The Domination of the Draka and all related properties are the property of S.M. Stirling. Mass Effect and all related properties are the property of Bioware.
ABOARD ASFS SACAJAWEA
TRANSLUNAR SPACE
MARCH 18, 1989
Frederick Lefarge looked hungrily at the spread of trajectories on the plotting console before him. The Sacajawea was one of the seven shuttlecraft - out of the eventual full dozen the New America would carry - sent along on this task force, mirror-matter powered, equally suited to atmosphere or deep-space work. That was easy enough with a power supply as energetic as antihydrogen. If the New America ever sailed, it would be a one-way trip with not much hope of return, and a long time before a functioning economy could be established at the target star. Her auxiliaries had been designed to last a century, and do everything from lifting kilotonne-mass loads out of a terrestrial-sized gravity well to interplanetary freighting. This one could cross the solar system and back in forty days, without refueling.
And it could fight the Great Khan-class cruisers escorting the Draka convoy quite handily. Those Snakes were going to get a very unpleasant surprise.
"Distance and bearing?" That was the Sacajawea's captain, Ibrahim Kurasaka.
"One forty kilometers, closing at point-five kps relative," the senior officer replied.
There were eight bogies on Lefarge's screen; two screens to his left blanked and then showed 360-degree views of the Draka vessel classes. Six were the Great Khan-class cruiser escorts with third-generation pulsedrives - fission pellets compressed by lasers. The other two were cargo carriers, originally built for work around the gas-giant moons and rare this far in-system.
Banking off to bracket either side of the convoy were the seven auxiliaries of the New America: the Sacajawea, Alexandre Rodrigues Ferreira, Matthew Flinders, Yamato, James Cook, Christopher Columbus, and the newly completed Amerigo Vespucci. The New America itself was back in the asteroid belt; Lefarge had decided to use the extensive leeway he was allowed as the head of the Black Fund project to keep the unfinished vessel out of the line of fire. Besides, he thought, It looks like we're going to outweigh them enough as it is.
"Orders, Brigadier Lefarge?" Kurasaka asked. The Javanese-Nipponese captain was the commanding officer of the Sacajawea while Lefarge was commanding the entire task force. His manning a board here was irregular, but there were times when the book didn't matter all that much.
Lefarge contemplated the screens in front of him with a frown. His ships were a whole generation of technology ahead of the enemy vessels, but most of them were dedicated warships which made them dangerous, especially the long jet of plasma spewing from their drives which could be deadly in the right hands. Not to mention that the other two had to be captured, not destroyed. Much more difficult.
"To the task force: prepare for acceleration; pass at 5 kps relative, then swing around for another pass at five kilometers. Fire at will upon the cruisers in sequence." There was a reason the Alliance auxiliaries were bracketing the Draka convoy, putting their enemies' slower ships in a crossfire. "Target cargo carriers' drives and control compartments, and cut the connections to their main power coils." There were megawatts stored in that, and if it went nonsuperconducting all of it would be converted to heat - rapidly.
"And let's hope their suicide bombs really have been disabled," he muttered to himself. They were standard on all Draka ships, the equivalent to the 'passport' poison pills their Citizen soldiers carried to prevent being captured alive. It would be a shame to come all this way just to see all that alien technology go up in smoke.
Acknowledgments chimed in from the ships in the task force. "All vessels report orders confirmed," the senior officer stated.
Lefarge took a deep breath, then let a smile stretch across his face. Time to show the Snakes they aren't the Lords of Creation they think they are. "Let's go."
"We have a go," Kurasaka repeated. "Execute drive burn."
The Sacajawea surged underneath and around them as hydrogen and antihydrogen met inside the core and the drive channeled reaction mass out of the thrusters. The New America auxiliaries rocketed towards the Draka convoy, quickly beginning to overtake them.
"Burn normal."
"Approaching targets. Preparing for firing missions. Execute."
