The Terminal War: A Space Opera Novel (A Carson Mach Adventure) (15 page)

Searching the logs for a hidden signal played to his strengths. He was a happier man solving a riddle in his lab, rather than playing the role of uncomfortable captain. Although he knew the crew would all respond without question.
 

Lassea, Tulula, Sanchez, and Nigel were pleased about Tralis’ new orders when Babcock relayed them. The consensus, as suspected, was they were glad to be away from Steros, even though it meant a dangerous scouting trip.
 

Babcock left Sanchez in control of the bridge, Nigel on the lasers while Lassea retraced their route back to the remains of Orbital Hibock. From there, they would follow in the direction of the passing Axis grand fleet in the hope that it hadn’t L-jumped.
 

The fusion drive wound up with a smooth roar. Babcock felt a brief moment of weightlessness, and the coffee cups clinked together on the mess table. Lassea had engaged the L-jump, so they had at least four hours to spend on the logs. He returned to the lab and placed a cup by Tulula.
 

“Found anything interesting?” he said.

“Just the usual checks with the operation center and intrafleet movement commands.”

Babcock fired up his screen. Transport layers enveloped and delivered the message payload. The first place he planned the check was the reserve buffer between the two. During the Century War, engineering crews on destroyers used it as an informal comms link. He highlighted two thousand messages, dragged them into his processing folder and ran a filtering tool he’d produced several years ago.

Ten buffers had information inside them. Butterflies of excitement fluttered in Babcock’s stomach for a brief moment until he reminded himself that nothing was ever this easy. He decrypted the data and read the text.
 

Morgan had been using the buffer to communicate with fleet commanders, mostly his old friends from the war. It was probably his way of circumventing the Admiralty and hearing firsthand information. Most messages discussed enemy sightings and Axis movements; Tralis had sent one about the mole and Babcock’s investigation.
 

The president and his commanders used CWDF net addresses of previously destroyed ships. Babcock wanted to know how Mach was getting on. He trusted his old friend to successfully carry out his secret mission, but the crew deserved an update. He decided to use the address of the Nimrod, a decommissioned destroyer that both him and Morgan served on and typed a message to send in a buffer.
 

Dear Mr. President,

During my investigation into the information leak, I came across your communications. Your secret is safe with me if you provide an update on Mach in the next twenty-four hours.
 

Best regards,

Kingsley Babcock

Babcock tapped the transmit image on the holo-keypad. He smiled to himself, imagining Morgan’s face when he opened the message. The shortness of the gruff old dog’s fuse made Mach look like a saint in comparison.
 

“Found something?” Tulula asked.
 

“Nothing that helps us find the mole, but perhaps an improvement in communication flow with our dear president.”

Tulula let out a wet croak. “He’s not my president.”

“Officially he’s not mine, but he’s a good ally and has access to the Commonwealth treasury.”

“Is that all humans are interested in?”
 

“Not always.”

It was easy to forget the differing motivations of
Intrepid’s
crew. Mach always said his missions were purely down to money, but Babcock knew honorable intentions were a part of his makeup, despite the rogue captain’s claims. Sanchez had escaped prison on Summanus, and although his debt was settled, he stayed on as part of the crew because he loved adventure. Lassea had a free spirit, and Mach put her to far better use than the Fleet ever could.
 

Tulula was a different story. Babcock was never quite sure what drove her. They’d rescued her from the Black Swan’s orbital and since then, she’d integrated into the crew without complaint. He wondered if she had any dreams or aspirations beyond hired missions. Perhaps it was her love of Sanchez that kept her on the
Intrepid
.

“What are you thinking?” Tulula asked.
 

Babcock felt his cheeks warm. He avoided asking personal questions. People or alien management wasn’t his forte. “Oh, err… nothing. Better get back to work.”
 

He turned back to his screen, peered at the data, and wondered where to look next. The mole posed a significant threat to the Commonwealth, which in turn meant the stability of the galaxy. The Salus Sphere firmly under horan influence would spell oppression and possibly the destruction of humanity.
 

