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  “Now I agree that the best chance comes with the most teams attending, so all teams will go except yours, Thompson. Under no circumstance will I risk all of our gathering capability, and I choose to retain the best for future training of initiates. That is not negotiable, Major, so drop that look of protest you’re putting on. You, Brick Argo, and Geek Maiella will resume rotations in a new sector away from the blueskins. In the absence of traffic, you will prospect for ores and organic materials. With any luck, you’ll find something we can use.”

  Turning to his right, Dryden asks, “Enyo, how long would you need to produce a decoy virus ship?”

  Enyo shrugs. “Wouldn’t be hard to strip out the major components and rig it with a simple program. Four continuous four-man shifts... 320 man-hours... four days roughly.”

  Turning to his left, the general asks, “Colonel Thorskild, how long would you need to prep that old ore hauler we mothballed and rig it for large-scale detonation?”

  Thorskild raises his eyebrows. “She’s pretty far from space worthy, General. The only system I know is still functional is the main reactor, and that’s supplementing power to genetics and incubation.”

  Dryden nods in understanding. “The only other systems we’ll need will be propulsion and navigation.”

  “And for the loss in power to genetics and incubation?” wonders Grissom.

  The general cranes his head to face the major at the end of the table. “We’ll have to skim from ore processing. If Thompson is right, the freighter his teams captured is loaded with ore to the hilt. So shorting ore processing won’t impact us too severely over the long run.” Turning back to face Colonel Thorskild, Dryden continues, “Now then, we patch up the old freighter’s engines and navigation. What would we need to build a blast radius big enough for Thompson’s plan to work?”

  Thorskild looks at Enyo for confirmation. “I’d say, roughly, a nine-gigaton yield to provide an adequate assurance of success.” Enyo nods in accordance.

  “Whew,” Eris whistles. “We’d have to yank cores from just about every ship we’ve collected and fuse them together!”

  The whole council looks at Eris, silently endorsing her idea. The look of astonishment on her face fades as she realizes her argument against the idea is now on the table as a likely plan of action. “Wait, wait. I wasn’t suggesting we do that! The reactor cores on some of those ships have chewed through their shielding, and it’s only the radioactive corrosion that’s holding them together. Just looking at them could make them unstable!”

  Thompson brings a hand to his chin, considering the dilemma. “The oldest ships are the smallest ones,” he reasons, “because that’s all we could effectively capture in the early days. So what if we park them inside the freighter? With careful piloting, we wouldn’t disturb the reactor cores.”

  Thorskild smiles at the idea. “Yes,” he ruminates. “Those ships aren’t much good to us anyway because of their contamination, and the freighter is spacious—they should fit easily enough.”

  “It’s going to leave us with serious power shortages, however,” adds Enyo. “Most of those ships are linked to the cadre grid. Take them away, and we lose a quarter of our energy.”

  “Understood,” acknowledges Dryden. “I will determine which facilities require priority and delegate to each accordingly. Colonel Enyo, begin outfitting Major Thompson’s virus ship for an extended long-range flight. It will require some unique power storage solutions, and the cryogenic systems will need some enhancement. Select whoever you need from the technical caste to work on this project, and I will authorize their transfer of duties.

  “Colonel Thorskild, Major Grissom, and Major Eris, begin restoration of the old freighter for flight, and coordinate the piloting of the old ships plus core removal and transfer from the other vessels. Do you have an estimate on time required?”

  Colonel Thorskild thinks for a moment. “Providing everything goes well, I estimate that with sixty workers, twelve continuous shifts, 14,400 man-hours... roughly ten days under the best circumstances.”

  The general frets at the requirement of personnel, wondering if he can afford to pull so many from their regular tasks. Cadre One is old, he realizes, requiring huge amounts of maintenance just to hold together. Relaxing the amount of attention it gets, even over ten days, carries its own risks.

  “It must be so. Select your people, and I will authorize their transfer of duties.” Dryden looks front to address Thompson.

