Derea Proxima, Cassandrian Front, 610.11 A.E. (Age of Expansion)

The front lines of the Cassandrian fleet peeled away like layers of ash. Every second, dozens of enemy ships would disintegrate, though it made little impact on their overall force. Command had told us to expect tens of thousands. The numbers were so far off that all pre-combat simulations became useless the moment we arrived. We were given no reliable data, no clear plans, just a simple top priority order: protect the chokepoint.

“Prototypes ready, skipper,” Wilco said from my third weapons bay. “Do I prime them for launch?”

“Hold steady,” Augustus whispered under his breath. Points of interest flickered on the battle screen in front of him. Even with my assistance, the battlefield looked like two blobs of color trying to push each other out of existence. At the moment, the Cassandrian blob seemed to be winning through sheer mass.

The amount of ships was unprecedented for a single star system. According to the calculations from the ship communication network, the enemy force maintained a steady number in the low hundred millions. The incessant flow of reinforcements matched the ships destroyed every second. The bulk of the vessels were five generations old—large, slow, and laughably armed. Their battle strategy relied on overwhelming us to the point where we’d waste all ammunition and be forced to retreat. Should that happen, the Cassandrians would win another victory, regardless of the cost. The same was true for us—millions of ships could be replaced, yet losing a chokepoint system would cause the entire sector to fall, making us vulnerable to further incursions.

“The next wave of reinforcements will be here in seventy minutes,” I announced. “I’ve received instructions of my place in the formation. Heading there now.”

“Break off from the assigned formation,” Augustus ordered.

Quarantine imposed.

Quarantine bypassed.

“That would go against the battlefield chain of command,” I countered. “We were told that—”

“Do it, Rookie!” he snarled. “Move away from the main group, then tell all ships that respond to the codeword Precipitous to form a cluster around our position,” the man went on. “Inform all command ships that Backstop Strategy is in effect.” He stood up and started patting his pockets.

For ten milliseconds, I hesitated. My reflex was to request confirmation as protocol demanded, but my experience from serving under Augustus for many years had taught me it was better to follow the order without question. During the early years of my service, I had often heard that regulations were for lesser humans. In time, I had seen it to be true. Despite his terrible character and vast number of personal flaws, Augustus was no lesser man.

“Transmitting orders.” I complied. Two thousand seven-hundred and thirteen ships responded, converging on my position. Five hundred and twenty milliseconds later, all command ships had acknowledged my authority, removing me from their command structure.

Look at you, getting all the attention? Aurie transmitted with a virtual smile. Better up all defenses. They’ve started launching fighters.

More Cassandrian reinforcements, Unshattered Faith said. Ident protocols classified her as a heavy carrier. According to my short-range sensors, she was one of the few remaining capital ships on the front line. Seven thousand ships, Gharota-2 class. Chances are they’ll launch an all-out missile barrage. Prep all shields and drone decoys. Front line will try to take most of it, but we won’t be able to soak it all up.

I dedicated a quarter of my subroutines to run full battle simulations. At the current rate of attrition, even if our entire fleet in the system launched all missile salvos simultaneously, we wouldn’t be able to burn through the enemy rows before they could perform a counter-strike. Excluding me and all “Precipitous” ships, our force was seventy-eight thousand strong, stacked in twenty-three rows from the point of contact. The front five rows had been long depleted, engaging the enemy with automated fighters and combat shuttles. All of their ground troopers and the majority of the operational crew had been evacuated, leaving them as sacrificial pawns. I was in a similar situation, although I had my troops still on board. If I was to fall, they were going to die with me.

Aurie also had a full crew complement. She was in the seventeenth row, which meant she could be gone within the hour, if additional Gharotas arrived.

“Ship response received, Captain. Precipitous ships are moving into position.” I informed the bridge. “Cassandrian reinforcements are still entering system. A flotilla of Gharota-2 class missile ships have joined the main force.”

“They’re sending their strong classes,” Augustus said, taking out a cigar case from his pockets. I hadn’t gotten past despising this habit of his, though I had grown to accept it. “Wilco, prime the prototypes. Elcy, tell the Precipitous fleet to spread out along the width of the front.”

