Orion Fleet (Rebel Fleet Series Book 2)

  SF Books by B. V. Larson:

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  Lost Colonies Trilogy

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  ORION FLEET

  (Rebel Fleet Series #2)

  by

  B. V. Larson

  Rebel Fleet Series

  Rebel Fleet

  Orion Fleet

  Copyright © 2016 by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

  =1=

  Earth’s first interstellar probes were called “star-shots,” and they were metal disks the size of a quarter.

  I was standing around in the Los Alamos labs when we launched the first one, and I’ll never forget the chain of events that followed.

  “Lieutenant Blake,” Dr. Abrams said to me sternly. He had one of those euro-accents that made him sound mean—which he was. “Step back, Lieutenant, please.”

  Abrams reminded me of an angry bird. He was small, quick-moving, and always wore a flapping white lab-coat. To finish the look, he had a sharp, beak-like nose that poked out from under his thick glasses.

  “Sure thing, Doc,” I said, easing my feet back a half-step.

  Abrams fixed me with a dissatisfied stare, but he didn’t pursue the matter. In his mind, I was a waste of carbon on God’s green Earth. Worse, I was invading his breathing-space just by being in his lab.

  To his chagrin, the government-types had insisted I be present today—and in every other experiment, press-gathering and staff meeting. Today was the first day of my surveillance, and he wasn’t happy about it.

  He’d have thrown me out if he could have, and I wouldn’t have minded letting him get away with it. I suspected the politicians wanted to associate my face with Abrams’ space-development projects for PR purposes, but all of that was lost on him.

  Abrams sighed and looked back to his instruments. He impatiently signaled with blurring fingers for the experiment to proceed. A half-dozen techs in white coveralls bent to the task, tweaking, setting and rechecking every digital meter that kept tabs on this space-cannon-thing we were encircling. Wisps of icy vapor rose up from the bottom of the vast cylinder, and that got me to move back where Abrams had failed.

  Abrams turned to the circle of camera-drones and reporters, and he managed to manufacture a thin smile.

  “We’re ready to proceed,” he said. “This experiment is star-shot one-point-seven. We’re launching a real probe this time, not just another lump of diamond. Target: Proxima Centauri.”

  The launching mechanism was interesting, even to me. He explained it to the press even though it was a well-documented process.

  “The nanocraft is a gram-scale wafer made of artificially grown diamond. It contains cameras, photon thrusters, a power supply and a radio-transmitter. The power supply is based on a tiny plutonium battery.”

  The press stared, playing with their recording instruments. No one was impressed so far.

  “The most amazing thing,” Abrams continued, “is the low cost of each probe. They cost no more than an automobile to make, even though they’re prototypes.”

  He didn’t mention the space-cannon, which was pretty expensive.

  “So, this thing fires a diamond bullet at the stars?” asked a reporter.

  Abrams looked at him with triumphant glee. “No! No, not all! That is a common misconception. This projection device is an energy source—essentially, it’s a giant laser. The star-shot probe is already above us in orbit. The launcher is up there as well, and it consists of several kilometers of photo-sensitive material—we call it a light-sail. The sail will catch the beam fired from this laser.”

  The reporter frowned, and his mouth hung slightly open. Abrams was instantly irritated, but he did his best to hide it. He clenched his teeth, and he talked with a strained smile.

  “You see,” he said, “think of this laser as a fan, and the sail up in space as a kite. We’ll use the fan on Earth to create thrust. The acceleration will be tremendous.”

  “How fast?” another reporter asked.

  This one was a cute young woman with big eyes and a rabid attitude. I immediately wanted to ask her on a date—it’s a suicidal instinct of mine to date intense women.

  “This laser generates over one hundred giga-watts of power,” Abrams said. “The resulting strike will be diffused to prevent burn-through—but we expect the sail to reach thirty percent the speed of light within about twenty minutes.”

  The group seemed stunned. The project had made claims—but this kind of acceleration exceeded them.

  “How is this kind of speed possible?” the pretty one demanded. I could tell right-off she’d been to college and taken her science classes seriously.

  “Remember, there is essentially no friction in space,” Abrams explained. “The application of force to a surface will thus generate terrific pressure, pushing the target to reach great velocities very quickly.”

  “Force?” asked the dumb guy. He’d managed to close his sagging jaw by now, and his confused frown had been replaced by a skeptical one. “How does a laser beam apply force?”

  “It does,” Abrams said impatiently. “Trust me on this one. Optical physics is a hobby of mine.”

  The group chuckled, and the dummy shut up, reddening a little.

  “It’s a simple matter of mathematics,” Abrams went on. “The application of vast force upon a small object creates terrific acceleration. The probe is very light, weighing only a few grams. The sail will be destroyed by launch and disintegrate, but the probe is much tougher and will then become an effective bullet heading toward a distant star.”

