Assault on Ambrose Station: A Seth Donovan Novel

Assault on Ambrose Station

Book 2 of the Seth Donovan Novels

By Jim C. Wilson

Cover Art by George Cotronis

and Jim C Wilson

©2015 Jim C. Wilson

Also by Jim C Wilson

Dreaming of Atmosphere, Book 1 of the Seth Donovan Novels

For Jess.

Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.

-William Blake

1.

There exists a timeless space between realities, a realm where the rules of our universe are ignored. The feeble understandings of men are nothing to the vast emptiness and imperceptible truths that haunt this place. Imagine a being that can only comprehend two dimensions – forward, backwards, left and right. How would you explain such concepts as up and down to them? How can someone who can only perceive three dimensions hope to comprehend four or five dimensions? Or six? Or ten?

The limits of our perception allow incomprehensible shapes, patterns and colours to fluctuate randomly in this place. Our senses are completely unequipped to process the sensations that permeate the very fabric of this universe. Yet travel it, we must.

The discovery of Jump Gate technology was the catalyst that humanity needed to reach for the stars. Countless experiments in starship propulsion yielded the same result - the stars were simply too far away. The people of ancient Earth were seemingly trapped on a dying and polluted world, unable to escape their fates. War, that ancient past time that we humans were so fond of, ravaged our meagre peoples for time immemorial. It was a wonder that we found the time to invent anything, other than better and more efficient ways to kill each other. Nevertheless, invent we did. In our darkest hour, a small, elite group of scientists managed to find a way to tear apart reality for a brief time, cracking the boundaries of physics apart like a piñata.

The Earth was lost, a ravaged and desolate place, but we had gained the stars. The embattled factions of humanity split forever, leaving behind their ancestral world to find a new home, away from those whose hatred could not be reconciled. A fever took to our ancestors - the fever of exploration. Never before in the history of humankind had there been such opportunities to discover the new. New worlds, new plants, new animals, new people. We were as children given free rein in a candy store.

The centuries progressed, as they ever do. New enemies of man were found, wars were fought. Seven hundred years ago, we fought a terrible war against an unfathomable and unrelenting insectile race known only as the Destroyers. The destruction brought us to the brink. To those who lived through those times, I suppose it must have seemed like the end of civilisation. However, guided by the ever adaptive and cunning minds of humanity, a galaxy-spanning organisation formed to defeat the alien marauders, and to nurture and direct the peace that followed.

The Galactic Protectorate ensured that all worlds were governed fairly, that trade flowed and that the arteries of the galaxy, the Jump Gates, were safe. Beyond that mandate, the galaxy at large was free to pursue whatever endeavours it chose.

The Dreaming of Atmosphere, my home among the stars, travelled between the borders of normal reality, traversing the Jump Space that we know so little about. A journey that would last for three and a half ship days. In normal reality, the galaxy would carry along at a much faster rate. Those outside of Jump Space would experience three months before we shifted back into reality at the other end of the Jump Gates. We would travel over a dozen light years to appear in a new star system, three days older, biologically, but having missed ninety days relative to everyone else.

The ship was once a stock standard Meridian Class Transport, but over a hundred years of operation and modification had seen it morph into so much more. She had been in my family, the Donovans, since my great grandfather commissioned it. He had signed on to a loan that would take generations to pay off, a harsh reality that all ship owners faced, as even the current owner, Maxine Cooper, couldn’t hope to pay it off in her lifetime. Nor could I.

It was a moot point, however, since it was highly likely that we would all be killed in the following months as we attempted a daring rescue in the Gossamer System, our destination. We had fallen prey to the machinations of a scheming crime boss by the name of Benedict Jenner, a near-human with ties to Corporate financing, to rescue his uncle Osiris Blackburn from the clutches of a murderous race of humanoids called the Ghantri. A race who had pulled the biggest heist in the history of the Votus-Eridani Network of Jump Gates and had betrayed the Protectorate benefactors who had uplifted them to galactic society. Their home star system, Gossamer, was now an exclusion zone, heavily blockaded by the Protectorate Fleet to stop the Ghantri menace from reaching the rest of the galaxy.

A few years ago, the Protectorate managed to drum up enough support from the local governments to field a campaign to reclaim the star system and rescue the hundreds of thousands of refugees still trapped on Ghantri controlled facilities. As a young Primacy Star Marine Corps. Corporal, I was part of that ill-fated campaign. An experience that left me severely wounded and traumatised. The Star Marines rebuilt me, physically, but was unable to help me mentally and I left the Star Marines years ago to re-join my father’s old ship as the First Mate.

