Right Ascension (The Sector Fleet, Book 3) Read online

  Heritage shouldn’t matter, but it did.

  The lift doors opened, and I strode out. Two crewmen jumped out of my way, saluting out of habit. I acknowledged them with a barely there nod of my head and proceeded to the bridge. My wrist comm opened the thick door, and the sounds of computer pings and low conversations met my ears.

  Saluting Captain Petrov, I made my way to the First Officer’s station. Lieutenant Commander Saitō nodded his head in greeting from the science console. I nodded back. The extent of our daily conversation.

  The captain stood in the centre of the bridge, staring at the main viewscreen; or more precisely, the quickly approaching jump point left behind by the Sector Four Fleet.

  “ETA?” Petrov asked.

  “Five minutes, sir,” Lieutenant Sokolov said from the helm.

  “Yellow alert, Lieutenant Gāo,” the captain advised.

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “Corvus,” Petrov said, looking vaguely in the direction of the ceiling, “ship-wide channel if you please.”

  “Channel open, Captain,” the AI replied succinctly.

  “This is the captain,” Petrov announced. “We have started our five-minute countdown to the jump point. All officers report to their stations. All passengers should be in their cabins. Petrov out.”

  Vladimir Petrov had never been considered loquacious.

  He turned and looked at the flight crew individually.

  “We’ve trained for this,” he said. “We know what is expected of us and what will transpire if we fail. Stand to.”

  Several officers responded with “aye-ayes”. I looked down at my console, unable to face the fear and judgement in their eyes.

  “Commander Anderson,” Petrov said quietly, suddenly appearing at my side. “Everything in order?’

  “Yes, sir,” I said, straightening. My face impassive. My eyes clear.

  “This is not just yours alone to bear, Commander,” he advised. “And we do have one bit of good news.”

  “Sir?”

  “They made it.” He nodded toward the viewscreen and the rapidly approaching jump point marker. “The Sector Four Fleet has gone farther than anyone ever thought possible and all due to your grandfather.”

  I swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir.”

  “I wish he’d lived long enough to see this,” the captain murmured. I said nothing. “He would have stood at my side and stared the unknown in the face, teeth bared and eyes glinting.”

  Maybe the captain was more loquacious than I had realised.

  He turned to look at me again.

  “He would be proud of you, Commander. Proud that at least one Anderson made it onto a flight deck and could lead the way for others to follow.”

  I stared at the captain, unsure if his words held truth or not. Captain Petrov had always been kind to me. He had always treated me fairly. He’d never judged me for my connection to Simon Anderson. He’d only ever asked me to do my best. But surely he knew the challenges I faced daily. The disparity between his opinion and those of the rest of the crew.

  Vladimir Petrov was not so naive and unaware. But what could he do?

  I nodded my head and said, “Thank you, Captain.” It was expected, and I wanted the conversation to end.

  Captain Petrov offered a small smile and then turned to his command chair. The entire flight deck held its breath as he paused before it, dragging the moment out as only a commanding officer could. Then he sat, and Lieutenant Sokolov announced one minute to destination.

  One minute until we crossed a line in the sand. An arbitrary coordinate we could never return from.

  The jump points were a one-way ticket to humanity’s future. A one-shot chance to reach New Earth. We could no longer see Old Earth on our long range scanners. We’d lost the ability to communicate with them once we’d reached Saturn. If Old Earth still existed, it would be charred and burned.

  Those we’d left behind may well be dust in the universe.

  I would have said something inspiring to the crew. Possibly even to the passengers. This was a monumental moment for all of us and fear rode shotgun to hope. But Captain Petrov sat silently in his command chair and let us think our own tumultuous thoughts.

  Maybe he had the right of it. What could anyone say that would encompass all of this?

  I checked the systems. All came back nominal.

  I glanced around the flight deck. All of the flight crew sat stoically and stared out at the unknown.

  The jump point approached.

