“All systems, aye, sir,” Yamada’s hands flew over his console, he appeared to be enjoying himself. “Full alert. Battle stations. I repeat: Battle stations.”

  Faulkner sat back. There was nothing more for him to do. If the enemy ships had a halfway decent intelligence gathering system they’d have known something was coming and would have grouped themselves directly opposite the gate in readiness. The Mantis’ only hope was that the missile package would do its job. On the other hand, if the enemy recognised the missile cluster for what it was and held their fire, then Faulkner had effectively announced his arrival in advance. It could be all over before they managed to get off a single shot.

  “Weapons systems operating at maximum capacity.” Bertran seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

  Judging from the screen, they were on the verge of transitioning back into normal space. Faulkner felt the main thrusters begin firing in sequence. There was a slight electro-magnetic charge around the gates which was responsible for pulling ships through into N-Space and so it was necessary to utilise thrusters in order to counter that when it came time to leave. Even here, they could not see what was waiting for them on the other side. The gate exit itself though still opaque was a purer, bluey white, lacking the amorphous, smoky patterns which defined the rest of N-Space.

  “We’re in position,” said the Helmsman. “Due to emerge in fifteen seconds.”

  A silent countdown began on the main screen. Outside, the blue white exit wall started to spiral in a clockwise direction until a tiny, coal black aperture appeared at the centre. The aperture began to enlarge as the inner wall began to corkscrew around it.

  There was the disturbing sense that the ship was caught in the centre of some enormously powerful electrical field and that any mistake at this juncture would likely result in the Mantis being ripped apart by the huge forces which encompassed it. The sensation lasted only a few of seconds but was truly unsettling for everyone on board, like a shared sense of deja vu.

  They were calmed by the reassuring blackness of real space and felt the ship tremble as the helmsman feathered her thrusters. The clarity of the stars in this new system was startling after the hours of ghost light they’d just experienced.

  At first, it felt like they were only inching forward but then as the bridge came clear of the phenomenon that was Null-Space, the helmsman propelled them forward with short, powerful bursts. The picture on the screen suddenly switched to an angle from their own weapons package showing the moment that the whole ship came clear of the gate and Faulkner felt a huge collective sense of relief flood the ship. They had dared the impossible and lived to tell the tale.

  This time.

  Faulkner gave the command to activate both active and passive scans. He was anxious to know what was happening with the package since it clearly hadn’t been activated. He couldn’t see it when the screen switched to a forward orientation but then that didn’t surprise him – it was small enough not to register against the vastness of space. He was more concerned that there might be enemy ships in the area patiently biding their time, waiting for confirmation of first contact before releasing their first volley of fire.

  “Weapons package located thirteen kilometres off to our port side, sir.”

  “Mr Bertran, would you like to handle this?”

  Bertran started bringing up the package’s co-ordinates. “I’m despatching a couple of drones, captain, rather than servitors.”

  “I think that’s wise, considering the nature of what we’re dealing with.”

  The package should pose no obvious threat to them but there was always a chance of a freak detonation. It wouldn’t do well to make an unforced error at this point in the proceedings.

  “Sir, we’re picking up three ships about five hundred thousand klicks out. They’re heading straight for us.”

  That in itself didn’t mean anything. They were currently exiting Henrietta, the main gate into the system. This might well be just part of some normal traffic.

  Or the citizens of Blackthorn fleeing for their lives.

  “Have we got any idea of their make-up?”

  He needed to know if these were military craft, though he knew his people weren’t stupid. They’d be seamlessly analysing every aspect of the data before them.

  “We’re just waiting on that, sir.”

  “Mr Webster, while Mr Bertran deals with the package, I’d like you to start putting together a number of firing solutions, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Faulkner hesitated. He knew that he should be able to oversee Webster’s work via the command console but, for the life of him, he couldn’t think how he might access it.

  “Put it up on the main screen,” he said. “Let’s all take a look.”

  No sooner had he said this than the main screen was filled with a rolling series of attack simulations, all of them ending with the incoming ships being destroyed in a fiery tumult.

  Faulkner took the opportunity to calm himself. It would be another couple of minutes before they got a clear picture of what it was that they were facing and he had to take his time. He didn’t want to bring on another one of those wretched attacks. So far, he’d felt fine but there was no point pushing his luck. He had to learn to delegate more, to trust his senior officers. But trust had been in short supply since his time on Raghul.

  The one thing they had to their advantage was the speed of light. The incoming ships could have no idea that the Mantis had entered the system and, judging by the speed at which they appeared to be moving, they were going to have to start decelerating soon if they were indeed heading for the gate. The worrying thing was that there were three of them. Depending on the identity of the ships, Faulkner might well be facing a situation where the Mantis was going to be seriously outnumbered. Not that that overly concerned him. He’d faced worse odds.

  After several minutes had passed, the Comms officer spoke again.

  “Positive identification on the lead craft. That’s the USDC Meridian.”

  Faulkner let out a small sigh. “And the other two?”

  “So far, we have nothing on either of them.”