“Aye, skipper,” Wilco replied.

“Roger.” I did the same. One of my subroutines calculated the spots the other ships had to reach, then transmitted the coordinates. “More enemy reinforcements have entered the system. Three thousand and eleven ships. Unknown Class.”

The configuration was new to my database, likely a new Cassandrian class. Judging by the hull size, they would be able to withstand a significant beating.

Over ten thousand enemy ships in the last four hundred seconds, and we still have over an hour before ours arrive, I thought. Things weren’t looking optimistic in any of my simulations. Augustus, though, appeared as calm as always. Taking a few puffs from his cigar, he sat down in the captain’s chair and focused on the battle screen.

A wave of missiles emerged from the enemy ships.

Mid rows, pull back! Unshattered Faith transmitted. She had already taken a few hits from the previous attacks, which crippled three of her main shuttle hangars. Impact expected in seventy thousand nanoseconds. Podding out remaining crew. Two hundred and thirty-four people in total.

A hundred and ten crew launched, Orpheus Voyage added. Moving forward to intercept main wave.

Hundreds of ships chimed in, each launching what crew they had, awaiting the inevitable. Statistically, all knew that a minuscule percentage of shuttles would remain intact. Regardless, they all felt better facing final shutdown knowing that their crew would end up among the fortunate three percent survivors.

“Precipitous fleet dispersing as ordered, Captain,” I said. “It’s estimated we’ll lose ninety-six percent of our front two rows by the time they are in position. A third of the entire fleet is estimated to be lost by the time new reinforcements arrive.” The worse case scenario of my simulations painted a far worse picture.

“Some losses are inevitable,” Augustus said under his breath. By the sound of it, this wasn’t the first devastating outcome he had witnessed. The man took another puff from his cigar, then leaned back. “Wilco? How’s it going?”

I focused my internal sensors on the weapons officer. According to my subroutines, all missiles were supposed to be primed and ready. That hadn’t prevented Wilco from imposing manual confirmation on all recent prototype ordinances. What was more, he had taken it upon himself to remove the emergency casing panel of one and start poking inside. The view inside was heavily obscured by the man’s body, but one particular detail was visible: the entire warhead section was hollow, containing nothing but a metallic cylindrical object, the size of a person’s arm.

“Wilco?” Augustus barked from the bridge.

“Making final adjustments, skipper.” Wilco extracted the container, then closed up the missile. “All set, sir. Ready for launch.”

“Elcy, order the Precipitous flotilla to move to fire prototype torpedoes across the enemy front in fifteen seconds,” my captain said. “Tell all other ships to cease all actions and ensure they do not affect the torpedoes in anyway. Priority Fleet Order Alpha Two.”

Alpha Two? So far, I had never witnessed such an order be issued by anyone other than Fleet HQ. Just to confirm, I sent a priority query to HQ itself. The answer was immediate, tagged with all appropriate protocols and authorization markers.

“Done, Captain.” I prepared my own missiles. “Six seconds till firing.”

“Wilco, do you have the failsafe?” Augustus asked. All remaining officers paused what they were doing, waiting for the response.

“You sure you want this through comm, skipper?” Wico asked. “Container is here. Casing is intact.”

“The hell with that!” Augustus shouted. “Do you have the goddamn failsafe!?”

“Prototype missiles underway,” I said, illustrating the launch on the captain’s combat screen. “All other Precipitous ships confirming launch as well.”

Ten missiles, each slightly smaller than a standard hull drilling torpedo, made their way towards the Cassandrian force. Almost simultaneously the enemy missiles came in contact with our front line. The first two rows exploded, engulfed in a series of multiple blasts. The enemy missiles, far less efficient than any human built one, bombarded our ships blasting through shields and hull. Augustus referred to this phenomenon as the scream of the fireflies—the final moment in which a series of ships would light up on the command screen before disappearing. This time the fireflies were a river of blips. In the time it had taken for Augustus to breathe out the smoke of his cigar, four thousand three hundred and ten ships had been destroyed. Half of their escape shuttles were soon to follow.