So there we were - a ragtag crew of individuals on a desperate mission into dangerous territory. So far, we had managed to piss off an immensely powerful Corporation that vowed to hunt us down and extract revenge. That’s Corporation with a capital ‘C’. The Galactic Protectorate moderates the galaxy, but the true rulers are the powerful Galactic Corporations. These infinitely wealthy organisations own entire star systems, sometimes, and intimidate the lesser masses in giant organic starships that are easily the match for any Protectorate Fleet warships.

We had lost Eric, an old friend and our chief engineer, and gained another ally in the form of an AI called Tac. Besides Maxine and I, Seth Donovan, there were six other full-time crew. Our pilot, Crege, was a bird-like Garz’a swordsman of quick wits and impatient demeanour. Our systems operator was an Orlii philosopher and electronics expert called Fel’negr, a counterpoint of patience and wisdom to Crege’s impulsiveness and rashness. Zoe Ward was our medical officer, my girlfriend and therapist. She had helped me work through the worst of my post-traumatic stress issues, and a constant source of love and hope for me. Mal Cutler, or just Cuts, was our surviving engineer and maintenance technician. We were always at each other’s throats about something, but recently I had learned to use his opposition as a balance to my own brash ways of solving problems. We had two deck hands, a pair of reptilian Argen named Hergo and Denno. They were good workers, who seldom complained about the danger we faced, and both were solid members of our crew. Lastly, we had a temporary crewmember – Artemis Derris.

Art was an enigma. She came on board at the behest of Benedict Jenner, his agent provocateur. At first, she was a hostile element of the crew, but after several months of shared danger, I had come to respect her, somewhat. She was still a manipulative, shit-stirring menace, but she was our manipulative, shit-stirring menace. We had come to rely on her skills as an active to help us see this mission through.

An
active
was galactic slang for an active operator. People who plied the star lanes undertaking dangerous jobs like bounty hunting, mercenary work or secure courier. Many of us had military backgrounds and Artemis was no exception. I had managed to squeeze a little information from her regarding her past. Apparently, she was once an Esper Monarchy Royal Guard and had gone on to bigger and better things. Now she was a freelance active working for elite clientele. I still wasn’t sure how much she could be trusted, but for now, we had no choice. One command from her and several well-hidden bombs throughout the ship would leave us stranded and ship-less. She held all the cards, and she held them close to her chest.

The plan was simple, in its basic form. We had a stolen piece of advanced technology that would allow us to open a small, portable Jump Gate that we would smuggle onto Ambrose Station. The station was the largest habitat in the system, where I knew personally that the refugees were kept when not being used as slave labour elsewhere in the system. We find Osiris, we set up the portable Jump Gate, and we get him out and get back to the Dreaming. Like I said, a simple plan.

I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I had heard all that before – the last time I came into this star system.

2.

I knew before the first shots reached me, that I was in serious trouble. My fighter could only turn at so many gees before it broke apart and even less before it temporarily obliterated my consciousness. In a dogfight, passing out was tantamount to death. My adversaries were all around me. I had misjudged their ability to coordinate their attacks and instead of breaking apart in a chaotic mess, they had simply parted neatly and allowed me to pass between them. I couldn’t get a lock on any more than one of them, while all four of them would get a clear shot at me as I passed. Even worse, if I survived the next few seconds they would be able to pivot on impossibly tight turns and attack my unprotected arse.

“Shit!” I swore, as my fighter registered several hits at once. I immediately aborted my run and focused wholly on evasion, switching power reserves to shield and propulsion. That was a new feature of the fighter interface, a modification by Cuts. We figured that if we could add a few dozen kilograms of weight to the rear in the form of extra power storage, I would be able to shunt it around as needed and give my systems a much-needed boost. Luckily for me these drones used energy weapons and not ballistic or missile ammunition, my shields would be able to deflect or absorb a few hits before being overloaded.

Sure enough, a bright flash through the canopy and a row of red indicators on my dashboard told me the shield had buckled. I gulped down air through my mask as I spun the fighter in a corkscrew manoeuvre trying to shake my pursuers. I couldn’t let them get behind me or I’d be toast in no time. A propulsion hit would mean the end of me for sure.

I figured the drones had to be on automatic, there couldn’t be a pilot or they would never be able to pull off such tight formations. That meant I could outsmart them. I hoped. Keeping my turns as random as possible, I managed to keep them focused on my upper starboard flank. I cut my acceleration, coasted for a millisecond while I pivoted on my axis, and swung around to meet them. When I was facing them, I poured on my retro-thrusters on the forward fuselage and managed to get a weapon lock on two of them. In an instant, I had my thumb pressing on the fire control trigger like crazy and couldn’t contain a whoop of victory as they both blew apart under my stream of fire.

