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  One

  “Alright, Hunter, let’s have it.”

  Deep space pilots called the Jupiter Skyway Approach Port “Max Boomtown.” The value of the cargo passing through the facility on any given day could easily rival the total output of one or more colonies along the Reach. The man in charge of it all was a no-nonsense merchant marine inspector by the name of Jeremiah Foobing.

  “Honestly, Inspector, I can’t believe you, of all people, could think I would violate fleet contraband policy.” Jason Hunter was standing with his hands folded behind his back and wearing his most un-threatening expression along with his flawlessly pressed and shined Skywatch officer’s uniform.

  Around the inspector’s office hummed the vital operations of Merchant Customs Authority. Max Boomtown was one of the largest civilian freight inspection stations in the Core Sector, often processing more than 100 ships a day ranging in size from personal interplanetary cruisers to billion-ton star trains.

  “Sure you don’t want to come to the party?” Hunter asked, trying to distract the overworked customs officer.

  Inspector Foobing sat at his desk, fiddling with fiddly scraps of paper. He believed computers were 100% of the reason his numbers failed to add up correctly, so he kept all his records in writing. His prodigious weight scarcely fit between his sagging desk and the wall. The office looked like an 18th century British librarian’s closet, with tiny wooden drawers, brass cabinet fittings and enough accounting books to sink a small rowboat. Out the window behind him, Hunter could see the line of ships docked for inspection. His shuttle was the closest and the smallest by a factor of at least six.

  “Hunter every time you come through here, we go through the same dance. You and I both know you’re carrying illegal booze. I call you on it. You deny it. Then I have to decide if I want to send a squad of officers out to climb through your ship deck by deck looking for it. The next time I’m just going to shoot you. It’s less paperwork. Get that juiced-up hot rod off my docks.” Foobing shoved a customs clearance into Hunters hands and waddled towards the door, wheezing impatiently.

  “It’s going to be a bash, Inspector. Sure you won’t–”

  “Get out, Hunter!” Foobing shouted across the bustling customs office.

  “Just one drink?” he called back.

  “OUT!” The voice echoed.

  Moments later, Hunter spied his favorite Boomtown official. She went by the name Tisalee, and she had been persuaded on multiple occasions to let the Captain skate by when the Inspector wasn’t looking. He snuck up on her desk and appeared from behind her overhead cabinets.

  “Hi,” Hunter grinned. “Miss me?”

  “You get out of here!” Tisalee whispered urgently. “The last time you and that–that creature almost got me fired!” The Captain was leaning over the half-height wall to look down on her desk. He picked up her tablet and flipped through the pages nonchalantly.

  “I see you’re still reading those naughty books with the shirtless pirate captains on the covers,” Hunter teased as he raised an eyebrow. “Ooh, the pirate has a tomato...” Tisalee ripped the tablet out of his hands and put it in a drawer.

  “Do I have to call security?”

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” the Captain replied, reclining his chin on his arms and over-doing the smoldering look. “I was going to invite you to our party. Annora got her SAR ticket. We’re flying in to Scary’s for a drink and dinner and maybe a little something extra. That sounds like something you would have jumped at before you turned into Tisalee the worker bee.”

  She actually hesitated, looking into the Captain’s dancing eyes and gazing at his sandy boyish hair for a moment and remembering how many times he was the only reason she smiled. Then she remembered the time she had to be bailed out of jail half-dressed and her expression darkened again. “I have plans.”

  “Oh well, I tried. Say hi to your mom for me.” Hunter sauntered off. “Hey Mike! How’s the new sled?” Tisalee watched as the Captain greeted at least five more people before walking out into the softlock.

  She quickly suppressed her second thoughts and went back to her rows and columns of numbers.

  Two

  “Neek, what’s the good word?” Hunter removed his coat and stored it in the inboard bay before donning the upper half of his flight suit.

  “Welcome aboard, Captain. Status of Command One is nominal,” the pleasant electronic female voice responded over the shipwide intercom. The Argent command computer’s name was “Dominique” but Hunter preferred fewer syllables, so it was quickly shortened to “Neek.”

  “What’s the weather forecast on this dark and starry day?”

  “The Jupiter primary is relatively quiet. No unusual readings to a distance of point one.”

  “Very good. Engage communications autosystems and begin flight checks.” Hunter closed the door to Command One’s aft storage. The boxes of scotch, rum and various brews were stacked eight-high.

  “Affirmative. Autosystems engaged.”

  The Captain switched his commlink. “Hunter to Argent.”

  A brief pause. Hunter pulled on his flight suit pants and began working with the pressure seals on his boots.

  “Argent. Ensign Walls here.”

  “Walls! Who’s my Officer of the Watch today?”

  “Err– uhh–I am, sir.” The young officer’s voice was tremulous. It was pretty clear he hadn’t been in command of the watch for long, and it was also pretty clear he wasn’t used to addressing the Skipper in person.

  “Are you taking good care of my ship, Ensign?”

  “Yes sir!”

  “Outstanding. Plot a course to Jupiter Five and give me a best speed ETA.”