Needles of coherent light and hails of railgun slugs raked across all the Draka ships, while missiles shot out themselves from the auxiliaries' launch tubes to aim solely at the cruisers. Countermissiles and point-defense fire from the cruisers' Gatling turrets lashed out to engage the incoming missiles. They had the occasional lucky hit, but human reflexes and the inferior electronics of the Domination's warships couldn't deal with all of them.
Light blossomed among the Great Khan-class cruisers as warheads punched breaches into hulls and outrushing air fed the flames that burned briefly until the localized compartments where filled with vacuum. Lefarge grinned as a chorus of shouts and cheers rose among the bridge staff, one or two punching a fist into the air. The Domination's 'aggressive neutrality' during the Protracted Struggle of the past decades had not earned it many friends in the countries of the Alliance for Democracy.
Kurasaka shouted the noise down after a few moments. "That's enough! You're Alliance soldiers! Act like it!"
The bridge immediately quieted, and even Lefarge - Kurasaka's superior officer - compressed the bared teeth of his grin down to a smile. God damn, but I love seeing those Snake ships burn!
Soon the Alliance ships were past the Draka convoy and sit-reps began pouring in. "...reports green across the board. Ferreira reports green across the board. Columbus reports breach to portside hull from missile near-miss, damage control teams responding."
Both Lefarge and Kurasaka winced. I suppose it was wishful thinking to think we could get through this unscathed. No matter how much advanced your technology was over your enemy's, Lady Luck let you roll sevens only so many times. Sometimes it comes up snake eyes, ran sourly through Lefarge's mind, and shook his head with annoyance at the phrase his subconscious had dredged up.
As the Sacajawea's thrusters swung it around for another pass at the convoy, however, they were able to see the devastation that one pass had wrought upon the Draka ships. All of the cruisers had severe damage and, as they watched, one of them detonated as it's commander must have decided the ship was beyond saving and detonated their suicide bomb. Not being the primary targets of the first pass, the cargo carriers had less damage and were trying to make a run for it with a full burn of their drives.
Lefarge cursed and looked at the plotting console to place their intended courses and the placement of the Alliance auxiliaries. "To the task force: Flinders and Yamato to form up with the Sacajawea for pursuit and disabling of the cargo carriers. The rest of the fleet is to stay behind with the enemy cruisers." His eyes narrowed as he looked at the scarred Draka cruisers venting atmosphere and struggling to keep their ships in one piece.
Great Khan-class cruisers. The type of ship that attacked the Pathfinder with Cindy and the girls aboard. Hell, maybe one of those is the very ship that did it. He felt a tempest behind his eyes and in his chest as his mind replayed his first sight of Cindy after boarding the Pathfinder a month after the Draka abandoned them in the disabled ship.
The screams.
"Finish them off."
NOVA VIRCONIUM
HELLAS PLANITIA, MARS
DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA
MARCH 15, 1989
Yolande Ingolfsson had a scowl fixed on her face as she strode rapidly into servant's quarters. Marya. She was the most obvious source for the leak, a born Yankee put under the yoke in India. Too obvious, almost. Still, she had put off investigating the wench long enough.
Almost like I feel guilt for what I did to her after Myfwany died, and snorted amusement at the thought. Guilt was a bourgeois emotion for serfs, not Citizens of the Race.
Maybe because she bore Gwen beneath her heart for those long months. She sighed inwardly. If her suspicions were true, the betrayal and death of her tantie-ma would would devastate her oldest daughter, the New Race clone of Myfwany.
Nothing in the bedroom but a bed with a quilt coverlet; there was a signed holo of Gwen by the bed. The sitter was a room about four meters by three, lit by glowceiling, walls of foam rock and tile floor covered by throw rugs. A couch along one wall, a couple of chairs, cushions. The viewer screen, a row of dataplaques beside it, with the garish covers of serf entertainment.
Yolande stopped dead. A perscomp on a table, with a chair still pushed back as if in haste; the screen was dark, but the indicator was on, something running.
