Captain Hatfield of the Agamemnon and Commander Madison May meet and Get On Well (no). The Dark Horse gets an infodump, some new tech, and some new crew to finish the season.

The second part of the two-part season finale, where Maddy meets another Star Patrol captain and clean (!) adventures transpire! This concludes the second season of this series, thanks for sticking with it! Thanks to :iconSpudz: for editing and to :iconAmalyte: for making sure I stay nudged in the right direction. And to all of you, who I hope are getting summer (or winter for you lovely southern hemisphere types) off to a brilliant start :)

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

Tales of the Dark Horse by Rob Baird
S2E5, "Rendezvous, Part Two"
Stardate 66619

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“Why do you think we're here?"

Commander Ashley, first officer of the Agamemnon, had asked the question. “Orders," Captain Hatfield replied. “Orders are enough."

“They could've picked somebody else. Anybody else."

“But they didn't. Are you ready?" Captain Hatfield, though she agreed with Ashley's sentiment, knew that the sooner they finished, the sooner they could leave. Accordingly, she was definitely ready. The doe stood proudly, not one single stitch of her Star Patrol uniform out of place. She had been perfectly, immaculately assembled. Just like the TCS Agamemnon, her command.

Drawn up alongside the dreadnought was another ship, and a striking contrast in forms. The cruiser Dark Horse was less than a tenth as long as Agamemnon, small enough to fit in the dreadnought's main hangar bay. Her total uncompensated mass was one sixty-fifth as great. She was two and a half centuries older than the brand-new Agamemnon.

And she looked like garbage. In a sense, though Hatfield was too polite to say it, this was entirely accurate. Dark Horse served as an affront to the graceful, cetacean curves of a modern starship. Her boxy angles and spotty paint job only made the contrast more severe.

“Yes, ma'am." Commander Ashley finally answered her question. The rabbit had been busy reviewing and reconfirming the final checklists, putting off the inevitable as long as he could. “For what it's worth."

***

Aboard the Dark Horse, Commander Madison May allowed herself to be suitably impressed. The akita saw a dreadnought like the Agamemnon as the logical, inevitable next step in her Star Patrol career; to be sure, the Star Patrol itself disagreed.

Hence the Dark Horse, although she was proud of her own ship despite its antiquity. May had no doubt that they'd come around eventually, in any case. Perplexing optimism was one of her specialities. “Ready, folks?"

“Ready," their helmsman called out. The other Star Patrol vessel filled the forward viewscreen, and nearly blotted out Lieutenant Parnell's navigation display, but the wolfess didn't let that get to her. She'd been drilled in docking operations. “All systems standing by."

Madison May got up from her chair, walking forward to stand behind the wolf. “You want to do this yourself? Up to it?"

Eli Parnell had been spending her tour on the Dark Horse getting over her previous assignment and the ignominy with which it had ended. Ignominy, and several million credits in damages. She swallowed. “Yes, ma'am."

“Do it, then."

Eli instinctively shifted her controls into their highest-precision setting. “Firing. Translating starboard, velocity plus two… three…"

“Two hundred meters." Parnell's friend, Spaceman Alexander, watched the Dark Horse's movements from her sensors station. “One-eighty. One-fifty."

Eli fired the thrusters on the other side of the cruiser to slow them down a bit as they crossed under a hundred and fifty meters. “Call terminal."

Mitch Alexander keyed her radio. “Agamemnon docking ops, this is Dark Horse. Inbound bay one, approach gamma, p-diff just under ninety. One-four-five meters, two meters per second closure. Requesting terminal lock."

“Uh…" The voice in her headset sounded slightly confused. “Say again?"

The Abyssinian coughed. “Dark Horse is inbound to bay one on approach gamma with papa delta at niner zero and holding. One three zero meters, two meters per second closure. We need terminal cues."

“Uh. Dark Horse, Agamemnon. What are you even talking about?"

“Hey, Eli? Hold up?"

***

“What are they even talking about? What is she even talking about?" Lieutenant Commander Burr found himself staring at the hologram of some ancient junker of a starship, evidently trying to collide with their own. They were awfully close for the husky's comfort.

His outburst attracted the attention of one of the other men in the room, Captain Jack Ford. As commander of the Agamemnon's strike group, Jack was a frequent visitor to her control tower. The coyote strolled over to take a look for himself. “It's a Sov, Mack. You know that. Third-flight Sovremenny, I think."

“Yeah, but." The husky gestured at his holo. “What is this? What are all these numbers?"

Captain Ford cocked his head. Then he cocked it the other way, sharply, and barked a laugh. “Jesus, I see what got ya all worked up. It's an old docking link protocol. Sends course-corrections over to the helm for input."

“They don't autodock?"

He shook his head. “The old Sovvies were designed to lock out external control of the conn. The ship's helmsman has to approve the course. It's a safety measure. We should still have the protocol running."

Maclellan Burr shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We can't do that, though. We can only allow ships that are compliant with TCSR-2780 to dock, sir—otherwise we have to get preapproval from the Star Patrol for the OGDD override."

Captain Ford was all too familiar with the Operational Guidelines Documentation Department, mostly because the ship's commander viewed their copious output as her favorite reading material. “Override it on my authority. I mean, we need to bring 'em in, Mack. And you're the LSO. C'mon."

“But the guidelines say… I mean, sir…"

“Alright, Mack." He tapped the husky's shoulder and jerked his thumb, indicating the LSO should vacate the chair. “You didn't see this, then, okay? Can you do that, at least?"

“Uh. Yes, sir."

Jack hadn't needed to do anything like manual docking since training—a two-day course intended to remind them of just how much better things had gotten for pilots over the centuries. He dropped into Mack's seat and looped the headset around one of his outsized ears until, responding to his body heat, it tightened into place. “Dark Horse, it's the Agamemnon. Talk to me?"

“Holding. On approach to bay one, via precomputed path gamma. Our p-diff was about ninety; we're stopped now, a hundred and thirty meters away."

Jack had to provide his password to start up the old control software four different times before the ship's computer was finally convinced. The version number indicated it hadn't been updated since 2734. “Got it. Sending the link code… should be… one seven, seven four…"

***

Whoever the new guy was, at least he knew his stuff. Mitch confirmed the link code, and flicked her wrist to send the data across the bridge to Eli Parnell's console. The wolf's display changed, projecting their approach path and all the relevant information about their vectors.

Good enough. She nudged the star cruiser back into motion, and they floated neatly towards the dreadnought's primary landing bay. “Doors."

“Agamemnon, thirty seconds. Request hangar door cycle." Mitch phrased it formally for the benefit of whoever was on the other side, given that the newer Star Patrol ship was obviously uncomfortable with the change in procedure.

“Copy that, hoss. Doors opening… now. Sorry we ain't got a welcome mat, you're the first we've had in a while." He sounded a lot less uptight than the previous controller.

But they filed that away for later, as the armored doors slid wide to reveal a gleaming, pristine hangar bay. A space had been cleared for the cruiser, in the middle of neat rows of starfighters. Mitch Alexander recognized them from her comic books as Type 7 scout interceptors.

Even to Madison May, the sight was rather awe-inspiring. The Star Patrol might've had its share of tedious bureaucracy, but nobody could doubt the technological prowess of the Terran Confederation.

She looked forward to seeing it up close and personal.

***

“Permission to come aboard, ma'am?"

“Granted, Commander May. I'm Captain Hatfield; this is Commander Ashley. Welcome aboard the Agamemnon."

The akita nodded, dropped her salute, and made her way quickly down the gangplank, with David Bradley right behind her. “Thanks. I'm May; this is Lieutenant Command Bradley. I remember reading about it being commissioned. The Aggie's a hell of a ship—real beauty."

Captain Hatfield coughed. “Yes. The… Agamemnon," she said, emphasizing the full name for May's benefit, “has been an excellent vessel. This is our furthest deployment, and only the second time a Star Patrol ship has been ordered beyond the frontier."

“Ours being the first, ma'am?" Bradley asked. The golden retriever couldn't help noticing the look they were getting from Hatfield and Ashley. His own captain wouldn't notice, or care; he'd have to do it for her.

“Yes, that's right."

May, taking in the sights of the hangar bay with her usual enthusiasm, grinned to show how much she understood the other captain's pride. “Good chance to stretch the Aggie's legs, I bet." She wasn't looking to see Hatfield twitch. “I was looking forward to seeing it. We haven't seen a Star Patrol ship for almost six months."

“Yes," Hatfield murmured. “Well, you're here now. We have many things to discuss. I do not know how thoroughly Commodore Mercure briefed you on the reasons for your recall."

The akita shook her head. They reached the hangar door; Hatfield put her fingers to the biometric lock and it slid open. The deer and her first officer stepped through first, leaving May and Bradley to follow. “Refit and take on new supplies; that's what I was told."

“And crew, ma'am," Bradley added.

“Right."

