There was a moment of silence when the alarm cut off.
The planet’s vestigial ring system harbored a whole lot of dust, a few notable bits of rock, and a dozen lumpy moons. It had caught Valmont’s eye when they first got into position, because like Barca pointed out, it could provide concealment if things went south.
Other than that, it wasn’t much to look at. Not nearly as spectacular a view as the turbulent red and orange globe of the planet itself or the stretch of the ON fleet.
But something was happening to the ring. First dust and small chunks, and then larger rocks wobbled out of their bands. It happened slowly at first.
Valmont started to ask Barca for a scan but never got the chance. A lump jerked out of the planet’s skimpy belt and flew at them, like some invisible giant had decided to have a bit of fun with a game of catch.
The proximity alert began to wail again.
Barca turned to Valmont and shouted, “I think somebody just threw a rock at us.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
There was a thump and a shudder. The deck rolled.
Valmont had been in an earthquake once—a big seven pointer. It hadn’t been a teeth-shaker like in books and movies; instead, it felt like this, like riding a long, slow wave. At the time, Valmont had been a cadet and one of the requirements was meditative yoga. It was meant to teach inner calm and grace under pressure, but when Valmont realized the female he shared matspace with had head lice, all the class did was raise his blood pressure. The way the earthquake had rolled underfoot made him wonder if that was what the lice felt during yoga class—this smooth, undulating, massive movement. His immediate response to the quake wasn’t fear, but wonder.
Here it was, so many years later, a great deal of water under the bridge, beast of a frigate under his feet, and Laird Valmont was once again reduced to a louse in yoga class. It felt like a circle drawing to a close. He didn’t trust it.
In between bouts of static, the large viewers showed ship flotsam tumbling by.
“Sir?” Barca called. “That was the destroyer on our three. Wait—“ A shower of spacecrap smacked the Hecate bow and starboard. “This stuff isn’t just ships. A lot of it looks like ring debris.”
Valmont squinted through the static on the viewers. “Those rings are a good distance off. How did all of it get out here?”
More debris shook the ship.
“I think it’s them, sir. The enemy. I think they’re pulling it out of orbit and aiming it at us.”
“Is there an energy signature? A tractor beam?” Valmont asked.
“I scanned. Sensors aren’t picking up anything.”
The viewers held. The whole fleet was being pelted with debris.
“The enemy is throwing rocks at us? Rocks took out ON ships?” Valmont shook his head. “This doesn’t make sense. We have shields. Even if the enemy can throw rocks, so what? If there really has been losses and it’s not a trick, what’s causing the losses?”
On screen, a moon jerked out of its orbit and slammed into one of the destroyers. The collision caused the ship to tumble one direction and the moon to sail off in the other. Fragments from both took out a swath of smaller ships.
Valmont staggered to Barca’s viewer. It wasn’t a dream or a hallucination; the personal-sized reader showed the same images the wall screen had. “Do every scan you can think of. Don’t just search for the usual.”
The deck crew were glued to their screens, frozen.
“Weapons,” Valmont yelled. “Online. Pulverize everything bigger than a football—that isn’t one of ours.”
A weapon tech swiveled in his chair to face Valmont. “System can’t get a lock, sir. It’s like the weapons systems are just sliding off.”
Valmont couldn’t remember the tech’s name. “Keep trying. Tell me the second you find something we can use. “
Barca broke in. “More debris incoming.” The proximity alarm was joined by two more sirens. The combo was deafening.
“Someone override those damn alarms,” Valmont snapped. “We know. Spacecrap. It’s everywhere. Shut off that racket so we can think straight.”
One of the techs—a thin, nervous woman named Purnell—raced to comply. Valmont knew she was on her first assignment and sixth month in the navy. He hoped she’d see a year.
On screen the ON fleet was in tatters. All of the bigger ships, the destroyers and cruisers, were scraps. Maybe they’d gotten escape pods off before being hit, but Valmont hadn’t seen it.
The alarms cut off with a suddenness that was even more jarring than the clamor. In the quiet, Barca’s words sounded strangely amplified. “Debris everywhere, sir. I’m not getting any life signs. None of our outgoing coms are working.” A shadow crossed the large frontal view screens—something big enough to darken them all at once. “It’s a moon, sir. It’s a ways out, but it’s closing on us.”
“Weapons?” Valmont shouted. The ship shuddered. Its movement had transitioned from a rolling earthquake to a teeth-jarring one. “This would be a good time.”
“Sir, we can’t get a lock. We can’t stop it.”
Valmont took one last look outside. So few ships were left. With all the debris, it was hard to tell what was whole and what wasn’t. “Barca, how many ships have life signs?”
“There’s something wrong with the data, sir.”
“How many did you see before the sensors went down?”
“I was only scanning wreckage, sir. I didn’t hit the functional ships.” Barca darted a glance at him before focusing back on the viewer. “The moon is closing. If we’re going to do something, we have to do it now.”
Valmont closed his eyes and then thought better of it. He forced himself to look, to take in the debris field and crippled ships that had been the ON fleet. “This isn’t working. Spin up the drive and get us out of here.”
“Sir, what about recovery? We could dip into the planet, pop out to scan and rescue, and use it for cover if the enemy starts throwing stuff at us. Just like you said.”
“No.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because someone has to live to tell what happened.”
1
Thorn Stellers had heard the term “mud-ball planet,” but he’d never been on one that tried so hard to fit the bill. Being taller than most of the planet-born workers just meant there was more of him to get smeared with muck. Even after a hard scrub, which happened less often that it should, he still had crap under his nails. After a few weeks planetside, Thorn was pretty sure his hands would be dirty for the rest of his life.
There were tar clots on everything he owned, even his off-day clothes. The slop was everywhere—in the prefab barracks-style sleeping quarters, spattered on the chow trays, and smudged on latrine walls. The air felt soupy with it. Mudflat reclamation work was a hell of a way to earn a few credits.
The pipeline they were working on had been hit years ago, during the first days of the Shino-Shield War, back when the enemy had first targeted the resource planets and left everyone scrambling. Almost two decades later, there were still countless inoperable hellholes like this—more planets than workers to dig them out. On the plus side, jobs could be had for someone desperate enough to do cold, filthy, miserable work.