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  The tiny holo-image that appeared when he activated the device was Boyd’s true boss, Major Featherstone of the Blue Star Marines.

  “This is not a scheduled check-in, Sergeant. You have a report?”

  “I hate to break protocol, sir, but I just found something out here that I needed to report immediately. I’m uploading a file taken from my environmental suit’s onboard recorder. I encountered a downed vessel of unknown origin. It looks like something the Union fleet would want to know about right away.”

  Major Featherstone nodded, his tiny holo-image looking at Boyd with concern. “Are you getting any closer to completing your mission?” Featherstone asked.

  “Yes, sir, I think so. I heard Poledri talking to one of his trusted crew. He is definitely in contact with Kitzov. I expect sooner or later, they will make contact with the Faction Central.”

  Featherstone nodded and looked up, opening his mouth to speak. Just then, the proximity alert sensor Boyd had hidden in the corridor sounded a light chirp in his ear.

  Someone was coming.

  Boyd deactivated the clandestine transmitter and stashed away the fist-sized unit, hiding it in his crumpled suit.

  The door burst open and Noland stood there looking down at Boyd sitting on the floor, his environmental suit in his hands.

  “Always cleaning that crap, aren’t you, Boyd?”

  “I like to keep my kit functional,” Boyd said calmly.

  “Do it later. The captain needs you on the flight deck. We have been called to a Faction rendezvous. Now, Boyd. Move. And I would try and stay out of the captain’s way if you know what’s good for you.” Noland waved Boyd out with a finger. Boyd clambered to his feet. He was standing there in his underclothes, having just taken off his environmental suit.

  “Can I put on my clothes first, Jem?”

  “Grab your pants and shirt and move down that corridor, Boyd, or I’ll shoot you myself.”

  Boyd grabbed his kit and kicked his suit with the clandestine transmitter under his bunk and set off.

  Boyd was heading to a Faction ship’s rendezvous. He was getting closer to Faction leadership every day.

  5

  Major Charles Featherstone deactivated the communication device, placed it back in the small drawer in his desk where he kept it, then waved his wrist-mounted holo-stage over the drawer to lock it. He sat back in his chair and looked up at the low ceiling of his office aboard the Blue Star Marine Frigate 109, the Resolute.

  The report from Boyd was almost unbelievable, but Featherstone had worked with Boyd for many years and trusted the sergeant’s judgment, honesty, and bravery more than any other serving Marine. But he was rightly skeptical.

  In the five hundred years since the Scorpio System had been settled, no contact with any alien race had been reported. Stories of aggressive alien attacks passed into history and virtually into folklore. Many no longer believed the old tales of massive alien star fighters destroying humanity’s fleet as it fled from one star system to another.

  Here in the Scorpio System, humanity existed alone, the universe stretching away into the blackness. Many believed it to be completely devoid of all life beyond the outer asteroid sphere that surrounded the system.

  Only humanity—on the system’s numerous planets, moons, and asteroids—existed in all of the eternal darkness of space therein. Humanity, now riven by factionalism. The Union of Nations strove to maintain order and cohesion, while the Faction did its best to disrupt that order on the pretense of personal freedom.

  Personal criminality, more like, Featherstone thought.

  The once-scattered bands of pirates and criminal gangs were organizing against the Union under the name of the Faction. And Featherstone, Boyd, and others with ideals of justice and stability fought to maintain the Union’s power.

  Featherstone was committed to his duty as a Blue Star Marine. His superiors at Union Fleet Command would question his sanity if he reported an alien invasion with only the word of a single deep-cover operative to go on. But Featherstone trusted Boyd.

  However, he needed to investigate before sending an official report to Command.

  Featherstone called up a map of the region on his desk holo-stage, the Resolute at the center. The icy bodies of the outer asteroid sphere hung around the ship, giving cover as it held its position, waiting for reports from their operative.

