Constitution: Book 1 of the Legacy Fleet Trilogy (4 page)

That captain’s chair would be hers, dammit. But not on this piece of junk, thank God,
Proctor indulged, allowing herself to feel superior. Her ship would be new—top of the IDF line. All she had to do was get there.

She looked down at the waiting man. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

And with one last glance around the astrometrics lab, she swept out the door, leaving a slightly disappointed-looking lieutenant. Granger had probably instructed him to prod a reaction out of her. Well, she wasn’t going to play along.

In fact, she’d just have to prod harder.

Chapter Eight

Veracruz Sector, Leon System

IDF Intelligence Ship ISS Tirian

“Navigation, time to the Merida system?”

The officer at navigation tapped a few spots on his command console. “We’re on the outskirts of the Leon system, sir. Thirty-nine q-jumps left until we reach Merida.”

Commander LaPlace fiddled with his uniform—there was a loose strand at his sleeve and no matter how much he picked at it, more seemed to unravel. “What do you say, about an hour?” he said, calculating in his head how much time it would take to make that many q-jumps. Each only took about a minute to complete, but only advanced them about a tenth of a lightyear closer to their destination.

“That’s about right, sir. Fifty-five minutes, to be precise.”

The IDF Intel ships were small, but blazingly fast. Most larger capital ships like the Lancer class heavy cruisers the IDF built a decade ago were lumbering sloths in comparison, only able to q-jump every two minutes or so—it took that long to build up a sufficient charge in the solid state capacitor banks. And the old blocky ships like the Galaxy class carriers, well, those were more like slugs. Not too many of those left, and once the
Washington
was decommissioned, that would leave only the
Thatcher,
and the
Norfolk
. And that didn’t even include the Legacy Fleet—the ancient heavy cruisers from the last century. Thankfully, only the
Constitution
was left from that bunch, and IDF only kept her around as a piece of living history.

“Still no meta-space signals?” If there were any problems at Merida, or Starbase
Heroic
, they would have heard something by now. Meta-space signals were extremely low bandwidth, but they effectively travelled at a hundred times the fastest q-jump drives. Only twenty-four bits per second, but that was better than nothing.

“Still nothing, sir. Not even from
Heroic
.”

That was damn peculiar. Not that the starbase was constantly sending out meta-space transmissions—it was relatively expensive to do so since each signal consumed upwards of a terawatt—but for there to be no response to CENTCOM’s repeated messages requesting their current status, well,
that
was unusual.
 

And it was also classified. CENTCOM hadn’t told Admiral Yarbrough the reason they were sending Intel ships out from Earth’s
Valhalla
Space Station rather than the much closer Starbase
Heroic
. The truth was that they’d lost contact with
Heroic
over three days ago. But that was classified top-secret. She’d find out in a few days, but CENTCOM played its hand close to its chest, even with its own admirals.

“Ready for q-jump,” said the navigator.

“Proceed.” Commander LaPlace’s fingers tightened slightly around his armrest. The q-jumps were benign enough, but they still always made him momentarily queasy. Not unreasonably so, given that he was effectively going into nonexistence for the barest fraction of a second as the quantum fields worked themselves out. Less than a Planck-second, and therefore imperceptible, but still.

The bridge was small, and a little cramped, and as such LaPlace knew something was up the moment his sensor officer’s brow furrowed.

“What’s up, Andy?”

“I’m getting a strange reading from one of the planets in the Leon System.”

LaPlace craned his neck to glimpse the sensor station. “Such as?”

The officer shook his head. “I don’t understand it. It’s a meta-space signal, but it’s gibberish. It’s like a pulsating oscillation. Pretty regular—maybe three hertz, with some overtones.”

“How many overtones can there be at only 24 bits per second?”

“Not many. And I’m not sure it’s even regular. But ... I’ve never seen anything like this.”

LaPlace bit his lip. Continue on to Merida and Starbase
Heroic
? Or investigate this new mystery? His gut told him all the events were related. “Hold q-jumps. Andy, can you triangulate a source?”

“Maybe. Can we increase lateral speed? That’ll help.”

LaPlace nodded. “Navigation, aft and starboard thrusters at fifty percent.”