  “Jump point identification in progress,” Corvus suddenly advised.

  This was it. This was the moment the artificial intelligence onboard the Sector Three lead vessel calculated the jump transition for us and the rest of the fleet. This was when my grandfather’s legacy would prove a success or a failure.

  The Sector Four Fleet had made it. It gave us hope. But until we did as well, we had no way of knowing if the jump points actually worked. Laying them and using them after the fact were two entirely different matters.

  I held my breath. The rest of the flight deck hung suspended; waiting.

  And then Corvus announced, “Transitioning.”

  Two

  What The Hell Was That, Saitō?

  Leo

  The world warped around me, colours flashing past my eyes. I knew I was standing stationary at the science console. I knew those on the flight deck with me were also immobile at theirs. I knew no one was breathing, but the colours whirled around me and made it look like everyone present was warping in and out of focus, shifting and reforming beside me, in front of me, behind me, on top of me. It was a jumbled mess of bright lights; blues and reds and yellows.

  It lasted far longer than I wanted to admit.

  Sound was distorted. I could still hear Corvus offering updates on the transition, but I wasn’t sure my mind was capable of translating its computerised voice. Without the AI to guide us, to take over the operation of the ship for us, we wouldn’t have had a hope of executing our designated roles.

  Not that I had much of one during transition. Corvus was the lead Anderson Universal science vessel. All of our ships had a science department, but ours was at the pinnacle. The Sector Three Fleet had launched out of Euro/Asia, the centre for the Anderson Universal Incorporated Technical Development division. Our science kept the ships flying.

  Hopefully.

  All I could do now was trust we’d got it right and that Corvus, the AI, was doing what we’d asked of it.

  I glanced to my right; I had a habit of doing that. And even in the warped world of transitioning, I could see her. Commander Sophia Teresa Anderson. Simon’s granddaughter. Even distorted she looked fierce. Her face hard and set, her eyes determined. The blue of her irises flashing as brightly as the warping lights.

  My stomach somersaulted. Gravity seemed too light, but my feet were still rooted to the deck. I clutched the console before me and gritted my teeth. And then we were through, and I could suddenly suck in a full breath.

  “Status!” Captain Petrov barked. Quicker than I was to get my bearings.

  “All systems nominal,” Commander Anderson replied, equally as swift as the captain at clearing her head.

  It took longer for the rest of the flight deck to reply.

  “Scanning fleet,” Corvus announced.

  The world focused finally. Navigation and helm still seemed not quite with us. Tactical was attempting to enter commands into their console, but kept missing the touchscreen.

  “The Sector Three Fleet is accounted for, Captain.”

  I let out a sigh of relief, confirming Corvus’ assessment.

  “I concur,” I offered.

  “Excellent,” the captain said, sounding relieved. “That was…”

  “Red alert!” Corvus announced over the gel wall speakers, cutting off Captain Petrov mid-sentence.

  “Nature of alert,” Petrov demanded.

  “Incoming message,” Corvus advised.

  “Play message.
”

  “Negative. Red alert.”

  The captain looked toward me. I entered commands into my console, but Corvus refused to reply. It had never done that before. Even when executing multiple systems checks and diagnoses, and carrying out several conversations at once, the AI had never failed to reply to a command.

  “I’m not sure, Captain,” I said before he could ask. “Something’s not right.”

  “Find an answer for me, Lieutenant Commander,” Petrov barked. “Everyone else, you heard Corvus; red alert.”

  The gel walls pulsed red. The mood on the flight deck plummeted.

  “What have you got for me?” the captain asked everyone at once.

  “We’re not alone,” Lieutenant Gāo at the tactical console announced.

  “Aliens?” Sokolov at the helm squeaked.

  “Don’t be absurd,” the captain said steadily. “Gāo, extrapolate.”

  “It’s Aquila, sir. Approaching fast.”

