Center of Gravity (10 page)

The landing bay was rotating at 2.11 turns per minute, so every twenty-eight seconds, the opening swung around once more and another incoming fighter was there to meet it.

And now it was Gray’s turn. Traveling at one hundred meters per second, he passed into the shadow beneath the carrier, watching the massive blisters, domes, and sponsons housing the ship’s quantum taps and drive projectors smoothly passing seemingly just above his head. It took almost ten seconds for him to traverse the length of
America
’s spine. His AI used his thrusters to adjust his speed with superhuman precision, dropping into the sweet-spot moving pocket and nudging him to port for that critical side-vector of seven meters per second. For an instant, the gaping maw of the moving docking bay appeared to freeze motionless as the fighter swept in across the line of deck acquisition lights. At the last moment, he entered the tangleweb field that slowed his forward momentum sharply, bringing him to a halt.

Magnetic grapples clamped hold of his ship and rapidly moved it forward, clearing the docking bay for the next incoming fighter, just under thirty seconds behind him. As the fighter dropped through a liquid-nano seal and into the pressurized bay immediately beneath the flight deck, he thought-opened the Starhawk’s side and pulled off his helmet with a heartfelt sigh of relief.

He was home, and where he belonged… even if for only a few minutes.

Chapter Five

21 December 2404

High-G Orbital Shuttle
Burt Rutan

Approaching SupraQuito Fleet Base

Earth Synchorbit, Sol System

1532 hours, TFT

Captain Randolph Buchanan and several of his aides had gone down the Quito space elevator that afternoon to reach the eudaimonium. Normally, he would have taken the captain’s gig down to Giuliani, but an engineering downgrudge report had taken his gig off of flight-ready status, and he’d relied on civilian transport instead.

That had left him at something of a disadvantage when the fleet recall had come through. He could have gone back to the ship with Admiral Koenig, but there’d not been time to find him or the admiral’s barge in the chaos down there.

Instead, the
Burt Rutan
had been summarily commandeered by no less a luminary than Admiral of the Fleet John C. Carruthers, and Buchanan and several other high-ranking officers and aides had climbed aboard a mobile passenger module at the eudaimonium docking area for the short flight north to the spaceport.

The
Rutan
was a cargo transport, designed to boost heavy loads up to synchorbit for the ongoing construction of the bases and facilities tethered high above Quito, and she was not designed with passenger comfort in mind. The passenger module slipped into the big shuttle’s cargo deck and locked home. It was claustrophobic on board, with few amenities, but with a boost of five hundred gravities, it would take less time to reach synchorbit than it had for the flight from the eudaimonium to Giuliani.

Buchanan leaned back in the embrace of the hab seat as the vast, light-dusted blackness of Earth’s night side, aglow with cities, dropped away aft. He was linked through his implant to Commander Sam Jones,
America
’s executive officer. Admiral Koenig was riding the link from the Admiral’s barge, which was trailing by a hundred kilometers, following the
Rutan
in to the docking facility. Koenig was listening in, but not interfering. Captain Barry Wizewski,
America
’s brand-new CAG, was also on board the civilian shuttle, linked in with the communications net connecting the
Rutan
with the carrier’s CIC.

“Damn it, Sam, I want full readiness for space five minutes after I step onto the quarterdeck,” Buchanan growled.

“We’re working on it, sir,” Jones replied, “but things are kind of chaotic on board right now. We have
civilians
on board…”

He spoke the word with evident distaste. In fact, there would be several hundred civilian contractors on the ship, part of the small army of inspection teams and drive magicians who came aboard each time the carrier entered its berth.

“They can come along with us, Number One. We won’t be going far.”

“We also have about a thousand ship’s personnel coming in from liberty. A lot of them won’t make it for an hour or two.”

“Then we’ll boost without them,” Buchanan said. He glanced at the comm icon representing Koenig. “What’s the status on the fighter wings?”