  This far out, deep in the sphere billions of kilometers from the central blue giant, life was quiet. The crew maintained their readiness—a difficult thing when all was so quiet—but it was vital that the crew of the Resolute, Blue Star Marines all, were constantly ready to spring into action. The moment Boyd reported his contact with the Faction Leader, Kitzov, they were standing by to swoop in to capture or kill.

  For Featherstone to break his cover now would be a gamble. Faction raiders were known to operate from within the sphere, striking into the system from their hidden locations. If the Resolute kicked up their drive systems, they might attract the attention of a Faction ship or two.

  It would be unlucky for any Faction ship if they moved to intercept. The Resolute was a powerful warship and more than capable of fending off a few pirates. But it would also be unlucky for the Resolute, as their cover would be blown.

  The location Boyd had reported the alien encounter was only a few hours at maximum drive. A stealthy approach might be better. The Resolute was going to remain dark.

  Featherstone coded a transmission for fleet command. The message was routed across a series of beacons to hide the Resolute’s position. The transmission would be practically impossible to trace, and by the time anyone had found the origin, the Resolute would have moved.

  “Major Charles Featherstone, Blue Star Marine, Resolute. Communication received from deep-cover operative. Relocating to investigate…” Featherstone paused. What would sound plausible yet reason enough to relocate? “…responding to reports from operative. Featherstone out.”

  It was vague. By the time the fleet command debriefed him on the operation, he hoped to have a more detailed explanation. But Featherstone had a wide latitude in how he operated his command. He was able to operate independently of direct fleet authority for months at a time, even as long as an entire year.

  Having sent the transmission, it was vital to move quickly. Time to call the command deck crew and get the ship ready for flight.

  A noise outside Featherstone’s office caught his ear. He stood up and pulled the door open. The corridor outside was narrow and short, running from his office to the command deck front and center of the frigate.

  Sergeant Dorik was standing at an open panel in the corridor. Featherstone noticed a surveillance subsystem behind the panel.

  Dorik turned a diagnostic tool in his hand.

  “Sir,” he said calmly, acknowledging the major.

  “Everything all right here, Sergeant?” Featherstone asked.

  “Just a maintenance check. It’s in the schedule. I tried not to disturb you.”

  Featherstone nodded. “All done?”

  “Almost,” Dorik said. “Just need to reset the system on the command deck.”

  “Close up and fall in. I want the crew ready in five.” Featherstone locked his office door behind him with a swipe of his wrist and walked off along the corridor.

  The voices of Yanic Knole and Jim Hemel drifted out of the command deck as Featherstone approached. The pilot and navigator were already at their stations.

  Featherstone climbed into his command chair.

  “Sir,” Knole greeted Featherstone. “You played Curveball, right, sir?”

  “Indeed.” Featherstone activated his armrest console. The holo-image display appeared over both armrests. “I played forward line attack for the Union Academy in my final year. Why?”

  “Jim thinks the new drop back clearance kick will bring more attacking options for midfield, but it’s clear we’ll just bring back the kick and counter kick battles that plagued the oh-nine season.”

 
; “The long ball has been a part of the game since the early days,” Hemel laughed. “It’s part of the game’s DNA.”

  “Running attack, that’s what we pay to see,” Knole said. “What do you think, sir?”

  Featherstone tapped his controls and sent the command deck crew an alert for all hands to prepare for flight. “I leave the intricacies of the game to the experts. As long as the Ravens win their home games this season, I’ll be happy.”

  “I’ll take that bet, sir,” Hemel said.

  “What if I get killed before you have a chance to collect?” Featherstone asked. He brought the ship’s power up to readiness. “I couldn’t go to my grave knowing I’d robbed one of my best men of his winnings.”

  “I’ll have to make sure I keep you alive, sir,” Hemel said.

  Featherstone activated the ship-wide communicator.

  “This is Resolute command deck. Relocation protocols. New heading. Running dark. All hands, action stations. We’re heading in system.”