  The group seemed satisfied. They looked at the screens expectantly.

  Abrams slammed his hands together, creating a loud popping sound that made everyone jump.

  “So!” he announced. “It is time! Begin the countdown!”

  Flashing yellow lights pulsed. Air-horns blasted a warning. That was much more effective than admonishments. The group retreated from the space-cannon—or giant laser. We were all alarmed to see the cooling jackets crust up with ice and emit cold frosty mists from a dozen sources.

  “The cooling systems are at maximum,” Abrams said with an excited light in his eyes. “No errors—we’re going to launch.”

  The timer ticked down and then a sound began—sort of a hum. We’d all been issued dark goggles, but I didn’t see anything at all.

  “Is that it?” I asked in surprise. “I can’t see the beam.”

  “Of course not!” Abrams said, whirling on me. “If you saw it, your eyes would be boiled eggs by now.”

  We shrugged and watched. It was kind of anti-climactic. There was no column of fire, no roar, just a lot of numbers and
hunched technicians.

  I removed my goggles and set them on a console. The reporter with the big eyes stepped close and looked up at me.

  “You think it’s safe?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “If this monster blows up, we’re all screwed anyway. A bit of plastic isn’t going to save us.”

  Hesitantly, she took off her goggles and set them next to mine. She sighed, and she looked unhappy.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked her.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. This is a great step forward, but it’s nothing compared to what we’ve seen. The aliens have gigantic ships. They flash between the stars in moments. We’re firing a bullet at the closest star, and it will take years to get there.”

  I understood her disappointment. What might have been considered a fantastic achievement a few years ago now paled in comparison to the technology of the Rebel Kher—not to mention the lofty Imperials.

  “We’ve got more going on than just this,” I assured her quietly. “Don’t worry about it. Earth isn’t helpless.”

  Her big eyes lit up. “You know about it—personally?” she asked.

  I cleared my throat and shrugged. I shouldn’t have said anything. I kicked myself mentally. As a military man, I should have known better.

  “That’s classified, ma’am,” I said, giving her a reassuring smile. “Are you from around here, or from Washington?”

  My play to change the subject didn’t wash.

  “New York,” she said crisply. She stepped closer to me and lowered her voice. “I’m Robin. You want to get something to eat after this show is over?”

  Every instinct in my thick skull sang out the right answer: “no” but I didn’t listen. I rarely did under these circumstances.

  “Uh… sure, Robin.”

  That was it. I knew how things were going to go—but I couldn’t resist. I’d dated Gwen for a few months after we got back to Earth, but things hadn’t worked out long term. That meant I was on the dating market, so to speak.

  About then the cannon made an odd sound—a bad sound. A steel-jacketed hose broke loose, dangling and spraying white mist. The mist was frosty and so cold I could feel it from where I stood.

  Half a dozen techs ducked—screeching and covering their faces. Their hair was turning white, and their skin was turning red.

  “It’s burning them,” Robin said, and her hands gripped my arm.

  I stepped forward, grabbed the whipping hose and ripped it loose. That stung my hand, but it caused the venting to be much higher up and the hose wasn’t right in the middle of the huddled techs.

  “Damn, that’s cold,” I said, retreating and dropping the hose. The techs soon got the disaster under control, but they weren’t happy.

  “We’ve lost ninety percent of our acceleration,” Abrams moaned. “We had to shut down early—that’s barely three percent of light speed. A failure.”

  He didn’t seem to care much about the injured, or his equipment—just his damned probe.

  “Don’t worry,” I told him. “The universe has tech that dwarfs this toy. We’ll get out there into space soon enough.”

  He gave me a squinting stare, but said nothing. Then he went back to chewing on his injured team. One of them would be blamed. He just had to figure out who it was going to be.

  Robin, meanwhile, was examining the steel hose I’d dropped. She poked at it with a stylus.

  “It’s covered in ice—and it’s made of woven steel. How did you rip it out with your bare hands?”

  “I covered them with my sleeve,” I lied, demonstrating.

  She shook her head. “How about that drink? This experiment appears to be over.”

  “I thought it was dinner.”

  “We could do that too—after.”

  I thought about it, and I even considered saying “no” for a few seconds.

  But in the end, we left the lab complex together.

  =2=

  Los Alamos, New Mexico is located high in the southern Rocky Mountains. The lab itself is at an elevation of over seven thousand feet. There wasn’t much to do in the neighboring town.

  Robin and I drove down the mountain to Santa Fe—about a half-hour trip on a winding road. She turned out to be one determined lady. We were eating together about an hour after the accident at the labs—if you can call fishing the good nuts out of the happy-hour bowl in a hotel bar eating.

  Robin was a no-nonsense girl. She drank like a pro, preferring Kentucky bourbon on ice. She even knew her brands, from Jim Beam to Wild Turkey, and everything in-between.

