gathered the plates, cups, and saucers and replaced them on the tray, her expression unreadable. “If Davis gets his way, and it looks like he will, you may be sorry your research made it possible. You’ve heard the blanks scream. Like animals.” Her full lips thinned to a line. “This will be worse.”
Beka watched her leave. She took down the surplus jacket from beside the door and draped it around her shoulders. Then she sat for a time and stared out at the stars, hunched against the cold, and frightened.
Sixteen
T he Grenada proceeded slowly . Her captain was grim, his lips pursed. The crew was silent. They had abandoned two of their own.
Hammersmith was out there somewhere, dying.
The scout ship jumped from place to place following marked coordinates, carefully crossing and re-crossing the search grid, keeping sensors extended to detect any sign of their own ships and Colonizers. The Colonizers weren’t supposed to have light lines or jump-sets. They weren’t supposed to have more than the generational ships they had left Earth in. But something had destroyed the Fleet, so nothing could be assumed anymore.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen- the number of destroyed hulls Grenada marked and mapped on her slow search kept going up.
All as dead as the Rowan Hamilton , yet barely a fraction of the total Fleet.
“Pull back to the original light line terminus,” was the order from Command. “Let’s see if we can find those medical frigates.”
Grenada jumped again. She reemerged on a gravity slope, precariously balanced for a wide pass over the cluster of greedy singularities. Dust swirled into them slowly like soapy water in a half-clogged drain. It was not a pretty sight.
The captain was not optimistic. “If there was anything in orbit here, they might have slipped too far down the gravity well by now.”
One scanner bounced back from something metallic. It had registered an energy signature.
“Command, we’ve got a live one,” he transmitted. “Or at least something with some power.”
“Copy that, Grenada. Calculate a trajectory that will take you on a close pass safely.”
The scout ship began a carefully calculated tumble down. The singularities were small, but their orbits were tangled. The event horizons were sharp, tight, and overlapping. It took several minutes to coordinate a pass.
A dead ship, its hull caked in dust, hung several thousand kilometers above the point of no return. The Grenada passed by it with enough momentum to launch grapples and pull the larger ship to a safer distance. Her engines strained, tension in the grappling cables moaned through the deck plates.
When the maneuver was complete, Grenada cut the cables and circled the frigate steadily. Spotlights played along its surface.
“It’s the Mountstuart Elphinstone ,” the captain reported.
“Can you confirm that energy read?”
“Roger, Command. There’s still juice in its systems.”
“Enough for a transmission?”
Every ship they had found so far had been assumed contaminated, like the Hamilton . No boarding parties. No way to download any ship’s logs or manifest. No answers. Just corpses, debris, and blasted bulkheads.
The captain consulted with his communications officer. “Only enough for a tight-beam,” he informed Command.
“Go ahead.”
“Copy that.”
Grenada slid closer, orienting herself so that her own transmitter array was aligned with the cluster of antennae on the Elphinstone ’sfront hull. The scout ship sent a narrow, high intensity query from its system to the ruined frigate.
“Any response?”
“Negative, Command. The system seems corrupted. And the dust doesn’t help.”
A few running lights on the frigate’s outer hull glowed like dying embers. Its hull plates were largely intact. No gaping wounds were visible in its metal flesh. If the Hamilton was dismembered, the Elphinstone might have been sleeping.
“I’m getting something,” the captain leaned forward. “Not much.
Beka watched her leave. She took down the surplus jacket from beside the door and draped it around her shoulders. Then she sat for a time and stared out at the stars, hunched against the cold, and frightened.
Sixteen
T he Grenada proceeded slowly . Her captain was grim, his lips pursed. The crew was silent. They had abandoned two of their own.
Hammersmith was out there somewhere, dying.
The scout ship jumped from place to place following marked coordinates, carefully crossing and re-crossing the search grid, keeping sensors extended to detect any sign of their own ships and Colonizers. The Colonizers weren’t supposed to have light lines or jump-sets. They weren’t supposed to have more than the generational ships they had left Earth in. But something had destroyed the Fleet, so nothing could be assumed anymore.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen- the number of destroyed hulls Grenada marked and mapped on her slow search kept going up.
All as dead as the Rowan Hamilton , yet barely a fraction of the total Fleet.
“Pull back to the original light line terminus,” was the order from Command. “Let’s see if we can find those medical frigates.”
Grenada jumped again. She reemerged on a gravity slope, precariously balanced for a wide pass over the cluster of greedy singularities. Dust swirled into them slowly like soapy water in a half-clogged drain. It was not a pretty sight.
The captain was not optimistic. “If there was anything in orbit here, they might have slipped too far down the gravity well by now.”
One scanner bounced back from something metallic. It had registered an energy signature.
“Command, we’ve got a live one,” he transmitted. “Or at least something with some power.”
“Copy that, Grenada. Calculate a trajectory that will take you on a close pass safely.”
The scout ship began a carefully calculated tumble down. The singularities were small, but their orbits were tangled. The event horizons were sharp, tight, and overlapping. It took several minutes to coordinate a pass.
A dead ship, its hull caked in dust, hung several thousand kilometers above the point of no return. The Grenada passed by it with enough momentum to launch grapples and pull the larger ship to a safer distance. Her engines strained, tension in the grappling cables moaned through the deck plates.
When the maneuver was complete, Grenada cut the cables and circled the frigate steadily. Spotlights played along its surface.
“It’s the Mountstuart Elphinstone ,” the captain reported.
“Can you confirm that energy read?”
“Roger, Command. There’s still juice in its systems.”
“Enough for a transmission?”
Every ship they had found so far had been assumed contaminated, like the Hamilton . No boarding parties. No way to download any ship’s logs or manifest. No answers. Just corpses, debris, and blasted bulkheads.
The captain consulted with his communications officer. “Only enough for a tight-beam,” he informed Command.
“Go ahead.”
“Copy that.”
Grenada slid closer, orienting herself so that her own transmitter array was aligned with the cluster of antennae on the Elphinstone ’sfront hull. The scout ship sent a narrow, high intensity query from its system to the ruined frigate.
“Any response?”
“Negative, Command. The system seems corrupted. And the dust doesn’t help.”
A few running lights on the frigate’s outer hull glowed like dying embers. Its hull plates were largely intact. No gaping wounds were visible in its metal flesh. If the Hamilton was dismembered, the Elphinstone might have been sleeping.
“I’m getting something,” the captain leaned forward. “Not much.
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