Kara feared for Chi-Qua and the crew of Horn.

  29

  Scramjet Horn

  T HE PACKAGE FROM ARTEMIS DEVASTATED the tiny crew. The news could not have been much worse. Collapsed negotiations. Destruction of the station imminent. Exeter taken and perhaps already executed. The mad plan to escape Artemis seemed a longshot in the best of circumstance. Worse, Horn would have to put itself in the firing range of a deadlock weapon even before it attempted a ground rescue.

  The debates began at once, with the four Hokkis often shouting over each other. Yusef Matook and Hiro Parke, the only ones qualified to deal with the conflict, struggled to keep voices down as they plotted a strategy.

  Chi-Qua saw their distress and felt embarrassed. Only a short while ago, the four seemed gung-ho to play their roles in whatever might lay ahead. Mosh Koo-Ti toned down his slash-and-burn rhetoric while training alongside Chi-Qua in the simulated use of heavy weapons, including the turbo pulse rifle. Muna Fei and Po Wynn were disciplined while taking inventory of the Scramjet’s medical supplies. They gave Yusef the peace he required to calculate several different Worm slip targets. So much for peace.

  “I don’t understand,” Mosh said, flailing his arms. “That ship has got to go. Blow it out of the sky. We can’t get to our people if …”

  “Exeter is onboard Scylla,” Hiro said. “We are tasked with saving him if at all possible. He is a Talon. We do not leave Talons behind.”

  “Then we knock the ship out of commission, land in the docking bay, and come out firing. Like I said earlier, we need your armor. Six of us could take those assholes if we’re wearing the armor.”

  Chi-Qua thought the Talons appeared amused by Mosh’s antics, but she also expected the hothead to be lying flat on his busted face if he kept ranting. She was no soldier, but Chi-Qua knew Mosh’s strategy was a certain death sentence. Please shut up, Mosh.

  She said, “Yusef, what do you and Hiro think is our best strategy?”

  “What I think is, the four of you are passionate.” Yusef softened his tone from his usual theatrical bluster. “Especially you, Mosh. If we carried out your plan, you would be dead on Scylla’s docking bay. And that’s assuming you made it off Horn. We know a hundred better ways to capture an enemy ship, and most of them don’t work either.”

  Mosh gritted his teeth while taking a step back.

  “All I’m saying is, you’re being too conservative. The next time we leave Worm, our whole crew might be dead. What was it all for if those cudfruckers don’t pay?”

  “Hiro and I have been fighting enemies far worse for years, but here we stand. Why? Not because of luck, Mosh. We don’t lose our minds and rush into battle without contemplating how we fight.”

  “Combat,” Hiro added, “is civilized savagery. The best of it is choreographed to great detail. The best choreographers survive.”

  Mosh did not seem impressed. “What about those who die?”

  “Many are unlucky. Most are like you.”

  “Me?”

  “Untouchable. You believe you cannot fall. But a belief will not stop a turbo, or a flash peg, or a laser.” He bowed his head. “Or a bomb.”

  He and Yusef said little of Lucas Gil. Yusef told Chi-Qua this was the way they mourned the loss of brothers and sisters. Their true suffering would take place in private. Later.

  Yusef grabbed Mosh around the neck, although the grip was gentle as he leaned in and smiled.

  “While I love debates on military strategy and the morality of war, we don’t have the time. Hiro and I have a plan. We will need everyone to cooperate. We ask you to follow our orders without question. We want you to live, Mosh. But if you die, most likely it will be a consequence of your own folly.”

  He kissed Mosh on the cheek, leaving the Hokki without words. Mosh raised a hand to the assaulted cheek and glared at his fellow Hokkis, hoping someone might come to his defense.

  Any notion of pushback ended. The Talons gathered their rookie crew around an array of windows and laid out the strategy.

  “It is my goal to exit Worm within one hundred meters of Scylla,” Yusef began, charting the approach with layered schematics. “I am using the data we recorded in our last slip plus what Paul provided in the package. Accuracy depends upon an assumption that Scylla remains in orbit on her identical trajectory and velocity.”

