Letters from the Spiral Arms

Engagement

Elisabeth Hoyle had always looked old.

When she oversaw her stellar maps, leaning over the cartography table with her spectacles perched atop her aquiline nose, grey hair around her temples, it was hard not to recognize her as a veteran captain, even though she did not like the title. "Madam", not "Captain", such was the home rule on her ship — not the only oddity aboard the Dryad.

"We still have nothing but debris, madam," announced the radar officer. "We are right inside the cloud created by the destruction of the Hammurabi. It's still expanding. No traces of the attackers."

"I am afraid our pirates are gone, madam."

"They aren't. They're still creeping out there, you can be sure of it."

"Well then" commented Maria, the XO, "we're broadcasting our infrared signature to the entire world."

"That is the point. I want them to know that we're here. That the USRE is watching, and that we have just found what's left of their last victim."

Elisabeth took off her glasses to clean them up. She hated running missions like this one, especially on territory that, technically, wasn't even under USRE responsibility. Pirates...now, that was an interesting euphemism. There were no pirates in the solar system, at least no pirates that would blow up vessels in the middle of nowhere. But the High Fleet greatly enjoyed euphemisms, and they were not to be discussed on the bridge.

"I have a ping" announced Jonesy, the tactical officer, headphones blasting old-school drone music. "Light infrared flash, one hundred thousand kilometres downrange, near the highlighted asteroid. Classified as unknown ship, presumed hostile."

Elisabeth put her glasses back on and raised an eyebrow.

"Automated analysis classifies this ping as an old asteroid miner, type 72, Moon Communes. What makes you think otherwise, Jonesy?"

"Madam, our infrared classification system is derived from civilian space traffic control systems. It is very accurate and quite good at automated tracking, but when it is confused, it tends to come back home screaming, and in that case, it means it's classifying things as miners by default."

Elisabeth contemplated her tactical map for a second, then took off her glasses again, folded them in a grey anti-shock case before strapping herself to her anti-g seat. Her voice was calm, focused, incredibly mundane.

"Call battlestations."

The lights on the bridge went from red to blue, and all crewmembers silently strapped themselves to their own seats before closing the helmets of their flight suits.

"IR contact is gone, madam" announced the tactical officer — and a split-second later something blinked on the medium-range sensors, an explosion of lights and cold numbers.

"Contact, contact, twenty thousand kilometres and closing, missiles in the void, missiles in the void, heading 000, vertical 300, he's right on top of us!!"

"Translate 1-2, dogleg pattern."

The ship rumbled as its engines fired at full thrust automatically, while its logical cores struggled to compute a succession of two close-range jumps. When the missiles arrived within defensive range, the Dryad's laser grid triggered a hailstorm of light. Elisabeth felt her heart skip a beat as the vessel translated away, leaving a swarm of frustrated missiles in its wake. The commander blinked when the Dryad resumed existence, fifty thousand kilometres away. Jonesy commented.

"Missiles on IR. Eleven, still burning. No pursuit. They were just needles, commander."

Elisabeth bit her lip. A trap. Needles hurled through the void at an unsuspecting vessel — instant death, vaporization and crystallization. But the Dryad was not a cargo vessel, it was a High Fleet Firebase and its captain was rightly pissed off — or the closest Elisabeth Hoyle knew to anger.