  Faulkner and Webster exchanged a glance.

  “Nothing at all?”

  “None of the usual identification markers, nothing that matches any of our profiles. Even their heat signatures are – well – odd.”

  “What’s your thinking, Mr Yamada?” Faulkner prompted. “Yakutian? Vardiaan? Which?”

  Yamada took another moment going over his readouts. “Well, sir, if you’re pushing me on it, I’d have to say: ‘neither.’ I’ve been studying both sets of profiles for as long as I can remember and these readings don’t conform to either one of them.”

  “Excellent,” Faulkner cut him off before he could say any more. “How far out are they now?”

  “The Meridian is two light seconds distant traveling at 0.3, the other two, Alpha and Bravo, are approximately two and a half seconds away traveling at 0.4.”

  “They’re chasing her then?”

  “That would appear to be the case.”

  “Anything else we should be concerned about?” Faulkner asked, as if daring him to speculate further.

  Yamada thought about it.

  “Not so far, sir, but we’re receiving fresh updates all the time.”

  “Very good. Keep me posted.”

  Webster had been entering the new information as they’d been receiving it. This had reduced his viable launch simulations down to three.

  Once he’d finished, both he and Faulkner studied their options.

  “So, what are we talking about in terms of a rendezvous? Two hours?”

  “Two, two and a half. Depends how soon they start applying the brakes.”

  Faulkner had finally managed to isolate and run the second simulation on his own and he was surprised at the sense of accomplishment this had given him. His greatest fear now was not the oncoming threat but the idea that he might miss something because of his meagre technical skills.

  “We’ll go with this one for the time being, Mr Webster. Mr Bertran, are you accessing all this?”

  Bertran cocked his head, unsure as to whether this was a genuine question or not.

  “Yes, sir, I have it in front of me now.”

  “Good,” Faulkner pushed himself to his feet. “Mr Webster, you have the bridge.” ​ ​

  *

  Once Faulkner had gone, Bertran turned to Webster, eager to get his reaction to the captain’s strange behaviour.

  Webster crossed his arms and gave him a withering look.

  “Anything wrong, lieutenant commander?”

  “No, sir,” the man looked flustered. “I was just … no, sir.”

  And with that he turned back to his console.

  Webster had to suppress a smile. There was no disguising the fact that Faulkner was struggling with the responsibilities his new post were throwing up. Webster had never come across anyone with such poor processing skills. It seemed unfeasible that such a person would be let loose on the bridge of a heavy cruiser, let alone be put in charge of one. Though, if truth be told, the joke was on Webster. He’d known exactly what he was getting himself into when he’d agreed to Faulkner’s proposal.

  And, he’d probably do exactly the same thing again if given the option. Faced with a choice between being in a prison cell or on the bridge of an interstellar starship there was only ever going to be one possible outcome.

  Also, Faulkner had been right about the number of options available to him. The longer Webster had stayed in prison, the more damage would have been done to his reputation until, eventually, he’d have been lucky to get a berth on the fleet auxiliary. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d been taken advantage of. And, if Faulkner was right - if war really was on the horizon - he might yet come to regret his decision.

  Perhaps he wasn’t quite so different from that impetuous young chess player.

  The Confederation would never have shipped him off to the Yakutians – he was certain of that now. It would have taken years of negotiations and, even then, it would still have been very unlikely. Once the war was fully under way, any blemishes on his record would have quickly been forgotten as the navy searched for experienced commanders. It would only have been a matter of time before a new ship would have come available. Admittedly, he’d never have been offered anything like the Mantis but he was confident that eventually he would have secured his own commission. So long as he didn’t get himself killed first.

  No, there was no point souring his relationship with Faulkner over what might have been. He was lucky to be back on active duty and was just going to have to apply himself to the job at hand. That’s what his father would have advised, at least. His father was a big fan of dogged determination - not that it had gotten him very far, it had to be said.

  “Sir,” it was Lieutenant Yamada again. “The captain was asking about other threats in the area.”

  Webster walked over to the man’s station. “Go on.”

  “Quite a bit of background traffic out there, mostly commercial stuff but also a lot of industrial freighters …”

  “But no sign of any other hostiles?”

  The captain of the Renheim had said that three ships had attacked the science station on Tigris but Faulkner had decided to hold that information back for the time being. He didn’t want the crew jumping to any conclusions. Also, there was the possibility that the Serrayu was out there somewhere.

  “Not hostiles, no,” Yamada said. “But I am picking up something from the Meridian’s sister ship.”

  “The Nantucket?” Webster had reviewed the Blackthorn’s defensive capabilities while they’d been in N-space. “What about her?”

  “I’ve identified her transponder signal.”

  “Excellent work, Mr Yamada. Where is she?”

  “You see, that’s the thing. I’m getting a clear signal and a reasonably accurate heading. Only problem is that when I try to get a fix on her…”

  “There’s nothing there?”

  “Not quite nothing, sir. I’m getting multiple readings, though nothing of any real substance. I’d have to get closer to know exactly what it is we’re looking at.”