  Silence descended on the flight deck. Aquila, the Sector Four lead vessel, should have been several thousand parsecs from here by now. Had something gone wrong?

  “Hail them, Oleksiy,” the captain ordered the communications officer.

  “Channel open,” she replied. “Aquila is not responding.”

  “Keep hailing them,” Petrov demanded. “Saitō? Is Corvus with us?”

  I rechecked my commands. All of them had been ignored. Corvus was there, but not responding. Something was wrong with our AI, and I had no answer to give the captain. I shook my head. Tried one last command; a command not many knew about. One of two that Simon had given me many years ago in case of an emergency.

  I wasn’t sure if this constituted the type of emergency Simon Anderson envisaged, but an unresponsive AI seemed rather dire to me. And that wasn’t even taking into consideration the fact that Aquila was approaching at FTL speeds.

  And there it was. A corruption in our communications systems. A line of code that meant absolutely nothing but which had Corvus chasing its tail trying to purge it at all costs.

  4fgh#de3&kls9*@bgsed!

  “Communications has been corrupted, sir,” I advised.

  “How?”

  I delved further into Corvus’ code.

  hello corvus

  i’ve been waiting

  An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach.

  Commander Anderson peered over my shoulder. I hadn’t even seen or heard her move.

  She spun on her heel, seeing the answer before I did, and shouted, “Evasive manoeuvres!”

  Helm reacted immediately. She may not have been the captain, but she was the first officer, despite what some on board thought of that commission. Here, on the flight deck, if the first officer issued a command, you followed it. Captain’s orders.

  The fact that the captain had made that an order at all was telling. Simon’s granddaughter fought an uphill battle. Ironic, considering the vessel was actually hers.

  “Commander?” Petrov said calmly as the ship began a series of tight rolls and sporadic engine bursts.

  “Aquila has corrupted the communications systems,” I offered on behalf of the commander. “It seems…aggressive in nature.”

  “Advise the fleet to follow suit,” Petrov commanded Oleksiy.

  “The message won’t reach them,” Anderson said. “Saitō, any chance Corvus can take control of their main boost thrusts?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Commander.”

  “I am attempting to contrrrrrrrrol the fleet’s engines, Commanderrrrrrrr.”

  “What the hell was that, Saitō?” Petrov asked.

  I wanted to step back from my console. I wanted to shake my head in denial. I took a leaf from Commander Anderson’s book and wiped all expression from my features.

  “Corvus has been corrupted, Captain,” I said.

  Silence.

  And then Aquila fired its energy cannons.

  Three

  You Heard The Commander

  Sophia

  The blast took out our port side auxiliary engines. We still had main boost thrust, but we’d sustained significant damage. Lights flashed. Klaxons blared. Corvus kept issuing its corrupted warnings.

  “Rrrrrrrred alerrrrrrrrt! Rrrrrrrred alerrrrrrrrt!”

  There was so much going on at once that for a horrifying moment we did nothing.

  And then Captain Petrov took control of the situation.

  “Power up our cannons,” he said, his deep voice carrying over the cacophony of noise on the bridge. Resigned and filled with dread.

  This was really happening.

  Lieutenant Gāo responded a few moments later. “Energy cannons online.”

  Petrov sucked in a breath of air, as Corvus rotated on its axis narrowly missing further shots from Aquila, and then said, “Fire at will.”

  Blue light emitted from our banks of cannons, arcing through the darkness of space towards our sister ship. Aquila spun, its starboard nacelles scorched in the attack, but otherwise unharmed. It barrelled out of its roll and swooped in behind us.

  In my mind, I thought it beautiful. Its movements graceful and impossible and yet so very stunning. Their helm officer was not flying the vessel, I realised. How could a human execute such a manoeuvre? The AI had to be in control, which begged the question: What were the Anderson Universal crew doing?

  “A stray shot from Aquila has damaged two of our sector fleet vessels,” I advised the captain. Watching as they struggled to move a safe distance away from the battle.