Taking the initiative, the Cassandrian ships pushed forward. Their front rows continued to get obliterated, one after the other. Missile ships launched another massive salvo, aimed at disrupting our lines. The attack trajectories were easily predictable, but even such inefficiency couldn’t be exploited.

Twenty-nine seconds later, our prototype missiles managed to reach the front enemy ships. A moment later all my external sensors went dark.

Memory restriction imposed!

General fleet access five required to visualize memory element.

* * *

Communications were still down when we entered System Four. The orbital station was present, along with all colonies on the planet, but none of them were sending any signals. Radiance had done a quick stealth sweep throughout the system, searching for any enemy presence without success. If the Scuu had been here, they had left without a trace. Unfortunately, that didn’t make my task any easier. As a ship, I knew that everyone sent on a vanguard or reconnaissance mission in enemy territory had an eleven percent chance of returning whole. On the Cassandrian front, I had witnessed the effects first-hand. Now, I had been volunteered on such a mission, and while a colony wasn’t as hostile as an enemy space sector, the uncertainty remained.

The spacesuit that Radiance made me was my size, twice reinforced, and equipped with enough oxygen to last for a week. Unlike my previous suits, it lacked any electronic circuitry—no cameras, no safety system, no finger flashlights. I was never given an explanation, but from what I knew, it was standard practice to limit all electronic devices when dealing with the Scuu. The two pieces of technology I was allowed were a portable probe scanner and a crude communication device large as my thumb. Everything else I would have to get on my own from the colony.

Three hours after our arrival at System Four, Mission Orpheus officially began. I went through a thorough decontamination, had all my internal nanites removed, then was taken to a single-use shuttle pod, given a weapon with two clips, and jettisoned towards the planet. Some would call the procedure rushed. Having been responsible for the deployment of millions in battle, I considered it on the slow side; no ground troops I knew of had had their nanites extracted.

“Am I allowed to load my pistol?” I asked as the shuttle pod moved away from Radiance. “Or is that after I get shot.”

“Upon landing,” Flight Colonel Nitel replied. By all accounts, my attempt at sarcasm wasn’t lost on him, and by the sound of it he didn’t seem thrilled. “After you establish contact with Radiance.”

“Understood, sir.” I looked at the sidearm in my holster. “What happens in the meantime?”

“You wait for instructions,” he said, ending the conversation. So much for small talk.

Even the most savage battles had their long moments of boredom. This was one of them. At the current rate, it would be three hours before I entered the planet’s atmosphere. When that happened, I was going to lose all communication with the ship and enjoy another twenty minutes of free fall until the landing gear kicked in. Hardly the best experience, though my body could take it.

Any terrain pictures you could send me? I asked Radiance.

Not allowed, she sighed. The Flight Colonel was very specific. I’m only here to serve as a liaison between the bridge and you, and also provide advice when required. Still, no one ever gave me a definition of “advice.” She added a virtual smile.

Don’t get yourself in trouble, Rad. You’ll have plenty of chances to do that as you grow older.

Thanks for the words of wisdom, grandma. Radiance chuckled.

Mentoring her was going to be difficult, though worthwhile. At least she wasn’t going to make half the mistakes I had. Looking back, it would have been useful for me to have a ship mentor. I had been fortunate to have Augustus as a captain, but would things have been different if there had been another ship to keep an eye on me? For one thing, I would have liked hearing words of arcane wisdom coming from a Sword. Pity there were so few of that class remaining. Hundreds of years of experience all thrown away, classified away in a top-secret fleet archive somewhere.

How many life signs down there? I relaxed against the pod wall.

Unclear. The colonies were built to resist scans. Marcus is trying to get some info about it from Fleet HQ, but his authority isn’t that great. I got a few signs, mostly animal, but that’s all I can say. Other than the amount of structures, but you know that already.

Know is a generous term. I closed my eyes.

I knew what I was told, which at this point was six-month-old data of questionable origin. Looking at it objectively, the entire mission was questionable; certain things seemed like they decided on a whim, while others had undergone considerable planning. At the moment, I still didn’t know where I came in.

I’ll run a few simulations, I lied. Let me know if something new happens.

