Tales from the Service: A Rock In the Way

2948-03-24 – Tales from the Service: A Rock In the Way 

While the Incarnation consolidates at Matusalemme, speculation has been running wild here at Maribel as to where they will strike next. No clear answer has been reached at higher levels of command that we are aware of, but multiple worlds are being given extra resources and FDA manpower to prepare. 

Naval Intelligence has received many reports from Navy, FDA, and mercenary auxiliary sources who claim to know with some certainty what the enemy’s next target will be. Obviously, all these contradictory leads can’t be correct at once, and Intelligence is pursuing the most likely leads and feeding the results of their investigations to Fifth Fleet. 

One of our readers, who could not reveal her location on security grounds, is convinced that she has been deployed to their next target. Based on information from her account, there are several worlds which she might be posted to – all of them near the direct line between Maribel and Matusalemme. If this is indeed the enemy’s axis of advance, that actually gives me hope – the closer the enemy comes to Maribel, the easier it will be for Fifth Fleet to force a favorable engagement. 

For FDA units, this speculation is not an idle way to pass time. These units are mainly composed of light infantry – they are only a few weeks of training removed from local militias, and though they have standardized weapons and uniforms, they have no significant numbers of personnel trained to operate armor-suits, heavy fighting vehicles, or heavy weapons. Without the fleet, FDA has only fortifications and man-portable weaponry with which to take on the Incarnation. 

 

As the last light of the day faded and the blue-black curtain of darkness crossed the sky, Glorinda Eccleston sat in the doorway of her rapid-fab shelter and watched the stars come out. 

The glare of work-lights illuminated the construction project behind her ensured that only the brightest stars would appear, but the stars she wanted to see were the local primary’s nearest neighbors. Matusalemme, around which Adimari Valis lay in durance, appeared low over the southern horizon. The bright binary system of Mal Xanthe, one of the great natural lighthouses of the Frontier, peeked over the hills a little while after sunset, both stars clearly visible. Maribel, farther away than Matusalemme, was barely visible over the lights’ glare, but with the help of a pocket smart-optic, Glorinda picked it out anyway, low in the northern sky. 

Maribel seemed so far away, and Glorinda shuddered. When the Incarnation came to the world her unit had been sent to – and it would soon, she suspected – they could only draw things out and hope that the battle-fleet orbiting that distant pinprick would sweep in to the rescue, scattering the Incarnation fleet with overwhelming firepower. 

That this plan hadn’t worked out for Adimari Valis didn’t sit easy with Glorinda, but she had to put a brave face on for her company. When – really, if – the Navy rode to the rescue, she was the only person in the unit with high-powered, navy-spec comms gear. She could call some of that firepower onto Nate forces on the ground when it arrived – and until then, the FDA’s only heavy weapons not built into surface fortifications would a the hundred-odd disposable mass-driver satellites, each carrying only fifty shots. There was no way that would be enough firepower to defend a planet for long. 

“Eccleston, do you have a moment?” 

Glorinda jumped. “What-” Captain Moravec had once again snuck up on her – his quiet footfalls and usually quiet voice ensured that the spectacled officer was rarely noticed moving about the chaos of the camp and construction site unless he wanted to be, especially at night. He always seemed to be everywhere when it suited him, and nowhere when it didn’t.  “Sorry sir. What do you need?” 

“Walk with me.” Moravec, mag-lenses of his glasses glinting in the indirect glow of the work-lights, was otherwise only a slim shadow in the night. Glorinda hopped to her feet and followed him along the main path through the camp, downhill and away from the construction site. 

Only after they’d passed the outer perimeter of sentry-posts did he speak again. “How do you know they’re coming here next?” 

“Captain, I...” Glorinda hadn’t spoken to anyone about her suspicions. She hadn’t even noted them in her personal log. How had Moravec known? 

“You stargaze at dusk every day as if you’re expecting to see something up there change.” Moravec didn’t break his stride, and his quiet voice remained devoid of emotion. “I’m not the only one who knows what you’re thinking. Who told you?” 

“Sir, no, it’s nothing like that. Nobody in the fleet tells me anything, and there’s nobody in-system talking on Navy frequencies even if they did. I just have... I guess it’s a hunch.” 