  “Your input at this meeting was invaluable, Major. Over the next four days, you will run new simulations with Brick Argo and Geek Maiella to anticipate problems you may encounter with extended Cryo-sleep. Be ready to depart as soon as Colonel Enyo’s team has finished modifying your virus ship. You are dismissed.”

  Thompson stands and snaps a crisp salute. With a half step back, he about-faces and marches out of the chamber, trying hard to suppress the disappointment of being excluded from his own plan.

  The Beckoning Abyss

  Thompson, Maiella, and Argo march purposefully toward the engineering bay. Clad in heavy armor and bulging with equipment, they sound like an entire platoon on parade. Their helmets are cradled in their left arms; their right arms swing in unison. The gravest determination rides on their brows, setting their expressions with fearsome intent.

  At their approach, the bay doors slide aside, unleashing a cacophony of welding, grinding, and drilling. The trio marches through without missing a step.

  Inside, the air is thick with the scent of industry, hot with electricity, dry from smoke. At the center of it all is a perfectly black craft, like a two-dimensional hole in existence. Roughly fifteen meters long, the blackness tapers to a point in front; and slopes up to a rounded tail like a teardrop sliced in half with four spidery legs suspending it from the deck. At the stern, a large metal brace holds the silhouette open as technicians load a new piece of machinery. Kneeling atop the craft, more technicians weld bulbous plates into place; and the sparks cascade down the invisible contours, raining off the virus ship’s light absorbing edges.

  Colonel Enyo, supervising the technicians from a distance, notices the three entering and shouts above the din to them.

  “Team Spectre! Over here!”

  Gun, Brick, and Geek halt and look left to address their superior officer as she approaches, saluting respectfully. Enyo looks them over, scrutinizing the appearance of their charcoal armor, the condition of their weapons and the fit of their attached gear. Satisfied, she briefs them.

  “The modifications to your virus ship will be complete within the next ten minutes. I summoned you now because it will take that long to prep your flight. First, I’ll explain the enhancements.” Enyo turns on her booted heel, walking toward the blackened ship, and the three follow obediently. Patting the craft with her palm, she continues, “The first thing you should notice are these bulges here, here, and here. Since we are sending you out into unexplored space, we needed to upgrade your sensing ability. We don’t know what you might run into, so we wanted to give the nav computer plenty of warning of any hazards in the flight path.” The colonel strides toward the tapered end of the craft, indicating a rounded bulge in the smooth hull.

  “Because your mission will be unlike attacking the well-established commerce routes of the blueskins, you’ll need to be able to monitor a large volume of empty space, or something could slip by. That's why we had to flare this section of the hull to accommodate the upgraded sensor apparatus and processors.”

  “Sir,” asks Maiella, “will these hull modifications affect the reflectivity of the craft to sensor sweeps?”

  “No,” answers Enyo. “The invisibility of the craft is maintained.” She stoops to walk beneath the craft, crossing to the other side, and again the team follows.

  “Over here,” she points out, “is additional hardware to supplement your cryogenic systems. We anticipate your rotation could be up to twenty times longer than normal, and therefore, you will require more adequate preserva
tion.”

  “How long can these systems maintain our frozen state before breakdown occurs?” asks Argo.

  “Theoretically? Indefinitely,” the colonel replies. “Additionally, the metabolic support and wake-up times are greatly improved, allowing you to react faster to threats or potential targets.”

  “Has the effect of extended cryo-sleep been studied by the medical caste?” Argo queries.

  “It has, and the projections show a high probability of survival despite the stresses.”

  “Stresses?” asks Thompson.

  Enyo looks directly into their faces. “Within an operator’s tolerances.”

  The three tighten their jaws, understanding the painful misery they will undoubtedly face upon awakening.

  Enyo walks toward the back of the craft, sidestepping a descending stream of sparks and gestures toward the machinery being shoehorned into the craft’s stern. “We've modified the propulsion using some of the technology from your most recent capture. It's more efficient and sixty percent faster, which will permit you to pursue targets if they take evasive action.” The colonel continues her path around the ship.