She's not cleared for one of those. Two quick strides brought her to the chair, and she noticed a dataplaque already in the receptor. A crawling sensation began running along her back as she hit the DIVIDE command on the keyboard.
The screen blanked to light gray, then lit. A man's face appeared. In an Alliance uniform, with brigadier's shoulderboards. American eagle, OSS flashes. Unremarkable face, square, rather dark, big-nosed; in his forties, a little gray in the flat-topped black hair, eyes black too, so that the pupil didn't show. Deep grooves, ridged forehead, the face of a man hagridden for many years. Yolande heard her own breath freeze in a strangled gasp, felt a sheet of ice lock her diaphragm.
Him.
"Marya, my sister, you must realize from this how desperate the situation is."
Him. India. The cool Punjab night, and the missiles arching up from the trees. Pssft-thud, and Myfwany's graceful stride turning to a tumbling fall.
"This plaque must be wiped as soon as you've read it. Here are your instructions."
Him. The face, under the upraised visor. That single glimpse.
"...je t'aime, ma souer," the voice concluded. She touched the controls and the screen blacked. Her own face reflected dimly in the darkened screen. Eyes gone enormous, lips peeled back until the gums showed. A trickle of hoarse sound escaped her throat.
"His sister. His sister. I've had his sister in my own household fo' thirteen years!" A bubble of laughter escaped her, and she ground her teeth closed on it, feeling something thin and hot stabbing between her eyes.
Wait. The crawling sensation on her back was intensified, noticeable to her conscious mind now. This was too easy. Why would she leave this out in the open-
A reflection in the screen, next to her face. A woman standing in the doorway, watching her.
Marya!
Yolande began to turn as the serf brought the Tolgren 9mm level. Long trained reflex overrode the impossible sight of an armed serf here, in Nova Virconium! A snarl ratcheted out of her throat as she began a spring at the Yankee spy.
Too late.
The crack of the gunshot followed quickly on the heels of the impact sledging into her forehead.
Blackness.
Marya Lefarge stared down at the sight of Yolande on the floor, a neat hole in her brow, lips parted even in death to reveal her teeth. The perscomp was splattered with blood and brains, the throw rug beneath rapidly sodden with dark red.
A laugh forced its way up from her chest and through her throat. A wave of elation flowed through her. This is most alive I've felt in thirteen years!
A wry smirk twisted her mouth as she heard running footsteps rapidly approaching. Ironic, she though as she turned to face to door to her quarters, her face calming to a serene expression. The past few months had been exhilarating, despite the constant danger of prolonged, painful death. But it was something. It was helplessness that was the worst thing about being a slave. Not abuse, not privation, not the ritualized humiliation; it was not being able to do anything except what they wanted.
The door burst open, propelled by the shoulder of a Citizen in the uniform blacks of the War Directorate, cradling a Holbars T-7 assault rifle in his arms. A stunned moment as he took in the sight of the blood spattered serf with the gun in her hand.
Then she quickly brought it to her temple. Don't let them win, Frederick. Pulled the trigger.
Frederick Lefarge was smiling as he saw the tubes extending from the Alliance ships to the drifting Draka cargo carriers. There were still Marines in skinsuits and flexible body armor along the exterior of the hulls, propelling themselves with reaction guns.
"...all dead in here," a voice was saying over the intercom, relayed from the suit-mike of one of the Marines who had boarded one of the two ships. "Looks like they all popped their passports after they realized the self-destruct wasn't going to work."
"Good work, Lieutenant Shepard," Kurasaka replied. "Make sure the rest of the ship is secure." The captain turned to Lefarge, smiled as he snapped off a regulation salute. "Sir, I present to you two Draka cargo carriers, filled to the brim with alien artifacts."
Lefarge returned the salute as a relaxed atmosphere seemed to fill the bridge, some low chatter and laughter rising from the crew. "Relay to the task force: Good work. We stomped a good many Snakes today and showed them they're not the only ones who can play this game."
Now we get to see where this technology will take us.