  “Can we help them, Saitō?” Petrov asked.

  “Negative, Captain,” the chief science officer said. “Corvus is not responding to any of my commands. Even the commands it shouldn’t be able to ignore,” he added in a mutter.

  I didn’t think the captain heard that added sentence. But I did. I studied the lieutenant commander for a brief moment and then felt Corvus rock hard, making me lose my balance and fall to the floor. Saitō offered me a hand up, his eyes never leaving his console.

  Whatever he’d meant by that mutter, he was focused and hadn’t stopped trying to reach Corvus. I returned my attention to the ship’s systems. Medical emergencies were being recorded all over the vessel.

  “We’re leaking atmosphere on Deck G, Habitat Two,” I announced. “Medical is responding to thirteen callouts. Two confirmed dead, Captain.”

  Petrov looked stoic and as if he’d aged ten years in the past ten minutes.

  “They’re doing more damage to us than we are to them,” he said. “Oleksiy, can we hail Aquila at all?”

  “I can try, Captain,” she said. “No reply, sir,” she added a moment later. “I’m not sure our comms are getting out at all.”

  “Saitō?” the captain queried.

  “They’re not, sir. Corvus’s communications subroutines have been corrupted. So far, the AI has been unable to correct the corruption, but it is trying.”

  The ship rocked again, and a low whine started up through the hull, direct from the engines.

  “Engineering!” Petrov barked. But they didn’t reply.

  I moved across to the engineering console and checked their systems. Clearly, we’d lost internal comms as well as external, and engineering couldn’t reach us.

  “Main boost thrust is operating at 80%, Captain,” I advised. “We’ve taken a direct hit to our port nacelle.”

  Petrov looked angry.

  “Gāo, get that blasted ship off our rear end,” he barked.

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “Helm, get us out of here,” the captain added.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Saitō, tell me Corvus has made it through to the rest of the fleets’ engines.”

  “Negative, sir. But they are following,” the lieutenant commander said.

  Sokolov put us through a series of loops and rolls, spiralling the vessel to avoid incoming energy shots from Aquila. For its part, Aquila doggedly followed us, hounding our hull, blasting holes into Decks D, C and B. It
was targeting our main systems, I thought numbly. Engineering, computer core, and medical. It was trying to take out our heart.

  I looked up at the viewscreen, watching stars streak past and blue light from their energy cannons sweep by our sides; so close I could almost feel the heat and power as it brushed against our hull.

  Lieutenant Sokolov was doing a fine job avoiding as many of the hits as he could, but still, Aquila was landing more than we were. Two of the Sector Three Fleet vessels had joined in, at peril to themselves, and added their firepower to ours. But it wasn’t enough.

  Not enough, in any case, for an AI who could out think us, outmanoeuvre us, and outshoot us. We had as many cannons as Aquila did, but somehow the AI made its cannons more effective. Faster. Harder. More precise than ours.

  Even three against one was not enough to deter the Anderson Universal vessel from trying to destroy us.

  The only saving grace was that it hadn’t actively started firing on our fleet. Its sole focus right now was on us, and only stray shots had managed to inflict any damage to our charges. We couldn’t protect them, so the fact that most of the fleet was hanging back, staying out of the fight, was a good thing.

  But the more they hung back, the farther they got from us and each other. And the distance was opening. If Aquila succeeded in destroying us, it’d have no problem picking them off one by one afterwards.

  I wanted desperately to contact them. To urge them to stay together. Even if it were in a fleet without us, it would still be safety in numbers. They were all armed. They might be able to protect themselves en masse against Aquila. Might.

  But not if they were spaced too far apart.

  My mind calculated possibilities, even as it discarded one idea after another, finally settling on a plan of action that seemed best.

  “Saitō,” I said, loud enough for the lieutenant commander to hear me over the rest of the noise on the bridge right then. “What other means of communication do we have?”