Chapter 3

3-----------------------

First Lieutenant Ian Troy couldn’t scratch his nose, which was a shame because he was about to spend the next eight hours hurtling through space in an airtight flight suit and a sealed helmet. To scratch this particular itch (which was about a 7 on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the electric chair), he would have to tear away the soft-seal collar and remove the helmet. But this would delay the launch for about five minutes and piss the flight crew off something fierce, so he didn't.

“This is Pinball,” he said into his helmet’s comm. “Alpha, sound off.”

“Hack here. Alpha 2, good to go.”

Silence for a moment. Ian keyed his comm. “Slider, you better not be asleep.”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Slider barked, his voice tinny from the earpiece like everyone else’s. “Jeez, it happens once in a simulator and you never hear the end of it.”

“Styles, that was last week.”

Pinball commed up flight control, “Control, this is Pinball. Cav-Alpha Wing requesting clearance to launch.”

“Negative on that, Pinball,” came the response, spoken so quickly that he almost crammed that into two syllables. Warrant Officer Lansing usually ran God’s Switchboard up in the control tower, situated on the edge of Sisyphus 1. The Callistoan station was the farthest out of the garrisoned moons of Jupiter, so most traffic—civilian, commercial, and military—usually had to clear itself with Sis-1’s tower before proceeding. That meant an insane amount of comm traffic flooded the Switchboard quite a lot of the time: incoming patrols, outgoing patrols, CAP and LAP flight check-ins, inbound commodity shipments, colony shuttles coming and going, and enough miscellaneous holding pattern chatter to turn even the most sane man into a gibbering wreck.

All of this was filtered, processed, and displayed onto a switchboard that collected and summarized flight information into a relatively manageable format. And that was just the open frequencies; God’s Switchboard also handled most of the encrypted traffic that buzzes in and out of Jupiter’s ether. All of the ships in the flight pattern were linked into the Switchboard, slaved into the ALS software to keep the pattern orderly and to avoid collisions in the tight orbital space. It was rumored that the operation manual for this technological terror was about the size of a phone book. Hardcopies of the source code would probably be heavy enough to destabilize Callisto’s orbit.

Lansing was a rare breed who could multitask to a degree where he could write duty logs while maintaining a dozen conversations on launch/land schedules with impatient pilots, and still be on a first-name basis with the regulars. Of course, this meant that he’s learned to talk fast. Real fast. Ian had never actually met him, and he wondered if Lansing talked this way socially. Must be hard to talk to women when you sound like an Alabama cattle auctioneer.

“Your orders have changed,” Lansing motored out, “Stand by.”

“Don’t take too long. Slider’s getting sleepy.”

“Hack—“

“God damn it, Hack!”

Ian Troy punched up the mission flight plan on his computer while Hack and Slider broke each other’s balls. Nothing had changed that he could see, and updates would appear on his computer at the same time they’d show up on the switchboard. He groaned when he finally notices what had been changed; it was on the wing assignments.

“Sally, we can handle this without chaperones. We’re grown-ups!”

Captain Sally Hart-- that delicious mocha hotté, the Queen of Harts, the star of a thousand shameful dreams, the woman with so many curves she ought to come with a speed limit, the diva with legs so fantastic that (even in the burlap sack that is the U.S. Space Force flight suit) it was all anyone could do to resist humping them like a dog when they saw her—barked out a laugh over the comm. “Wasn’t my decision. Evidently we’ve got VIPs coming in and Colonel Roma doesn’t want you to fuck it up.”

“And you stuck up for us, didn’t you Sally?”

“Of course I did. I told them you were all ace pilots, unflagging in the face of peril, and the baddest motherfuckers ever to go to war. True pride of the Cavalier Squadron.”

“So what did Ringer say?”

“He told me to bring Prince John with me.”

“Aww!” Pinball moaned, “More kids? Now you’re asking me to baby-sit Slider and Prince John?”

