This was humanity’s food chain. Clarke had no doubts he was right at the bottom of it. And he was about to make a ruckus that would set all the alpha predators’ sights on him.
THE CORVETTE DOCKED in Hawk’s hangar, and an industrial claw, not unlike the one Beowulf used to manipulate cargo, added the tiny ship to an array of ships exactly like her. The automated systems of the hangar took charge from there while Clarke and the others changed into fresh uniforms and washed themselves using bars of cleaning gel that left them feeling slimy and smelling of disinfectant. Half an hour later, Clarke, Navathe, and Pascari followed the rest of the crew into Hawk. A contingent of marines waited at the other end of the airlock, with a man wearing an officer’s uniform at the front of the formation.
“Welcome to my ship,” said the man. “I am Commander Bernal Alicante.”
“Joseph Clarke,” said Clarke. Pascari and Navathe introduced themselves and Commander Alicante examined them with tired, but mistrusting eyes.
Alicante talked while they set for the conference:
“I heard about your ship’s fate. My condolences. It must’ve been an ordeal. There are sleeping quarters waiting for you on the Hawk, but I’m afraid you can’t rest just yet. Your message sent all of us into emergency status, so please, excuse our haste,” the commander explained while they marched down Hawk’s carpeted corridors.
“Haste suits us just fine,” Clarke said. “Like Captain Navathe explained in her message, there’s an SADF fleet heading for Dione as we speak.”
“Then, it is true,” Commander Alicante said, “Reiner’s daughter survived the Monsoon?”
“Only until Tal-Kader arrives to finish the job,” said Pascari.
“How? It’s been so long…why now?” asked the commander.
“We hope to figure it out when we get her,” said Pascari.
As they walked, Clarke glanced around. A wave of nostalgia hit him. It had been a long time since he had been inside a ship of the line. The smell was familiar, an unchanging presence on all military spacecraft. It carried a hint of lime to mask the plastic-essence of the life-support machines. The air was dry and cold to the point of shivering.
The carpet and the upholstery were new additions. Throughout his career, Clarke had learned to take notice of the tiny details that gave away a vessel’s age despite the cleaning crew’s best efforts. Hawk had shiny corners, modern computers and sensors, but the automated doors were thick and slow, like those of an old sea-faring vessel. It gave Hawk’s age away, since modern ships used new alloys with sealing foam dispensers to protect a deck’s atmosphere against a breach.
About twenty years old, at least, he decided. Whoever constructed the destroyer, the EIF had modernized it soon after Broken Sky.
They’re expecting a war? He wondered. After all, their sponsors would need a very good reason for the extra expense.
“Here we are,” Commander Alicante announced when they reached a door in the middle of a corridor, guarded by two marines at each sides.
Clarke and the others followed Alicante while the marines remained outside. The room was long, rectangular, with a ceiling low enough that Clarke could easily smash his head against it if he jumped in the tiny gravity of the ship’s current acceleration.
A wooden table, old and worn, along with matching chairs, used most of the space around the room, with the rest being occupied by a dozen officers. Clarke couldn’t recognize their ranks, but only four of them were sitting, with the others ordered behind them. He assumed those fours were the destroyers’ commanders.
As he entered the room, following Alicante, Clarke found that the officers’ gazes fell on him and the others. He scanned them, trying to read his audience. He found curiosity was the dominant feeling, but also alarm, and in some cases, anger and fear.
“So these are the doom-saying castaways our scout found, Alicante?” One of the seating officers said.
Clarke’s head snapped to the speaker. A man in his sixties, almost bald, with deep, purple bags around his eyes.
Something about the way the man addressed Alicante bothered Clarke. He knew the EIF wasn’t technically an official military, but they sure as hell thought of themselves as one. So why was this man speaking to his Task commander without an ounce of deference?
“Captain Navathe of the Beowulf, Stefan Pascari, and Joseph Clarke,” said Alicante. The man took a seat at the front of the table, opposite the other four officers, and gestured at Clarke and the others to take a seat.
“Pascari,” said another one, “I remember that name. You were Antonov’s right-hand man, weren’t you not?”
“Yes,” said Pascari.
“So, it’s true, then. He’s dead?”
Pascari nodded.
“Damn us all,” another commander muttered. “The Jagal branch is going to fall without him.”
A loud whispering spread among those present. Alicante had to smack his hand against the table to regain their attention.
“Antonov died serving the Edge,” Pascari said, “the way any of us would wish to go. The information we bring you is the same he gave his life to get to the EIF.”
Alicante quickly explained the situation to the officers.
When he was finished, alarm was the new reigning emotion, and fear tied with confusion for the second place.
“By Reiner, his daughter’s alive!” someone said.
“Tal-Kader will get what’s coming to them, at long last!”
Clark looked around. He narrowed his eyes when Alicante had to wrestle for control of the room again.
What’s going on? These people are not soldiers, he decided. Their posture, the way they spoke to each other. They reminded him of…
“Quiet!” Alicante exclaimed. “This is no time for bickering. If the information Beowulf brought us is accurate, Isabella Reiner is alive, but that may change if the Defense Fleet reaches Dione before we do.”
A new wave of whispering. Navathe and Clarke exchanged glances. She slowly shook her head, to let him know she mirrored his doubts.
“They wouldn’t dare!” one of the standing officers said. “Reiner is the Edge’s martyr, not even an SADF sailor would shoot against his daughter.”
Pascari laughed. “An SADF sailor may not, but these new batches of soldiers aren’t coming from its academies any more, are they?”
Clarke caught his meaning. “Tal-Kader is training them directly,” he said. “We met one of their admirals on the way here. Ernest Wentraub. I’ve never heard that name before, and I was with the Fleet for almost twenty years.”
It would also explain all the veterans manning the bars across Jagal’s startowns. He wondered just how many colonies had received a sudden influx of former SADF sailors over the last decade.
“So, Tal-Kader is increasing their hold on the SA,” said Navathe. “It’s only a matter of time before no one will be able to stop them.”
Besides Earth, you mean.
“We need to take Dione,” a woman standing by a corner said. “Before they do.”
Alicante opened a holo display and showed them a travel log with the distance to other Task Forces and to the main body of the Independent. “We estimate a month’s wait to get the fleet moving, four-to-five to reach Dione.”
Clarke bit down a curse. They didn’t have half a year anymore. Vortex would arrive in less than three months. The Sentinel fleet would arrive at the destroyer’s heels, and then not even the entire EIF would be able to get Isabella out.
“Have we sent couriers yet?” a sitting officer asked.