chapter twenty-three
Allied Strike Squadron
Transverse, non-congruent
“Estimating thirty minutes to H17B’s outer wall,” Elzbietá reported. “No enemy contacts on scope.”
Raibert acknowledged her with a curt nod, his eyes fixed on the zoomed-in section of the transverse: the dual system of H17 and the squadron’s eight approaching icons. His squadron. The boss had placed him in command, and it rested on his shoulders not to muck this up.
Doubt clawed at his mind. Would it have been better to try to slip in nice and slow? Perhaps they’d missed something and H17A was the correct target? What if his decisions—however logical—were about to get everyone killed, him included?
He often struggled to appreciate the burden of command, at least as it applied to Gordian Division as a wider organization. Sure, he was responsible for the Kleio and its crew, but a whole squadron was on a different scale entirely, and this current task had placed that distinction into sharp focus in his mind.
Is this what it’s like for the boss? he wondered. Is this what he deals with day in and day out? Making decisions with a veneer of confidence based on woefully incomplete information, where the consequence for being wrong can lead those under his command to an early grave?
And is that what I’m doing now? Leading us into the teeth of some unknown beast?
Raibert shoved those dark thoughts down and focused on the map. It hadn’t changed in the slightest, still showing a clear path to H17B’s outer wall. He glanced across his crew, Isaac, and Cephalie, all of them with sharp eyes. All of them waiting to act when the situation inevitably shifted from perishable calm to the heart of the storm.
His eyes lingered on Cephalie, whose avatar was now normal-sized in this virtual representation of the bridge. All four of their physical bodies—his included—were suspended in the compensation bunks, their glass-fronted chambers filled with microbot baths to buffer them from whatever combat maneuvers the TTV would soon execute.
Strictly speaking, he didn’t need to ditch his body in a combat situation. His synthoid could handle sustained high gees without any risk of damage, but the Kleio’s graviton thrusters could fire in any direction at up to five gees, and given Elzbietá’s flying . . .
I’d rather not be tossed around like a grouchy pinball, if I can help it.
“Twenty minutes to outer wall,” Elzbietá said. “Stand by for phase-out.”
Raibert let out a slow, rumbling exhale that—despite the room’s virtual nature and his own synthetic existence—still produced a mild calming effect. He wondered again if they’d picked wrong, if the other H17 should have been their first target.
His lips parted when a cluster of icons lit up ahead of them, one by one.
“Three phase-outs detected,” Philo said. “Two signatures are similar to our Aion-class, but not identical. One of them is significantly larger. Could be something like a Windfall.” He pushed up his visor. “Now that’s odd. I don’t have a precise fix, but those phase-outs occurred deep under Luna’s surface.”
“How deep?” Raibert asked.
“Almost half a kilometer.”
“So, a subterranean moon bunker.” Benjamin shook his head with the slightest hint of a smile.
“And the position lines up with the transceiver coordinates from Scaffold Delta,” Isaac added.
“I’m surprised they didn’t stay hidden until we were closer,” Elzbietá said. “Phasing out now plants a huge bull’s-eye on their base, even if it is buried under a lot of rock.”
“They may have assumed we know where they are.” Raibert shrugged his broad shoulders. “Which is half-true, I suppose. Our approach vector isn’t exactly subtle. Any sign they’re heading through the outer wall?”
“Not yet,” Philo said. “They’re still in H17B’s True Present, phasing up through the lunar substrate. We won’t have a precise realspace fix until we phase-lock.”
“Then let’s use the time we have wisely.” Raibert faced Elzbietá and Philo. “You two get prepped, and make sure you give them a warm welcome.”
“You’ve got it,” Elzbietá said. “With me, Philo?”
“Right behind you.” Philo grabbed the tab atop his horned aviator helmet and brought down the tinted visor with a satisfying click. The two of them vanished, transferring to their customized abstraction.
“Here they come,” Benjamin breathed, then looked up. “All three Institute TTVs just crossed the outer wall. Now on an intercept course. Predicting phase-lock in eight minutes.”
