Zero Read online

  Zero

  An Orbit Novel

  J.S. Collyer

  Copyright © J.S. Collyer 2014

  Cover Design Copyright © Matt Davis, 2014

  Edited by R J Davey

  First published in Great Britain in

  2014, by Dagda Publishing Ltd, Nottingham, UK

  First Impression, 2014

  Legal Notice

  J.S. Collyer has asserted her moral right to be recognised as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the copyright holders.

  This novel is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed are purely the product of the author's imagination. Any relation to actual persons living or dead is purely and entirely coincidental.

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  For Mum and Dad, who always believed.

  For Adam and Cheryl, who always encouraged.

  And for Christopher, who always laughed.

  Theirs not to make reply,

  theirs not to reason why,

  theirs but to do and die.

  - The Charge of the Light Brigade,

  Alfred Lord Tennyson

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Hugo had admitted to himself long ago that death was something he'd accepted into his life like a friend. Or a lover. It was loyal and consistent. It followed him like a phantom. The cold part of his brain knew it was part of his job. The warmer part, well...that tempted him to believe that he liked it that way.

  It was real. It was certain.

  Even civilian casualties didn't stir more than the odd pang deep inside him whilst he lay awake at night staring at the bulkhead. If existence had taught him anything, it was that nothing worth having came without cost.

  But this was different.

  Hugo's hand was trembling as he pressed the gun to the temple of the man who had been his friend. A lifetime's training was screaming at him to fire. But his hand shook. The other man looked up at him through the blood and dirt and all Hugo could feel was breakers of shame and confusion crashing up against his insides. A bitter taste washed up his throat. He cursed everything he could think of: the Service, fate, the Zero. The blood pounded in his ears as he raged. How had it come to this?

  I

  “Gamma, turn to point 5-5-9.”

  “Commander?”

  “There's a break in the defence. Turn in and advance.”

  “Issue the retreat order, Commander,” the cool tones of an Analyst hummed in his headset. “Acknowledge.”

  “I'm repeating, Fraser,” Hugo growled. “And there's no time for repeating. Advance. Take the break. Engage and destroy.”

  “Yes, Commander.” Fraser's voice sounded strained over the comm. Hugo watched the lights on the screen displaying Gamma Company's approach to the resource satellite and the enemy beyond. The Black Dawn Foundation were numerous, but scattered and rudderless. He'd seen it a hundred times before. All ideals and no tactics. They were moving in on the satellite, firing wildly with no cohesive formation or definable strategy.

  “Commander,” the Analyst hummed in his ear again. “Issue the order to retreat to your unit and acknowledge.”

  “Negative. X4-18 is at risk.”

  “Satellite X4-18 is an acceptable loss,” the Analyst replied smoothly. “Issue the order to retreat and acknowledge.”

  Hugo scowled and leaned over the display. The lights reached the black mass of the satellite, swung round and smashed right into the enemy line. Five red dots disappeared, reports from the scanners scrolling along the side of the screen as they did so. Three green dots also vanished.

  “Fall back at point 7-5-6,” Hugo mumbled to five of his pilots remaining and he saw the dots on the screen move to obey. “Take position. Engage.”

  Three more red dots disappeared, as did another green. The remaining red dots were forced far apart by the Service fighters. The Analyst had been replaced by a furious captain in his ear, but by the time someone came to pull him from his workstation the remaining rebel fighters had been heavily damaged or destroyed.

  ɵ

  Hugo sat up straight on the bench in the Command Centre brig, staring at the wall. His hands were on his knees and he sat perfectly still and balanced. He played the battle over and over in his head but only moved when the door opened and someone entered his cell. The Service officer, another commander by her pips, looked down at him with a curious expression on her face.

  “Commander Hugo?” Hugo didn't bother answering. His name was on the door. He scowled at her. She looked momentarily apprehensive then gathered herself. “Someone hasn't been playing well with others,” she said with a smile. Hugo deepened his scowl. Her smile broadened. “I'm Hudson, Colonel Marcus Luscombe's aide,” she said. “You've been reassigned.”

  She held out an envelope. Hugo stared at it for a moment, trying to remember the last time he'd seen anything in hard-copy.

  “Don't open it until you're back in your cabin,” Hudson continued. “Your contact will meet you at Command Spaceport, terminal 10, tomorrow at the allotted time. Good luck, Captain.” And then she turned and left, leaving Hugo blinking in her wake and taking a couple of minutes to process the fact that she had called him captain.

  ɵ

  He stood at the meeting point with his pack containing everything he owned, and a plastic cup of coffee from one of the dispensers that tasted like it had engine fuel in it. He glowered around the terminal. Most people moving about were uniformed in the black and grey of Service officers, or the ubiquitous grey jumpsuits of technicians and pilots. They all looked like they had somewhere important to get to. Standing there in plain combat trousers, civilian shirt, and jacket, Hugo ground his teeth as the rush of indignation rose inside him once again.

  He swallowed the rest of the sour coffee and scoured the throng, hoping the contact wouldn't turn up, but he did. And on time, Hugo noted with mild surprise.