“Um, I can hear you…” mumbled Prince John Boston, the new 2^nd Looie from the academy on Deimos. Nobody paid any attention.

Long Tall Sally continued, “I know, I know. I couldn’t say all that stuff about you being badasses without laughing.”

“Cute.”

“I’m working on it. You think I enjoy babysitting you? I’d much rather kick back margaritas at the Canteen than hear Slider snoring on the open frequency for the next eight hours.”

“I swear to God I’m kicking everyone’s asses when we get back. Everyone’s!” Slider said with all the menace of a parent vowing to turn the car around this instant.

Sally called for launch clearance now that she and John Boston—the newly designated Alpha flight—were ready to go. Pinball and his boys got booted down to Bravo which irked him, but less than it normally would. He was eager the opportunity to call the shots for once, to show a little responsibility when it turns out they still don’t trust him enough that they call a pinch hitter for him once again. But Pinball wasn't too upset; he wanted very badly to screw Long Tall Sally’s brains out and this was a good chance for him to work his charm.

Lansing told the Switchboard to clear the launch corridor, which automatically maneuvered the slaved nav-systems of nearby orbiting vessels to a safe distance. Then came the fun part: the catapult. Each fighter craft was secured to twin rails, top and bottom, to individual tunnels about two miles long angled up to the sky. The fighter craft were propelled through this tube using electromagnets, like a rail gun on a massive scale. Sort of a midpoint between it and the mass drivers that launch asteroids to mining colonies. The device was reminiscent of old aircraft carrier catapults, only it launched the craft into orbit at truly ridiculous speed, far beyond the necessary escape velocity.

It was done to accelerate fighter wings quickly to long-range waypoints and saving the trouble of carrying a lot of onboard fuel. This led to certain complications such as not liquefying the pilot, and succeeding that, how to keep him from breaking his neck or biting his own tongue off. Slight bends in the rail, obstructions in the tunnel, or a power failure could result in the emission of nothing more than scrap metal and a fine pink mist from the end of the cat tunnel. On the plus side, if anything went wrong it’d happen at a zillion miles per hour, meaning he’d have been killed so quickly and completely they could bury what residue was left of him in a thimble.

From here, the end of the catapult was so far off that the end was out of sight. Four rows of light converged at the edge of his visual range, forming a narrow red X. These lights turned green, and the ALS system engaged the mag-rails. Ian Troy closed his eyes.

Unconsciousness was unavoidable at this speed, but a wakeful human controller would do little good right now anyway. The autopilot was infinitely more qualified to handle long-range, high-velocity navigation. If Ian were to try, the slightest twitch on the stick would send him hurtling radically off-course. It only lasted a few seconds before their blood started moving again. Surprisingly, nobody took the expected cheap shot at Slider as everyone checks in again.

“So Sall—“ Ian’s voice creaked, so he cleared his throat, shook the cobwebs out of his head, and started again. “What about these VIPs, Sally? We talking actual military VIPs or more corporate agents on investment inspections?”

“The short answer is yes,” she replied. “I know that there are two official U.S.M.C. shuttles coming in and a Synapse Corporation cruiser, but that’s all that Ringer would say.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Me either. We’re just going in to relieve Vertigo’s patrol at the foldpoint; they’ll escort the ships back. They’re behind schedule so we might be waiting together for a while.”

A Marine Corps Magnum transport pulled into formation. “Cav Flight Alpha, this is Magnum-4.”

Sally clicked over to the open channel. “Glad to have you with us. You’re in good hands. Pass the word for me?”

“Will do. Magnum-4 out.”

Sally ordered radio silence, partly because of regulations, but Ian thought it was mostly to keep the rest of the wing from asking questions she doesn’t have answers to. While they headed to the foldpoint they had literally nothing to do but stare at instruments and let the autopilot do its work. The human element of the spacecraft was mainly a redundancy system in case something goes wrong, like armed conflict. Otherwise the onboard computer was more than capable of handling every function of this mission under routine conditions. Ian often wondered if he even needs to be sitting here because of that.

