We broadcasted our newly confiscated three-ship fleet out to that remote corner of Norma. There were no planets within a light-year of the dry docks, just acres of star-riddled darkness.
I sat in an observatory just off the bridge with Warshaw and Franks—a high-powered conclave. With our field ranks in effect, I now had the rank of lieutenant general. Thanks to his visit with Brocius, Warshaw was an admiral. Franks was a rear admiral. We wore uniforms befitting our new status. Franks and I fit our uniforms perfectly. Warshaw’s blouse strained around the bulging contours of his chest, shoulders, neck, and arms.
Warshaw sat ramrod straight in his chair, looking massive and muscular. When he was sure Warshaw was not around, the late Sergeant Herrington sometimes referred to him as the “Careless Hairless” because he shaved his head, eyebrows and all.
Beside him sat Franks, a man with an aggressive streak. Franks leaned forward in his chair, excitedly scanning the scene through the panoramic viewport. We had broadcasted in thirty-five million miles from the dry docks, far enough away that their sensors would not spot the anomaly of our entrance—far enough away to give our broadcast generator time to recharge in case the U.A. had ships patrolling the area. The enormous generator that built up the energy for us to broadcast required eight minutes to recharge.
Warshaw and I chatted about the overall mission. Franks listened in while keeping one eye on the viewport and the other on a telemetry readout. If another ship approached, Franks would notice it before anyone else.
“Doesn’t matter where you go, it always looks the same out here,” I said.
Franks disagreed. “Spoken like a Marine,” he said.
This took Warshaw and me by surprise. “Not all the same?” he asked.
“Of course not,” said Franks. “We’re in the Norma Arm, the stars are more closely clustered here.”
Warshaw laughed, and said, “It doesn’t look any different.”
“No, it wouldn’t to you,” said Franks.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Warshaw asked.
“You’re an engineer. You spend your time in the belly of the ship taking equipment apart and making sure it works right. What do stars matter to an engineer. You’re too busy with your seals and readouts to care about space.”
“Get specked.”
I turned to the viewport and looked over at the other battleships flying beside us. Their bulbous forms showed in full silhouette against the bright backdrop of stars. In most situations, ships of this make vanished into the darkness of space, their charcoal-colored hulls offering nearly perfect camouflage. Against the Norma stars, however, the ships stood out like crows flying across a morning sky.
“What makes you think the dry docks are still in use?” Warshaw asked.
“Where would you go if you were going to build a fleet?” Franks answered the question with a question.
“It’s a long way from Earth …hard to protect,” Warshaw said.
“Who are they protecting it from, the aliens? The aliens go after planets, not satellites,” Franks said. Then he looked down at his holographic display, and added, “Gentlemen, and in your case, Harris, I use the term loosely, we have arrived.”
I looked out through the viewport and saw nothing other than open space.
“Have you ever been to the dry docks?” I asked Warshaw.
“No, have you?” He sounded confident that I had not.
“I’ve been there,” I said. I would have said more, but something about the way Franks knelt over his display distracted me. He brought up a floating holographic display of the dry docks.
“I’m getting a reading from the dry docks facility,” Franks said. “There’s some kind of activity going on around it.” He flipped a switch that brought up a shoebox-sized virtual representation of the bridge.
“Sound general quarters,” Franks told his virtual bridge, sounding calm, like a clone who was bred for command.
“Have they spotted us?” asked Warshaw. He walked over to get a closer look.
“Look at this. Look, here, and here,” he said, pointing at the display. “See these three ships here, they’re moored outside the dry docks,” Franks said. “That means they are operational. At the very least, they have been out for a test flight.”
He turned back to his virtual bridge, and said, “Bring all weapons systems online. Relay all orders to B2 and B3.” For lack of better names, we currently referred to the captured battleships as B1, B2, and B3.
“Do we even know if they are capital ships?” Warshaw leaned over the monitor. “Maybe they’re just cargo.”
I once thought all sailors were alike, the same way Warshaw or Franks probably believed all Marines were alike. Watching these two clones operate, I now saw vast differences.
Franks, who had spent his career in navigation and weapons, had an intuitive understanding of tactics and situations. Warshaw, the more decorated and experienced of the two, had worked his way up in Engineering. He could keep a ship running; but when it came to commanding a ship, he was out of his depth.
I half expected Warshaw to argue or try to take control of the situation, but he didn’t. “Do you think they pose a threat?” he asked.
“Better safe than sorry,” Franks answered, without looking up from the display. “If they are building the new fleet out here, then those are going to be ships from that fleet.”
“They could have come from the Norma Central Fleet,” Warshaw suggested.
Franks shook his head. “The Norma Central Fleet is a thousand light-years away.”
I started to say something but stopped myself as I realized that I no longer had a part in the conversation.
“How far to the dry docks?” Warshaw asked.
“We’re still about 1.5 million miles out.”
“Think they know we sounded general quarters?”
I wanted to ask if they even knew we were here.
“They know. They went on high alert, too,” Franks said. “This is our chance to get a closer look at those ships. Who knows when we will get another shot like this.”
I didn’t like the odds. We had three ships, and so did they, but our ships were sixty years old. They had brand-new equipment. I pointed this out.
Warshaw took up the cause. “We can’t risk a fight. Until we pick up more equipment, these ships are all we have.”
“Now they’re sounding general quarters,” Franks added. He seemed more fascinated by this turn of events than bothered by it.
“That’s enough, Franks. Get us out of here,” Warshaw repeated.
“We’re safe. Hell, for all we know, they might not have crews on those ships,” Franks said. Then, to the helm, he added, “Set speed to fifty thousand.” At fifty-thousand miles per hour, it would take us thirty hours to reach the dry docks.
This seemed to calm Warshaw slightly. He asked, “What if they do have men aboard?”
“Doesn’t seem likely,” Franks argued.
“Who would have sounded general quarters?” Warshaw asked.
“Dry-docks security could have triggered the alarms.”
“Why sound general quarters on empty ships?” Warshaw asked.
“It could be a bluff,” Franks said. “They might be bluffing to make us think their ships have gone online. We don’t even know if their specking weapons systems are operational. For all we know, those ships are empty shells.”
He looked down at his display and muttered something I could not make out. At that moment, the bridge let us know that two of the three moored ships had launched in our direction.
“What’s their speed?” Franks asked the bridge.
The answer, “Five hundred, sir,” came from the virtual bridge.
“Franks, get us out of here,” Warshaw commanded.