  “If she’s not there?” Chi-Qua asked.

  “This would be a classic good news/bad news scenario. If the ship has finished bombarding Artemis and slipped away, then we’ll fly to the rendezvous coordinates on the surface and affect a rescue. However, the Admiral is convinced their captain will not leave.”

  “Why?”

  “He’ll be waiting for us. The Admiral believes he will leave no loose ends. This takes us to the bad news. If the ship remains in orbit but has modified its position, we may have a problem. One, we’ll have to abort the mission. Two, Scylla will fire its array of particle weapons. Their speed suggests these missiles will reach us before we enter the aperture.”

  Yusef nodded to Hiro, who took over.

  “Yusef is a master of Worm algorithmics. He will keep us safe.”

  “I hope so,” Muna Fei chimed in. “But if we’re not going to attack the ship, why fly so close?”

  “This,” Hiro said, pointing to an octagonal object with razor-sharp teeth extending like a dorsal fin. “Our counter to their military superiority. It is called a Latchkey. It is a stealth drone designed to attach itself to a ship’s hull and burrow deep inside, causing whatever manner of havoc we program.

  “We are fortunate. Kara Syung discovered a contradiction in Scylla’s engine array. It appears to be sabotage by the Inventor himself, but we can exploit it to not only silence their system engine but corrupt power flow throughout the ship. In effect, we silence their weapons.”

  Po raised his hand. “So, we’re going to drop this drone on their hull when we pass over, but won’t they detect it?”

  “We call it stealth for a particular reason. More important, the drone is only three inches in diameter until it unfurls its phasic drill. Paul and Leto examined the Scylla’s hull. It does not possess the necessary skin to repel these devices. You see, in our home universe, Latchkeys have become all but obsolete. Ships of the line adapted to these drones by upgrading with a superior sensor network.”

  Yusef laughed. “Some captains called it The Spiderweb.”

  “We used them on unshielded terrestrial targets. We have two drones onboard Horn.”

  Mosh lifted a forefinger. “So, I’m not trying to cause trouble. This plan looks clever. I trust you both. Let’s say it works. Won’t they still have time to slip away if they think we’re coming back for the kill?”

  “Yes,” Yusef said. “It’s a risk. They will have enough residual power for a few minutes. But they won’t likely understand the problem until the system is crippled. If they have not pre-set their slip coordinates to an inhabited system where they can conduct repairs, they risk exiting the aperture light-years from civilization with no power.”

  “And Exeter? He’s still onboard if they haven’t spaced him.”

  “We’ll have time to consider our next move. For now, we silence that ship then rescue our fourteen brothers and sisters beneath Artemis. Thank you, Mosh, for quality questions. Anyone else?”

  “Just one,” Chi-Qua said. “How do we help?”

  “Hiro is going to set you up with modified armor and a pressure helmet for an AF environment. It’s not a symbiotic suit like ours, but there’s something to be said for the old guard look.”

  Hiro led the way astern to the Recon tubes, which were vertical glass cylinders arranged six to port, six to starboard. Hiro waved his palm over a transparent lock that came to life in a green glow, and a tube segment opened. He repeated this three times.

  “How does it work?” Po said.

  Hiro frowned. “You’ve never done a Recon change before?”

  “No.” The others shook their heads.

  “Unexpected. I was told Recons are commonplace on this side.”

  “Maybe that was for the Chancellors,” Po said. “They had all the best of everything.”

  Hiro pointed to an elevated pad in the center.

  “You’ll stand there. Position each foot over the symbol. Drop your hands to your sides but don’t allow them to touch your body. After the program begins, hold the pose. Any movement may alter the spooling parameters.”

  Chi-Qua did not like the idea of freezing in place again.

  “How long does it take?”

  “Armor modified for AF takes longer. A more complicated spool. Give it about eight minutes.” He stepped inside and waved his hand over the glass surface, which lit up like a synaptic network. “These sensors will tailor your precise dimensions and grow the armor. You won’t feel anything until the segments are melded. Your helmet will be constructed separately to be fitted manually into the bolts on your collar. When the program has finished, the tube will open.”