It was short lived, however. The four drones had kept coming instead of splitting into defensive patterns and the surviving pair lined up a barrage of fire that rocked my cockpit and pitted my canopy. More red indicators flashed angrily at me and suddenly my controls were not responding.

“No!” I cried as the remaining pair split to my flanks and came at me from two angles. A staccato of hits tore my fighter apart and I died in the sudden vacuum that engulfed me as the cockpit disintegrated around me.

Simulation ended,
reported my overlay.

“I hate drones.” I said.

Crege berated me, “Human was
bezak!
Still thinking of drones as separate
calak,
not a single swarm of
galab.
”

“God damn it.” I punched the coping around the canopy.

“Drones don’t care if one gets destroyed. Drones do not care if almost all are destroyed. If one left, they will kill human. Stop thinking
calak
thinks like human, start thinking
calak
thinks like machine!”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

“Human does not
get it.
Human gets killed like
fedang
every time.”

“This fighter is a hunk of tinfoil with an engine attached! I can’t sustain even a fraction of the hits the Dreaming can take!”

“So don’t get hit!”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t thought of that!”

“Because human is stupid!”

“Hey! Flying is your thing! I prefer a straight up gun fight to all this fancy flying.”

“You think the
calak
will care what kind of death you prefer? ‘Oh, sorry human. Just let me climb out of drone and kick human’s
gortug!’
Death will come for you, no matter your circumstances, your training or your preference for combat. A warrior knows that everywhere is battlefield. Life is a battlefield.”

I had learned a long time ago that it was best to let Crege finish his rants rather than interrupt him. He was liable to turn violent.

I climbed out of the cockpit, pulling the flight mask off my face as I did. There were several electrodes pasted to my scalp as well, feeding sensory data wirelessly to my interface overlay bio-aug. I pulled them all free as I came out of the cockpit, and handed my mask to Crege.

“I think Tac might have cheated a little on that run, anyway.” I regretted saying it almost immediately.

“Explain.” commanded Crege.

“Well…I used a tactic that he saw me use when I was escaping the Xerxes.”

“So?”

“I’m just saying, he knew how to counter it.”

“Why is that cheating?”

I sighed, “Look, forget it. I screwed up. I’m tired.” I held up my hand as Crege was about to launch himself into another tirade, “and before you go on about warriors not giving a shit about whether the enemy is tired or not, I’ll remind you I’m supposed to be on holidays. Max gave me the green light. I’m off duty until we get to Gossamer.”

“Human asked warrior to test him. Warrior did not pull human out of nest to train. Human is here because he wants to survive.”

“A decision I’m starting to regret.”

“Warrior is also here, because he wants human to survive.”

I sighed again, “You’re right. I’m sorry. We’ve been at it for hours and my leg is itching like a bitch. Frustration is eating at me. Do you remember when we first started sparring?”

“Human whined like a baby
garz’ak.
Just like now.”

“I’m grateful for your help, I really am. I just need a break.”

“Okay. Warrior’s leg aches like…
a bitch
also.”

“Look at us, a pair of banged up actives limping about like old men. Come on, you old fart, I’ll buy you a hot chocolate in the mess deck.”

We limped out of the aft cargo and headed to the forward cargo hold and Deck 2. Crege was right. I needed to be sharp. I was no ace pilot, and I knew that eventually my mediocre skills as a pilot would be tested. Our plan counted on it. Crege was an excellent sparring partner, but not the best teacher. I constantly pitted myself against him in sword fights in the forward hold, or at least I did before he had been wounded while repelling mercenary boarders. He was the far better swordsman and although I was slowly closing that gap, forcing myself to face a more skilled opponent honed my own skills accordingly. It had saved my life many times, especially over the last few months on this job.

The problem was, I wasn’t facing off against Crege now, he was tutoring me in the arts of dog fighting. I’m not a slow learner, but Crege’s impatience tended to get the better of him and lessons end up in arguments and yelling matches more often than not. His wounded leg stopped him from climbing up into the cockpit and was probably the only reason he had not whacked me around the head yet. Small mercies, I suppose.

We retired to the mess deck on Deck 2 and found Fel’negr sitting quietly by himself enjoying a bowl of
Vendrul
broth. Crege slid up beside him at the table as I ordered two cups of hot chocolate from the auto-chef.

“Tac killed human nine times, today.” declared Crege as I sat down with them.

“Eight. I ejected once.”

“Ha! Still dead.”

Fel slurped from his bowl, and I caught a whiff of the foul stuff. It reeked of seaweed and rotting vegetation. I knew that the taste of the Orlii delicacy wasn’t far off it. “We learn through failure, we grow through defeat.” he said. Fel was full of these truisms, a by-product of a classical education and a devoted following of
The Way
, an Orlii school of philosophy and thought.