“Kleio,” Raibert said, “get me Elifritz and relay the call through the entire squadron.”
“Establishing direct link to Hammerhead-Seven.”
“Elifritz here. Go ahead, Kleio.”
“You see the three ‘dance partners’ coming our way?”
“We do. Want us to engage?”
“Negative. Slip past them and hit the bunker. We’ll handle the TTVs.”
“Understood, Kleio. We’ll maintain silent running.”
“As for the rest of us . . . ”
Raibert leaned in over the command table.
“All Gordian TTVs,” he declared in a crisp, commanding voice, “prepare for combat.”
* * *
“Phase-lock in thirty,” Philo announced.
Elzbietá swung the Kleio’s nose around, aiming it at a contracting cloud of possible enemy positions. The presence of three hostile craft provided ample data for the squadron’s six data-linked arrays to detect and digest, narrowing down the guesswork by a hair, but the Institute TTVs could still be anywhere within a wide spatial range.
The Kleio flew within a loose ring of six TTVs, every other craft staggered forward and all of them flying with meta-armor deployed and weapon blisters open.
“Ten seconds to contact,” Philo said, “ . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . lock!”
Three gunmetal ellipses snapped into reality high above, one significantly larger than the others. Elzbietá hissed out a quick curse at her lack of a shot. She shoved the omni-throttle to the left, juking sideways while she pulled the ship’s nose up. The other Gordian TTVs executed similar maneuvers, bringing their formidable forward weapon systems to bear.
A pair of x-ray lasers blared down from Hostile-Three, the largest enemy TTV, and struck Alcyone. Meta-armor warped the beams, splitting and curving them around the time machine.
“Missile launch!” Philo reported as a flurry of secondary contacts split from the Institute TTVs. “Count is twelve. No, make that twenty-four. They’re entering our defensive envelope.”
The Kleio’s four Gatling guns vomited a sleet of metal, joined quickly by the rest of the allied squadron. Explosions peppered the darkness, and one of the missiles winked out.
Elzbietá settled their nose on Hostile-One.
“Taking the shot!” Philo called out.
The Kleio’s x-ray beam grazed Hostile-One and high-energy photons splashed off its armor. Philo keyed up his second shot, and the mass driver whumped. The one-ton projectile blasted across the void, secondary guidance systems angling the payload toward its target. Its proximity fuse triggered, the payload exploded, and dozens of depleted uranium penetrators streaked toward Hostile-One—
—except the Institute TTVs broke phase-lock at the last moment, and the penetrators flew through empty space.
“Missed!” Philo exclaimed. “Hostiles have shifted onto a secondary spatial axis. Distance is three chens and climbing.”
Elzbietá rolled her thumb over the omni-throttle and laid in a pursuit course, leaving behind the remnants of the Institute missile wave. The Kleio responded after a brief delay. Not due to any fault of the pilot or the time ship, but because the rest of the squadron was synced to her “commands” through the whiskers of comm lasers.
The delay couldn’t have been more than a few milliseconds, but Elzbietá still felt the lag as an itch in her mind, a deviation from how the TTV normally performed.
All six Gordian craft sped after the Institute hostiles.
“Distance holding at eight chens,” Philo said. “Laser impacts on Hostiles One and Two. Minimal damage, I’m afraid.”
“That’s fine,” Elzbietá replied. “We’re just exchanging pleasantries before we get down to business. How’s Alcyone?”
“Bow armor’s cooked. Heavy-Three is packing some serious firepower. Readings are very similar to a Windfall-class.”
“Is there anything these jerks won’t steal from us?”
Elzbietá checked the map, noting the growing distance between the hostiles and the Admin chronoports. Or rather, the estimated positions of the chronoports, since they were running silent.
“Looks like Elifritz slipped in under their noses,” Elzbietá said.
“Looks like. No course changes from the Institute TTVs.”