Later, when he had a chance to go over the personnel logs, David would understand Hatfield's mild shudder. The six new crewmen occupied the same space as everyone else on the Dark Horse: too unruly for the sedate Star Patrol and not unruly enough to be cashiered. May will like them, he thought. And she would.

Chandrika Srivastava came from one of the Terran Confederation's research stations, orbiting in empty space two light years from the nearest system where the interference was minimal. Ensign Srivastava's profile suggested the dhole was a decent pilot. Needs to be kept in space, read a confidential note. The rest of the note included links to a few papers on Vassiliev's Syndrome, the complicated agoraphobia that sometimes plagued deep-space natives.

Petty Officer Mike Cooper was a skilled engineer, with combat experience in  the campaigns against the Xih Zorac Insurgency. On closer examination, the panther's most recent accomplishment had been hacking a Star Patrol comm downlink to obtain pirated entertainment media for the forward operating base he'd been stationed at. Colleagues spoke highly of him and protested his reassignment, a terse note read.

Chief Petty Officer Valerie Ask also had combat experience, hers rather more direct and wide-ranging. David discovered himself across the desk from a canine with a sharp-fanged smile. They called them painted dogs, but 'African wild dog' worked too and he got the distinct impression she was more interested in living up to that adjective.

“You were a turret captain last, on a Zhukov-class frigate, it says. Tradelane protection—counterpiracy under Admiral Evans."

“Yes, sir," the painted dog answered. “Best kill ratio in the 6th Fleet. The admiral came and thanked us personally. Then he told us we were done, so…"

“So you decided to come here? Just in case there was action?"

She grinned wider. “Sounds like you know my type, sir."

“More or less. Alright, well. Ms. Ask, I—"

“Sir?"

David glanced back down at his computer. “Chief Ask. I'm sorry, I don't know how to pronounce your last name, then? Is it not…"

“Smith, sir."

Blinking, he looked from his computer to the spotted canine. “It says 'A-S-K' but it doesn't give a pronunciation guide. You know how the Star Patrol can be."

“Yes. They mean you should ask me. My real name is Valerie Laliberté de Lille-Vieux, sir—my parents had a sense of humor, it seems."

“Or a good dealer."

“You have a sense of humor, too, sir. You see how it might be difficult for some people?"

“Laliberté de Lille-Vieux?" She tilted her head in mild surprise. “I learned French in school. I'm Cana—sorry. I learned Canadian French in school, chief."

The painted dog laughed. “Quand-même, c'est plus près de Smith."

“So it is. Which would you prefer?" It was only a stopgap measure; he could manage her surname well enough, and Commander May would eventually just settle on “chief."

“Smith is fine, sir."

“Well, alright. It's nice to meet you, Miss Smith. You're in berth twenty-two, next to Ensign Leon Bader, our tactical officer. I'll schedule a meeting with you and the ensign; he can catch you up with what we've got here. It's mostly stock Sovremenny loadout, but we've made some changes."

“For the better?"

“For the more exciting, at least. That's what Ensign Bader will tell you. He's…" A bit intense, was what David intended to say. Then he took another look at the wild dog's fanged smile. “You'll like him. Welcome aboard."

***

“Commander May, I don't know how else to say this. I don't want to say it." Captain Hatfield was on the verge of losing some of her famous composure.

Unfortunately, Madison wasn't the type to read the breathless Star Patrol magazine interviews that highlighted said composure, and wasn't in on the significance of the doe's unease. “A problem, ma'am?"

Hatfield held up a computer chip. “This contains an eyes-only briefing, high priority. Directly from the Admiralty. They thought it was too important to transmit in the clear."

Dr. Beltran recognized the chip as a Diplomatic Corps data crystal. They were only used in extreme circumstances. “Captain, this must be important."

“It is," Hatfield agreed. She was too distracted to have noticed that the leopardess had been addressing her own captain, not the doe. “It contains tactical information, and the latest deployment schedules of the Star Patrol. The Pictor Empire is preparing for war."

Madison cocked her head. “Really?"

Now, it was Felicia's turn to lose her calm. “You're serious, Captain Hatfield? My god." And that slip, May noticed. The leopardess's eyes had gone wide.

The last Pictor War was exactly as old as the Dark Horse, for the star cruiser had first been commissioned to fight in it and mothballed after the peace treaty. Two and a half centuries of peace followed.

Two and a half centuries of peace secured by the Neutral Zone, by regular diplomatic visits, and by a general agreement that the Terran Confederation and the Empire would expand in opposite directions. Though the final Pictor War was the fourth of its kind, somehow a fifth seemed unthinkable.

Hatfield obviously felt the same way. “We're serious. The surveillance outpost on Patoni X has been monitoring fleet exercises for the last six months, and our spies report that the Pictor Synod has voted for full rearmament."

“Why?" Everything Felicia knew said that the Pictor had abandoned their dream of conquering Earth. It had practically become an object lesson in diplomacy. You see, lasting peace can form even from the most bitter of enemies.

“A new faction in the Synod believes they gave too much up. They've even begun turning to… unconventional methods. It's all in the briefing. Suffice it to say, Commander May… we need allies, and your unorthodox approach to first contact—much as it concerns me—may prove to be crucial."

“You can imagine the degree of concern the Confederation has expressed to us, to take those… unorthodox approaches," Commander Ashley added.

May, who'd served with the rabbit before, knew full well that she was being baited. “You mean because they're trusting me? We do have a track record, you know."

“Oh, I know, commander."

Felicia cleared her throat quietly. “We have made first contact with forty-seven new civilizations, commander. Commander May and I have negotiated sixteen trade agreements and eight requests for formal diplomatic relationships."

Ashley obviously wasn't convinced. “I don't doubt you, Dr. Beltran. But let's hope your ship's mission continues to be so… productive."

Afterwards, as they walked back to the hangar bay, the akita pondered how much the meeting's chill had affected the leopardess. “I don't think they like me very much." She said it lightly, playing the obvious statement off as a joke.

Felicia didn't have enough practice with levity. “They do not. Commander Ashley in particular seems… ah…"

“He was the commander of a patrol ship one of my previous flotillas. We had a… a bit of a close call, when a rescue operation went badly. He thought I shouldn't have done it, but we were the only ships in range."

“What went badly about it, commander? If you do not mind me asking." Many of the more unsavory details of the akita's background were considered classified, even for someone with a high diplomatic clearance.

“Almost lost both ships, and the station we were evacuating. That's what the admiralty said, at least. Shannon doesn't think it was that close. The inquiry cleared me, but Ashley took a long medical leave for his trouble."

“He was injured?"

“Not physically. He didn't join the Star Patrol expecting to risk his life like that, is all. I don't blame him, you know?" The akita more than understood her rather unique perspective on service. “But we had to help."

Felicia nodded. “It is not the first time you have expressed this sentiment."

“Not everyone agrees. Even less than you, doctor."

The two of them paused, just inside the hangar bay, to look at the Dark Horse, the center of attention and a dozen cargo loaders delivering replacement supplies. And crew. “Captain, I should disclose something to you. As your diplomatic liaison, I feel it is important."

“Oh?"

“As part of our recall transmission, I was given a coded message from the Diplomatic Corps. It was a job offer at our headquarters back on Terra, though I do not know if the proper term is 'job offer' or 'parole.'"

“You've done a good job out here—maybe it was a reward."

“Maybe. I have declined. And for what it is worth, captain, learning this new information on the Pictor Empire only strengthens my conviction that I made the correct decision. Commander Ashley may not trust you. I do."

***

“I have a few points of order, before I begin. We've received a lot of new information from the Admiralty, and from the Confed government. Dave, you'll have plenty of forms to fill out."

The golden retriever sighed heavily. “I already have my schedule cleared."

“Same goes for Lieutenant Hazelton."

Shannon Hazelton had her schedule cleared, too. Most of the new crewmen coming aboard would wind up in the engineering section, and the Agamemnon brought them plenty of spare parts and new technology. “Based on what they want to install, I figure we're looking at two days downtime. No more."

“Great. It also turns out we've been addressing someone incorrectly. Lieutenant Schatz: congratulations. Or would it be easier if we just called you 'doctor'?"

The Border Collie perked his ears, surprised first by the sound of his name, and then by all of the words that came after it. “Ah—commander?"

“After review, it seems the University of Kifrea agrees with your… well, to be honest, lieutenant, I have no idea what this even means." Maddy waved her paw, beaming the title onto the wall of the ready room behind her. “But they liked it. I think."

“It's wrong," he said.

“What?"

“I submitted Probabilistic modeling of collapse states at high k-factors via four-dimensional simplification before our encounter with the Tuul, captain. An amended theory would argue that—"

She held her finger to her muzzle. “Shh. Don't tell them, doc. At least, not yet. We'll need you here in a moment. For now, I present Dr. Schatz, our esteemed science officer." Madison waited for the polite applause to die down, and for the dog's confused expression to settle. “Commander Bradley, you can also tell Ayenni that her asylum application is under review, but likely to be accepted."