He tried to reason it out—these long hours allowed for a lot of introspection—and eventually figured that if everything were happy and routine there’d be no need for a military at all. And we can’t have that, he thought.

After a time the computer initiated a hard retrofire: a swift 180 followed by a thruster burn to arrest their forward progress. It was a longer and gentler (the term is loosely used) process than the catapult. Arriving at the foldpoint was the easy part. It would take a lot more time to get back using conventional drive. Fuel wasn't much of a problem with their hydrogen intakes, it was acceleration. The slow ramp-up from thrusters couldn't compete with a good kick in the ass from the catapult.

Radar contacts started to pop into existence, the first of which was the foldpoint beacon which broadcasted its existence loudly and proudly. Soon the computer picked out another wing of Spartan spacefighters from Cavalier Squadron. Major Les Hansford—better known to everyone else as Vertigo— was flying security for the foldpoint traffic with the other Cavs, protecting the slow transports coming in from Martian space when they weren't up to speed and vulnerable to attack. Vertigo planned most of the mission details handed down from Colonel Roma, so it was a little surprising that he was down here personally. Usually his role as DCAG was administrative and kepts him out of the cockpit. It almost felt like Hansford was slumming it right now flying a simple patrol.

Magnum-4 and the Cavaliers decelerated into the periphery of the foldpoint’s local space. Major Hansford’s Gold Wing was in a tight formation a couple hundred klicks opposite the foldpoint, each of the five fighters forming a circle, pointing outward in different directions. Other times they would set up a crossfire towards the foldpoint, but the sister point near Deimos was relatively secure; hostiles were unlikely to pursue ships through it.

Other ships forming a convoy of commercial heavy freighters were angling themselves toward Jupiter as they cleared the foldpoint. Only one stayedstationary: a smooth light cruiser, with long swept-back intakes and a large rounded fuselage. It seemed to be a heavily-refitted passenger liner with custom engines and an extensive communications package of antennas and dishes bristling along its dorsal ridge. Ian barely had to look at it to know it was the Synapse Corporation’s ship. Ships that size and style were sometimes used as personal yachts for zaibatsu executives, but Synapse certainly wasn’t big enough to be one of those. He could only guess as to the ship’s corporate purpose, but right now it was holding the foldpoint open.

Gazing into an active FP gave one a strange sense of parallax depending on the viewing angle. Even stranger was when viewing this spatial duality from the other side, as it quite literally coexisted as a hole on both ends of space. Ian could see into Martian space, as the ships passing through could see him. Carefully organized, ships could pass through the foldpoint simultaneously. The effect was rather unsettling, and it threw shipboard computers into collision-warning conniptions when faced with a paradoxical ship millions of miles away flying up its ass, yet also at a distance of exactly zero.

Situated near the Synapse ship was another Magnum Marine shuttle. Magnum-4 detached from its escort and headed over to join it.

“Cav-Gold, this is Cav-Alpha,” said Long Tall Sally. “We’re here to relieve you. What’s your status?”

“This is Gold Leader,” Vertigo answered. “We’re still waiting on the last of the heavy transports. There’s also some kind of holdup with Enigma Wing. Fall into formation with the convoy until we’re ready to leave. Should be about five minutes.”

“Copy that. Pinball, get to it. I need to talk to Vertigo on the laser link.”

Ian led Slider and Hack into formation and they listened to the open comm for a while. Sally was away from the group, talking to Vertigo with a point-to-point laser communication link; impossible to intercept unless you happen to actually block the direct line between two ships. Ian was annoyed. He felt like a kid told to go play while the adults have Big People Talk, discussing things he’s not old enough to hear yet.