“I wonder if they’re trying to pull us away from their—”
The Institute TTVs split apart, diverging greatly across a mix of spatial and temporal vectors, their projected positions manifesting as three small spheres instead of one blob.
“What do they think they’re doing?” Philo asked quietly.
“No idea.” Elzbietá toggled over to the command channel. “Raibert, you seeing this?”
“Yeah. What do you make of it?”
“I think they’re prepositioning to hit us from multiple angles, but they’re being too cute for their own good. Their tech’s impressive, but there’s no substitute for experience, and the Institute doesn’t have any. Whereas our teachers were the Gordian Knot and the Dynasty Crisis!”
“Then perhaps we should educate them.” She could almost feel Raibert’s cruel smile.
“Music to my ears.”
Raibert widened the command channel to include all allied TTVs.
“Alcyone and Hyperion, stick with us. We’re going after Hostile-Three while it’s isolated. All other TTVs, break formation. Keep those other two off our backs.”
Confirmation signals pinged back, and the squadron split into two formations of three. Elzbietá angled toward Hostile-Three, and the other two TTVs followed her lead, their division maintaining phase-lock while their temporal and spatial positions converged with the enemy.
“Weapon systems synced with Alcyone and Hyperion,” Philo said. “Combined fire control standing by on my command.”
“Then let’s show them who’s in charge around here.”
“I’m picking up a change in their drive signature. Looks like they’re about to—”
Hostile-Three switched temporal directions, and the distance shrank rapidly.
“Phase-lock imminent!”
The massive TTV materialized to Elzbietá’s left, and she jerked her flight controls to the side. Missiles spasmed from the heavy TTV and twin lasers spat from its bow, striking Alcyone and the Kleio.
“We’re hit!” Philo reported. “Armor’s holding, barely. But Alcyone took that one hard on the nose. Returning fire!”
Gatling guns roared to life, and missiles blew apart while a trio of lasers struck Hostile-Three amidship. Photons spalled around the vessel, but only for a brief moment before its meta-armor reached thermal capacity and burned out. Metamaterial flaked away into the void, and high-powered x-rays slashed across the hull.
Hostile-Three returned fire, and this time both beams stabbed into Alcyone. Prog-steel glowed under the relentless, high-energy onslaught. Metal liquefied, expanded, exploded, and the ship shuddered as its front quarter blew apart.
“They look geared for a long-range fight,” Philo said. “We’re at a disadvantage if we stay here. Can you try and get us closer?”
“I can do better than try!”
Beams pounded Hostile-Three, and Elzbietá accelerated hard—straight into the teeth of the incoming missiles. Their escorts held formation, despite the damage Alcyone had suffered, and a torrent of cannon fire, countermeasures, and decoys wreathed the friendly TTVs.
The handful of missiles that survived rocketed in. One detonated below and behind the Kleio, and the blast buffeted them upward.
None of the rest hit their marks.
“Switching half our Gatlings to offense,” Philo said. “Firing!”
Two Gatlings swung ahead and fired with the mass driver. Hyperion’s main shot flew wide, but the Kleio’s shot arced toward Hostile-Three’s impeller spike. The payload burst into a cloud of semi-guided spikes that struck hard across the enemy’s drive system.
Gatling fire savaged the Institute TTV, ripping through its layered defenses and shredding the systems underneath. A plume of white-purple geysered from the hull, and the entire ship rocked. But it would take more than that to destroy a vessel so large, so heavily fortified, and it returned fire once more, beams boring into the Kleio.
“Bow meta-armor is down!” Philo reported as burnt scraps of metamaterial scattered off their hull. “All Gatlings to offense!”
Elzbietá skewed the ship to the side, presenting their unmolested flank, and Philo reoriented the cannon pods. The three Gordian TTVs shot past Hostile-Three, and their combined weapons doused it with metal and death. Over two thousand explosive rounds brutalized its hull in four brief but violent seconds.
Hostile-Three listed sideways, its thrusters weakening, impeller wavering. No atmosphere leaked from the craft; there were no pressurized compartments on this time machine. No physical crew to experience that furious hurricane firsthand.