  Webster nodded. The lieutenant was too well trained to start make assumptions but they were both thinking the same thing.

  “Possible debris field?” Webster suggested.

  Yamada studied his console, his face ashen. He made to say something, and then changed his mind.

  “I couldn’t swear to it at this distance. It’s just all very … odd.”

  Odd. That word again.

  Webster ran a hand through his hair. He could see why the lieutenant was hedging his bets. If what they were looking at was indeed the remains of the Nantucket then the first blow of some new conflict had already been struck.

  Webster had expected to be excited at the prospect but instead was filled with a growing sense of unease. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Technologically, at least, the USDC was meant to have the advantage over the Yakutians. So why did it feel as if they were starting off on the back foot?

  Webster opened a direct line on his console.

  “Captain Faulkner, this is Commander Webster requesting your presence on the bridge.”

  *

  “Show me,” Faulkner said. He was leaning against the back of his command chair.

  “There’s nothing much to show. It’s all circumspection based on a combination of radar and lidar with a little bit of thermal imaging thrown in for good measure. Nothing conclusive.”

  Webster had created an animation which was now being displayed on the main screen. Iscaria was one of nine planets in the Allegra system but it stood in the foreground in this presentation, bigger even than their sun. The fact that Iscaria was the most technologically advanced of all the planets was evidenced by the elevator linking it to Blackthorn, its orbital command and docking station.

  “What am I supposed to be looking at?” Faulkner said.

  “We’ve been trying to work out what we think might have happened in the last few hours.”

  Three ships, labelled Alpha, Bravo and Charlie, were approaching Iscaria from the rimward end of the system. Tigris would have been one of the remote planets in the distance but Faulkner couldn’t decide which one. The Nantucket and the Meridian had both slingshotted themselves around Iscaria in an attempt to head off the in-coming ships.

  “A classic stand-off,” Webster said. “Obviously we don’t know if there was any actual communication between the two sides but the stand-off went on for several hours as best we can determine. And then this.”

  The three hostiles opened fire on the Nantucket, the ship finally exploding in an expanding debris-cloud.

  “That all seems very sudden. Surely her shields gave her some sort of protection?”

  “Like I said: these are all approximations. Our best guess, in other words. From the radiation readings we can determine that some kind of battle did take place. In the confusion, the Meridian was able to slip away, using one of Iscaria’s moons for cover and then started heading out back towards our gate. The two ships –Alpha and Bravo - give chase. Charlie, the battleship – and we believe it’s at least the equivalent of one – starts heading out towards the Felicity Gate and that’s where we find her now.”

  “A battleship?” Faulkner mused. “And you say that all this happened just a few hours ago.”

  “That’s right. Six to eight hours ago according to our calculations.”

  Faulkner looked at the distance covered by the battleship, paused and looked again.

  “So you’re saying that this battleship is able to cover this kind of distance in twelve to fourteen hours.”

  “According to this, sir, yes.”

  Faulkner did a few quick mental calculations. “But that’s absurd.”

  “That’s what we thought. But there it is.”

  “It’s as if these ships weren’t…”

  “Weren’t what, sir?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Faulkner bit his lip, deep in thought. “How many crew was the Nantucket carrying?”

  “A hundred and seventy.”

  Faulkner gestured for them to run the animation again.

  “A hundred and seventy crewmen. Just like that. Who was the captain?”

  “Arash Sabieri. He was a few years ahead of me at the Academy.”

  “You knew him?”

  “I knew of him. An excellent sportsman. Captained the rowing team.”

  Faulkner nodded, wishing he felt more of a connection with the man.

  “And you’re sure about all this. You couldn’t be mistaken?”

  Webster looked over at Lieutenant Yamada.

  “As sure as we can be.”

  Faulkner dropped his head. If he was about to go into battle he needed to be absolutely certain of his facts. He didn’t want to start a war based on faulty intelligence.

  But then he switched his gaze to the Meridian and her two pursuers. The way things were going, it didn’t look as if he was going to have much of a choice.

  *

  Two hours after the Mantis entered the system, news came through that the smaller of the two enemy vessels, the Beta frigate class, had broken off her pursuit. However, the larger Alpha was still committed and showing no signs of slowing down.

  The Mantis was now on a direct heading to intercept the two oncoming ships: the Meridian and the unidentified Alpha. The coordinates, inputted by Lieutenant Silva, were hugely complicated and would have to be further verified by the ship’s mainframe. Everything would change though if, and when, the other ships started to decelerate.

  But if there had been any doubts in Faulkner’s mind about the action he was about to undertake they were instantly dismissed when the Alpha opened fire.

  There was nothing Faulkner could do. The Mantis was still outside effective missile range and they would have to wait at least another hour before they could render any assistance whatsoever.

  “They’re firing again,” Yamada said. “Looks to be two high velocity missiles this time.”

  Webster bit his lip and waited. The one slight advantage that the Meridian possessed was that in a stern chase like this she would present a much-diminished target for her pursuer.