That couldn’t be allowed to happen.
 

*

A cold metal object pushed into Babcock’s cheek. He rubbed his eyes and raised his head from the desk. Squid Three hovered above him and retracted one of its tentacles.

“How long have I been asleep?” he asked.
 

Tulula turned from her terminal. “Three hours. Squid Three sent a message to my screen saying we should leave you.”

Babcock swallowed to moisten his parched throat. He would normally protest, but he hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours, and catching some rest during the L-jump made sense. “Have you found anything?”

“Nothing yet, and I’m nearly through it.”

Squid Three chirped and turned to a holographic screen next to the docking station. It displayed a block of unencrypted Axis data. Babcock rolled across on his chair for a closer look.
 

The little AI droid had cracked the latest encryption key, without his help. It marked another milestone in Squid Three’s evolution, but more importantly, it would be faster to hack the grand fleet’s navigation systems if they found it.
 

“Excellent work, sir,” he said.
 

Squid Three beeped an acknowledgment.
 

Babcock raised his smart-screen. “Lassea, how long ’til we’re out of L-jump?”

“We already are,” she replied. “There’s a faint reading two hundred klicks away, heading in our direction. No rush, though. It’s coming in slow.”

“I’ll be up shortly.” Babcock frowned and spun his chair to face Tulula. “Three hours you said?”

“I’m still not good with your concept of time. All I know is we need you fresh if we come across the grand fleet.”

“Continue here and keep me updated.”

Babcock suppressed a yawn, rose from his chair, and headed for the bridge. He had configured the comms system to filter all buffers on the Commonwealth’s secure galactic broadcast frequencies, and forward any information to his smart-screen, but so far, he hadn’t received a reply from Morgan.
 

The elevator hummed up its metallic tube and stopped at the top level. Babcock squinted against the brilliant white corridor and thought at some stage in the future it might be a good idea to get a pair of prosthetic eyes. He used to believe in the purity of the human form, but like many others in the Salus Sphere, age degradation had a way of changing minds.
 

Babcock palmed the authentication pad outside the bridge and its door smoothly punched to one side.
 

Lassea sat at the holocontrols and peered up at a small image on the edge of the tracking screen. Sanchez relaxed back in his seat by the ion cannon console and offered a casual two-fingered salute when Babcock entered.
 

“What have we got?” Babcock asked.
 

“Don’t know yet,” Lassea replied. “No transmissions and not close enough to get a clear reading. It’s too small to be a destroyer.”

“Plan a jump in case we need to make a quick exit.”

Lassea smiled. “Already done.”

Nigel had changed into one of the
Intrepid’s
dark blue engineering coveralls and busily tapped away on the laser configuration pad. Babcock moved across to the vestan gunner and looked over his thin shoulder. “Doing anything interesting?”

“Carrying out calibration checks,” Nigel replied, blasting Babcock’s nostrils with his acrid breath. “It’s a standard preventative maintenance procedure.”

Sanchez snorted. “We’ve got an official one here. He kept asking me for a uniform. I gave him a fusion monkey’s suit.”

“What’s a fusion monkey?” Nigel asked. “Mr. Sanchez told me it was a gunner’s dress.”

“Ignore Sanchez,” Babcock said and gave the big hunter a fake frown. “It’s crude slang from the Feronian docks.”

“What if he needs my help?”
 

“I’ll keep it simple for you. Don’t take anything he says seriously unless we’re under attack or launching one.”

Sanchez grinned, raised his middle finger, and spun back to face his console. Babcock eased himself into the captain’s chair and surveyed the bridge’s screens.

For the next ten minutes, the weak distant image grew stronger and closer. When it reached within fifty klicks, the energy reading split.
 

Two small ships were approaching the
Intrepid
. They crossed each other’s paths in small sweeping arcs, maintaining their slow speed.

“Horan scouts,” Babcock said. “I recognize their patrol pattern.”

“Like swatting flies,” Sanchez said. “If they lock on, I’ll give them a taste of our cannon.”