Captain Moravec processed this for several seconds, leading her unerringly along one of the winding paths leading down the hill to the heavy-lift landing pad in the valley below. “It’s a hunch that’s got you scared half to death, Eccleston. Lay it out for me.” 

“I got to thinking a while back, what does the Incarnation want in the Frontier?” She pointed up to the sky, though her commanding officer probably couldn’t see it. “They don’t want empty worlds, there are plenty of those, and nicer ones than Adimari Valis. They could have had Berkant, for example.” 

“Perhaps their leaders want the Xenarch digs. If so, they would never come here.” 

“We’ve all seen the psych-briefing on Incarnation ideology. They don’t value things, remember? Best guess I have is that they want people – people as a group, plugged into their head-wire net and obedient to their crusade.” 

“Human capital.” Moravec said the phrase with such distaste that he clearly meant it to mean slaves. “Adimari Valis was evacuated before they got it, thank God. But there’s not much population here, either.” 

“No.” Glorinda shook her head. “But if they want people, there are only a few places on the Frontier to get them – and from Matusalemme, sir, it seems to me the rock we are standing on is in the way.” 

Moravec stopped and looked toward the northern horizon. Glorinda couldn’t see his face, but she could see her logic had made an impression on him.  

“I see.” The captain eventually replied. “Thank you, Eccleston. Have you shared this with anyone else?” 

“No sir.” 

“Keep it that way.” He turned on one heel and began leading back toward the camp outskirts. “And just for now, if you’re going to stargaze, at least be cheery about it.” 

Glorinda hurried to catch up with her commander. She knew how important her putting a brave face on for the rest of the company was. “I’ll try, Captain.” 

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Tales from the Service: Ladeonist Roundup

2948-03-17 – Tales from the Service: Ladeonist Roundup

Three days ago, the Navy finally abandoned the final effort to relieve Adimari Valis. While records are still being compiled, the estimate is that the battles in the Matusalemme system cost the lives of almost ten thousand Navy spacers and mercenary auxiliaries – and that’s just a count of the spacers engaged. Of the twenty percent of Adimari Valis’s population which could not or would not evacuate and the unclear number of local groundside defenders (including Jacob Borisov), no casualty figures are known, and it is possible none ever will be. 

Matusalemme’s relatively advanced orbital infrastructure (for its colonial population) fell into enemy hands almost intact and were not demolished in the last Navy surveillance recordings of the system. Perhaps the world will be relatively unscathed when it is retaken. 

This week’s entry was submitted in response to last week’s entry about local efforts on Maribel to catch Incarnation agents behind the lines. Evidently, there are counter-terrorism and counter-intelligence task forces assigned to this task on almost every major world in the Reach – including, if some of the messages I’ve received are correct, the Hegemony core worlds, which are about as far from the action as one can get. 

Because of their counterhuman augmentations and the support of many radical domestic Ladeonists, rooting out these saboteurs and spies has proven at least as challenging as forcing the enemy’s slippery Tyrant cruisers into an engagement on the Navy’s terms. Other than the Yaxkin City explosion some months ago (which still has not been confirmed as related to any Ladeonist activity or Incarnation agents), these agents, when operating far from the front lines, seem to mainly focus on soft targets with low security, which has maximized the lifespan of each agent or cell, but also limited the casualties and damage caused by their efforts. 

[N.T.B - For all that Duncan’s optimism has thicker armor than a dreadnought, there’s no path to retaking that world right now. As much of a nightmare as losing a colonial outpost like Adimari Valis is, that place is going to stay in Nate’s hands for a while. Any holdout pockets of mercenary or local militia forces on the ground are on their own – the Navy’s big guns aren’t riding to the rescue before they’re overwhelmed or starved out.] 

Commander Tal Vieth glowered at the line of grav-shackled prisoners in the security annex’s single basement cell. Of the eleven men and women his outfit had rounded up in connection with a local Ladeonist cell, he would have bet his entire retirement savings that one knew something that would lead his force to the capture of Agent Horus. 