Eventually he decided it didn’t really matter to him, and he didn’t really care. But it nagged at him in the sense that he became aware (as he did almost weekly) that he really should have made captain by now. He didn’t know who to blame for that. He liked to think that it was a simple oversight. Pilots assigned to carriers and system patrol craft saw the most action. By comparison, garrison pilots like him don’t rack up the same statistics. It was a lot safer being posted on Callisto, but it didn't do much for his promotion prospects.

“This is Enigma Lead. We’re through.” Two Skipper Marine shuttles slid through the foldpoint. The dart-shaped craft were colored black and would have been hard to see if his computer hadn’t highlighted them on his visor display.

“This is Clover Transport 5,” another ship radioed. “We’re heading through now. Sorry about the delay. One of the locks was acting up on one of our containers.”

“Make it quick,” Vertigo grunted, “We’re behind schedule as it is. Gold Wing, circle up into convoy escort formation. Cavalier Alpha, we’re headed back. Enjoy yourselves.”

“Likewise, Major. We’ll see you back—“

A stiff pop cut off Sally’s voice, and a strange silence followed for a half-second. It was replaced by a cacophony of screams, surprised questions, and shouted orders. A sound like a nail punching through tin sheeting was so powerful that he could feel the ship vibrate with a sudden impact. His ship lurched to one side like a marionette with a single string cut. The cockpit started to glow with red status warnings, and a klaxon rang to his left, near the throttle control. It was all so loud that he instinctively reached up to cover his ears without realizing that he’s wearing a helmet. He couldn't make out what’s going on; the open channel was a jumble of panicking distress calls.

He switched over to the military frequency, hands racing over the controls to do a half a dozen things at the same time. Accelerate, break formation, search for threats, assess damage, and arm weapons.

“Incoming! We got incoming!!”

“Where? I don’t see ‘em! I don’t see ‘em!”

“Oh Jesus! Help me! Somebody help me! I’m venting ---- see my ---- do I do?? Oh Jesus!”

“This is Clover Transport ---- ay! Mayday!”

Pinball had to wrestle the controls to turn and face the foldpoint; it felt like he’d lost two thrusters but he couldn't divide his attention to check at the moment. The foldpoint had snapped shut. He could see the Synapse cruiser that was holding it open listing to one side, venting atmosphere from numerous breaches on both sides of its fuselage. The Clover Transport was a little less than halfway through when the point closed, and the fore section tumbled ahead severed from its rear half which was still drifting somewhere near Deimos, half a system away. Ian could see crates of bulk goods and flailing dead men spray from the shorn-away end.

“It’s rock flak!” shouted Vertigo over the din. “Rock flak! Everyone form up and check in with your wing lead, we’ve got incoming any second now.”

Prince John cut in, his voice shrill. “I can’t reach Sally. I can’t see her! I saw—“

“John, form up with me,” said Ian Troy, as calmly as he could. “I’ll call the shots until she gets back on the air.”

“I- I think she’s dead, Pinball. I saw—I don’t even know what—“

“Shut up, John. Just listen to me for a second, okay? I need your help and things are crazy right now. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“Stop breathing so fast. You need to chill. People need your help. Think you can help me?”

“Yeah…” Prince John was still mentally bye-bye right now, from the sound of it, but now that he’d stopped hyperventilating was a little less-likely to fly straight into somebody. “I think Sally’s dead. She’s dead.”

“I know. You know what we’re gonna do?”

“What?”

“We’re gonna get the bastards that did it. You need to focus on that for now. You hear me? Focus.”

Prince John didn't respond, but he changed course to join them. Hack and Slider reported in. Looked like he took rock flak through his port wing. It had punched clean through, damaging the intakes and probably the main coolant line to the port thrusters, which would explain why he was venting gas and his flight controls were drifting all over the place. Ian tried to shut down the coolant lines but all he got from the computer was an error message. The tanks would probably empty in a few minutes but until then it was blood in the water.