  Soft voices could be heard in the background, just loud enough to trigger the pickups in Ensign Walls’ high-gain microphone.

  “Sir, uhh– sir, the ETA to Jupiter Five is nine hours best speed.”

  “Very well, Argent. Plot your course and bring the ship about. Command One will rendezvous at the Autonav Beacon. Hunter out.”

  After bounding into the pilot’s seat, Hunter expertly activated the magnetic locks on his flight harness, sealed the ship’s environmental controls and cleared the moorings. Neek was busy negotiating a departure vector which the computer knew from experience the Captain would ignore. The main idea was simply to let Spacelane Traffic Control know when Command One was going to rocket into the approach and blast its way free of the launch corridor.

  “STC, this is Command One, requesting jets and standing by.” The turbine-like whine of the shuttle’s mains filled the ship with the thrum of fusion-energized power. Hunter skillfully tapped out the remaining configuration commands and flexed his gloved hands as the vessel’s maneuvering controls unlocked and rotated into position on either side of his flight couch. HUD readouts glowed on the inner surface of the viewport and Hunter’s tac-suit stabilized pressure and life support with a cheerful bell-like sound.

  Hunter activated the “dock lock” release, breaking the last physical connection between the shuttle and Jupiter Station.

  “Command One, this is Spacelane Traffic Control. Navigate departure lane One-Four. Autonav is disengaged. Have a nice flight.”

  “We are free and clear to navigate, Captain,” Dominique calmly announced.

  “Affirmative, STC,” Hunter replied. The sleek white shuttle pivoted weightlessly. Its pilot punched the maneuvering thrusters and blaste
d free of the shipline. Captain Hunter nudged the lateral flight controls. The vessel banked to starboard. He throttled the engines up to one-quarter power. His ship silently accelerated as the large control bank numbers indicating relative velocity spun higher.

  The tiny ship slid into the station’s electronic launch corridor just ahead of an immense commercial freighter. Captain Hunter pinged their navigational comm frequency with a friendly greeting before pulling away into open space.

  Three

  The newest crop of hotshot officers readily agreed there was something almost magical about the way modern warships were constructed. Jason Hunter had fallen deeply in love with the third-generation ships of the line the first time he had seen the design, and the Argent was most assuredly the “prettiest girl at the prom” when it came to the Captain’s Corps and their bragging rights.

  Hunter was a self-admitted romantic. He often opined there was no more glorious creature in all creation than a “maiden resplendent in all her finery.” This was usually interpreted by colleagues and rivals alike as a fanciful metaphor for the unblemished Citadel-class hull Seven-Four-Zero.

  Command One approached the enormous weapons platform from her port quarter. He tapped the transponder indicator with a gloved finger in the academy-approved manner to make absolutely sure his shuttle was transmitting multi-frequency encrypted “friendly” signals on all of Argent’s pickups. He knew what his baby was capable of if she detected an unauthorized scanner contact inside her command zone, and he knew well the only thing worse than being vaporized by your own ship’s point defense was knowing that your ship had opened fire on eighteen cases of 30-year-old scotch.

  Green and white running lights glimmered. A ship of the line was a vessel engineer’s expression of sheer power. The shape was meant to convey an intimidating potential for destruction. Her formidable engines, mighty main batteries and lithe energy weapon emplacements were breathtaking even for someone not acquainted with the design genius. The soaring main hull gave the enormous vessel a majestic profile. Her sweeping triple flight decks were as innovative as they were formidable. Hunter’s ship could launch and recover squadron after lethal squadron of smaller ships ranging from deep space fighters to surface mechs.

  Argent was brand-new. There were some inboard spaces where crew recruits swore they could still smell new paint. Some of the officers had to admit they had never seen so much expensive hardware in such pristine condition all in the same place before. Hunter had made a point of “walking the decks” and visiting every compartment, berth and space within hours of receiving orders to take command. He knew a 23-year-old Skipper already had his share of challenges to overcome. Breaking tradition would be nothing more than tempting luck, and all Captains, young or old, knew one thing about Skywatch duty: Luck was at least as important as everything else put together.

  Hunter had his enemies. At least three flag officers directly opposed his rapid promotions, but when faced with the realities in his jacket, that gleaming Skyshield Legion decoration on his uniform, and his short, fiery billet as Flight Leader of “Yellowjacket Nine,” where he became the first Ace fighter pilot under the age of 20 in fleet history, even the most shrill objections were inevitably quieted.

  What he had was the respect of the men and women he had fought with. There were some things even Skywatch Academy couldn’t teach, and there were some collars where a Captain’s insignia belonged, age be damned. There were also some ships that needed a crew up to the task of following a Captain like Jason Hunter into battle. The officers that recommended his promotions had high expectations, and Hunter knew that no matter how accomplished his crew became, he needed even better officers.

  Re-assembling those officers was the Captain’s current mission.

  After expertly landing Command One on starboard flight deck three, Hunter powered down and disengaged his flight controls. The atmosphere normalized and the environmental computers balanced pressure between the shuttle interior and the crowded, magnetically sealed seven-acre flight deck before the airlock indicators switched to green. Hunter’s commlink went live and the familiar voice of the ranking crew chief sounded from the omnidirectional crystal speaker in the Captain’s uniform collar.