“That means more forms, doesn't it?"

Maddy cleared her throat. Then she did it again, happy with the way it prevented her from needing to give a concrete answer. “Minor affairs being concluded: what I'm about to say doesn't leave the room."

It got their attention, as it had been intended to. “What kinda not leavin', Mads?" Shannon asked. “It's gotta leave when we do, unless you suck it back out of our brains."

“Don't discuss it with anyone until we've left the Agamemnon behind, at least; I don't want Captain Hatfield becoming upset at our lax security policies. Everyone will need to know, in time. I trust you. But this was given to me with the highest degree of classification."

Another wave of the akita's paw slid Dr. Schatz's paper abstract away; a map of the galaxy replaced it. The hologram spun slowly, giving them a view of the Confederation's borders from multiple angles. And, in a mottled grey pattern, its surly neighbor.

“The Pictor retain open diplomatic channels with us, but the Admiralty has good intelligence that they're preparing for an invasion. Hyperdrive signatures detected from Patoni station suggest vessels with a displacement of at least eight million tons; that means long-range ships, and the ability to project the Empire's force with impunity."

Dr. Schatz raised his paw. “Is that confirmed? Doesn't the treaty prevent them from developing long-range warships? Maybe it was a fluke—as you know, the Patoni sensor array is susceptible to scintillation artifacts when the… when… um." May and Felicia Beltran were staring at him; he shut up.

“Dr. Beltran?" May prompted.

“My reputation is one of unflinching respect for protocol, and careful, reasoned action," the leopardess said. She didn't add you know it, because you mock me for it; her tone of voice was understood nonetheless. “The Diplomatic Corps believes war is likely within five years, and a certainty within fifteen. A dissenting report calls this optimistic, for reasons Commander May will disclose presently."

“Why the certainty?" David didn't know if he was more startled by the Diplomatic Corps' conclusion, or that they'd been able to agree on anything at all. “And why now?"

The Pictor experienced long hibernation periods; their political caste only awoke every twenty years. The most recent time coincided with a general unrest in the populace, compounded by a handful of inconvenient disasters that the government hadn't been able to respond to in a timely way.

Now, Beltran explained, a militaristic faction had emerged to lay the blame for those disasters at the feet of outsiders. Scattered rumors suggested they'd had early successes, invading smaller powers on the far side of Pictor space. Honing their tactics, testing their designs—preparing.

And their sights were turned on larger game. It was exactly meddling treaty obligations like the starship-tonnage limitations that bothered them. They were gambling that, having banned eight million ton ships, the Confederation wouldn't go to war over a few with a displacement of eight million and ten until it was too late.

There, Madison May stepped in. “But it's more than a few. Star Patrol intel monitored combat exercises two months ago with a total of nine hundred ships participating. Their total fleet strength may be in the thousands. They have advantages."

A command economy, for example. One single government, instead of hundreds. “Those forge worlds," David muttered. “You can do a lot if you don't mind the environmental devastation…"

“That is not our only challenge. Star Patrol operational efficiency statistics have never been better." Madison had the graphs to prove it, and snapped her fingers to cast them up on the wall one by one. “Nutritional supplement wastage is virtually nil. Fuel consumption by light year traveled is at record highs. Morale is spectacular. Combat readiness is…"

A new series of graphs. The figures themselves weren't surprising, but seeing them put quite so starkly still came as a shock. “Eighty-nine percent of active-duty personnel have no combat experience," David read. He got up and moved closer, tapping his finger on the hologram to expand the infographic. “Ninety-six percent of the remainder have only participated in crowd-control exercises."

“Almost none of our ships have fired a shot in anger. Some of our dreadnoughts, the Agamemnon included, haven't even drilled with live ammunition in their primary weapons. You can see how this would worry the Admiralty." May let that hang.

“No way in hell we can ramp up production to match the Pictor in five years, Maddy." Shannon sounded as bleak as she felt. That wasn't all of the complication, either: Terran shipyards were geared towards research vessels and transports.

“It gets worse. This next part is highly classified. You're not to speak of it to anyone, not even your direct reports, without my specific approval. Ens—Dr.—Dr. Schatz, your turn. What do you know about the Hano?"

The Border Collie shook his head. “Nothing, ma'am. They were one of the first interstellar civilizations, originating in the Alluran or Nekal sectors. They collapsed forty thousand years ago. Even the empires that followed were long gone by the time we came around, captain—I think, perhaps, there have been rumors of genetic analysis on certain fern samples, but that's it. They're pretty much gone."

“You know more than 'nothing,' clearly. More than me, for instance."

“It's an odd question, Maddy." Dave didn't know where she was going with it. “Like he said, they're practically a curiosity. Unlike the Nizari with the proto-Nizar, or the Siyyek with their ancestors, the Hano Empire didn't even lend any influence to the sector. I majored in history, remember? The whole Eiga-Hano-Tarvid sequence took up two paragraphs in Xenoarchaeology 102."

“What about their technology?" This question got the same blank looks from everyone, Schatz and Bradley included. “The Hano invented some kind of superweapon, a planet-destroying starship based on principles we don't understand. Its hull is impervious to conventional weaponry, and the limits of its destructive power are unknown but it can handle planets like…" The akita snapped her fingers dramatically.

Dave had what was, in the business, known as a very bad feeling. “You're speaking about this in the present tense for a reason."

“Forty millennia after it vanished, it reappeared. The Pictor hired an alliance of unaligned criminal syndicates to track it down. They were foiled at the last minute by a… well, the details are also classified. A team of Star Patrol commandos, I presume. They weren't able to recover the weapon, or to destroy it, only to send it somewhere else. We don't know where."

“It could still be out there?"

“It could. So here's what I need from you. Dr. Schatz, you're going to prepare a synthesis of what Star Patrol intel has given us. If anybody can find what they missed in that, it'd be you. Once you have, we need contingency plans. Dr. Beltran, understanding what anybody in this sector knows is going to be part of our first contact procedures. Shannon, see if there's anything you can do to prepare us for an engagement."

“I'll review the library we received from Qalamixi, too," Schatz promised. The living ship, one of the first beings they'd met beyond the frontier, was old enough—and the database was massive enough—that there might be something there.

***

The possibility of ancient, sinister technology being reactivated was, however, a long-term problem. In the short term, they had repairs to make and new crewmen to integrate. May had to leave them to it; Captain Jack Ford, the commander of the Agamemnon's auxiliary group, had asked for a meeting.

She hadn't known what to expect, but found she liked the coyote immediately and guessed—correctly—that the feeling was mutual. He was Hatfield's complete opposite: jocular, informal, and quick with a smile. If the Star Patrol had any brains, they would've put him on this ship deliberately. Something told her it had not, in fact, been intentional.

For one thing, Hatfield didn't introduce them and he hadn't been part of the welcoming party when she came aboard. Jack had extended the invite himself, and rather than a formal meeting room he suggested they try out the ship's mess hall. That alone made for a good impression. “You look like you're enjoying yourself," he said.

“I am." Madison May pushed another forkful of salad into her muzzle, in the process of dramatically realizing how much she'd missed vinaigrette. The black-furred canine across from her put on a quirky smile.

“Is it not like this on the cruiser?"

May closed her eyes, savoring the taste on her tongue. “No, sir. Synthetic rations are all we have—well, that and an ice cream machine. This is wonderful, Captain Ford."

“Yeah. The Aggie's a hell of a ship." He paused, briefly; it felt weird to hear himself admit a thing like that. “Has some advantages, anyway. But I'm sure yours does, too."

“That is not the impression I got from Captain Hatfield." For a toothy grin, and one coming from a coyote no less, May found the canid's smile oddly reassuring. “But she has much to be proud of."

Jack Ford wasn't particularly hungry—certainly not for the leftover salad the cook had scrounged up for them—and left his own meal in peace, save for picking idly at the dinner roll. “She does. But still."

“Sir?"

He gestured to the computer lying face-up on the table between them. “The response curve on your sublight drives is four times as aggressive as the Aggie's. Your instantaneous turn rate beats most of the patrol ships we got deployed these days—and they don't have the teeth you do."

Madison found herself laughing, caught up in the coyote's enthusiasm. “Captain Ford, you almost sound jealous."

“I'd be lying if I didn't say I'd love the chance to fly her, Commander May. Hell, I'd be lying even more than coyotes normally do. The Aggie's a damned good ship, and the squadron's a damned good squadron, but there's just somethin' about the old stuff."

“Apparently we have a Vostok-class shuttlepod in our hangar bay."

“I saw. I've read all your after-action reports, commander." For the moment, he declined to tell her the other part: he'd appointed himself the devil's advocate in the briefings where Captain Hatfield reviewed them, doing what he could to check the dismay in the doe's face. It was a role he'd played in the past.