“Jump or raise our shields?” Lassea asked.
 

Babcock rubbed his chin and considered their options. “Neither. We’re not registered to the Commonwealth. Let’s play the role of the naïve space traveler and see what they can tell us.”

“When they attacked my orbital—”

“The Axis isn’t in the business of killing civilians,” Babcock replied. “Unless it hurts CW interests. Lassea, prepare to move in a moment’s notice, but for now, we’re on a mission to find an ancient relic.”

“What kind of relic?” Nigel asked.
 

“It doesn’t exist. We’re pretending.”

Nigel stared at Babcock for a moment before returning to his work.
 

Both ships appeared on the main viewscreen and thrust to either side of the
Intrepid
. Neither activated their lasers, probably aware the small scout ships were no match in a firefight. But they must have been confident about their position to get this close, which meant a larger force probably lurked out of the scanner’s range.
 

“They’re hailing us on a shipping frequency,” Lassea said.

“Establish an unsecure connection,” Babcock replied. “We don’t want to show a single sign of caution.”

“You got it.”

Nigel finished his checks and activated an auto-tracking system on the laser console. The central target on his display followed the starboard scout ship. Babcock hadn’t seen Tulula use this feature before. It also got Sanchez’s attention. He moved over to the vestan gunner and held a hushed conversation.
 

The image of a horan appeared on the main viewscreen. Babcock took a deep breath. The sight of the purple lizard-like creatures, with their flaming red eyes always put him on edge. It was the same for most veterans of the Century War. The younger generation was more accepting, but he had a feeling that was about to change.
 

“Human,” the horan said, “what is your business?”

“We’re searching for a relic,” Babcock replied. “It’s a freelance job for a private collector.”

“A Salus Sphere collector?”

“No. A dionian,” Babcock lied, thinking on his feet. Dionians were a neutral species with powerful defenses and deep culture. They despised horan violence and wouldn’t respond to a cross-check. “The planet appears in ancient texts. We don’t know if it’s a myth. Dark space seemed a good place to start.”

The horan hissed and leaned toward its screen. “Do you know of any Commonwealth ships in the area?”

Babcock shook his head. “Not seen any since we left Summanus.”

“Are you escaped prisoners?”

The thought occurred to Babcock that these two scout ships were independent to the fleet. Likely bounty hunters or pirates chancing their arm to catch large prey. “We dropped off a prisoner and collected our reward. I’d like to know your business?”

“Wait.” The horan spoke through another channel in his native tongue, paused for a few moments, no doubt receiving a reply in its chrome earpiece and focused back on the camera. “You need to accompany me back to my fleet for authentication. We have intelligence that spies are in the area.”

“I’m sorry, that’s not possible.”

“If you don’t, ten destroyers will hunt you down. Running is a sign of guilt and will not be tolerated.”

Sanchez’s hand twitched on the cannon’s controls. Babcock hit the mute button on the arm of the captain’s chair. “Keep your cool, guys, I know what I’m doing.”

Lassea turned and gave him a wide-eyed look of disbelief.
 

“What did you say?” the horan said.
 

Babcock reactivated the speaker. “We’ve nothing to hide. Lead the way and we’ll stay close behind.”

“Very well. We’ll be watching you.”

The horan flashed off the screen. Babcock took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed beads of sweat from his brow.
 

“What the hell are you doing?” Sanchez said.
 

“Why search for the grand fleet when the horans take us straight to it?”

“Are you crazy? You know what their interrogation involves, right?”

Babcock was fully aware the horans used ancient tools to extract information. It was one area the species felt they didn’t need any technological advancement. “It won’t get to that. We’ll gain all the information we need before getting too close.”

“Sounds pretty risky to me.”

“What’s the plan?” Lassea added.
 

“The same as before. Hack the navigation systems and jump before they attack.
Intrepid
will outrun any of their fleet.”

Both horan scout ships turned and headed back in the direction they appeared. Lassea spun back to the holocontrols and thrust forward.