  “Captain Hugo?” The young man was tall, perhaps even a hairs-breadth taller than Hugo, with clear, pale eyes and a broad smile. There was scarring over one eyebrow and a notch missing from one of his ears. He wasn't in uniform either, but worn and practical garments and sturdy boots. His black jacket looked like it had once been part of some sort of uniform but was faded and scuffed beyond recognition and had no trace of insignia. He held out his hand. There was oil under his fingernails. “Commander Ezekiel Webb. Good to meet you.” His smile only faltered slightly when Hugo didn't take the offered hand. He gave a slight shrug. “This way,” he said.

  Hugo followed the commander, noting with disapproval that the other man wore his black hair long. What didn't fall across his face was bound in a thick ponytail down his back. There was also a spacer tattoo on the back of his neck. Hugo felt his reservations broaden.

  “You'll like the Zero,” Webb said. He had an odd tang to his voice, the remnants of a
n accent that had the afterthought of American. It had been a long time since he'd heard a Lunar 1 accent. It did not stir happy memories. “She's pulled us through more than our share of shit-storms.”

  Hugo grunted. Webb seemed impervious to his mood and prattled on, voice light and hands gesturing easily as they paced down the space station’s corridor. Hugo slid a sideways glance at his new commander, noting his easy stride, so unlike Hugo's regimented gait which was the result of years of drilling.

  “There she is.” Webb paused at a viewscreen and pointed. Hugo stepped up and peered out. A craft was docked at the end of the next walkway. Against the vast, star-specked nothingness beyond, she looked tiny. She was also angular, ugly and extremely battered. There was carbon scoring all over her hull and parts of her had clearly once belonged to another, or even several other vessels.

  “Don't be fooled, Captain,” Webb said and Hugo realised too late that his thoughts must be showing on his face. “Most of that's for show. She's a little hellcat. Trust me.”

  Hugo suppressed a snort.

  “This way,” Webb said needlessly, turning down the walkway. Hugo followed, a prickling spreading over his skin as they arrived at the hatch. Webb keyed in a code and it clunked, then slid open. “After you, Captain.”

  As Hugo stepped onto his first command, the prickling intensified. He blinked. After the dimness of the walkway the ship's corridor was almost too bright.

  “Kinjo,” Webb called out as the hatch slid shut behind them. Further down the corridor a small figure pulled its head out of a service panel and blinked back at them. “Come and meet the new captain. Captain Hugo, Midshipman Iena Kinjo.”

  Kinjo came forward cautiously, a computer panel clutched tightly in her hands, and eyes wide as saucers. Her boiler suit was too big for her and there was a smudge of oil across one cheek. Her glance flicked to Webb and then back to Hugo. “Captain Hugo,” she said. Her voice was small but she managed a half-decent salute.

  “At ease,” Hugo said and she relaxed slightly.

  “Sir...” she said in a small voice then coughed, straightened her back and tried again. “Sir, is it true you served aboard the Resolution?”

  Hugo gritted his teeth but hoped his face remained neutral. “That's correct.”

  Her eyes widened. “Wow...sorry, it's just...uh...”

  “Kinjo was in Haven when she was being built,” Webb put in, a warm smile on his face.

  “My father worked on her, sir,” Kinjo continued, still staring at him. “The finest flagship the Service ever commissioned, he said. What’s she like, sir?”

  “Kinjo,” Webb interrupted, possibly seeing the look on Hugo's face. “Take the captain's pack to his cabin, would you?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, taking it and throwing curious glances back over her shoulder as she left.

  “She's training with our medic and helps out the engineers. I think she's going to be better at taking machines apart than humans, personally, but you gotta give a kid a chance to learn. This way.”

  Hugo followed Webb down the corridor. Their steps rung on the metal grill floor. He had to admit it looked better on the inside than he had dared hope. All the wall panels were a shining white polyfibre and the lighting was uniform and clear, though the air did have that metallic tang of an older model oxygen generator.

  “Research lab and medbay.” Webb had paused at a double doorway. The door hissed open and Webb stood aside, letting Hugo precede him into the room. If anything it was even brighter than the corridor. The ceiling was made up entirely of lighting panels and the walls and work surfaces were the same white as the corridor. One bulkhead was made up entirely of wall display screens and blinking equipment. There were bunks embedded in the opposite bulkhead and through glass doors at the end of the room he saw a darkened surgery bay. Two people were bent over one of the workstations, but straightened up as they entered.

  “Our researcher, Dr. Spinn,” Webb said and the small man with thinning hair blinked at Hugo. His eyes were shining and he swallowed as he took Hugo in. “And this is Anita Rami. Lieutenant Rami,” Webb quickly corrected, like he wasn't in the habit of using her rank. “Medic, strategist and has a way with a computer system you wouldn't believe.”

  Rami stood with the bearing of an actual soldier, arms clasped behind her back and eyes sharp as split glass.

  “Captain Kaleb Hugo,” Webb introduced him and she bowed slightly, though Hugo could see her giving him an equally appraising glance as he was giving her.