May didn't know all the details, but probably could've guessed at the important ones. “You know, if you're interested, sir, we could arrange a tour. At least of the engine spaces and the bridge."

His expression changed so immediately that May had to laugh, and gave up her salad—delicious as the vinaigrette had been. Twenty minutes later and she was walking the coyote through the ship's old corridors.

She would not have apologized for their age, and he didn't ask her to. Jack evinced a remarkably detailed understanding of the ship. It wasn't the sort of understanding her first officer had, full of historical details and trivia about the design process that led up to the cruiser.

The coyote's sensibilities were more visceral. He listened with his ears perked to Shannon describing the improvements they'd made to the reactor. And when they stepped onto the bridge, his eyes had a boyish light in them at the look of the old controls.

“This is the helm," May said. “Lieutenant Parnell, Captain Ford is from the Agamemnon. He…" Eli Parnell had turned around, and her ears immediately pinned. “He's… um."

Jack was as shocked as Eli; both of them were more surprised than May. “Well, hell. Wasn't expecting to find you here, lieutenant."

Her ears stayed back. “Yes, sir. I've been the helmsman since we launched."

“You two know each other?"

“I was part of the board of inquiry after the Cordilleran incident. I know the name sounded familiar. It's a step up from tug duty, at least, right lieutenant?"

Eli swallowed heavily, doing her best to suppress a flood of not particularly pleasant memories. “Yes, sir."

“We'll have to catch up, then."

***

There was, of course, much more to do than reminiscing. The Agamemnon had been given a strict timetable, and if there was anything Captain Hatfield liked, it was rigid guidelines. Forty-eight hours later and the work was coming along nicely. They had another day or so of it left.

Captain Hatfield had left Commander Ashley in charge of the details, knowing that it would keep him from having to interact with the crew of the Dark Horse. Dealing with Madison May upset the rabbit; it would reduce his operational efficiency. They both understood it.

Ashley was standing a lonely watch, reviewing another checklist from the engineering crew at work replenishing and upgrading the old cruiser. Upgrading—there's a good one, he thought to himself. That ship doesn't need a few new coprocessors, it needs a one-way ticket to the scrapyard.

On the other hand, if the Star Patrol recalled May and the Dark Horse, the akita would be back among them. Ashley shuddered to think of that particular eventuality. Best to keep her out past the frontier, where the worst of her troublemaking wouldn't come back to haunt him.

He didn't like trouble. So when the pinging sound of an alarm startled him from his grumbling, it was doubly irksome. “Report?"

“Sir. I'm picking up a signal on the FTL bands."

Commander Ashley looked at the signal analysis floating over the armrest of his chair. “What is it?" The display looked chaotic and messy, an untidy mix of colors and fluid lines. “Random traffic, lieutenant?"

“Not sure, sir. It has…"

***

“… An unfamiliar modulation," Spaceman Alexander, back on the Dark Horse, finished at about the same time. “Some partial matches, but no translation matrix is encoded, so…"

Dr. Schatz, who had not yet come to terms with the new title, brought it up at his console. “More than a few partial matches, all from local languages. Captain, Dr. Beltran would know for certain but I'd conjecture that it's some kind of a pidgin—one of the spacer dialects."

Commander May summoned Beltran to the bridge. The leopardess, who'd been busy reading up on all the latest diplomatic journals available on the Agamemnon, arrived quickly and in a problem-solving mood. She hadn't told anyone besides the akita about rejecting an offer to return to Earth.

Barry Schatz repeated his conjecture for her; she confirmed it immediately, sparing the rest of the crew the details. “It is a repeating message with a relatively simple syntax. Without a proper corpus, a full translation is difficult, but my assumption is that it is a distress signal."

The akita nodded. “Hail the Agamemnon."

Spaceman Alexander had the commlink up a second later. “Channel open."

“This is Commander May. We think we're picking up a distress call. Are you available to respond?"

Captain Hatfield appeared on the viewscreen. “Our ship is equipped for rescue operations, commander. But how have you come to this conclusion? According to our computer, there's no good translation of the results."

Felicia Beltran stepped forward so that she could be seen on the Agamemnon's side of the conversation. “The signal encoding matches the standard transmission protocols used by local traders. While the message itself resists translation at the moment, we can identify words as matching elements in the Hadar and Parixi languages, particularly the syllabic breakdown in what is clearly a coordinate report."

Captain Hatfield glanced offscreen to the dreadnought's science officer. He couldn't be seen, and his voice was a bit muffled. “She's referring to the medial part of the message, ma'am. It could be interpreted as numeric coordinates. They'd seem to be about a light year away."

“We could be there in a few hours," Commander May said.

The doe turned back to look at them. “Without a positive translation, we can't act. Protocol 37 requires either authorization from a sector commander or the Admiralty to respond to a message with translation accuracy coefficient of .6 or below."

“Protocol 37 also contains provisions for extenuating circumstances, including inability to receive a timely response from approving bodies," Dr. Beltran countered. “It also grants captains broad leeway in using their discretion to determine."

“If you'd prefer to remain here, we can get underway ourselves," May suggested. “But it would take time, and distress calls don't afford much of that."

Hatfield put the Dark Horse on hold while she conferred with her senior staff. It was not a decision that endeared her to the akita, and it reinforced a growing belief that Hatfield was precisely one of the captains the Admiralty had meant to highlight in their report on the Star Patrol's combat readiness.

Five minutes later the Agamemnon jumped into hyperspace, which answered the question of whether they'd need to undock and take care of things themselves. Impolitic as she was, the akita realized Hatfield hadn't told her first to avoid giving Ashley the impression that May had been persuasive in any way.

This, also, rather confirmed her suspicions about the character of the Agamemnon's crew, and Ashley in particular. There was little love lost between them. May felt, indeed, that she shared nothing in common with the rabbit.

This was not quite true. Even at that moment, they shared the same thought: god, it'll be nice to be on our own again.

***

Where Spaceman Alexander would've begun with we're detecting a starship and allowed the captain to guess at anything further, the Agamemnon's CCI officer reported according to Regulation 4.7, Standard Description of Sensor Object. “One object of unknown configuration. Length five hundred meters. Estimated mass six hundred thousand tons. Spectral lines show metallic and composite construction. Not accelerating, no radiation. Unknown armament. Unknown complement. Unknown maneuvering capability."

Captain Hatfield looked to the akita, who had joined her on the bridge. “Does it resemble anything you've seen, commander?"

The ship rendered on their viewscreen was fat, boxy, and grey. “Nope. Mining ship, maybe?" its shape provided ample cargo space, and sizable maneuvering thrusters suggested it was intended to turn quickly to intercept interesting new targets.

“Conjecture," Hatfield said. “Based on insufficient evidence."

“But it's plausible. Right?"

“Conjecture. Can we hail them?"

It was the next logical step in the procedure. She'd drilled them for it, and the CCI officer was ready. “We have received a translation matrix from them. The signal is being decoded." When it was finished, he played it over the speakers.

“This is the Ardzula mining vessel Sheykhan to anyone aboard the approaching vessel. Our engines are disabled and our life support is failing. We have four hundred aboard. Please, if you can help us, we will compensate you."

May looked to Hatfield expectantly. Hatfield muted the channel. “Tactical report on the possible threat posed by the Sheykhan."

“Running the report now. ETA two minutes, captain," the wolf manning their tactical station answered."

“Approaching vessel, this is the Ardzula mining vessel Sheykhan. If you can hear us, please respond."

“Captain," May said quietly. “They need our help."

“In case you've forgotten protocol, commander, a threat analysis is the prescribed next step in the Alien Distress Signal Checklist. You should've learned that, commander."

The Sheykhan repeated their message a few more times before the tactical report came back. Hatfield nodded, satisfied with the answer, and unmuted the Agamemnon's transmission.

“Sheykhan, this is Captain Hatfield aboard the Star Patrol vessel Agamemnon. We are approaching your position. What aid do you require?"

“Garche sangaw tangi kolokpushta! Tangi kol—thank Garche, you've heard us. Our flight computer has been disabled by the radiation and without it our engines are nonfunctional."

Compared to the Dark Horse, the more modern sensors on the Agamemnon did come with an appreciably heightened degree of accuracy. The dreadnought's science team was able to come up with a summary of the situation in a matter of minutes.

The Sheykhan had the poor fortune of exiting hyperspace in a region with a high concentration of dangerously radioactive particles—more likely, the energy signature had drawn them to it, and they'd misjudged their exit trajectory. Whatever the reason, they were trapped.

And the clock was ticking.

***

“One word: Options. What are they?"

Lieutenant Hazelton raised her hand first. “The good news is that our ship's hull will keep out the hard stuff. The Aggie's gonna have the same problem as that mining hulk—just weren't designed for extreme conditions."

“How long would we have?"