Yejide Blum, Tal’s second-in-command, strode up and down the line of prisoners, twirling her joltwand and snarling so ferociously that he was beginning to think she might bite one of them. The other members of the counterinsurgency force stood their guard silently around the cell’s gravitic-shear door, helmet faceplates blanked, though Tal knew them well enough to suspect there was a betting pool being organized on a private comms channel. They knew to leave interrogations to the experts. 

“Let’s not play games.” Yejide hissed, turning around to pace the line once more. “Your lives were over the day you sheltered an agent of an enemy power. You’ll spend the rest of your lives in the worst damned military prison the Confederated Navy can find.” 

Tal discovered which of the prisoners was the leader, and which two were most likely to flip on Horus, before his subordinate had finished her dire pronouncement. As with most Ladeonist cells, these eleven were mostly the idiot children of local middle-managers, petty potentates, and bureaucrats, whose upwardly-mobile parents had failed their children. 

In three cases, their descent into the underworld of counterhuman revolutionaries might have been checked in adolescence, except for the intervention of protective parents calling in favors to shield them from the consequences for minor vandalism and such petty crimes. Now, he wondered if those same parents were proud of the monsters they had created – chip-headed freaks who tweaked their bodies and minds in the name of overthrowing the comfortable order that had created them. 

The previously-identified leader snorted derisively as Yejide passed him, and she whirled and raised the joltwand to his face before he could say anything. After a brief pause, surprised at the reflexes of his captor, he smiled. “You think you scare us? If we are useful to the cause, Horus will free us. If we are not, then you can only hold us until our final victory.” 

Tal thought back to the records he’d gone over. This leader, Sirius Twickley, was a gangly scarecrow with the bright eyes of a true believer, even though his body lacked most of the traditional counterhuman modifications. He believed in his cause, but apparently, he didn’t believe it enough to risk his parents noticing the changes and kicking him out of their opulent four-bedroom condominium near the city center. Other than spend two nights in a small-town drunk tank after an act of minor political vandalism, he’d never sacrificed anything for his cause – but he seemed only too happy to throw away the lives of his friends. 

“Horus is a coward.” Yejide’s snarl vanished, to be replaced by a sickly-sweet, condescending smile. When she smiled genuinely, Tal found the woman somewhat attractive, but when her mind was on business, she became like the rest of his unit – blankly stone-faced, expressing emotional responses only when they were useful. As effective as this was, it didn’t look good on anyone. “He won’t go after a high-security prison to rescue a few failed academics and worthless chip-heads. He used you and expended you when he needed to throw us off.” 

“We’ll be out of prison within a week of the war being over.” Twickley countered, and his voice carried no hint of doubt. “And the Navy won’t send us anywhere we actually risk dying before then.” 

He was more right than Tal liked, of course. As non-violent dissidents, even ones with nominal treason charges against them, the Navy brass wouldn’t risk the trouble their relatively affluent families would make if they were dealt with as harshly as they deserved. 

Yejide knew it, too. Tal saw the calculation working its way through her mind in the minute changes of her stern expression shortly before she flipped the joltwand over her hand and drove it into Sirius Twickley’s solar plexus. She must have used a low setting, because he screamed as he fell to the rough nanocrete floor – a high joltwand setting would lock up the muscles required to scream. Twickley was a lost cause. With a wave, Tal gestured for two of the masked men behind him to enter the cell and take the ringleader away. 

As Twickley, still screaming and struggling feebly, was dragged out, the eyes of the other ten flicked between Tal and Yejide. Several were nervous – they knew how much more agonizing a joltwand’s touch could be to a person with unorthodox electronics hooked to their nervous systems, even on low settings. They couldn’t know their leader was only being taken away to be held somewhere he couldn’t influence them – for his part, the gangly ideologue seemed to believe he was going to be executed. Tal hoped the fear of death might scare some sense into him, but he doubted that would happen. 

Before the grav-shear barrier reasserted itself, Tal stepped into the cell and laid a hand on Yejide’s shoulder. It was time to present them another path. “Your damned fool of a leader might be right.” He announced quietly, before Twickley’s screams had quite faded out into the distance. “If we send you to the tribunal, you might be out after the war is over. For your sake, I hope you aren’t. You’d be safer behind bars.” 