  The main holo-stage showed the Resolute and her systems all coming online. Sergeant Dorik walked onto the command deck and took his position next to Featherstone on the command chair. Then Tash Cronin, his uniform still unfastened, dashed to his position at the weapons console.

  “Good of you to join us,” Sergeant Dorik said as Cronin took his position. “And fasten that jacket, man. You can’t kill terrorist scum dressed like that.”

  “Confirm heading,” Featherstone called.

  “Heading confirmed,” Knole replied. “Navigation reports ready. Sending heading to main holo-stage.”

  The holo-image resized, the Resolute shrinking to a small dot. The line of the heading curved across the image and out of the asteroids of the sphere, moving toward the inner system, just as far as the orbit of the gas giant Extremis.

  “Confirm drive systems readiness,” Featherstone had run through this procedure a thousand times, but every time needed to be right.

  “Drive at my station, ready for command,” Jim Hemel said from his console in front of Featherstone’s command chair, facing the main holo-stage.

  “Weapons console, report,” Featherstone said.

  “Weapons to standby,” Cronin said. “Mass beam and high-energy laser cores powered, sir.”

  “All systems ready, sir,” Dorik said. He stepped over to the defensive console and took his position.

  “Move us out,” Featherstone said.

  “Power to the drive,” Hemel said, “Moving us out. We’re right on track.”

  The Resolute moved out of the sphere and into open space on the edge of the system, a long run to the target location. Featherstone sat in his command chair and watched the progress on the holo-stage as he checked all ship systems on his holo-displays. He let every station manage their own responsibilities, but he always double-checked their work.

  After a short time, a gentle proximity alert sounded.

  “Distant signal off our port side,” Knole called out. “It’s a ship. Unpowered. It’s moving with momentum alone. No drive signatures.”

  Featherstone stood up.

  “Is it Union?”

  “Unknown, sir,” Knole said. “We’ll have to get closer.”

  “It could be a Faction deception. A lure,” Dorik said. “Deflection shielding and hull stability field at full readiness.”

  Featherstone nodded. “Weapons, bring the mass beam up to power. Nice and slow, we don’t want to spoil our silent running. Navigation, plot an intercept course. Pilot, move us onto the new heading when ready.”

  Featherstone stood and watched as the holo-image replotted the Resolute’s heading to intercept the ship off their port side. The line of the heading repositioned, sliding across the image.

  “New heading locked in,” Knole said.

  “Moving to new heading now,” Hemel said.

  “Energy weapon emitters activated, sir,” Cronin said. “We’ll be in range in a few minutes.”

  Featherstone watched the holo-stage. He stepped down from his command chair and stepped up to the stage. He zoomed in on the local region. The ship was dark, but scanners had returned enough data to show its shape and size.

  “It’s not Union,” Dorik said, standing next to Featherstone.

  “No. Looks Faction to me. But it’s not a raider, it’s too big. A freighter maybe?”

  “A trap, maybe?” Dorik asked.

  “Thing is with a trap, Sergeant, you would want to put it somewhere where it is likely to catch something. Out here, it’s a bit too remote. Something tells me we’ll be quite safe.”

  “I’ll ready a squad,” Dorik said.

  “Yes. A full squad. I want to board her as soon as we can. If there are any survivors on board, I want them alive.”

  The Faction ship was tumbling across space at drive speeds. Its drive systems were cold, meaning the ship had been unpowered for some hours at least, but it was practically impossible to judge exactly how long that had been.

  The Resolute matched the freighter’s tumbling movement and positioned itself alongside. The two ships were locked in a spin across the outer system.

  Dorik watched the ships draw closer together on the holo-image.

  “I would caution against a hard dock, sir,” Dorik said. “If they are hostile, we will want to get away quick. I’ll take a squad over with me. Ship-to-ship deep-space traverse would be advisable.”

  Featherstone nodded. “Proceed, and take Doc with you.” Featherstone transferred weapons control to one of this armrest displays.

  “You heard the major,” Dorik said as he marched off the desk. “Come on, Doc. Time to suit up.”