But that didn’t make the damage any less real.
They were hurt. Hurt bad. Their defenses lay shattered and the inner hull exposed.
But the job wasn’t done.
Not yet.
Elzbietá spun the Kleio around, flying backwards, weapons aligned and ready. She wondered, in the enemy’s brief last moments, if they understood how terrible their crimes were. How toying with reality was for the foolish and the dead.
She doubted it. Some people believed their own lies, believed they were righteous when all they sought to do was burn everything down around them. She’d seen too many realities die to give these maniacs a second chance.
“Finish them,” she breathed, her voice frosted with the dark memories of dead universes.
Philo fired, and Hyperion joined them. Their weapons stabbed through the enemy’s heart, and the ship cracked in half. More beams and kinetic rounds struck, and the impeller shattered, spreading across space in a prismatic twinkle.
Elzbietá let out a slow exhale, unnecessary in this virtual space.
But it still felt good.
“How’s the Alcyone?” she asked.
“Main weapons are down, and there’s no repairing them out here. All four Gatlings are still online, though, and the three-quarters of a ship they do have is in good shape. They’re reprogramming the armor to plug the hole.”
“Good work, Ella,” Raibert said. “And I have some good news. Phoebe telegraphed us while you were occupied, and we’re now three for three against these Institute bastards. Reform the squadron and resume course for H17B’s outer wall. Let’s not keep Elifritz waiting.”
* * *
Hammerhead-Seven materialized high above Luna, and Hammerhead-Eight flashed into existence beside it, their weapon-heavy bows pointed toward the moon’s bleak, gray surface.
“Phase-in complete, sir. Spatial and temporal coordinates confirmed.”
“Target analysis,” Elifritz said, clad in a pressure suit and strapped in near the back of the bridge, the space around him alive with virtual screens.
“No sign of surface contacts, sir,” reported the weapons operator. “Negative for spaceborne threats as well.”
“I don’t buy it,” Noxon said. A virtual version of his combat frame sat beside Elifritz, while the real one waited within a troop transport.
“Neither do I. Not with those TTVs standing guard,” Elifritz replied quietly, then spoke up for the bridge crew. “What about an access shaft? Any signs of subterranean structures?”
“Nothing that I can identify as such on the radar. But our visibility is poor at best past a few meters below the surface, sir.”
“Understood. Proceed as planned. We have a door to kick down.”
“Yes, sir. Requesting authorization to deploy the nukes.”
A red border appeared around the PIN interface in Elifritz’s armrest. He placed his gloved hand over the interface, and his implants networked with the chronoport’s nuclear deployment protocols.
“Command authorization accepted, sir. Missile bay open, yields configured for fifty megatons. Nukes ready for launch on your command.”
“Launch Missile-One.”
“Missile-One away.”
The sleek, conical missile lit its solid propellant and sprinted from the launcher at twenty gees of acceleration. It rocketed toward the surface, scattering thermos-sized decoy drones to all sides. The decoys activated, generating a wide range of active and passive interference to mask the missile’s true location.
Elifritz half-expected some form of automated defense to flinch alive, but nothing of the sort happened, and Missile-One slammed into the surface unmolested.
The warhead housing wasn’t optimized for surface penetration—never mind half a kilometer of Lunar rock—but the missile was hardened against kinetic impacts, and it pierced through tens of meters before detonating.
Elifritz saw the subterranean shock wave first—a rolling wave that transformed gray bedrock into something almost fluidic. The wave expanded, and the eye at its center erupted into a plume of vaporized regolith that glowed a blinding white. The ejection blew upward and outward, dimming and cooling and expanding in Luna’s weak gravity, while the shock wave roiled the surface, a tidal wave of rock that slowly ebbed away. Some pieces in the nuclear plume flew so high and fast he wondered if they achieved escape velocity.
Elifritz couldn’t decide how the sight made him feel. The explosion—though massive—felt so distant from the chronoport’s high-orbit vantage, and the silence of the weapon’s nuclear wrath only added to his sense of detachment.
