, patting the Artillery station’s seat. “Bertha never back talks.”

“Bertha?” Kusikov snorted. “You named it
Bertha
?”

“Shut it, Kusikov.” Henricksen flashed a look of warning. Kusikov subsided into surly silence. Henricksen watched him a moment and then went back to studying the Aphelion, rubbing at his chin as he considered the crackling blue orb making its slow way down the length of its protruding gun. “So we’ve got…what? Two minutes give or take before that thing fires?”

Sikuuku checked the Chron and then nodded. “Right bastard of a weapon, that is. When it goes off…well, let’s just say you
really
don’t wanna get in its way.”

“Can you take it out?”

“Not in range yet, but…” Sikuuku pivoted in his Artillery pod, motors whirring as he adjusted the main cannon, nudging the controls up and down, a bit left then right. “Damn. Smaller ships are blocking it. Can’t get a clear line of fire. Pound away long enough and I might be able to get through. Might,” he said meaningfully. “No guarantees.”

“Forget it then. I want you focused on
Trinidad
. I
know
you can hit that. Tell the starboard-side batteries to focus on the Aphelion.”

“Aye, sir.” Sikuuku muttered something into the comms unit attached to his targeting helmet and then pivoted away, refocusing on
Trinidad’s
mutated Heliotrope shape.

Henricksen left him to it and spun back toward Scan. “Finlay. Keep an eye on the Aphelion. Not sure there’s much we can do about it, but I’d at least like a little advance warning before that thing goes off.”

Finlay nodded and split the view on her Scan station screen, devoting one panel to
Parallax,
another to the wide crescent of DSR vessels ahead of them, and a third to
Trinidad
at its center.
Serengeti
watched with her, leaving one sub-mind to monitor the Scan feeds while her primary consciousness focused on the Meridian Fleet around them, and the DSR ships ahead.

More energy signatures appeared—weapons firing up all across the DSR fleet as the Meridian Alliance closed in. They’d halved the distance to
Trinidad
by now, and from the looks of things, the DSR seemed to be on to what
Brutus
had planned. Ships’ engines fired, DSR vessels sliding forward, tightening the crescent up a bit, diverting more ships to the center where the tip of the Meridian Alliance spear pointed.

“Targets are coming in range.” Sikuuku flexed his fingers, wrapping them tight around the pod’s firing mechanisms. “
Brutus’s
main batteries are on-line. He’s firing!” he warned.

Flare of blue outside as
Brutus
opened fire with his cannons—massive, powerful weapons whose range outclassed anything else in the Meridian Alliance fleet. Bright bars marched in a straight line through space, slicing through the darkness as they tracked toward
Trinidad
and its entourage. Everyone waited, holding their breath, counting the seconds as
Brutus’s
shots crossed the gap between the two fleets and finally connected.

Trinidad’s
prickling hull lit up, charged energy munitions arcing wildly as they connected with the Heliotrope front end, crawling in spidering tendrils across his composite metal skin.

Cheers erupted on
Serengeti’s
bridge. Kusikov opened up comms, broadcasting the yells and screams of victory issuing from the other ships in the fleet.

“Targets coming into range,”
Serengeti
said calmly, cutting through all that noise.

The cheers faded. Kusikov cut the comms as everyone got down to business.

“Main gun primed and ready,” Sikuuku called. The gimbaled pod ticked to one side and then the other as he made a last few adjustments. Nervous movements. Nervous and excited—both came with the territory. Sikuuku was a veteran like Henricksen—the scars he wore, marks of pride and shame, earned in encounters just like this one. He knew what was coming and wanted
it to come, because the sooner the battle began, the sooner the dying would be done. “Sir?” he prompted, awaiting the order to fire.

“Wait,” Henricksen told him.

He glanced over to the Artillery station and then returned his gaze to the front windows, locking onto the schematic showing the Meridian Alliance fleet and the DSR ships. A counter glowed next to it, spiraling steadily downward as
Brutus
pounded away at
Trinidad.
The fleet moved closer, bringing the Titans and Auroras into range. They opened up as well, adding their smaller weapons fire to the mix.

Trinidad
fired back, spitting out old-fashioned torpedoes of all things, tips glowing blood-red as the contents inside them swirled angrily. ‘Liquid laser’ they dubbed that weapon, but the torpedoes’ contents were chemical, not light-based—a toxic, corrosive substance that chewed through composite metal like a hot knife cutting through butter.

Highly effective, that concoction, and extremely deadly. Once the torpedo connected, the chemical containment pod shattered, releasing the deadly contents inside, creating an outer layer of insulation to protect an inner layer of acid that dissolved the ship’s hull and worked its way to the vessel’s softer, more vulnerable insides.

The Meridian Alliance had experimented with something similar, once upon a time, but ultimately given up. See, the thing was, the chemicals in that weapon weren’t only toxic, they were highly unstable. The Meridian Alliance had outfitted a dozen or so vessels with weapons like
Trinidad’s
,
and all but four of them imploded when the gun’s chemical containers ruptured, spilling toxic goo inside the ship. Ships ended up being a total loss, and their crews were killed instantly by the fumes that worked their way into the atmosphere generators. The Meridian Alliance almost kept the damned things anyway, but the powers-that-be had run the numbers and worked their way through several cost-benefit scenarios before deciding the risk the guns posed outweighed the reward they offered. Just. That’s why they’d scrapped them, and went through all the trouble and expense to rip the guns back out the ship that carried them.