Of Treasons Born (23 page)

“And it'll be the most boring month you've ever spent. Well … I take that back. You're not going to be bored, because we're going to work your ass off, but the rest of us'll be bored shitless.”

Chapter 24:

A Long Wait

“Sixty lights and closing, ranging at one-tenth light-year.”

A gravity wave washed through the ship and York swallowed hard to keep his lunch down. He'd been warned not to eat a large meal, and he'd carefully obeyed, but the gravitational instabilities had become so intense and frequent that everyone suffered.

“Mr. Ballin, start dumping lights,” Gunnerson said. “But remember, slow and steady wins this race. Dump too much too fast and we'll light up their screens like a holiday, make us a real easy target and ruin everybody's day.”

York and McHenry were teamed at the helm. To everyone's delight, it turned out that the two of them complemented each other nicely. York was good at estimating how rapidly to dump lights, while McHenry excelled at keeping them in transition as they approached the sublight boundary. McHenry had a dark complexion and unruly, curly black hair. He was about York's age, but looked a lot younger, and York had to force himself not to think of him as
the kid
.

York checked his screens and announced, “Forty lights and holding.”

Their transition wake was now weak enough that it could easily be mistaken for one of the many natural transition phenomena, like a burst of matter-antimatter annihilation events. But it was imperative they quickly get to down-transition because such natural events were transient in nature, and if they showed up as a weak event on someone's screens for too long, the enemy might grow suspicious.

York's eyes were locked to his screens as he read the information there out loud. “Twenty lights. How's she handling?” he asked McHenry.

He glanced at York and grinned. “Sweet and steady.”

York now slowed down his deceleration curve, hoping to sneak up on ten lights. “Fifteen lights,” he announced.

“Don't forget,” Gunnerson said, “when she down-transits, hold on to all the sublight velocity you can, keep our transition flare to a minimum.”

York gave them a countdown. “Thirteen lights … twelve … eleven . . .” He backed off on the deceleration curve even more as a cluster of gravity waves rolled through the ship, was surprised they weren't kicked into sublight. “Ten lights,” he said. “Nine …”

He was about to say
eight
, but Hensen beat him to it. “Down-transition. Stand by all hands.”

They all waited for the verdict, and York realized he was holding his breath. He forced himself to breathe as Hensen announced, “Clear to fifty thousand klicks. Drones out.”

The hull thrummed with the launch of the combat drones.

Another breathless hush, and then Hensen said, “We're clear, no surprises.”

Standing bridge watch alone on first watch and closely monitoring the scan console, York was technically in command of the ship, but he knew better than to fool himself with any such delusions. It was the first watch-rotation after down-transiting off Stulfanos. To minimize their transition signature and the possibility of detection, they were coasting toward the system at nine-tenths light, running silent with no gravity or drive, just the barest minimum drain on energy to maintain life support and all critical systems. They'd positioned their six combat drones in a static sphere about the ship at a distance of a hundred thousand klicks, and York's only responsibility was to monitor the scan data for incoming or outgoing ships. It was quiet, lonely, and boring, and drowsiness slowly crept up on him.

He unstrapped from the acceleration couch and floated upward. He moved carefully through the cramped confines of the
Horseman
's bridge, using small handholds specifically intended for weightless maneuvering. To keep alert, he made the rounds of the bridge's command stations, had to duck and twist a bit to make sure he didn't bang his head on an overhanging instrument cluster. The power plant was on a standby trickle so they could bring it up in a heartbeat, which was always a gamble since it had a finite transition signature, but it was low enough that detection by the Federals was highly unlikely. Since they were coasting, the helm was dark and silent. He was about to check on environmental control when a faint, repetitive beep from the scan console drew his attention. He'd set an alarm to start at a comfortably low volume; if he didn't respond to it, the sound would increase slowly until quite loud, a little assurance against dozing off.