“Indefinitely? I dunno exactly, Mads. Could have Mr. Sakata run an analysis, but… days or weeks, at least. She's a warship, Mads; she's built tough."

The akita turned to write 'Protected against radiation' on the wall. “So if we staged a rescue operation, we could come alongside the Sheykhan and take off her crew… couple of minutes in transit, plus turnaround time…"

“Has to be under thirty seconds," Dr. Schatz said. “The medical report from their captain says they have tolerance of only a few hundred millirems before fatal irradiation, ma'am. It's probably why their ship isn't designed for high exposure, either—it must just be something they don't encounter regularly."

“We'd have to use the Vostok as a lighter, then." Shannon brought a quick summary up where the rest of them could see. “It's got better protection than the Mark 4 shuttles. Unfortunately, we only have one Vostok."

Madison was busy adding 'NO TYPE 4' and '100s millirem max' on the wall. She did a quick bit of arithmetic and kept writing. 'CREW SAVED: 80.' “It's not enough. Can we reinforce the Mark 4s? How's the upgraded machine shop coming, Shannon?"

“Mr. Sakata and TJ are workin' on it, Mads, but it won't be done for another two days and we don't have the time to fix the shuttles anyway. I mean… theoretically we could try to adapt the shield generators, but…"

***

“We could modify the generators. The shuttlepods aren't strong enough on their own. But if we swapped the ones from the fighters, we'd have enough buffer to buy a little more time."

Captain Hatfield didn't like the sound of 'little more time' or 'modify.' “Even if I authorized a work waiver—and Captain Ford was willing to agree—we'd be cutting it very close. The shuttle pilots would have to act pretty recklessly to handle those maneuvers."

Jack Ford appreciated that their chief engineer was already outside his comfort zone, and the coyote was about to make it worse. “Of course I'd agree, commander. You can have my ships—the alternative is those people die."

“If we act rashly, captain, they could still die—and us with them. I'd also have to authorize a hazardous-duty waiver, and we don't even have the COD officer onboard since they were recalled at the transfer station."

Ford didn't have much use for the Civilian Oversight division, whose job description mostly came down to interference. From the coyote's perspective, they had a job to do—simple as that. “Then ask for volunteer pilots. You'd get them, captain. Hell, I'd volunteer."

“We're being very hasty," Commander Ashley spoke up. The first officer, in contrast to any coyote, was suspicious of such haste. “Let's consider. The documentation from the standard procedure guidelines is clear on this. So."

***

“We're thinking about it wrong." Commander May said it based on her intuition. She also presumed that hearing something like that suggested might spark a new idea from the rest of her senior staff. They, like her, stared fairly bleakly at the system map and the list of options on the whiteboard.

“How do you figure?" David Bradley knew his captain well enough that, while he feared she was merely speculating, he hoped she might have something more concrete than a leading statement.

“Well, we're planning on how to take off the survivors. But…"

“I see what you're getting at."

Everyone turned to Barry Schatz. May was the least surprised of them, though not by much. “You do?"

“Right, it shouldn't be a rescue op. What if we could repair their ship's navigation computer? The Sheykhan has an impressive thrust-to-weight ratio—if we get them moving, they can escape on their own. Probably faster than us, even."

“Their computer system is fried, ensign," Shannon said. “They can't even send manual commands because the pathways are oversaturated by the radiation. I mean, I guess we could shield the control conduits—or… or maybe—"

“Their transmitter works, right? We could do a remote connection, with a wireless datalink—specific shielding to only let the broadcast through… it would hold up. Think about it like the research probes—uh—uh, they use these research probes at Jikun, not… they weren't developed there, but for the solar research program they designed these—well, what they do is—"

“Here's the problem, though." May interrupted Dr. Schatz before Shannon could, because Shannon would've wanted to argue and they didn't have time for it. “You're proposing at least one EVA, and the time to build everything in the first place. Be honest: do we have it?"

“No." The raccoon's face fell, although not completely. Like May, she didn't believe in intractable problems. “But, what if we had a way to reduce the radiation they were absorbing enough to get their manual controls working?"

Barry had already started modeling it, showing his work on the hologram in the center of the table so that they could follow along. “It's a problem of physics, though. Shield strength has an inverse square relationship to the field diameter."

“The ship's too damn big," Shannon agreed. “I can't boost the power enough for a stable field, and if it collapses we'd slice right through the damn hull."

Madison May's knowledge of physics was perfunctory, limited to the ways she could use it to accomplish whatever goal she'd set her mind to. She didn't understand everything in the holographic display, which included a density plot of the local radiation levels. “Why is it lower here? The radiation stuff. Why's it lower outside our shield range?"

“Couple things, Mads. Some of it's our movement, some of it's a resonance produced directly by the deflectors, some of it's—well, there's the radiation and the particles generating it. Because…"

“The particles! That's it! We were thinking about it wrong!" Dr. Schatz pointed at Shannon excitedly, having momentarily forgotten that both pointing and interrupting were impolite. “The, ah—the—"

Lieutenant Hazelton forgot, too, and finished the same time the Border Collie did. “The LRU!" She had divined, somehow, that he was talking about their low-power repulsor unit, a navigational deflector the Dark Horse carried for insurance against the hostile slings and arrows of traveling through deep space. “Yeah, you're right! It's not designed for that, but we could recalibrate the generators. It's definitely within the specifications, if you push 'em a bit…"

“Bring up the spec sheet?"

“Uh…" Madison began, as the hologram vanished and an exploded schematic of one of her ship's parts sprang into view above the table. She looked to David for help, but he, too, was lost.

Barry pointed again, indicating a section of the diagram meaningful only to their chief engineer, and even she had to think about it for a moment. “This. You could vary it up to what kind of precision? Two hundred times a second?"

“Maybe two-fifty," Shannon said, frowning thoughtfully. “Limits our velocity pretty hard if we have to do the spot analysis and the response calculation simultaneously."

“What you'd need is a gradient plot. Then it's just a simple heuristic to map out the projections."

“Yeah…" The chief engineer drew the word out, mostly following his logic—enough to jump to the implementation details. “That would do it… I think."

May cleared her throat. “So we have a plan?"

***

“Priority message from the Dark Horse. Commander May says she has a plan." Ashley didn't bother to hide his skepticism. Even if he'd been forced to admit the truth—the Agamemnon had come up short on plans of her own—he didn't trust the akita. He knew Hatfield wouldn't either.

The doe sighed. “Put it through."

Unlike their meeting space, the Dark Horse's ready room appeared to be an untidy mess. The wall was covered in notes, two crewmen were still fiddling with a hologram on the table, and the mugs of coffee definitely looked non-regulation. “Captain Hatfield. We may have something."

“A plan, or an idea?"

“A plan. Shannon?"

One of the hologram-fiddlers looked up. “Okay. With our armor plating, the Dark Horse is capable of handling the radiation surrounding the Sheykhan, right?"

“Yes," Hatfield granted, though it bothered her to grant anything to the obsolete star cruiser.

“So we can go in. Now, look at this. As we move, interaction between our ship and the radioactive particles generates a sort of wake, with a high-intensity front and a dead zone immediately aft." She paused, waiting for an indication that the Agamemnon crew were following along.

They weren't. “Your point being…"

“We can shape the wake, obviously. It's just not big enough or strong enough for the mining barge. But if we reconfigure the LRU to generate a modulated impulse based on the field intensity differential, we can amplify the wake enough to create a safe zone for the Sheykhan to restart their own engines and move out under their own power."

“Hold on," Hatfield said, and closed the channel. “What does that mean?"

“Nothing," her own chief engineer answered.

“It's a string of random words," Commander Ashley agreed. And it confirmed everything he already thought of Commander May's style. No regard for protocol, no grounding in reality… “The LRU is an auxiliary system."

“An outdated auxiliary system, at that," the chief engineer confirmed. “We don't even have one. It wasn't worth installing. And even so, it doesn't make sense."

“Sort of." Jack Ford realized he was musing aloud. He wasn't willing to say at least they have a goddamned idea, because he'd be the only one in the room to say or think something so rash. But he was turning over what the raccoon had said. “You get it, right?"

“No."

Jack maintained some degree of respect for Captain Hatfield, whose dedication to protocol and regulation at least kept the ship functioning. Commander Ashley, in his view, was nothing but a lackey. And a bit of a coward. That kept him from policing his tone. “It's not that hard. So—"

“Don't pretend you—due respect, sir, but come on. Those were random words."

The coyote kept his muzzle shut until his teeth had finished gritting. “The Low-Power Repulsor Unit is a backup safety system. Old deflector shields had a hard time with small objects, so the LRU is a way of keeping micrometeors from impacting the hull. We don't need that protection now, but their ship is old enough that it has one—they've obviously found some way to get it to work with the particles in the radiation belt."

“Obviously." Hatfield sounded unconvinced. “Is it even theoretically possible?"