A few moments later the sensor officer nodded. “Got a lock. The source is the fourth planet from the star in the Leon System.”

The tactical officer to LaPlace’s left tapped his screen, indicating to the Commander a local star map. “Sir, the fourth planet is where the new Mexican settlement is. Nueva Leon. They’re governed out of Merida.”

“How close?”

The nav officer checked his board. “Just two q-jumps away. We can be there in four minutes.”

LaPlace nodded slowly. “Anyone else think we might have found a lead?” LaPlace asked his bridge crew. Nods all around. “Thought so. Comm, send a meta-space signal to CENTCOM. Text as follows: Meta-space disturbance detected near Nueva Leon. Will investigate before proceeding to Veracruz.”

Chapter Nine

L-2 Lagrange point, Earth

Afterburners Bar, ISS Constitution

Captain Granger knew it was probably a mistake to antagonize the newest officer on the
Constitution
, but dammit all if it didn’t feel wonderful. But that preening paper-pusher of a commander, Shelby Proctor, would probably complain to Admiral Yarbrough that he was interfering with her mission, and he knew his official record could do without
another
corrective administrative action. He’d been on good behavior for the past decade or so, but Yarbrough made it clear to him years ago that she wouldn’t tolerate another
incident
, no matter how many good-old-boy buddies he had up the chain of command.

“So you’re just going to let her do it? Strip out our starboard fighter bay and turn it into a friggin petting zoo?”

Granger glowered at his XO, and tipped his glass back. “What the hell am I supposed to do, Abe? Lock her in her quarters until the decommissioning ceremony and hope for the best?”

“Yes.” Haws pulled his flask from his boot and uncapped the lip, grinning at the thought.

“You and I both know that we’re on a tight leash here.”

“Even after all this time? Hell, Tim, it’s been nearly fifteen years since your little stunt.” The old officer swigged the remainder of the contents of the flask, which he’d probably been working on since waking up that morning.

“Regardless. I don’t want to risk your retirement. Or my next command—assuming I get one. Or the futures of the rest of the senior staff.”

“You know we’d have your back.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. No, Abe, it’s time. It’s time we let her go. She’s had her run.” He glanced up at the ceiling of
Afterburners
, then lowered his eyes to the officers scattered around the room at the tables and benches. The walls were adorned with various mementos and pictures the proprietor had picked up from around the colonies. A fossilized tree ring from the blue forest on Deneb 3, nearly three feet in diameter and glazed in lacquer. A pair of old, dusty leather boots hanging down from a nail driven into the bulkhead—the footwear of the very first captain of the
Constitution,
who commanded the Old Bird over a hundred and twenty-five years ago
.
He smirked as his eyes passed over a picture of President Avery of the United Earth League, her stern, lined, grandmotherly face taped atop the barely-clothed busty figure of a supermodel in a pose so suggestive that it would give a regular person hip-dysplacia.
 

Dammit, he was going to miss the Old Bird.

Granger swallowed another mouthful of the
Afterburner’
s distilled rotgut. “You know, it’s not all that bad. The original
USS Constitution
—the old sailing vessel George Washington commissioned, the one that saw service for nearly a hundred years—it’s still in Boston harbor, taking on tourists every day. Are we better than her?”

“Did you hear what Proctor wants to do with the engines?” Haws motioned over to the bartender and pointed at his empty flask.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, only strip out the lead ballast from the main drive. Says she wants to bolster the shielding of the main reactor.”

Granger did a double-take. “She what?”

“You heard me. Thinks that the level of radiation coming off the reactor poses a threat to visitors.”

Granger shook his head. “It’s well within norms.”

“Within military norms, sure. But it’s slightly above accepted civilian dosage rates. So she wants all the ballast stripped out and the quantum reactor core shielded with at least five centimeters of friggin lead.”

The captain rolled his eyes. “If we do that, we’re as good as dead in the water. As it is, we have to wait over two hours between q-jumps. Without that ballast it’ll be a day or more.”

Haws burped after slamming back the latest round the bartender had brought to the table. “That’s kinda the idea, Tim. That’s what decommissioning means. No sense in keeping the engines in shape if your ship is a goddamn museum.”