At the scan console, he killed the alarm then strapped into the couch. He looked at the summary on one of his screens, which indicated some sort of transition wake approaching from interstellar space. He brought up a detailed report on another screen, which showed a faint trace about four light-years out. It wasn't strong enough to get a sharp signature, so he couldn't tell if it was military or civilian, man-of-war or transport, but it was approaching at close to two thousand lights—probably military.

He keyed his implants. “Computer, priority message to Commander Hensen. Wake him if necessary. Message as follows: Incoming transition wake, driving at two thousand lights, about fourteen hours out. Nothing urgent. End message.”

It took close to a minute for Hensen to respond. “I'll be up shortly, York.”

York spent the time cleaning up the incoming signal and trying to analyze it. Five minutes later, Hensen floated onto the bridge, strapped into the captain's console, and said, “Okay, let's see what you've got.”

York sent a summary to the captain's console as he said, “At close to two thousand lights, it's probably military. In fact, I'm fairly certain it's a single ship, most likely a destroyer, but at this range I can't be certain.”

Hensen leaned toward York, a smile on his face. “You don't have to whisper, Mr. Ballin. Trust me, the Federals can't hear you speak.”

Only then did York realize what he had been doing, and he felt his face flush.

In ten minutes, Hensen confirmed York's analysis. “Good work, Mr. Ballin, but we're not going to do anything about a lone destroyer. We want supply ships, preferably a convoy.”

Hensen stretched and yawned. “Why don't you take a break, go down to the wardroom, and get a mug of caff. I'll cover the bridge until you get back.”

Hensen snapped a quick salute that, had he not been strapped in, would have sent him into a weightless spin. “I relieve you, Ensign Ballin.”

York saluted back, “I stand relieved.”

He unstrapped and made his way down to the wardroom. On a hunter-killer, the small complement of officers shared the wardroom with senior NCOs, but at that time of night, it was empty. York strapped into a seat, sucked on a mug of caff, and chewed on some sweetened, flavored protein cake. He was about ready to leave when Chief Vickers floated into the wardroom, looked surprised to see York there, and said, “What are you doing here? I thought you're on bridge watch.”

York said, “Commander Hensen relieved me for a short break.”

“You're good buddies, huh?”

York shook his head. “Commander Hensen is my superior officer.”

“Ya, and you kiss his ass, don't you?”

York decided not to answer.

Vickers continued. “You listen to me, punk. You made me look bad, and I won't forget that.”

York said, “If I made you look bad, it was not intentional.”

Vickers sneered at him, twisted about, pushed off, and floated out of the wardroom. York finished his caff, tossed the rest of the protein cake in the recycler, and unstrapped. Out in the corridor, he ran into Chief Carney. Gripping a handhold, she said, “Good morning, sir.”

When running weightless, no one saluted unless strapped down in a couch.

York smiled and said, “Good morning, Chief. I didn't know you were standing this watch.”

“Couldn't sleep,” she said. “So I thought I'd just check up on things.”

It sounded almost as if she meant she was checking up on Vickers.

“Sir,” she said tentatively, looking worried. “May I offer you a little … advice?”

That surprised York. “Certainly.”

She grimaced as she said, “Be careful around Vickers. I think he's AI.”

“Admiralty Intelligence?” York asked.

“Yes. They report directly to the Admiralty, not through the normal chain of command, kind of a law unto themselves. I can't prove it, but I have my suspicions. You would be wise to be careful what you say around him.”

York nodded slowly. “Thank you, Chief. I will.”

When York returned to the bridge, Hensen instructed him to watch the incoming destroyer closely and alert him if it defied all the gods of probability and looked like it might pass too close to the
Horseman
.

After he'd left, York thought back to Vickers and Carney. Two senior chief petty officers, both up and about on first watch when neither was on duty. Coincidence, or was Carney watching Vickers, keeping an eye on him?

“How many ships, Mr. Ballin?” Gunnerson asked.

Seated at Scan, York looked at his screens one more time. “I would guess about twenty, ma'am, ranging at one light-year and driving at nine hundred lights.”

“And why are you guessing? I don't like guessing.”

York tried to keep the tension out of his voice. “Many of the transition wakes overlap, and they're strung out, the leading wakes obscuring those following.”