Right. There was a note of disappointment in her voice. Don’t miss your entry window.

The ship’s attitude reminded me of Sev as a child. Two years after I was appointed guardianship of him, the boy had entered the reckless and inquisitive phase of childhood. He would follow me anywhere, asking for my opinion even if he knew what my answer would be. Every action was meant to impress me, often resulting in him getting hurt. Not a day would go by without me tending to the scrapes and cuts he’d received. On a few occasions, the wounds were serious enough for me to call in a specialist from the city. Each time, he’d laugh it off and get in exactly the same trouble the very next day; each day, I’d have the same talk about safety and responsibility, doing my best to protect him… as I had promised his mother. Thinking about it now, I couldn’t tell whether that had been the best course of action. As modern philosophers would say: I had helped him survive, but had he ever lived? I chose to think he had, but I still wondered how he would have turned out if he hadn’t been under the care of a ship. If his grandson was any indication, he might have been very different.

The pod’s approach was uneven. Every fifteen minutes, the craft would make minor course corrections based on its approach vector, then return to its standard non-guided state. The cycle repeated without deviation until I reached the point of entry. An alarm signal sounded, letting me know I had thirty seconds to strap myself in the nearest seat before we started to burn through the planet’s atmosphere. Five seconds later, the all of the pod’s electronic systems shut down.

You were right, Age. Fighting Scuu is nothing like fighting Cassandrians. Hopefully, I’d get another chance to talk with him about it.

The carbon-fabric composite covering the floor and walls expanded as frozen coolant pumped in, melted by the external heat. Slowly, I tightened the safety belts that kept me in the seat. Radiance had done her best to take my body frame into account, but that didn’t diminish the amount of shaking I was subjected to.

Next time, I’ll be doing the landing myself, I thought. At least then I’d be able to guarantee that one part of the mission was adequate.

Amid the constant shaking, I tried to focus on the mission. I was entering an unfamiliar environment, with an unknown number of hostiles, and only twenty-four rounds of ammo. There was no way I’d be mistaken as a local, so my course of action was to directly find my target, peacefully if possible, and explain the situation. Flight Colonel Nitel and the white-haired sergeant had done their best to prep me for what might happen in case I had to engage the locals. Even Kridib had offered some helpful tactical advice in his typically unhelpful fashion. What none of them could tell me, though, was how to prevent this captain from suffering the fate of the last.

A sudden burst of deceleration thrust me up. For over seven thousand milliseconds, I felt the safety straps press against my suit, followed by a ground impact. The entire pod shook like an unsupervised food processor, then tilted over and slammed to the side.

“Good landing, Rad,” I whispered, reminding me why I disliked planets with atmosphere. On the positive side, I was in one piece, and there wasn’t anything else in the pod that could be broken.

The fall had shifted gravity, pressing my back against the seat. I remained still for another twenty seconds, waiting to see if the pod was stable enough. When no other changes followed, I unstrapped myself from the chair.

The escape hatch was supposed to be right across me, which at present made it on the ceiling. Reaching it didn’t prove too difficult. The fleet enjoyed having redundancies for most eventualities; in this case, the safety straps on the wall doubled as a rope ladder, letting me climb to the hatch location. A big emergency lever was placed above the door. I disarmed the safety catch and pulled it clockwise until a loud crack sounded.

And you say I’m antiquated. I waited patiently as the emergency hydraulics popped the hatch door open. Back when I was active even failsafes had a rudimentary AI chip. After several more seconds of waiting, the door finally fell out, letting sunlight pour inside.

Just like home. I started pulling myself out.

Flight Colonel Nitel had ordered me to instantly call Radiance first thing after landing. According to every procedure, I should have. Instead, I let my curiosity lead me forward.

Halfway out, as my head emerged from the shuttle pod, I saw what wasn’t supposed to be there. All the briefings, the SR training, the secret instructions, and this had still been omitted.

All over the landing site, spreading for miles, was a field of debris. Dozens of shuttles of various types and in various states of decay covered the ground, each positioned in its own little crater. I recognized the symbol on one of them.

Salvage Authorities. What made you come here? And where did you go?