The chief engineer sputtered, sighed, and shook his head. “To be honest, ma'am, I don't know. They're in uncharted territory. It makes no sense to me, but what do I know? I'm just an engineer, not a fighter jock."

“Then tell me you have another option."

“I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't."

Hatfield appreciated a hidden upside to May's proposal: it kept the Agamemnon out of the fray. There would be no untidy modifications to the dreadnought, nothing that would need to be justified and explained to the Star Patrol bureaucracy. She reopened their connection to the cruiser. “We don't have any better ideas, commander. If you think this would work, we'll get you ready to launch at once."

“We do think it'll work. But there's a complication. We can't accurately forecast the density gradients more than a few tens of kilometers ahead of us."

Everyone in the ready room looked at each other. Just as the chief engineer opened his muzzle to reply, Jack Ford saw what the Dark Horse's captain meant. “You'd need a pilot."

“They have a pilot," Commander Ashley said.

“No, like a pilot ship. Someone to fly ahead of them to send back a map."

The raccoon on the other side of the hologram—evidently the other ship's chief engineer—nodded, speaking for her captain. “And unfortunately, our shuttles aren't rated for the radiation. Neither are yours. The fighters come closest."

“What's life without risk?" Jack asked. “I'll do it."

Commander Ashley stiffened up. “Are you crazy? Uh—I mean, sir. Going out in radiation like that? Not only is that against regs, it's… it's insane."

“What's the other option? If we don't, four hundred people will die."

Hatfield, wondering if May's brand of insanity might be contagious, decided to deal with Ford later. “Get your ship ready to depart, Commander May. We'll try to figure something out over here."

***

The Dark Horse crew took the luxury of remaining oblivious to the political machinations at work on the Agamemnon. Captain Ford had volunteered to act as their scout; they assumed that he would hold up his end of the bargain.

When Jack contacted them again, saying that he'd be accompanied by someone else from his squadron, they seemed to take it as nothing more than an unexpected bonus and carried on with the work of getting everything ready.

'Everything,' naturally, included the pilots. Jack hadn't been surprised when, with the mission explained, Konstantin Kamyshev wanted to join him. The snow leopard had a coyote's aptitude for getting into trouble. Dave Bradley asked for a meeting, in the Agamemnon's hangar, and arrived with someone else in tow.

“This is our doctor, Ayenni." Lieutenant Commander Bradley introduced her without rank or surname, and she looked like nothing Jack or Konstantin had ever seen before: thick, pure-white fur and rounded ears that were fringed with soft, feathered fur. “She's a Yara. An alien. From around these parts."

“I see," Jack said. He held out his paw for the alien, who bowed politely instead of taking it. “Well, okay. I'm Captain Jack Ford; the spotty guy is Commander Konstantin Kamyshev. He's one of the best pilots in my squadron. You're giving us a checkup?"

“I'm briefing you," she replied. “With your shields, you'll have about thirty minutes before anything starts to happen at all. You shouldn't experience any major symptoms for another hour or so."

Konstantin shrugged. “We've been through training on this. We know the symptoms. Nausea, headache, disorientation…"

“It shouldn't get that far. If it does, don't panic. Your physiology is relatively simple. I should be able to correct any damage before it becomes permanent, as long as you don't allow yourself to be incapacitated."

“And if we do?"

David spoke up. “Make sure your autopilot is programmed on a course that takes you back to the Dark Horse and we'll recover you as soon as we can."

“I have worked with our engineering team to install a set of modifications to your ship's computer. It will monitor the radiation and… hopefully it can offer some kind of protection," Ayenni added.

Their flight suits were also supposed to add a measure of protection, although the more Jack thought about it the more the coyote remembered that this was mostly in the form of drugs to treat the worst symptoms.

David went with Commander Kamyshev to install the software in the snow leopard's cockpit; Ayenni followed Jack over to his scout interceptor. Her soft furred tail, which ended in a curious tuft, had a rather hypnotic sway to it. “So you're… a part of the crew, now?"

“I am." She hopped up the stairs and into the starfighter's cockpit, getting immediately to work. “For now, it's still somewhat informal. But as I feel it's valuable, I want to stay as long as I can. Do you feel that way, too?"

Jack climbed the stairs, too, putting a paw on the edge of the cockpit to steady himself. “Sometimes. You can imagine it's a bit different here than on a ship like yours. A bit more… rigid. A bit less purposeful."

“I've noticed, yes."

“Did you know it would be like that on the Dark Horse? Why did you join up?"

“They helped me escape from an arms merchant and offered me passage back to my homeworld. But, you see, my people are explorers and scientists. I wanted to be like that. And…" Ayenni looked over her shoulder and gave him a subtle, shy smile. “Yes, I like your captain."

“Commander May?"

“She wouldn't…" The alien paused in her work. “She would not hesitate to help someone. Like you're doing. It seems to be an interesting trait in your culture."

“Not all of us," Jack said.

Ayenni nodded, and went back to finishing up. “No. But the right ones. Your computer's configured now, Captain Ford. Listen to it, please? I get the impression that you're reckless, like the captain is."

“Maybe a bit."

She smiled, and pulled herself from the cockpit. “Well, I would like you to come back safely. I'm a doctor. I value life, and I value your sacrifice. So… please don't sacrifice too much."

“Well, sure. That way we can get to know each other better. Cultural exchange."

Ayenni slid past him, and turned to give him an odd look. “I'm also a telepath, Captain Ford. I don't read minds without asking, but… it might help if your emotions were slightly more subtle."

“I'm a fighter pilot, Ayenni. We don't do subtle."

Her shyness slipped for a moment, and she laughed. It was a very Terran sort of laugh, warm and unforced. “At least you're honest. Good luck, captain."

As a fighter pilot, also, he didn't want to trust in luck but knew that it was always a good thing to have on one's side. His bad luck was notorious—it was how he'd gotten the callsign 'Shamrock,' after all—but it had never followed him into the cockpit.

And now would be a bad time to start. Commander Kamyshev was done with the modifications to his fighter, too. “Should be a cakewalk, right, boss?" The snow leopard's fatalistic grin wasn't reassuring.

“Should be." They went over the mission plan again. All they really had to do was to fly far enough ahead of the Dark Horse to send back timely reports on the radiation. That was simple. Their shields would keep the worst hazards out.

In the end, it didn't need to take more than an hour or so. Captain Hatfield still wasn't happy. Jack needed to sign three different documents. One of them absolved her and the Star Patrol of liability for the mission. One took responsibility for the changes they were making to the fighters. The last was titled 'Grounds for Non-Compliant Mission Planning.'

“I didn't even know there was a form for that."

Konstantin looked it over. “Because we skipped the pre-planning stages and there isn't a higher authority to sign off on the rescue operation?"

Jack shook his head. “What do you suppose nobody on that rustbucket of a star cruiser even knows this exists? Bubbles…"

“Gotta take the chickenshit as it comes, boss," Commander Kamyshev reassured him. “We're doing the right thing. They'll figure it out."

“Maybe."

An hour later, with the Dark Horse getting into position, it was time for them to leave. Konstantin saluted and headed to his fighter; Jack did the same. From there, he could drop into comfortable routine with no bureaucracy to clip his wings.

The coyote pulled his helmet on and fixed the clasp under his chin. Flexible metal slid forward to wrap about his muzzle, forming an airtight seal. He took a few deep breaths to check the oxygen supply. “Angie, good morning."

Good morning, Captain Ford. He didn't hear the computer; the response came directly into his neural interface. Officially, pilots weren't supposed to talk to the AI—e-ANGIE, the Enhanced Awareness, Navigation and Guidance Intelligence Engine—as though it was a person. All of them did, anyway, particularly going through the startup checklists. Because why not?

“How are we lookin' today?" Angie informed him that all of the system diagnostics had come back normal. “Start us up, babe."

I'm unlocking the reactor safeties. Please put your right paw on the engine start panel to authorize ignition. Thank you, captain. The main reactor is online. Control systems are online. The navigation computer is online. Stand by while I confirm uplink to the command net. Command net uplink confirmed.

“Put Commander Kamyshev on channel one, the Dark Horse on two, and the Agamemnon on three." He figured he'd be talking less to his own carrier than the others. Or, perhaps, he wanted to talk to them less. “Hey, Bubbles. You ready?"

Glancing out the cockpit to his right, he could see the other Type 7 drawn with a highlight around it; the highlight flashed when Kamyshev answered. “Good over here, boss. Let's do this."

“Agamemnon, this is Arrow One. Ready for takeoff."

It was all fairly sedate. Hatfield felt that combat launches were inefficient, so they didn't use the rapid-deployment catapults. He taxied the fighter out of the main hangar bay, waited for the launch airlock to close behind him, and pulsed the thrusters to put himself out and in the stars again.

Despite the honor of being the Aggie's CAG, and despite the career opportunity it posed, the coyote felt he always enjoyed leaving the dreadnought behind more. Things were nice and simple with only the cockpit of a Type 7 to contend with.