Hensen stopped behind York and looked over his shoulder at the scan data. “I couldn't have guessed any better, Hella.” He turned away from York and looked at the captain. “I'm sure Mr. Ballin will have better data for us as they get closer.”

“Ma'am,” York said. “I think I've identified their military escort.”

York had been glued to the scan console for the last day, watching the convoy approach. “There are three ships that can do better than the convoy's nine hundred lights. They're leapfrogging, up- and down-transiting, shooting ahead and falling behind, with always at least one in sublight. It looks like two are destroyer or cruiser class, and one hunter-killer.”

Gunnerson asked Hensen, “Did you teach him that, Jack?”

“No,” Hensen said, a smile forming on his face. “I think he figured that out on his own.”

“Nice work, Mr. Ballin,” she said. “How far is the escort ranging ahead of the convoy?”

“A light-year when we first spotted them yesterday, but they've pulled in a bit and are now leading them by only a tenth of that.”

“They're getting cautious as they approach their destination. And what's their ETA?”

“A little over eight hours, ma'am.”

“Then let's stand down.”

York asked, “Permission to remain on the bridge, ma'am.”

Both Hensen and Gunnerson grinned. Gunnerson shook her head. “No, Mr. Ballin. Go get something to eat, get some rest, and don't come back here for at least four hours. Mr. Paulson, you've got the bridge. Keep a close eye on the situation, and if anything changes, I want to know soonest. Mr. Ballin will relieve you when he returns. And then, Mr. Ballin, please be certain to sound Watch Condition Yellow two hours before they get here.”

York ate a light lunch in the wardroom, then returned to the stateroom he shared with Paulson and tried to get some sleep. But he lay there staring at the deck overhead.

They'd been coasting off Stulfanos for eight days, had passed up several opportunities at single ships, waiting for just this kind of opportunity. York tried to think through how Gunnerson and Hensen would handle it. But with his lack of experience, all he could think to do was punch a lot of torpedoes into transition, then run like hell.

Somehow he did sleep, and his implants woke him at the appointed time. He choked down a mug of caff in the wardroom, then returned to the bridge and relieved Paulson.

When he sat down at Scan, nothing had really changed; the convoy was merely closer. But over the next two hours, as they approached and the resolution of his instruments improved, he eliminated most of the guesswork: twenty-two ships incoming, three of them warships, the rest probably cargo transports. It was possible, even likely, that at least one warship hadn't been up- and down-transiting with the rest of the escort, and might appear at this stage to be no more than a merchantman. They'd have to be careful about that.

As instructed, two hours before the targets converged on the
Horseman
's
position, York elevated the ship's watch condition to yellow. Gunnerson's stateroom was closest to the bridge, so she arrived first. Hensen followed a moment later and strapped in at Fire Control, then McHenry at Helm and Paulson at Navigation.

“Mr. Paulson,” Gunnerson said. “Compute multiple escape scenarios, all driving at flank speed and up-transiting as soon as possible on a course perpendicular to our present track. Commander Hensen and I will review them with you shortly.”

Gunnerson had to lean a little to one side and peer past an instrument cluster to see York. “Mr. Ballin, is your data any better at this point?”

“Yes, ma'am,” York said. He sent a summary of his results to her and Hensen's consoles, then gave them a brief verbal summary. He mentioned his concern that there might be military vessels he hadn't identified because they hadn't done anything to stand out from the merchantmen.

She said, “That's a very good concern to have. As they get closer, Commander Hensen will show you how we might be able to identify them by their power-plant signature.”

York and Hensen played with several targeting solutions while Gunnerson reviewed the escape scenarios Paulson had computed. It occurred to York they were just trying to keep their two most junior officers busy, keep their minds off what might really happen. But when one of the convoy's escorts down-transited one-tenth light-year out, they all paused for a moment and looked at their screens. Hensen glanced over at York. “The critical moment is going to be when the escort leapfrogs again, because the next one's going to be right on top of us. We've got about an hour.”