  Hugo spared them a nod and turned to leave, Webb at his heels. Webb talked on as they continued down the corridor, pointing out workstations, emergency hatches, stashes of lenslights and medkits. Hugo, having already familiarised himself with the schematics, bit his tongue. But then, he thought bitterly, maybe this kind of crew wasn't aware of the professional methods of trained officers of the Service.

  Next was the galley. Like the rest of the ship, it was clean but cluttered, overly-stuffed cupboards of equipment and supplies, hard-copy pictures and posters of sports teams and vintage vehicles tacked to the walls. There was another crew member sat at the table. He was frowning at a computer panel but looked up as they entered. Hugo was pleased to see him get to his feet.

  “Sub-Lieutenant More,” Webb said. “Chief engineer and technician, maintenance, weapons expert and almost as good a pilot as me.” Webb grinned but More just stood there, carefully blank. “Thomas, this is Captain Hugo.” More nodded, not speaking, just looking Hugo up and down. Hugo took a deep breath, liking the examination less and less. “How's the port thruster doing?” Webb asked.

  “It's sorted, Zeek... Commander,” More corrected himself, catching Hugo's eye. He was a broad-shouldered man, dark hair just starting to silver at the temples and with two days' worth of growth on his chin. At least he didn't wear his hair long, Hugo thought. “We were able to get replacement driver plugs this morning.”

  “Good. Make sure it's all connected in for launch.”

  “Aye, Commander,” More acknowledged, eyes still on Hugo.

  Next was the cargo hold and, even though Hugo knew what was there from the reports, he couldn't help but acknowledge a grudging admiration as Webb carried on his commentary.

  “Three stealth fighters, all in top notch condition,” Webb said as his boots clanged onto deck at the bottom of the ladder. “And if you think you know fast, wait until you see these in action. Damn things move like the devil.”

  Hugo eyed the fighters. They were newer model one-man fighter craft and, as Webb said, gleaming and expertly maintained, even to Hugo's critical eye. There wasn't even any carbon scoring around the barrels of the pulse cannons. Hugo felt his spirits climb back up a rung. If the Service saw fit to furnish the Zero with craft like this, then its missions surely had to have some credibility after all.

  “Handy for aiding a retreat as well as an assault. Saved my ass more times than I care to admit,” Webb said, patting the side of the nearest one like an old friend.

  Hugo heard movement from behind the furthest fighter and the metallic clank of tools being stowed.

  “Sub? Bolt?” Webb called. Two men emerged, wiping hands on oily cloths. Big men these were too, broad shouldered and both even taller than Webb. They walked with the wide gait of men used to space decks and both had dark hair cropped close to their heads, making it difficult for Hugo to tell them apart at first glance. When they got closer he could see one engineer had a livid scar across his brow, starting at the left eyebrow and arching up his scalp, pulling his face into a permanent questioning expression. Hugo had two more pairs of eyes look him up and down but at least these men had the decency to mumble, “Cap'n,” as they did so. Hugo once again noted how they looked to Webb for guidance and wondered if he should be annoyed or reassured by all this suspicion.

  Webb made introductions, and Hugo found out that scar-face was Crewman Subune, or Sub, and the one with the square jaw and black eyes was Crewman Bolt.

  “We're about done h
ere,” Bolt said, after a pause.

  “I still want to replace some of the supports in Father's harness,” Sub muttered. “But they didn't have the right resistance straps in supply.”

  “Dolgorukov will have what we need,” Webb said.

  “Father?” Hugo asked.

  “The fighter furthest to port,” he gestured. “The middle one is Son and this one is Ghost.” He patted the fighter next to him again. “Our very own Holy Trinity.”

  “Who pilots them?"

  “We're all trained, even Spinn. You never know when and where you might need a pulse cannon or six backing you up.” Webb was grinning but the engineers just stood trying to steal glances at Hugo. “And over here, Captain. These are my pride and joy.” Webb moved deeper into the hold.

  “Land transports?” Hugo ventured, sullenly.

  “Not just any land transports,” Webb said, pulling a cover off the first shapeless bundle that rested against the hull. “This here's my baby.”

  Hugo had to admit the motorcycle was impressive. He hadn't seen many in his life apart from in pictures. Like Father, Son and Ghost it was in pristine condition, not a speck of oil grimed the metal and the chassis was black as space. The tyres were off-road, Hugo noted, and Webb stroked the handles fondly.

  “I call her Sin,” he grinned.

  “You’re a baptised Nova, I’m guessing?” Hugo asked.

  The bluntness of the question didn't seem to faze Webb who just shrugged. “I couldn't tell you. Most kids on Lunar 1 are that's for sure. I don't remember it if I was. Baptised or not, I figure I'm going to Hell anyway. Might as well have a decent ride.” Webb laughed before showing Hugo the other three motorcycles battened down under protective covers against the aft bulkhead.

  In the last corner hunkered an ancient four-by-four, dented and battered but with new tyres and gleaming metal work.