“I prefer what my old platoon sergeant used to say: Train hard, fight easy.”

“Wise man, your platoon sergeant.” agreed Fel. Crege nodded his head as well.

“A brave man, too. He died in the Push, leading a charge against a Ghantri emplacement. Just one more death I hope to avenge when we get to Gossamer.”

The Push was the name given to the grand Protectorate invasion of Gossamer, to take back the system once and for all. In reality, it was a bloody disaster. Over a thousand warships were destroyed and tens of thousands of soldiers and crewmembers killed during the Push. I had lost my entire squad and was left behind when the withdrawal was called. I spent the better part of four months trying to get out of the system and nearly lost my life because of it. Due to injuries sustained in my escape, I had extensive cybernetic and bio-augmentation to repair the damage. Almost the entire left side of my upper body was cybernetic now. I had major spinal augs as well.

It was due to these augmentations that I was able to take advantage of an emerging technology – Nano-Proliferation. Through an implant that I had gained a few months ago, I had learnt how to manipulate and create nano-scopic robots called nanites. Through these tiny devices, I can create several fantastic effects, manipulating energy and matter with the power of thought. These powers have a cost, however. The implant uses up my body’s energy reserves and affects the electrical activity in my brain. If I’m not careful in how I use my nanites, I can have seizures and blackouts. I’m still working on my charge levels, and knowing my safe limits.

“The Captain requests your presence tonight at the planning meeting in her cabin. Twenty six hundred hours.” said Fel. A ship day was thirty hours long.

“I’ll be there. What’s the agenda?” I asked.

“The usual. Going over our plan to get past the Protectorate blockade, repairs and provisioning schedules for when we dock at Eridani Station.”

“Again? What’s new?”

“Don’t know. You know Max, she likes to worry about plans and contingencies. It’s an admirable trait to have in a Captain.”

“No doubt. Maybe she’s thought of something else and wants to bounce it off us. See how it washes?”

“Possibly. Tac, has the Captain been asking you for more probability ratios lately?”

The Captain has been asking me for probability ratios many times a day, since we escaped the Blade of Xerxes.
This was the AI’s texted response to all our overlays. Tac was different than normal AIs. He appeared to be a sphere of electronics, roughly the size of a small bowling ball. His actual form reached into a parallel dimension and, if he was to be believed, is growing all the time. Part computer, part organic…something. Tac was a valuable member of the crew and we thought of him not as an artificial intelligence, but as an actual crewmember. We had him ensconced in the ship’s sensor nexus and all the external and internal sensors were his to use. In a past life, he was a deep space research vessel’s computer, but we had rescued him from a drifting hulk hours after the ship’s destruction.

“Are any of her more recent suggestions viable?”

A few have merit.

“Any we’re not aware of?”

Negative. You are conversant with the most favourable plans to date.

“So why does she want me at this one? I’m still off-duty.”

“Perhaps she misses you?” offered Fel.

“We can chat any time. I don’t need a command meeting for that. She knows that, right?”

“Why doesn’t human just ask her?” said Crege.

“I might.”

“Then we don’t need to talk about it.” To Crege, pointless banter was a waste of time.

“How are the legs?” asked Fel, indicating us both.

“I can put my weight on it now, but the nanite patch itches like hell.” I said. During my escape from a Corporate organo-ship, I’d been attacked in the Eclipse Fighter that I stole by a swarm of drones. I nearly died when several hits penetrated my cockpit. Luckily, all I had suffered was a burnt leg when an energy beam lanced it. Burn injuries were easy to heal with nanites, but extensive wounds, like Crege’s, had to be healed the old-fashioned way.

“Still feels like broken glass in my hip.” reported Crege, “Zoe says no more bleeds, though. Bone start to heal properly now.” I had to hand it to him. Crege was a tough son of a bitch. His wound was far more serious than mine was. A sword tip had pierced his thigh and cut the top of his femur off. Zoe had performed emergency surgery on him in our med lab, and through many months of healing and therapy, he should make a full recovery. For the time being, though, he was out of action. Only recently, Zoe had allowed him to return to light duties and he had hit the bridge with gusto taking shifts on duty as often as he could.

“Seeing the both of you wounded…it shames me” started Fel, “Here I am, whole and unwounded. I’ve done little, comparatively to the pair of you, I’ve not shared the danger you two have faced on this voyage.”

“Talk like that doesn’t get us anywhere.” I explained, “You’re not an active. You’re pretty much a civilian in my books.”

“And mine” agreed Crege.

“So don’t go getting any ideas about putting yourself in danger just so you can get wounded and compare scars with the rest of us.”