One of the younger Ladeonists, a girl of perhaps twenty years’ age, frowned. “Safer?” 

Tal turned to her and nodded. “Tonight there are six grieving families thanks to Horus. By tomorrow, it might be thirty. Treason proceedings are datasphere-searchable records by law.” 

Several of the imprisoned Ladeonists gulped or glanced at their fellows. They weren’t afraid of vengeful families of Horus’s victims, he knew – they were afraid of something far closer to home, and far more immediate. Their parents could not be lied to or spun into believing that they had been unjustly treated. 

“Now then.” Yejide shook Tal’s hand off her shoulder. “Let’s play a little game. The one of you chip-heads who leads us to Horus goes free, no questions asked. The rest go to the tribunal.” 

Tal nodded his assent and folded his arms behind his back. As he looked up and down the line of prisoners one more time, he wondered who would break first. 

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Tales from the Service: A Glitch in the Gap

2948-03-03 – Tales from the Service: A Glitch In the Gap 

The Navy techs and cleaning crew had done their best to put the off-duty lounge compartment back into factory-fresh condition, but no amount of cleaning could purge the smell of space from the bulkheads and fixtures. 

The command deck of Terence Morey didn’t have enough space to pace properly, so Marty had relocated his daily regimen to the leisure deck as soon as that had been repaired sufficiently that one no longer needed a vacsuit to visit it. The place was still as haunted as any part of a ship could be, and it reeked of the interstellar void so strongly that he was mystified that none of the Navy crewmen sent aboard to help him return to Maribel seemed to notice. 

Those four men and two women, all younger than him by at least ten years, didn’t understand why Marty paced the ship in his off-duty hours, now that the treadmill – and indeed the entire onboard exercise space – was in working order. They didn’t want to understand, and he didn’t really want them to, either. Perhaps the accusations in their sidelong looks whenever he passed by were correct – perhaps he was crazy, part of his mind cracked from the long months of isolation aboard a ruined ship. 

More likely, he thought, they would understand when they were older and wiser themselves, or perhaps it would take an experience like his to make them see why he did what he did. He paced the ship in his off-duty hours, even sometimes when he was supposed to be asleep in the makeshift cabin he’d set up in the bridge-deck parts storage compartment, because it gave him just the slightest chance to notice something going wrong with Morey before it became a serious problem. 

Marty was no tech, but he had gotten a feel for the ship in his months aboard even before the incident which had killed its more technically gifted crew. He could feel and hear when things were running smoothly, and if they weren’t, he could usually detect that, too. Diagnosing and repairing such a fault was another matter, but the more time he had to do it, the less chance there was that the mangled ship would suffer a catastrophic failure. 

That was the idea, anyway – at least, before the ship had been patched up by a civilian maintenance vessel dragooned into the Arrowhawk squadron. Theoretically, Morey was in as good a shape as she had ever been – good enough shape to cross the Gap, the Navy men had said. Theoretically, there was no more need to pace, to feel, and to listen, and the six new members of the crew never failed to remind him of the apparent futility of his diligence. 

For a while, the techs seemed to be right. The automated monitors, now patched up, detected every problem long before Marty’s pacing and listening could. When they told him the ship was ready to cross the Gap, he had believed them. For weeks after creeping out of the comparative shelter of the Sagittarius Arm, Morey had bounced from one empty-space jump resolution to another, guiding itself only by minute stellar parallax effects measured by computer. Everything was working – if not as perfectly as when the poor ship had left Maribel for the outward voyage, then at least as well as it had just prior to the attack by the tiny, swarming strike-launches which the Navy men called Railsplitters or Coronachs. One of the two terms was the proper name for the machines, but Marty hadn’t bothered to learn which. He was leaving Sagittarius for a region of the galaxy devoid of such cruelties and would never see a swarm of the tiny, murderous vessels again. 

So intent was Marty on relishing the fact that he would never tangle with that particular foe again that he almost missed the feeling that something was wrong somewhere between bulkhead fifteen and seventeen on the leisure-deck. He had to cover the stretch several times to pinpoint the spot where the sense was strongest, and even then, the exact nature of the disturbance eluded him. 