The use of flak pointed straight to the Russians. It reminded Ian of the old engineer’s myth about NASA spending millions to invent a pen that could write in zero-gravity. The Russians used pencils. Rock flak was the Russian answer to long-range torpedoes and magnetic missiles. They dug into the asteroids and built mobile mining platforms the size of cities. They had no gravity, minimal radiation shielding, and were about as safe as living in a glass house in the middle of a golf ball driving range (only the golf balls move at a few hundred thousand miles per hour). They’d been driven into the Kuiper Belt, a field of asteroids that ringed the system and made it their home like cockroaches in the walls.

They didn't have the cash or research to invest in high-class weapons design. But they did have mass drivers for mining, and they could launch fighters using stupendously powerful electromagnets just like the catapult. But before they’d launch fighters, they’d load rocks into the chamber. Lots of them. Pull the trigger and they had a capital-scale shotguns the size of skyscrapers. Only these shotguns sprayed asteroid buckshot that could range in size from a marble to a truck. It was cheap, it’s easy, and there was no jamming the guidance system of a rock. Thrown fast enough, a rock is plenty devastating compared to a warhead. The flak was just the opening volley to soften them up and immobilize the larger craft.

“I got ninety-nine contacts,” shouted Hack. “I count maybe twenty-five Sickles and a shitload of Needle boarding craft.”

Ian’s radar filled up with red. Looking out the cockpit, he could see dozens of flaming meteoric trails of ships in retrofire. The Russkies were bringing it hard; they were outnumbered more than two-to-one and several of them are hit. Ian fired the afterburners to keep his speed up.

“Pinball,” said Vertigo, “we’ve lost Magic Man and Hustler is hit. Priority is Enigma Wing and Synapse-1. Repeat, protect the Skipper shuttles and Synapse-1. Engage the fighters.”

“Magnum-4, this is Pinball. Stick near the Skipper shuttles. I can’t pull fighters off you if you split off from the main group.”

“This is Corporal Nero on Magnum-4,” he heard. The woman’s voice was throaty and relaxed. Clearly this wasn't her first barbeque. “They’re not here for Enigma or that Synapse ship. This is the Crimson Tide, Major. Pirates.”

“Get off the radio, Corporal. I know what I’m doing.”

“Hear her out, Major,” Pinball heard from Magnum Gold. It must be Sergeant Decker with the other detachment of Marines.

“What’s the plan, Corporal?” Ian asked. He’s willing to defer to experience on this one.

“Every Crimson Tide attack I’ve ever seen started exactly like this. They’ll go for major commercial transports next,” said Nero. “Foodstuffs and machine parts. They don’t give a damn about boarding military targets. Try to hit the Needle boarding craft before they latch onto the transports. If they board they’ll hold the crew hostage because they know we won’t fire on the ship. Hit the boarders if you can. It takes away their reason to be here and they’ll run. Just watch your asses.”

“That’s enough,” Vertigo barked. “Lieutenant Troy, Enigma Wing and Synapse-1 carry highly sensitive personnel and cargo. You will protect them at all costs. Do not leave those ships undefended. If the Needles board other vessels your only concern is the fighters.”

“Yes sir. Understood.” Ian lied. In a minute Vertigo was going to be neck-deep in Russian Sickles and too busy trying not to get killed to check up on what Alpha Wing is doing.

Ian switched to Alpha’s frequency. “You heard the Major. Didn’t you?”

“Uhh,” said Hack.

“I may have drifted off in the middle of it,” Slider mumbled.

“With you, man,” said Prince John.

Looks like they’re on the same page. Ian nodded in satisfaction. “Open up with missiles. I want that front line broken up fast so we can punch through. They can’t spoof for shit, so fire off as many as you can. Don’t chase targets. It’s gonna be crazy, so take your shots and move on. Keep Nero and Decker clear so they can repel boarders.”

“I hate playing chicken with these fuckers,” Hack grunted. “They’re crazy. All of ‘em.”