  “The next modification was the skin of the craft itself. Because a non-reflective surface quickly builds up heat, we were forced to ambush from the edges of solar systems. We have greatly enhanced this craft’s ability to convert that absorbed energy into usable or storable energy, expanding your theater of operations to within two astronomical units of a class-A star or smaller.”

  “Excellent,” remarks Thompson.

  With his free hand, he reaches up to feel the edge of his craft, appreciating its new versatilities. Like his rifle, this ship is a trusted companion, serving faithfully through every difficult mission. It has been frequently modified, though never so radically. He pushes against the dark surface, wondering how all of the new additions will integrate, already preparing for the possibility of their breakdown.

  He looks away from the ship and scans the bay, watching his cadre brothers and sisters toiling despite their handicaps. Never once has he questioned how hard they work to support him and his teams; the quality of their efforts and the durability of their designs have made the difference in many decisive moments in his past. His doubt shames him, and faith restores his confidence. He retracts his hand, satisfied.

  Enyo moves beneath the craft again, stooping below the main hatch.

  “In anticipation of thicker, armor-plated hulls, we've enhanced the cutting depth and power of the laser drills.”

  She pulls out a small remote and taps it.

  Three small plates around the hatch shift aside, and the barrels of the laser drills drop to cutting position.

  She taps another sequence, and the drills shift, lowering themselves to the deck. Condensed vapor rolls off them, partially obscuring the rugged construction and wiring.

  “We used some of the weapon technology from the military ship you captured in these drills. Energy output is tripled. The superconducting elements are more reliable over elevated temperatures, and beam focusing is far better than before. Even with such a short focal length, optimum beam width is maintained at a distance of several thousand kilometers. If necessary, you can use these as a weapon battery to attack although it would likely be more useful to assist you in escape.”

  Argo nods approvingly.

  Enyo taps the remote, and the drills recede into the belly of the craft. With another keystroke, the main hatch opens like a camera iris.

  “It’s time,” the colonel says.

  Thompson nods in acknowledgement. “Maiella! You’re up.”

  Donning her helmet, she duck-walks over and stands up into the hatch, easily hauling herself up. From inside, there is a fair amount of clanking from her hurried storage of gear and weapons. After a minute, she calls out. “All gear stowed. I’m in position. Load next operator.”

  Thompson slaps Argo on the shoulder. Argo throws his helmet over his big head and shuffles to the hatch. Crouching low, he raises his arms and leaps up into the hole, disappearing entirely. More clanking ensues, and the craft sways under his bulk. Thompson starts to move into position, but Enyo grabs his arm. He looks back questioningly, and she is staring at the floor. Looking up suddenly, her eyes are pleading. “Bring them home safe, son.”

  Thompson looks back silently, taking her plea as his foremost command. Calling up into the craft, he orders, “Maiella, begin preflight, all systems.”

  “Aye, sir,” Maiella replies.

  Thompson turns back to face Enyo, regarding her solemnly. “There’s no other option.”

  Enyo extends her right hand toward him, the way an arm wrestler would present a challenge to an opponent. Thompson clasps it firmly in his armored grip; and the two pull each other close together, putting their left hands gently behind the other’s neck, touching their foreheads together. After a moment of silence, they pull apart, left hands sliding from the neck down to the shoulder.

  From inside the craft comes Argo’s deep voice. “All gear stowed. I’m in place. Load next operator.”

  With difficulty, Enyo and Thompson release each other, and he duck-walks to the hatch. Throwing his helmet on, he takes a last look at Enyo. “We’ll see you soon,” he says and leaps inside.

  Maiella is in her recliner on the starboard side, already hardwired into the ship’s consoles. Her goggles flash with various diagnostic commands and start-up sequences. Argo is delicately maneuvering himself in the restricted space, settling into his own recliner on the port side, punching up data on his console. Thompson unslings his rifle and snaps it into its cradle on the close ceiling. His gear he removes piece by piece, snapping it all into place above his recliner. Once stripped to his armor, he slides into his recliner between them, pulling a console across his lap. Tapping rapidly, Thompson pulls up a basic diagram of the ship’s functions.