“VFA–44 is coming on board now, sir. We’re ten for twelve there. VFA–31 is on deep patrol but has been recalled. They should get the recall order in another two hours. VFA–49 is on Ready Five. The others are scrambling. We went to GQ about seven minutes ago.”

America
carried six fighter and fighter-attack squadrons in all.

“Whiz?” Buchanan said, addressing
America
’s CAG. “I’d like to get the Peaks out there, too. What do you think?”

“I’m giving the orders now, Captain.”

VQ–7, the Sneaky Peaks, was
America
’s reconnaissance squadron, flying under the flamboyant Commander James Henry Peak. Flying CP–240 Shadowstars, they would have the best chance of getting close to the intruder spacecraft without being noticed.

“How long before the Dragonfires are rearmed and set for launch?”

“Twenty minutes, sir.”

Buchanan nodded. Twenty minutes was damned fast. The ready crews would be busting ass to turn those fighters around.

“Do you have anything to add, Admiral?” he asked.

“I suggest that we get
all
squadrons spaceborne ASAP, and keep them out there,” Koenig said from his barge. “Priority to the fighters, of course, but get the EW and SAR squadrons off the carrier as quickly as you can.
America
will be a target, especially while she’s in dock.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” That made sense. If
America
was crippled or destroyed while still in dock, at least her fighters would be spaceborne and on an attack vector.

“Number One,” Buchanan continued, “get my ship out of dock if you have to cut the lines with a pocket knife and haul her out on your shoulder.” He glanced at the
Rutan
’s bulkhead display. The shuttle was approaching the carrier now, approaching over the curve of her shield cap. He could see a fighter coming in from astern, heading for a trap on the hangar deck. The
Rutan
wouldn’t be going in that way. They would dock in zero-G, the quarterdeck docking bay, just forward of the rotating hab modules. “We’re about five minutes from docking, so stop gabbing with me and get on it!”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

When it came to wielding a star carrier, three men, in a sense, shared the command responsibilities. Buchanan himself commanded the
America
. Captain Wizewski, as CAG, was responsible for the 102 spacecraft of CVW–14, the Carrier Air Wing, currently deployed aboard. And Admiral Koenig was in overall command of
America
’s Carrier Battlegroup, CBG–18, which included not only the carrier herself, but the nine other ships currently attached to the CBG. His orders, and his strategic and tactical thinking, had to take in all ten vessels
and
the deployment of
America
’s fighters.

He was grateful that Koenig hadn’t interfered as he’d given orders to Jones. Too many group COs did that… and it undercut a captain’s authority on his own bridge. Koenig, he knew, was probably champing at the bit to get the
America
under way more than was Buchanan, but he’d spoken only when directly asked if he had any recommendations.

The admiral was one of the good ones, the sort of CO for whom the entire CBG would go to hell and back. He checked the update on the intruder. It was accelerating now… possibly maneuvering to head out-system, though it was too soon to tell. Taking on
that
puppy would be akin to a stroll in hell, yeah.

Impatiently, Buchanan remained still and silent as the
Rutan
maneuvered toward the quarterdeck docking bay. The bulkheads of the
Rutan
’s passenger hab were projecting an all-around view of the exterior now, creating the illusion that they had gone translucent. Directly to port, the underside of the carrier’s shield cap rose like an immense, gray-black cliff; to starboard, the vessel’s hab modules continued their steady and stately rotation, making one complete swing around
America
’s central spine 2.11 times each minute, or once in twenty-eight seconds.

Ahead, a rectangular hatchway had opened in the side of the carrier’s spine, illuminated by bright white lights set into the deck. From this angle, the quarterdeck accessway connecting the ship with the base docking facility seemed to drop in from directly overhead and slightly aft of the open bay.

And then the
Rutan
, on AI pilot, glided silently through the opening and into the Star Carrier
America
.

H’rulka Warship 434

Cis-Lunar Space, Sol System

1534 hours, TFT

“We are not going to strike the vermin?” Swift Pouncer asked over the ship’s internal communications network. Speaking only in radio, without the added color and modifying overtones of its sonic speech, the words were empty of all emotion.