  “Seems like a slow process,” Muna said. “Wouldn’t it be better to have suits ready to throw on for an emergency?”

  “Suits, yes. We have those. Helmets, too. But you requested armor for combat.”

  “He did.” She pointed to Mosh.

  “Anyone who wants a standard pressure suit, raise your hand.”

  No hands. Muna shaded her eyes.

  “Good,” Hiro said. “Now, what do you say we keep you alive and complete our mission? Enter, please.”

  After Chi-Qua positioned herself on the foot pad and watched the synaptic network spring to life, she closed her eyes and allowed the tech to do the rest. Hiro was right: She had no sense of being suited. That did not mean she couldn’t feel the change.

  “What do you wish to become?”

  Her father often asked that question from the day she set foot in Vox School as a Year One. Chi-Qua remembered none of her answers – sometimes, she shrugged and said nothing. One day – early in her Year Nine – he changed the question to a statement:

  “I need to know what you wish to become.”

  At the time, she specialized in nothing. Her identity clung to the trappings of the Baek family name and her admiration for Kara, who began a long campaign to become an engineer against Perr and Li-Ann Syung’s wishes.

  “I haven’t thought much about it, Honorable Father. What do you think will be best for me?”

  She saw his fatherly pride vanish in those chocolate eyes. Chi-Qua realized all those years of questions were a prod. He didn’t want her choosing the route of so many Haansu debutantes who settled for a vain social existence followed by marriage and producing heirs.

  He never asked the question or delivered the statement again. Many months later, the Chancellory fell; acts of reprisal and social refinery followed. The Baek household imploded overnight.

  “What will I do now?”

  That was the question she asked daily, to no answer. Several years in the service of Syung-Low changed nothing. Her identity never altered, except for the red and white uniform of household staff. Even to the final day of Hokki life as she knew it, Chi-Qua served in a largely invisible capacity. She helped Kara dress for the wedding and guided her to the blue boxes of Sangja. After that, she considered herself lucky to survive, luckier still to be granted another life, free from obligations to Syung-Low.

  As the armor spooled into place around her and locked segments, Chi-Qua felt a new woman emerging. She opened her eyes and watched the final laser-drawn magic complete her attire.

  A new uniform. A new purpose.

  Chi-Qua heard the whispers of a new purpose never imagined as a child. The armor granted her an artificial strength, but Chi-Qua felt her blood stir.

  I think I know the answer, Honorable Father. I think I know what I want to become.

  Moments later, after the program ended, she admired the dull gray armor casing. It appeared inflexible and clunky, but in fact it moved in sync to her limbs and adjusted with the ease of a synthetic fabric. She grabbed her helmet, which was grown on a phasic shelf at the top of the tube. She dropped it over her head and slid it quickly onto the neck brace. Chi-Qua felt small inside but not claustrophobic. Her faceplate allowed peripheral vision.

  Hiro reviewed operational details about the equipment and how to ignite the holo embedded in the face plate to monitor their body during an AF environment. Their comm stack, positioned above their left wrist, was primitive, allowing only point-to-point dialogue.

  “It will keep you alive,” he told them.

  Time was up. Yusef completed configurations and needed Hiro to execute the drone drop. He ordered the Hokkis to still-seats.

  “This will not last long, but it will be challenging if I’m forced to use my imagination. You’re not prepared for combat maneuvers.”

  Chi-Qua joined her newly armored brothers and sisters in the still-seats for a third time, but for this stint she locked in without fear or panic. She had crossed twenty star systems and survived a pincher drone. This sort of madness was beginning to feel routine.

  Of course, it was anything but.

  She watched from a distant perch as Yusef counted down and the catalyst drivers ignited. The wormhole aperture opened. This journey would be short: 29.47 seconds.

  “We’ll make it,” she reassured Po, who looked her way, as if for guidance. He seemed more confident in his armor, but she wondered whether he might wither in combat - assuming the mission allowed them to live long enough.

  It happened in two blinks.