  “Geek, status of navigation and propulsion,” he calls out.

  “Start-up nearing completion, deep space drive sixty-five percent to operating temperature. Sensors online... navigation systems online... calibrating...” she answers.

  “Brick, status of metabolic support and cryogenic systems?”

  “Performing full-system diagnostics...” Argo answers. “Gun, lean back in your recliner, please... there... full monitoring and metabolic interface achieved. Verifying life support and fail-safes...”

  “Testing interference generators, communications, and laser drill functionality,” Thompson announces.

  His console shows multiple bars, all full and green. Activating his helmet microphone, he hails the base. “Cadre One, this is Team Spectre proving comm link prior to departure. Respond, over.”

  “Team Spectre, this is Cadre One,” the radio buzzes. “Read you loud and clear. What is status of vessel, over?”

  “Completing preflight start-ups and diagnostics,” Thompson replies. “Team secure in recliners, fully interfaced.” Behind him, a whirring sound rises in pitch.

  “Main engine has reached operating temperature,” advises Maiella. “Navigation fully calibrated and updated.”

  “Life-support systems fully operational, metabolic management and cryogenic systems one hundred percent,” states Argo.

  Thompson finishes his diagnostics. “Cadre One, we're green bars, ready for stars, over.”

  “Received, Team Spectre. Clearing bay of personnel. Proceed toward external bay doors and await launch command, over.”

  Thompson taps his console, bringing up a small Holoscreen in front of him showing the forward view from the ship. Smaller screens open beside the large one, displaying side and rear views. In the screens, Thompson watches the technicians finish their last welds and scramble for the exits. Throughout the bay, red lights flash in warning.

  “Take us to the door, Geek,” he instructs.

  “With pleasure.” Maiella’s goggles flash, and the vessel smoothly walks forward on its limbs toward the large bay doors. Once there, Maiella halts the ship. “Cadre One, we are in posi
tion. Request permission to depart, over.”

  “Team Spectre, bay air pressure is equalizing. Stand by.”

  The three operators sit calmly in their recliners. Nothing feels any different about this mission—it’s simply out into an unexplored region of space, no more or less important than any of the rotations they have been through. If anything, they feel a slight amount of boredom.

  Thompson double-checks the ship while he waits, ensuring everything is as it should be. Nothing is out of line, all systems seem to be integrating seamlessly.

  “Team Spectre, pressure is equalized, opening bay doors. Stand by.”

  In Thompson’s view screen, the large metal doors slide apart, causing a tiny puff of dust to rise from the crater floor outside.

  “Team Spectre, you are cleared for departure, over.”

  “Cadre One,” Maiella replies, “Team Spectre is departing engineering bay, en route to collection rotation.”

  She engages the mechanical legs again, walking the ship out into the crater. The ship crouches low to the ground, then with full extension, leaps high into the infinite sky. With skillful coordination, she ignites thrusters and retracts the legs into the body of the ship. Thrusters carry them above the crater rim, and the view whites out momentarily from the massive blue-white star nearby. As the screen adjusts, they find themselves near the old mothballed freighter, now a hive of activity.

  Numerous ships cluster in various stages of assembly and disassembly around that ancient freighter, bleached and tarnished by centuries of solar radiation. Shuttles buzz to and fro, ferrying parts and laborers.

  Muting his helmet microphone, Thompson scowls. “That’s where we ought to be...”

  Argo and Maiella look over at him, nodding wordlessly in agreement.

  Continuing their ascent, Thompson catches sight of the gleaming warship he and his teams recently collected. It stands a lonely guard over the huge operation at a significant distance. Seeing it further vexes him that after all the good he has done, he should be excluded from the most important mission the cadre has ever undertaken.