  “What have ya got, Skipper?”

  “I’ve got the hard stuff, Chief,” Hunter punched the hatch interlock and opened the shuttle’s side door. Duncan Buckmaster was always a welcome sight. He was at least twice Hunter’s age, with the service stripes to prove it. Within an hour of learning the Captain had requested his assignment to one of the most prestigious commands in the entire line, he had become Hunter’s staunchest ally. The speed with which he shaped up the Argent’s flight crews was the stuff of legend. He was three weeks from mandatory promotion to Master Crew Chief: The highest non-commissioned Skywatch rank.

  “Good to have a non-trainee command officer back aboard, sir,” Duncan said as he activated the shuttle’s disembark ladder. “Everyone’s been nervous as a new bride’s first Thanksgiving around here with the junior division in charge, and I’m starting to feel like a dad left home with all the kids.”

  “Chief, I can only promise you this: When I finally round up my truant officers, you just might long for the days of the junior division. I’ve got some of the fleet’s biggest delinquents waiting for us on Jupiter Five, and we’re going to blow the roof off of Scary’s.” Hunter slapped Buckmaster’s shoulder. “Why don’t you take the hop down with us. We’ll set you up with a steak and a stein and tell some story!”

  “I appreciate that, sir, but you told me before we left Oil Can City you wanted Paladins, T-Hawks and Wildcats ready for action in two weeks. Well, today is day ten. I’ll take that steak if you’ll take two out of three.”

  “Point conceded, Chief. Let’s call it a rain check.” Hunter turned and pointed as he made his way to the magneto-lifts. “I owe you one. If I don’t deliver in a week, you have an open invitation to the Captain’s table for dinner!”

  “Much obliged, sir. Where do you want all this hooch?”

  “Just put it somewhere customs can’t find it in case we get waylaid!”

  Hunter synchronized his personal chronometer with shipboard time and jogged to the flight level lifts. This was one party he couldn’t be late for.

  Four

  “Captain on the bridge.”

  The two dozen officers and crew hastened their activities as the battalion marine corporal stationed at the bridge entrance announced Jason Hunter’s arrival on deck one.

  “Walls, since I don’t have an XO, how would you like the job for the next nine hours?” Hunter asked abruptly as he took his command chair.

  “Aye, sir,” the ensign replied nervously.

  “Very good. Get me a flight operations status report. Comms, bring us up on the J-A and get me this morning’s priority messages. Ops, I need deck status. Neek, give me an intraship channel to engineering. Helm, report our position.”

  A chorus of quiet “ayes” followed each of Hunter’s orders. The activity was well-rehearsed and efficient, even if the crew members themselves were unusually nervous. The combination of their sudden assignments, the new hardware and the confidence of their boyish captain combined to make the bridge of the Argent seem like a training exercise, even though it was clear this was anything but.

  “Our position is two nine zero miles bearing one three one mark sixty relative the Boomtown tower. Course plotted for Jupiter Five and on the board. ETA eight hours fifty three minutes.”

  Hunter waited an appropriate interval while the activity bustled around him. He pretended to check items off a tablet before he spoke. “Well done, Ensign.”

  Walls almost blushed. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Do as fine a job getting me that flight status and you’ll be on your way to an official XO’s command.”

  The ensign startled himself out of his self-congratulatory haze and turned back to the wraparound display of his vessel’s intricately mapped and scrolling flight dec
k operations status reports.

  “Intraship channel open,” Dominique replied.

  “Madison! Are the boilers lit?”

  “Like jack-o-lanterns, sir,” came the snappy reply.

  “Outstanding. Can you give me best speed four by four?”

  “And then some, sir.”

  “Very well, stand by to engage the mains, bridge out.”

  “Operations reports deck status one through thirty-four green. Crew secured for all flight modes.” The operations officer could have easily passed for a recent high school graduate. In fact, the more Hunter thought about it, he realized she probably was precisely that.

  “Helm, engage main engines and stand by to navigate.”

  “Aye sir, helm answering. Mains at your command.”

  The comms officer spoke up. “I have one priority message, sir. It’s from Commander, DSS Fury.”

  Captain Hunter had actually taken a breath to issue his next command before he seemed to deflate like an attacking Spartan General interrupted by a crying infant.

  “Let me guess,” he sighed. “My long-suffering darling sister wants a word?”

  “It’s from Commander Hunter, sir.”

  “Very well, open a channel.”

  The blue and white Pegasus-emblazoned emblem of Task Force Perseus filled the Argent’s main viewscreen.

  “Well, well,” Hunter began with a sarcastic tone. “A task force! Haven’t we reached the rare air?”

  Commander Jayce Hunter’s eyebrow-raised expression replaced the circular task force banner. Her trademark garrison cap looked especially intimidating when magnified to fit the Argent’s forward bulkhead. “You got something to say about my ships, sir?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Commander.”

  Several of Argent’s bridge crew looked back and forth between the viewscreen and their Skipper. Were they not opposite genders, most would have immediately agreed the two ship captains could easily be mistaken for one another.