“How deep is the hole?” he asked.
“Hard to say exactly, sir, but my best guess is about two hundred meters. We should have a better read on it once the explosion clears.”
“Not deep enough,” Noxon growled under his breath.
“Launch Missile-Two,” Elifritz ordered.
“Yes, sir. Missile-Two away.”
The second nuke shot in. It had just reached the outer expanse of the plume when—
“Surface contacts! Optical patterns indicate retracting metamaterial!”
“Show me.”
Several visual feeds snapped open beside Elifritz, each depicting long, nine-barreled weapons that swung around as they shed tarps of wavering light. The Gatling guns spun up in near perfect unison and spewed arcing trails into space that converged on the incoming nuke.
“Missile-Two is under fire!”
“Eliminate those surface threats. Conventional weapons only.”
Both Hammerheads blasted away with proton lasers and heavy railguns. Lasers streaked through the thinning limits of the nuclear blast, turning visible, and kinetic slugs punched holes through the clouds of vaporized rock. A kinetic slug struck the base of one weapon, and the mount shattered, its barrels flung high. Another Gatling gun suffered a direct laser strike, and the weapon exploded into superheated pieces.
“Status of Missile-Two?”
“Minor hits to outer shell. The decoys took the brunt of it. Impact imminent.”
The nuke raced down through the mushroom cloud and splashed headfirst into a wide pool of molten crust. A second thermonuclear fireball erupted across the moon’s surface, and Elifritz watched the fury of the second detonation interpose itself through the remnants of the first.
“Sir, radar is picking up a massive return beneath the lunar surface.”
“Clarify.”
“Object is an artificial dome of some kind starting at a depth of three hundred twenty meters. Surface composition reads as a prog-steel variant consistent with SysPol armor.”
“The Institute’s bunker.” Elifritz permitted himself a thin smile. “What’s the status of their armor?”
“Minimal surface damage.”
“Then the door isn’t open. Kaminski tasked us with a job, and I don’t plan to let him down. Launch Missile-Three.”
“Missile-Three away.”
The third nuke shot in through the ebbing fury of the first two, and this time the Institute didn’t put up a fight. The missile’s fortified shell slammed against reactive prog-steel armor, penetrated a mere two meters, then detonated.
“Report.”
“Detecting a breach in the bunker’s surface, though the extent of the damage is surprisingly low given the epicenter’s proximity.”
“Tough little nut,” Noxon said quietly.
“Indeed.”
“Sir, telegraph from Kleio.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Message reads: ‘All three Institute TTVs destroyed. Squadron now heading for H17B True Present.’”
“Excellent. Telegraph, take the following dictation. ‘Institute bunker located. Surface defenses neutralized.’”
“Yes, sir. Telegraph spooled . . . and sending.”
“The question now is,” Noxon began, “have we opened that door far enough?”
“I think we can afford to let the smoke clear. I want a good look at this bunker before we fire any more nukes.”
Elifritz settled back into his seat and waited.
He didn’t have long to wait.
“Sir, incoming transmission from the bunker on standard SysGov comms. Source comes up as ‘Doctor Xenophon.’ Link is addressed to, and I quote, ‘the idiots lobbing nukes at us.’”
Elifritz exchanged a wary look with Noxon, whose combat frame remained unreadable.
“Very well.” The captain faced forward. “Let’s hear what the Institute has to say. Put him through.”
A comm screen opened to reveal a passably human male with a chiseled face, black hair, and mechanical eyes. His square pupils glowed vibrant orange against dull iron. Green flames danced across his neck scarf, contrasted against his black business suit.
“Doctor Xenophon, I presume.”
“You presume correctly,” the AI replied in a calm, stately tone devoid of any unease or anger. “And you are?”
“Captain Elifritz, Admin DTI. Are you in charge down there?”
“I am.” There was no hesitance in his voice.