Granger studied his empty glass, then shoved his chair away from the table and let the glass fall with a crash to the floor. Every head in the bar turned and a hush fell over the place.

“Over my dead body.”

Chapter Ten

Marseille, France, Earth

L’hotel Sur Mer, Presidential Suite

“Yuri, I want the bitch dead.”

United Earth League Vice President Eamon Isaacson kicked his loafers up on the chrome countertop of the bar in his presidential suite and puffed smoke from his cigar. Cuban. His last one. He made a mental note to tell his assistant to pick up a new case on the next campaign swing through the Caribbean.

“I thought the plan was to publicly discredit and humiliate her. Force her resignation. Clear the way for your presidency.” Yuri Volodin, the Russian Confederation ambassador to the United Earth League, held the glass of sherry up to his eyes, his sallow cheeks glinting with the sparkled light from the crystal chandelier above refracting through his drink.

“It’d be so much simpler if she was dead. Avery is popular. Her approval ratings are only going up with the implementation of the Eagleton Commission. The economy is booming. Consumer confidence is at an all-time high. Shit, even the Cubs won the world series last year. And somehow the bitch seems to get all the credit for everything.”

Volodin set his drink down on the bar and rested his hands on his lap. “Should I call President Malakhov? We can suspend the operation and prepare a hit squad instead. It would be a simple matter to frame the Caliphate.”

Isaacson waved him off. “No. We’re already too far down our path. We’ve been preparing this operation for years. Once the attack happens, and we’re caught with our ass hanging out of our pants, I’ll present the no-confidence motion. I’ve got two dozen senators who’ve told me they’ll second. Coming from her own party, that’ll be plenty devastating—between that, and a ravaged Europa Station, people will be calling for her head for letting our guard down.”

“Of course,” said the ambassador, picking his drink back up.

“And in a few weeks, you can call me President Isaacson.”

“I admit, it has a nice ring to it,” Volodin nodded. “And President Malakhov will be most pleased. He feels you’re someone he can work with.”

Isaacson snuffed out the end of the cigar. Best to save the rest of it for later. Could be weeks before he got another. “You’re sure they’re under your control? They won’t go berserk and attack everything in sight? Just a targeted incursion through the fringe sectors, a quick stab at the Jupiter lunar system, and then they’re gone?”

“I assure you, Vice President Isaacson, the Swarm have been under our control for the past decade. They are as benign now as small puppies. Ever since we discovered the meta-space link to their homeworld and learned how to simulate it, we can basically tell them to do whatever we want. And with the intelligence you provided us last week, I’m sure the plan will go down flawlessly.”

“Just don’t blow it. Those smart-steel modulating algorithm codes can be easily changed. They only get one shot at this before IDF resets the codes, and then the smart-steel armor will be impenetrable again.”

“I assure you, Eamon, by this time next week, you’ll be sitting at home in the White House, toasting my good health.”

Isaacson poured himself another drink, raised it to Volodin’s, and smiled. “Good. A toast to our new world. More secure and prosperous than ever.”

Chapter Eleven

Veracruz Sector, Leon System

IDF Intelligence Ship ISS Tirian

“Arrived at Nueva Leon, sir. We’re in high orbit forty-one thousand kilometers above the surface,” said the nav officer.

Commander LaPlace nodded. “Sensor sweep. What have we got, tactical?”

The tactical officer frowned at his screen. “Lots of debris in orbit, sir. I’m picking up metallic and radioactive signatures, and organic too.” The man looked up. “Bodies. Pieces of ships. There was a battle here recently, sir.”

LaPlace leaped to his feet. “Full spectrum scan of the surrounding space, and the surface. I want to know if the aggressors are still here. Any sign of them?”

“Negative, sir. No active ships in orbit.”

“Swarm?” LaPlace glanced at the tactical officer.

“No sign of them, sir. At least, nothing like their ships from the war.”

The Commander stroked his chin and considered his choices. They needed information. At this point it could still be the Russians. A surprise attack, most likely, and then a raid on the surface to destroy key industry targets. Set the colony back a few years. Give them the chance to get a leg up in the sector before more colonists showed up.