  Horn emerged from the aperture. Yusef didn’t hesitate to shout terse instructions when he confirmed their location.

  “Fire!” He told Hiro, who punched the holo.

  Schematics showed their tiny drone en route to Scylla, an immense vessel hundreds of times larger than the Scramjet.

  They were far past the enemy when Hiro confirmed:

  “Contact. Initiated.”

  “And here they come,” Yusef followed. A reverse view of Scylla showed three bright red missiles in pursuit. “Respooling the drivers. Entering combat slip protocols. This is going to be close.”

  There was no time to turn and fight. Nor could Yusef open up the system engines and accelerate. Velocity caps for creating the aperture meant the missiles would narrow fast.

  “Ten seconds. Nine. Eight …”

  How strange, Chi-Qua thought. I’m not afraid.

  The three missiles appeared to merge into a single fireball.

  At least there won’t be any pain.

  “Two, one … aperture open!”

  Horn left normal space and dropped into the peaceful, infinite dark of the wormhole. Was this victory? Chi-Qua dared to believe.

  Five seconds. Ten seconds.

  Something was off. Yusef and Hiro said nothing.

  They didn’t have to. Horn’s stern cam told the tale.

  The aperture didn’t close in time. The missiles were upon them.

  30

  K ARA DIDN’T FEAR THE DARK ANYMORE. She’d lost interest. Ninety minutes inside the tunnel, movement halted for the third time. This was the second of the forecasted collapses, less than a hundred meters after an unexpected one caused by the decimation of Artemis. Well ahead, electric blue flashes radiated through the tunnel with a disorienting strobe effect. Ryllen and Force carved through an estimated nine feet of rock, the power banks on their turbo rifles waning. Based upon previous encounters, they wouldn’t create safe passage for another twenty minutes.

  Kara sat back against the tunnel wall and checked her oxygen reserve. She was down to two hours plus the backup. She was sucking it up faster than she realized, or the tank was faulty. She suspected both. Ham and Shoan Gui reported similar numbers.

  “How many more of these?” Ham said.

  Paul Ochoba, pulling up the rear with Cando, studied his comm stack, but the schematics were muddled. Between the flashes, he was a disembodied voice. His black armor and helmet provided perfect camouflage.

  “It’s hard to get a fix down here, Admiral. My best guess? Only the one predicted collapse. Then it becomes a matter of exit strategy. I can’t tell how the bombardment impacted the surface discharge. But that was always the biggest question.”

  Kara knew his meaning. They might reach the final section only to discover a collapse so deep, their entombment was assured. At the least, those not wearing Talon suits would suffocate before rescue.

  She told herself to balance her breathing. Take advantage of the lull and be at peace. Anxiety raised the blood pressure, which stepped up the heartbeat, which sucked more oxygen. She might have succeeded if not for the one constant reminder of their dwindling hope:

  June Serrano.

  When she was conscious, she moaned. In between the moans, she cried out for Lucas though appearing to have no idea where she was or his fate. At times, she reached back through the years, as if fighting at his side long ago when they were lovers. This was not the cynical, hard-edged woman who said few words but made sure each counted. Now? Younger, carefree, a sexual beast.

  A woman Kara might have loved to befriend in another lifetime.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Lin Sangoon told the crew. “We stabilized her, but the armor failed. It should be auto-medicating.”

  Kara thought the jarring rumble of the turbo pulses was preferable to hearing June suffer. The Talons’ silence on the matter told Kara all she needed to know: June wasn’t going to make it.

  Finally, when the incoherent rambling faded into a low, disappointed moan, Kara lost patience with the silence. Leto, Paul, and Cando were the closest soldiers. She asked no one in particular:

  “How long ago did June and Lucas join your unit?”

  Their reticence suggested this wasn’t the time, but Kara thought it the best time. There might not be another.

  Cando’s voice cut through the midnight black.

  “They didn’t join. They barged in and made themselves at home.”

  Paul and Leto laughed with surprising energy.

  “I remember,” Leto said. “It was during the march to Shanpour.”