“Angie, tell me what's good." Jack had trained the AI with help from the head of the Agamemnon's IT department, who also promised not to let anyone know that he'd added any new commands to the software.

Arrow Two is five kilometers behind you and closing. Agamemnon is fifty kilometers behind you and increasing. Dark Horse is fourteen megameters ahead of you. An unidentified ship is two hundred megameters ahead of you. There are no indications of any hostile signals.

“Nice. Keep an eye on the ambient radiation for me, would ya?"

Of course, captain.

They hung back while the Dark Horse burned towards the disabled mining barge. Jack watched with only slightly detached interest at the speed of the old cruiser's movements and the crisp precision in its maneuvering. “Bubbles, look at that damned thing, would ya?"

“Want me to make it worse, boss?"

“That a dare?" Jack chuckled. “Sure, hit me."

A floating map appeared in his cockpit, summoned into existence by the other pilot. The location and trajectory of the scouts, the two big ships, and the mining barge were all clearly highlighted. Then the Dark Horse's icon flashed, along with its course projection. “See that?"

“Sure, Bubbles."

The snow leopard added a second line to the display, springing from the Dark Horse to a location further astern of the mining barge by tens of thousands of kilometers. “That's what a stock Sovremenny should be capable of."

“Angie. Fact check that."

Compared to the rated parameters of a third-flight Sovremenny class cruiser, the indicated vessel has exceeded thrust specifications by sixty-two percent.

“God damn." Only Angie had heard that one. He keyed his mic. “What do you bet that ain't by the regs, Bubbles?"

“Betting isn't by the regs either, Shamrock," Kamyshev answered. There was a pause. “Bottle of Tamurn rye says our chief engineer would tell you it can't be done, though."

He wasn't dumb enough to take that one.

***

Spaceman Alexander checked and double-checked the datalink from the other Star Patrol ships, and the Sheykhan. Everything looked good. “We're ready, captain. The two scout ships are in position. We've got their downlink and a solid course projection."

Madison May, who had been growing impatient—they were up against the clock, after all—nodded enthusiastically. “Let's go. Bridge to engineering: bring the repulsor online so we can start moving."

A period of silence followed. Mitch Alexander saw the results before they heard Lieutenant Hazelton's voice, which gave the Abyssinian a few seconds to be pleasantly surprised. “The modified LRU's online, Mads. Everything looks stable. Give it about… fifteen seconds, and the Sheykhan should be able to re-establish control of their engines."

The Sheykhan was listening in, too. “Yes! You've done it—the helm is answering. We have the engines back."

“We'll transmit the needed course corrections back to you. Just follow along." Madison took her seat and looked to her first officer, echoing the nod he gave her. “Lieutenant Parnell, it's your show. Follow those scout ships."

Mindful of the mining barge directly in the cruiser's wake, Eli Parnell twisted her throttle and started the Dark Horse moving. The wolf's job was simple, really. Tedious, but simple.

The scout ships, a few hundred kilometers ahead of them, sent a report on the radiation density back to the Dark Horse. The Dark Horse plotted an optimal course and reconfigured the LRU to match the conditions of the route. All Eli had to do was fly along that track, moving smoothly enough for the Sheykhan to stay in the safe zone behind them.

They wouldn't have that far to go before the alien vessel would be able to navigate freely without them. Seventy minutes, based on what they knew of the particle density and the mining tug's speed. Ten of them went by, and then twenty; the bridge crew focused on their own consoles, letting Eli handle the business of piloting.

Forty-five minutes along, well over halfway, and she was the first to notice a problem. “Hey, Mitch? Mitch, I've got course errors."

“What do you mean?" The Abyssinian startled to full attention at once, paging through the data they were getting to see what might be going on. “What kind of errors?"

“I…" Eli Parnell felt her adrenaline creeping up, trying to keep her mind on flying the Dark Horse while diagnosing the error her navigation computer was presenting. “Uh, crosscheck errors. Code 30."

Spaceman Alexander swiped her paws across her console, cross-referencing the system's documentation. Shit. “Got it, got it. Slow down. The computer's getting two conflicting paths and trying to resolve it."

It explained why the wolf was simultaneously being told to move starboard by six hundred kilometers per second and move twenty meters per second to port. Logically, twenty meters made more sense. But she couldn't fly on intuition alone. “Why?"

***

Main engineering was dominated by the master diagnostic display hologram Shannon had called into existence. It showed a logical flowchart of the ship's systems; the crew could simply select any one of them to see more about what was going on. What was going on, though, seemed obvious. “We're losing the downlink from the scouts."

TJ Wallace agreed, though he didn't see why the problem was occurring. “Yeah, but like… dude, receiver's in good shape. Got no errors here…"

“Run a level two diagnostic on the comms array," the raccoon ordered, figuring it was better to rule out anything they might've missed on a cursory inspection. “Cooper, can we change over to the UHF transceiver?"

The panther had been on the Dark Horse for barely three days, and already realized two things. The unimportant thing was that he was lost: every shift had been a crash course in some piece of mysterious, museum-grade antique technology. The more important thing was that nobody cared. He brought the control panel up. “We can, ma'am, yes. But…"

“But?" Shannon tore herself from the master display to see what Cooper was looking at. “What's up?"

“It doesn't have the bandwidth to handle the data. Close, but…"

TJ Wallace looked over. “Switch to a different encoding."

Mike Cooper twitched, certain that he'd heard the otter correctly and perplexed by the implication. “You want me to come up with a more efficient transmission protocol… now? On the fly?"

“Bridge to engineering." Madison May sounded tense. “We need this working again or we'll lose the field stability."

“Engineering," the raccoon called back. “Working on it. Do they not have enough momentum to get clear on their own?"

Dr. Schatz, the science officer, answered. “It's not about the momentum, ma'am. Our movement's increased the intensity of the ambient radiation. Without us protecting them, they'll be dead in a matter of minutes."

“So if you could do something…" the akita trailed off; the way she did so was more than clear enough to drive home her meaning.

Shannon decided to divide and conquer her problems. “Understood, Mads," she said, and closed the channel. “I'm gonna increase power to the LRU. TJ, watch the temps on the auxiliary regulator. We're already over limits. Cooper, I need that signal back."

“I mean." The panther bit his lip. “If we disabled the encryption and used that channel, we could maybe… but—"

“Yo, LT. Alarms goin' off all over the regulators, boss," TJ warned.

“They'll hold," Shannon said. Engineers always built in a good safety margin. She knew this, because she was accustomed to taking liberal advantage of it. “Cooper."

Mike Cooper's academy training had been in computers. He figured he had something valuable to add, even if it wasn't about the radios. “Ma'am, clarification. Even if the regulators don't melt, they'll start introducing noise into the field generators."

The raccoon froze and mentally checked his work. “Damn it, you're right."

“Then we need to—"

“Shutting down the cargo bay grav plating." She didn't have to see Cooper to anticipate the incredulous expression. “Those are also on the aux circuits. If we turn them off it should give us a bit of headroom."

It would not have occurred to Mike Cooper that one could ever have considered 'turn off artificial gravity' as a solution to a cooling problem in a completely different system. Is this how you work here? But obviously it was. And it did the trick.

The panther steeled himself, staring at the computer in the hopes that some similar flash of intuition might come to him. UHF might work, without the encryption—but then there was no way to initiate an unencrypted connection. Unless… you could force it into the guard channel, and disable the error corr…

This is how they work, he thought. “Ma'am. Look. Wideband EHF has built-in error correction. It's fine. This isn't interference—the errors are part of the transmission. We're decoding it correctly, exactly as it's sent to us."

“Son of a bitch. You're right. Okay. What if we set up the auxiliary link on UHF and compared the two data streams. Any random errors… no… no, it wouldn't tell us which data was corrupted. Maybe…"

Mike felt his foot starting to tap as he looked at the information they were getting back. “It's not quite random. It's being regularly modulated by… oh."

***

“Arrow Leader, it's the Dark Horse. Your shields emitters have built up a charge that's interfering with your sensors. With your shields up, we can't use the data."

“You need me to disable my shields," Jack said. “Right?"

Madison May sounded hesitant. “Well…"

“Couldn't you at least have started with 'we have some bad news'?" the coyote asked. “Give me a sec, I'll shut 'em off."

“There's a bit of danger in doing so, Captain Ford."

He knew that, of course. Jack had to provide a biometric authorization to confirm he wanted to switch the shields off—Angie protested the radiation hazard. He didn't, however, require any confirmation that the shields were gone—he could feel it immediately. “How's it now?"

“The link's coming back," the ship's captain told him a second later.

“See? No problem."

“Our doctor says that you should be able to survive about twenty minutes of exposure to the ambient radiation," Madison tried to reassure him. “It's only another fifteen minutes to get the ship clear."