But Ordered Ascent knew what the others must be feeling.

“We have the technological advantage,” Ordered Ascent replied, knowing that all of the other All of Us were listening closely. “But that advantage is not great enough to allow us to fight an entire star system. Too many of us would fall into the Abyss. It is far more important that the Masters know of these aliens, and that they have been sending probes through System 783,451, than it is for us to destroy their ships. The destruction will happen later, be sure of that.”

“A number of vermin ships are closing with us,” High Drifting reported. “We estimate that they will launch weapons within fifteen
vu
.”

“The vermin defend their nest,” Swift Pouncer added.

Ordered Ascent watched the unfolding tactical situation through its electronic feed from Warship 434’s tactical mind. No fewer than fourteen enemy ships were currently with range of 434’s weapons. It was tempting to destroy those fourteen before dropping into the emptiness between the stars.

The All of Us had served the Masters for some twelves of thousands of
gnyii
now, ever since the Starborn had first shown the H’rulka how to extract metals from the winds of their world, how to bend gravity to their will, and how, at last, to build ships that would take them to the treasure troves of metals and other elements in orbit beyond the homeworld’s atmosphere. The H’rulka had gone from being essentially atechnic to a star-faring species themselves within the space of twelve-cubed
gnyii
, the twitch of a minor tentacle, so far as the Masters were concerned.

Ordered Ascent wondered, and not for the first time, why the Masters insisted on suppressing technological advancement throughout the entourage of species they’d brought into the embrace of their feeder nets. The H’rulka had come so far; their combat advantage over these vermin would have been that of the windstorm to the foodfloater, had they been permitted to keep developing their technology.

No matter. The advantage was sufficient.

Ordered Ascent checked other data feeds. Ship 434 was ready to diverge, if necessary, and would be ready to enter metaspace within mere
vu
.

Any damage done to the enemy was to the good. So long as combat didn’t weaken Warship 434 or threaten her mission, there was no reason not to swat the vermin before they were even close enough to engage.

“Swift Pouncer,” Ordered Ascent said, “destroy those that we can reach.”

“With the pleasure of gentle winds, Ordered Ascent.”

And Warship 434 reached out into the darkness… .

TC/USNA DD
Symmons

Cis-Lunar Space, Sol System

1536 hours, TFT

Captain Harry Vanderkamp, commanding the
Symmons
, watched the tactical display unfolding around him as the ship plunged toward the interloper. The alien ship was accelerating fast, pulling at least seven hundred gravities, and would slip beyond range soon.

Symmons
was a member of CBG–18, a fleet destroyer 576 meters long, massing just under thirty thousand tons, and armed with a variety of weapons, including thirty-six launch tubes for VG–24 Mamba smart missiles, variable-yield ship killers ranging between twenty and forty-five kilotons apiece. The H’rulka vessel was 327,000 kilometers ahead now, out of range for most guided weapons, but still within reach of the Mambas.

The problem, though, was that
Symmons
did not yet have clearance to fire. The ship ahead had clearly been identified as H’rulka, an enemy combatant… but it had been twelve years since the single known encounter between them and Confederation vessels, and Vanderkamp knew he would need clearance from Fleet HQ. There might be diplomatic issues of which he was unaware, or an attempt under way to communicate with the alien.

Symmons
had burned repeated laser and radio messages to Fleet Base, only a few light seconds away, but so far with no response.

His gut instinct was to fire. That H’rulka monster might be a recon probe in advance of a larger force.

The enemy ship was accelerating harder now. In seconds, it would be out of range completely. Hell, it might already be too late… .

“Sir!”
Vanderkamp’s tactical officer cried over the bridge link. “
Kaufman
has been hit!”

“Show me!”

The tactical display switched to a view from one of the other destroyer’s external cameras, looking forward up the spine toward the underside of the ship’s massive shield cap. The shield, backlit by a hard blue glare, was deforming,
crumpling
with shocking suddenness, as though it were collapsing into…