The only broadcast discs in the Sol System, Earth’s solar system, hovered a few hundred miles above the spaceport. Normally spacecraft either flew up to the discs or headed toward Earth, the only populated planet in the solar system. We, however, flew in the opposite direction. We headed out toward space, toward Saturn, and traveled more than 100,000 miles. Only the most powerful tracking systems like the ones on Mars would detect what happened next.
Sitting out in space, we glided as the contraption in the back of our craft came to life. The glass around our cockpit became as black as space. It was opaque but not dark enough to block out the electrical storm caused by our broadcast engine. Lightning danced across the edges of the Johnston R-27. I could see its squirming outline through the tinting. It looked like neon chalk lines as the cabin filled with the acrid scent of ozone.
“Welcome to the Perseus Arm,” the pilot said.
“Still in Perseus?” I asked. “I thought they would have moved the ship by now. We are at war.”
“Why move?” the pilot said. “No one knows we are here. We’re protected from both sides.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sections of the Doctrinaire were still under construction and probably would be for the next thousand years.
The Doctrinaire was so incredibly large that its size created an anomaly. Viewing the ship alone in space, you could not estimate its size. At first glance, she looked like any other fighter carrier—the same wedge-shaped body, the same beige hull and light gray underbelly. In the vast panorama of space, size and distance become blurred. Seeing the Doctrinaire floating beside a Perseus-class fighter carrier, you would think they were identical ships and that the Doctrinaire was closer to you because she was so much larger than the other.
The hull of the Doctrinaire filled the view from our cockpit long before we reached its landing bay. The ship was shaped like a bat—its wing span measuring two miles wide and its hull was about 1.3 miles in length. The great ship had four launch tubes, hollow tunnels used for launching fighter craft that stretched the entire length of the ship. The Doctrinaire had an additional four landing bays for transports and supply ships.
The pilot flew the Johnston toward Bay three. We slowed to a mere hover and the pilot used thruster engines to guide us into place in one of those docking bays.
“Well, Corporal Marsten, it’s been a pleasure flying you on Doctrinaire Spacelines. Fly with us again sometime,” the pilot said as he climbed from his seat. He gave me a sloppy, mock-salute. This was not an unfriendly gesture—he knew that I was AWOL.
I left the ship and walked to a nearby locker room. I pulled a key from my pocket and looked for the matching cubicle. Once I found it, I stowed my civilian clothes and dressed in the charley service uniform of a U.A. Marines corporal. For all appearances, I was just another enlisted clone on active duty.
The trip from the landing bay to the bridge was lengthy and fast. The Doctrinaire had twelve decks, plus a bridge and an observation deck. The ship had nearly twenty square miles of deck space. Just getting from the landing bay to the central elevator bank required a ride on the recently installed tram. Officers might spend their careers on this ship without visiting the bridge or the engineering decks.
I lived on this ship two years ago. Back then everything but the shell of the ship was still under construction. Last time I traveled this path, the corridors were covered with scaffolding. Welders used to work in these halls around the clock, the white glare from their torches shining up and down the halls like a continuous flash of lightning. Back when I was assigned to the Doctrinaire , the ship housed more builders than crew. You might pass ten construction workers walking down a hall and not see a single sailor.
A lot had changed. The cylindrical corridors I entered on this occasion had smooth shining walls. Bright light shined down from inlaid ceiling fixtures and polished chrome address plates adorned most doors.
The Doctrinaire had several banks of elevators, but only the central bank reached the bridge. As I entered one of these elevators, a security computer scanned and identified me. The doors closed behind me. Moments later they opened on to the bridge of the Doctrinaire —a sweeping deck manned by dozens of officers.
Three officers came in my direction. The man on the right was a captain—a heady rank in the U.A. Navy. He was young, stout, and very attentive. He looked like the kind of aggressive officer who runs a tight ship and accomplishes his mission at any cost. The man on the left was a rear admiral. He had a single star in his collar. He was an older officer whose casual smile and soft eyes gave the impression of patience.
The man in the center was Fleet Admiral Bryce Klyber, possibly the most powerful man in the entire Republic. Klyber was an accomplished Naval officer. He rose through the ranks by answering every challenge. With the exception of Bryce Klyber, no one had worn the fifth star of a fleet admiral for forty years.
Klyber was one of the last active officers who had fought in the Galactic Central War—the last full-blown war. Klyber, of course, won that war when he unveiled his battalion of top-secret Liberator clones.
“Marsten,” Klyber said, and eyebrow cocked to show his surprise at seeing me. “I thought I left orders for you to meet me in my quarters. Just as well. Corporal, this is Rear Admiral Halverson and Captain Johansson.”
I saluted.
They saluted back.
Klyber looked over at the rear admiral. “Admiral Halverson, have you met Corporal Marsten?”
Something about Captain Johansson caught my attention. He was tall and skinny with a shaved head and squinting dark eyes. He did not even bother looking at me as he saluted. He seemed to want to ignore me, not in the “you’re not worth my time” way that many officers greeted clones, but in a way that seemed far more contemptuous.
“Corporal, I don’t believe we’ve met,” the older officer said. “Rear Admiral Halverson.” He looked to be in his late fifties, an officer nearing retirement. Halverson looked like a youngster beside old man Klyber, however, a painfully skinny man who looked like he could have been one of the slaves forced into building the Pyramids of Egypt.
“Marsten here is retired from active duty,” Klyber said. “I, um, reactivate him on occasion. He’s got a knack for security.”
Klyber was tall. I was six feet three inches tall and he had me by an inch or two. On the other hand, he may well have weighed less than 150 pounds. Klyber stood perfectly erect, his rigid posture and skinny body made him look like he was made out of the outer limbs of an old oak tree. He had icy blue eyes that looked as focused and intense as sapphire lasers.
He turned to the two senior officers. “Perhaps we can take this up again later this evening. I have some business to take care of with the corporal.”
Halverson and Johansson saluted and walked off to continue their discussion.
“What do you think, Harris?” Klyber asked, looking around the bridge.
“She looks ready to run,” I said, noting the brightly lit navigational panels.
“More or less,” Klyber said. “It’s not the equipment that worries me. I worry more about the men at her helm. You get a limited selection of officers with top-secret projects. My crew was chosen for security clearance, not battle experience. If I wanted a ship full of military police and intelligence officers, this would be the ideal crew.”