Well, it was something to pin some faint desire for self-preservation to. Before he could talk things over with his wingman, Commander Kamyshev radioed in that he had also switched off his shields. “We both go down together, right, boss?"

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

“Let's hope," the snow leopard agreed. “At least I know what ionizing radiation tastes like. My computer says this'll be fatal in ten minutes, by the way."

Jack frowned. “Angie, fact check."

Median lethal exposure in nine minutes, thirty-eight seconds. I recommend engaging protective measures.

As a coyote, though, Jack Ford wasn't given to taking helpful advice. He had to hope the Dark Horse's doctor was as exceptional as whoever had modified her sublight thrusters. “Look on the bright side, Bubbles."

“Yeah? The bright side is the one absorbing all the gamma rays, right?"

The computer predicted twelve minutes until they were clear of the particle field. “Maybe we'll get a medal or something. You know, plus…" They hadn't been kidding at the Academy, when they said that radiation poisoning caused acute nausea. Jack took a slow, deep breath and resolved to keep his record of not being spacesick. “Plus the survivor benefits and all…"

“You're the only one of us who's married, Shamrock."

“I suppose. But you do have dependents, right?"

“They don't pay out to brothels."

An irritating chirp coming from his radio distracted the coyote from the brief moment of levity. “Agamemnon to Arrow Leader. We're showing elevating radiation signs in your life support computer. You need to get out of there."

“Trust me. I know. Got a job to do, Agamemnon." The word took him two tries. Things were starting to get a bit more confused than the coyote really wanted. He was growing uncomfortably disoriented.

“Yeah, but… Captain Ford, your life signs are becoming unstable. You need to get out of there." True, he knew it was true. His whole body knew it was true. And yet…

The inside of his left arm was shaved, so that his flight suit could make contact with bare skin. He played with the controls until a sharp twinge announced the introduction of some new drugs to his bloodstream. Placebo took the edge off his rising stomach before the chemicals did.

“Captain Ford. Respond. Reactivate your shields and get to safety."

It was like they hadn't even read the mission brief. Had they not? “You're not my mother, Agamemnon. My mother is a goddamn coyote, too. She'd… she'd understand." He switched radio channels to one that might be better for his headache. “Dark Horse, Arrow Leader, got… ten minutes to go? You guys agree?"

“Ten minutes," the voice confirmed. Not Commander May. Not Eli Parnell, the wolfgirl, either. Somebody else? How many people would they have on the bridge? His mind wandered. “—per second, but stable. You doing okay there?"

“Uh. Nope."

“Roger that…"

***

“Can't blame him, Maddy." David Bradley had the two pilots' vital signs up on the monitor at his seat. “You know, it's a hell of a thing they did."

“I'm assuming they'll make it," the akita said. “We're the good guys, Dave. The universe bends its rules a little for us. That said, it would be nice if we could make things go a little faster." The clock showed eight minutes remaining.

The cruiser's thick hull, designed before deflector shields took the brunt of hostile slings and arrows, kept them nice and safe. Madison wasn't the only one eyeing the clock, wondering with each passing second if there might not have been some other way to rescue the other ship.

“Five minutes," Mitch Alexander reported. Her station had both good news, and bad news. She decided to start with the former. “Ambient radiation is beginning to drop. Also, the two scout ships aren't talking any more. They're on autopilot."

“They're alive," Dave told the captain softly. “But by Star Patrol medical standards, they're well past their limits. I sent a page to Ayenni telling her to have the medbay standing by."

“If they're on autopilot, can we retrieve them ourselves? Spaceman Alexander—can you bring them in? We should be able to send a docking command, right?"

“Yes, ma'am."

“Better let the Aggie know. We're closer than she is, but I'm sure it's against some protocol." Captain Rulebook must be frothing at the mouth by now, Madison May thought, a second before deciding it wasn't a very nice thing to call Hatfield and two seconds before deciding she didn't care.

Time drifted slower and slower every minute. Maddy was holding her breath when Alexander finally stopped the countdown. “We're clear, captain. The Sheykhan should be able to restart their own systems within a minute or so."

“Bring the scout ships aboard immediately—helm, maneuver us for the quickest intercept you can."

“Aye, captain."

“We're being hailed, ma'am. The mining ship and the Agamemnon."

“Put the Sheykhan through first."

“Commander! I don't know how to thank you enough, but our ship is coming back online. There are still some failures, but our mechanics tell me we'll be able to make the repairs ourselves."

“Glad to hear it, Sheykhan. Once you've gone through the diagnostics, let us know if there's anything we can do to help. We'll be tending to our scout ships for the next few minutes, but after that…"

“After that, we have much to discuss," the alien captain answered eagerly. “I was not lying when I offered compensation. We have our cargo aboard, but if you can't use that… there is a Ardzulan trading outpost thirty parsecs away. It is our next destination. Do you know it?"

“We don't know anything about the Ardzula, to be honest."

“And we don't know anything about you… except that even though you didn't know us, you were willing to help. It is the most important tenet in our culture, too. Please—if you'll accept, I'll make sure we have a proper first contact."

“Of course, captain," May said. “But for now, make sure your ship is working." She waited for the transmission to end, checked to see how long it would be until they could recover the scout ships, and sighed. “Put the Agamemnon through…"

***

Jack Ford had been awake for a few hours—he thought; the coyote was drifting a bit—and spent much of it in the company of the Dark Horse's doctor. He guessed, conservatively, that a third of his bloodstream had been replaced with drugs. But he was no longer at war with his head or his stomach; that was progress.

So when he came around again to find Commander May at his bedside, he felt himself enough to give her a wave. “Morning, commander."

“Good morning. How are you feeling?"

“Fine. Pretty good, actually. I don't know what the doctor did, but…"

Ayenni entered his field of view, and smiled warmly. “My people have earned a reputation for our medical knowledge, and a great deal of that experience carries over to other species. You should be able to return to your own ship in a day or so."

“About that, sir." Madison May was grateful to learn that the two pilots would make a full recovery. The akita was also, however, perplexed by the transmission she'd received—the details of which filled the computer she held in her right paw. “Ayenni, can we have the room?"

“Of course. Let me know if he needs anything." She bowed, and excused herself to leave the two Star Patrol officers alone.

“It's contingent on your agreement, captain," Jack Ford said.

“Isn't this kind of a step down for you, sir?"

“You'd be surprised." The coyote thought about what he'd said, and decided to amend it. “Maybe you wouldn't. Most people would."

Given how instinctively he'd been willing to turn off his fighter's shields, even without knowing the full extent of the consequences, May knew what the coyote was getting at. “The Board also said that it was contingent on my agreement. But they approved your transfer request immediately."

“You have to have a certain level of mad rebelliousness to be posted to the Dark Horse," Jack explained. “But it turns out that asking, by itself, is sufficient evidence that you're enough of a misfit."

Madison had long since grasped that. “And also volunteering to get yourself irradiated?"

“That, too. I kind of did that at the same time. After I realized the Aggie wouldn't try to step in on its own, I… call it dumb, commander, but I ain't the kind of guy who joined the Star Patrol to sit back and watch a buncha civvies buy it."

“You didn't join for the pension, either, then?"

“Coyotes aren't really pension material, no. Look, I mean, any sane man would run the other direction, but my mom didn't raise me sane. You got a hell of a ship, and a hell of a crew. Konstantin and I both agree that we'd rather be out here than waitin' for that goddamn pension."

May listened, with uncharacteristic attentiveness, and finally nodded. “My chief engineer says that we can launch and maintain Type 7s. From a technical and logistical point of view, it's fine. From a formal point of view…"

“You're the captain, ma'am. I'll run the auxiliary wing, but it's your ship. You're the final authority. I have no problem reporting to you."

“The 'auxiliary wing' is just you and Commander Kamyshev."

“I know. We could probably look at other options, if you're interested. I don't know when the next major refit for this ship would be, but Moffett drones or something like that would be a good addition—have to look at the control software, but it wouldn't honestly surprise me that much if it was compatible with these old systems."

“Maybe," the akita said; she hadn't completely decided whether to take the coyote up on his offer. Later, she might be willing to tell him that Shannon's assessment was positive and enthusiastic. “One last thing, then. In your request, you mention my senior helmsman, Lieutenant Parnell."

“Yeah."

“I know you two have some kind of history. I don't know what it is, but she's a valuable member of my crew. And she has a bit of a reputation, but it's not fair. The accident that put her here wasn't her fault. You should know that."

“I do. Check the minority report from the board of inquiry."

“It's sealed. I've only seen a summary."

Jack had already intuited that Commander May wasn't the type to be put off by a coyote's grin, even if the rest of the Star Patrol took it as a good warning sign. “I have a draft copy on my computer if you want. From when I wrote it."

“Really?"

“It's another black mark for me. You just can't see it because of my fur. I'm more than ready to earn a few more, if it's for the right cause."

“I'll hold you to that, captain."

His grin widened. “Why do you think I'm here?"