“Then it is my duty to inform you this installation and all its occupants are in direct violation of the Gordian Protocol. You and all other sentients present within the bunker are ordered to stand down and surrender yourselves into our custody.”
“The ‘bunker’?” Xenophon seemed mildly amused by Elifritz’s choice of words.
“Or whatever you call your subterranean base.”
“We call it the Phoenix, if you must know.”
“Its name isn’t important. I have informed you of your crime and the actions required to avoid further hostilities. What is your response?”
Xenophon snorted.
“Is that your final answer, Doctor?”
“So what if it is? You going to hit us with more nukes?”
“That is precisely what I’ll do.”
“You Admin thugs are all the same. So quick to resort to violence. So eager to—”
“Perhaps you don’t understand how precarious your situation is. The Gordian Division has wiped out your TTVs, and we’ve broken your defenses. You are in no position to play games with me, and I am not required to take you in alive. I need only give the order, and my forces will reduce your base to radioactive slag. Even so, I would prefer to resolve this peacefully.”
“I somehow doubt that very much, Captain, but all right. I’ll bite. What happens to me and my people if we surrender? You going to stuff us into one of your torture domains?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Elifritz replied evenly, refusing to let the AI rile him. “This is a joint operation, and you are still recognized as a SysGov citizen. You and your associates will be turned over to SysPol.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
“Any Admin coconspirators will, likewise, be processed by our legal system.”
Xenophon smirked. “Then it’s a good thing there aren’t any.”
“I require an answer, Doctor.”
“Fine.” He huffed out a simulated breath. “Give me some time to talk it over with the others.”
“No,” Elifritz replied firmly.
“What?” Xenophon blurted. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I have no way of knowing what kinds of dangerous tech your bunker—”
“We don’t have anything left but software!”
“—may still contain,” Elifritz finished evenly. “And, because of the threat your Institute still poses, I refuse to entertain your attempts to stall for time.”
“I’m not stalling! I need time to convince the others to stand down!”
“You said you were in charge, correct?”
“I did.”
“Then I suggest you start issuing some orders.” Elifritz started a sixty-second timer in the comm window.
“What the hell is that?”
“How much time you have left before we launch the next nuke.”
“You’re joking!”
“Do I look like someone who’s joking?”
Xenophon met his gaze unflinchingly for several seconds, but then his eyes darted over to the countdown.
“Fine, Captain, you win. Stay on the line. I’ll be right back.”
His avatar vanished.
Elifritz watched the seconds tick down.
Xenophon reappeared with twenty seconds to spare.
“Done. As chief executive of the Phoenix Institute, I formally declare our surrender.”
“On behalf of the DTI, I accept your surrender.” Elifritz paused the countdown.
“What would you have us do?”
“You will power down your programmable armor and allow our ground teams full access to the bunker.”
Xenophon glanced to the side and nodded. “There. Armor’s off.”
Elifritz disabled the comm window. “Is he telling the truth?”
“Looks like it, sir,” the weapons operator replied. “The edges around the hole in the bunker have stopped moving.”
“Very good.” Elifritz reenabled the window. “Next, we’ll need an access point to the bunker’s infostructure.”
“That’s going to be a bit of a problem.”
“Then I suggest you find a way to resolve it.”
“Look, everything close to the blast is off-line right now. I’m not sure if you took it out or if we just lost the connection, but it’s a complete dead zone. On top of that, we don’t have physical bodies, so it’s not like we can surrender to you outside.”
“Then pick a location further in.”
“That I can do.” Xenophon glanced to the side. “Sending the location now.”
“Good. Our ground teams will be with you shortly.”
“I can hardly wait,” he said in a fatalistic tone.
“Be warned that any hostility will be met with immediate and overwhelming lethal force.”
“We won’t cause any trouble. You have my word.”
“And I’ll hold you to it.” Elifritz placed Xenophon on hold once more. “Agent Noxon, it appears the stage is now yours.”
“That it is, sir.”
“Deploy your Cutlasses to the surface at once. Secure all Institute infosystems and AIs.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll get it done.”