Ian didn’t really know what to expect; he’d never run into a group this big before. His previous tour saw only a couple engagements with small ambush elements of five or six fighters. They tended to wolfpack stray targets, which made him dread the next few minutes. He was already falling behind.

The Sickles started launching unguided rockets at the formation. A few started spraying Vulcan cannons, but they were too far out of range to hope to hit anything with either. Cavalier Squadron responded with a barrage of seeker missiles that converged on the ragged Sickle formation. Like a dandelion losing its spores, at the first sign of missile lock the group scattered in every direction, afterburning like mad to get away from them.

For about five of the Russian pilots, it was already too late. They might evade seekers at closer range, when it’s more likely the missile will overshoot its target and lose lock. But at long range they can jink and twist all they like; running away was the one thing they shouldn’t do.

“Hack, Slider, get through and make those Needles suffer. Prince John, stick with me.”

“Why?” shouted John. He’s in the mood for blood and he was just enjoying going berserk.

The Needles split into two groups, adjusted their orientation, and accelerate. Needles were flown by kamikaze pilots, whose only aim was to collide with their target. Their craft were shaped to pierce the thin hulls of cargo ships and deploy a pair of boarders who spent the flight strapped back-to-back in a 15’ pointed shuttlecock. One group of Needles made a move for a Clover agricultural transport as Nero predicted, but the other seemed to be headed for the Synapse cruiser.

Strange choice, if the pirates were here for loot. The Synapse ship was only likely to carry passengers and some pricy hardware. At least this made Troy’s job a little easier; Vertigo couldn't accuse him of disobeying orders by going after the boarders now.

Hack fired into some of the lead Needles before they managed to gather up speed. Neither he nor Slider hit more than a couple apiece, but Pinball got exactly what he wanted. Several of the Sickles stopped what they’re doing and turned inward to defend the Needles. The boarders probably realized they were being targeted and screamed bloody murder for backup. Now they had all but forgotten about Pinball and Prince John, who had stayed behind.

Troy let Prince John loose and was about to wonder aloud where in the hell Gold Wing went when he finally saw their missiles streak into view. Vertigo’s boys mixed it up with the Sickles and the dying could really begin. The Russkies were surprisingly good shots with unguided, thirty-years outdated weaponry and they fought like rabid ocelots trapped in a corner. Hustler from Gold Wing went head-on with one of them for too long and caught a rocket in the face. Prince John said something about being hit, and his radio cut out.

Pinball took what shots he could as the Needles flew past him, then he had to deal with a wing of Sickles trying to lead him into a crossfire. “Nero, I’ve done all I can. You’ve got incoming.”

“Good luck on your end. Signing off for now.”

A rocket ripped past his cockpit so close that he felt it through the metal plating. Ian sent his ship into a dive, never flying in one direction any longer than a few seconds. If they got a chance to lead their shots he was done for. He told anyone still listening to try and pull back to the convoy. Some of the larger transports were armed and the Russians might check their fire if there was a risk they might hit the boarded ships. No use damaging them any more than they had already been.

The convoy might as well have been on the other side of the system though, for all the maneuvers Pinball had to do just to live another few seconds. He cut his throttle and turned to face the two Sickles that were tailing him. Momentum carried him in the opposite direction now. He was staring right in the face of oncoming fire and threw his own rockets at it. The pirates had been holding a straight attack line, and by the time they noticed that he’d turned around they met the rockets at close range.

The explosions sent his Trojan tumbling away from the battle. Pinball’s body was thrown to the side of the cockpit, causing him to strike his head against the edge of a console. Ian found himself pinned against the side of the canopy by the careening ship’s momentum. It took everything had to turn his head back to his computer readouts and reach for the controls. The blood was rapidly making an exodus from his head and Pinball couldn't hear anything but the wet pulsing sound of the surf rumbling in his helmet. His throttle wouldn't respond and the only thing the computer suggested is that he eject. That gave him about an hour of air if he couldn't get his ship stabilized.

At least his nose had stopped itching.