  “You know things,” she said to me after her second drink. “I thought you were just a pilot caught by aliens—but you’re more than that.”

  Her piercing eyes were big and brown and reminded me of Mia’s eyes. Damn, I missed that crazy cat-girl. I wondered briefly what had happened to her, and hoped she was having a good life back on her home planet of Ral.

  “You’re wrong,” I told Robin, “I don’t know anything. I’m a dummy. I’m just a prop for the government to parade around.”

  She slowly shook her head in disbelief.

  “Come on, Leo,” she said, “give me something. Why keep secrets? It’s not like the aliens are watching us. They don’t give a rip what we do down here on Earth.”

  “Why didn’t you ask Dr. Abrams about more advanced efforts?”

  She snorted. “He’s more into his space-cannon than anything else. He might not even know what else is going on. But you do. I saw it in your eyes.”

  She ran her hand over the bar to mine, and one of her pink-painted nails tapped on my knuckles.

  I pride myself at being able to read people, and her signals were pretty clear. It was pay-to-play time.

  Moments like this always gave a man like me trouble. I could take her upstairs right now and have my way, then select any of several options as to how to proceed. I could tell her some tidbits, or refuse to do so and piss her off—or just lie to her and make something up. As a testimony to my dysfunctional personality, the third option did appeal.

  But instead, I shrugged my shoulders and broke her spell.

  “You want to get some dinner?” I asked. “Booze on an empty stomach messes me up.”

  Robin looked disappointed. Her hand retreated back to her lap.

  “I’m sorry I wasted your time,” she said, standing up suddenly.

  “Where are you going?”

  She gulped her bourbon, slammed the glass on the bar and looked at me. “I can tell you’re not going to talk. But if you change your mind, call me.”

  I thought she was going to walk out mad, but she didn’t. She leaned close to my ear and spoke there with hot, alcoholic breath.

  “Thanks for not screwing me—then screwing me. I’m serious about the call.”

  She gave my cheek a kiss, my hand a squeeze, and she walked off. I watched her go, full of regrets. She looked even better from behind than she had from the front.

  About ninety seconds after she left the bar, a man in a black suit moved in to sit on the stool she’d left behind.

  “That was a good call, Leo,” the man said, without looking at me. He ordered a beer and toyed with it.

  “Yeah…” I said. “This secrecy-stuff sucks. I’m not built for it. Are you one of the agents that follow me around? I haven’t noticed you before.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said, ignoring my question. “You are built for keeping secrets. In fact, you’re a con-man.”

  I looked at him in irritation, but I didn’t argue.

  “I’ve read everything they’ve compiled on you, Blake,” he said. “Con-men are good at holding back information. Are you still holding out information now? From your own government?”

  There was a hint of gloating in his tone. He was glad I’d been ditched by the reporter. Sure, he was probably just a spook assigned to shadow me, but something about him seemed to be more than that.

  “What’s your name again?” I asked him.

  “Smi
th. John Smith.”

  I nodded. “I’ll tell you what, Smith, when you give me something real, I’ll return the favor.”

  With that, I got up to leave, but he stood up and followed me. He waited until we were in the elevator. That’s when he snicked a knife out and went for my spine.

  My hand caught his, quick as a snake. Then I whirled him around like a child and pressed him up against the elevator wall.

  Sappy tunes played on the elevator speakers while we struggled, and the floors dinged by.

  “Now you try to kill me?” I asked. “Why now?”

  Both of us were breathing hard. I got his hand twisted up behind his back, and my other hand was on his throat.

  “Not trying to kill you…” he grunted out in pain. “I was just trying to see if you’re as fast as they say…”

  “Yeah? Well? Is your curiosity satisfied?”

  “You’re not human. Too much strength… speed.”

  “You’re full of shit,” I told him. “Come on, talk to me. Quick.”

  “I made a move here because you’re on camera. I figured you wouldn’t kill me in an elevator on camera.”

  I glanced at the plastic security bubble in the corner. He was right, of course. The hotel staff was probably calling the cops about now. I also noticed we’d almost reached the seventeenth floor. It was time for me to get off.

  “Why’d you do it at all?” I demanded.

  “To make sure you were the real Leo Blake before we talked.”

  It was decision-time. I thought about the situation, and about ‘Agent Smith’ and then I made my choice.

  I slammed his head against the wall of the elevator twice, hard. This shook the whole car and caused a faded copy of the hotel restaurant’s menu to clatter to the floor.

  Smith slumped to the floor when I let him go, leaving a long streak of blood on the wall.

  The elevator doors dinged a moment later, and I picked up the fallen menu. My eyebrows lifted speculatively.

  Dry-aged steaks. That sounded good. Why wouldn’t the people in this place let me eat dinner?

  The doors opened, and I stepped off. Smith’s hand shot out to stop the doors from closing. He was on the floor, and it didn’t look like he was going to be getting up without help.