  Tash Cronin was known to all as Doc. He had passed his medic exam with flying colors on his first attempt. He absorbed the information in a thousand medical journals and could recall the details under pressure. He had the skilled hands of a surgeon and calming manner that was perfect for a field medic. Unfortunately, he had failed miserably at every single other element of Marine training and was thus dropped from the program.

  The Union sent Cronin to medical school on Glacies, where he passed with top honors. Given the option of any position in any hospital or practice in the Scorpio System, Tash Cronin again requested Marine service.

  After passing, barely completing his training at the bottom of his class, he was assigned to the combat medic corps where he requested assignment to the Blue Stars—the elite covert operations units of the Union Fleet Marines.

  Doc found a placement when Major Featherstone agreed to accept the Marine, saying someone had to be last. ‘Maybe some active duty would turn him into something useful.’

  “You heard the sergeant,” Featherstone said. “Move out, Doc. If there are any survivors, try and keep them alive long enough for Fleet Intelligence to get to know them.”

  Featherstone turned his attention to the data on the ship as the team marched off the command deck. He watched the ship like a hawk, alert to any signs that the ship was powering its systems, any hint that this was indeed a trap.

  6

  Sergeant Dorik and Doc Cronin marched onto the Marine deck where First Squad was waiting for them, a line of six Marines in full enviro suits armed with pulse rifles.

  “This is an extravehicular action, infiltration, and search. We will traverse using suit thrusters and enter the target ship through a secondary airlock hatch mid-ship. We will be in hostile territory, but don’t shoot the first thing that moves. If we can take a prisoner, we will. These Faction scum sing like little birds when Fleet Intelligence gets ahold of them, and maybe we can help knock the Faction off balance with one good snitch from this assault. Stand by.”

  Dorik pulled his helmet on and it sealed in place, then turned to Cronin and checked that he had his helmet on too.

  Satisfied his team was ready, Dorik opened a channel to the command deck.

  “Resolute, First Squad ready for EVA. Sealing the Marine deck now.”

  Dorik activated the deck seal from his suit’s hol
o-stage. The image on the outer hatch showed the pressure, as did the displays on the inner faceplate of each Marine’s helmet.

  Cronin felt his pulse quicken as the pressure on deck was reduced to zero. A vacuum.

  With the pressure at zero, the warning lights blinked on the outer hatch. The outer hatch was the size of the entire deck—five meters high and ten across. The hangar was big enough to house a one-squad rapid deployment boat or a single Blade. Refitted for Blue Star operations, the hangar was empty.

  The hatch slid aside quickly, showing the target craft a hundred meters away. The two ships appeared stationary, but the distant star moved rapidly across the view, rising just beyond the Faction ship before dropping suddenly as the two ships tumbled about in space.

  Doc administered an antiemetic to stop himself from puking inside his helmet. Then, after a moment’s thought, he gave himself a light stim shot to overcome the nerves.

  “Stop self-medicating, Doc,” Dorik said, placing a hand on Cronin’s shoulder.

  The Marines were already stepping out into the void, their suit thrusters moving them away from the open deck toward the Faction ship.

  “Ready?” Dorik asked Cronin.

  Cronin nodded and walked forward, stepping off the side of the deck and drifting out into space.

  “Keep your eyes on the ship ahead, Doc,” Dorik said with a laugh. “We’ll make a Marine of you yet.”

  Sergeant Dorik increased the thrust on his suit and moved ahead of Cronin, keeping a watch on the field medic through his data readout.

  The Marines of First Squad were soon landing on the freighter’s hull. The first Marine hacked the external hatch controls, and the hatch popped open with a shower of dust and debris as it was exposed to the vacuum of space.

  They saw only darkness within, so Dorik waved First Squad inside. Landing on the hull feet first, he moved smoothly into a walking gait and made his way over to the open hatch. Pausing at the edge of the hatch and looking down into the space beneath his feet, the headlamps of First Squad flashed around the interior. Dorik looked back for Cronin.