“Hey, who’s on duty in command?” The novelty of having extra pairs of hands and eyes to watch the controls while he was off duty was still fresh, and he regularly called up there to check, just to make sure. 

“It’s Rapallino, Mr. Westland. Do you need something?” The voice in his earpiece told him more about which of his Navy-donated assistants was on duty than the name. This was the easily bored female junior tech with the pretty face and the long, gangly limbs not quite filled out by adulthood. 

“Something’s off down here.” This was not the first time he had made such a report. Usually, he noticed something wrong only after the techs had started to fix it. Despite himself, he always hoped he was the first to pick up on a potential issue. 

“The board is clear, Mr. Westland. There’s nothing wrong with the ship.” 

Marty almost jumped for joy. He had beaten the techs to a problem – not for a moment did he entertain the possibility that his finely-tuned sense of rightness on Morey might be wrong. “Wrong, kiddo. Something’s about to go wrong. Something big. Bleed the capacitors and start a full diagnostic.” 

The young tech, probably groaning with her comms pickup muted, didn’t reply right away. Technically, the ship was Marty’s, so he was in command. Marty had been there when Captain Bosch had ordered the detachment to listen to him, and for a moment, he wondered if this was as far as they would be willing to do it. They thought he was deranged, after all. 

After almost a full half-minute, probably just enough time to consult her associates, the tech complied. “Capacitors bleeding. Can you be more specific about what’s wrong?” 

“I can try. Will you tell everyone to stay quiet and still?” 

“We’ll be quiet.” No attempt to hide the exasperation in the girl’s voice was made. 

Marty muted his comms, then paced in a small circle around where the sense of wrongness originated. Doubtless what of the crew was awake was running various diagnostics to try to beat him to the problem, but this time, his methods had them beat. They didn’t know what to look for. Marty didn’t either, but that put him in his comfort zone. 

Five times, he paced his little circle clockwise, then five more counterclockwise. For good measure, he stood in the center of the corridor just aft of bulkhead sixteen, where the off feeling was strongest, and spun in a slow circle, trying to put a sense of direction to the sensation. 

At last, he settled on a likely direction, then called up the ship’s diagnostics on his wrist computer. Tracing that direction from his position, he digitally passed through the pressure-hull, a mass of ductwork for the auxiliary atmospherics, a primary power conduit, and then... 

“Aha!” Marty unmuted his comms. “I know what’s wrong.” 

“Do you?” The girl on the bridge sounded characteristically bored. “All the diagnostics I can run from up here come up clean.” 

“Something’s loose in the...” Marty looked up the official name for the module he had long ago nicknamed the Mechanical Mother-In-Law for its girth, complexity, and the long sequence of apparently malicious failures it had demonstrated early in his solitude. “...The primary phased matter condenser.” 

“The PMC?” Though Marty didn’t know the significance of the device, the tech’s bored tone was instantly gone. All he knew was that it was connected to the main reactor, but either could run without the other. The ship certainly issued dire warnings if the condenser was ever inoperable, even if the backup successfully took over. “I’ll do a targeted diagnostic and send Mulryan out for a look.” 

“I’ll go.” Marty volunteered. He’d spent enough time inside the Mechanical Mother-in-Law comparing its state to the schematics that he could almost certainly spot the issue in an instant. It would take the other techs several minutes, if they spotted it at all. “I’ve fixed that damn thing enough times already.” 

“I’m sorry, what? Mr. Westland, are you telling me you have laid your untrained hands on the ship’s PMC?” 

It was Marty’s turn to delay his response. Her tone indicated that such an action was sinful, even criminal. A machine was a machine to him – make it look like the computer’s schematics, then restart it. Repeat, if necessary. “Seven or eight times, the damn thing. Wasn’t even damaged in the attack, but it kept failing anyway. Why?” 

“Stars around, Westland, I knew you were crazy, but tinkering with your PMC?” The girl shook her head. “I suppose it hasn’t exploded or poisoned the reactor yet.” 

“I was careful. It’s not like – wait.” He frowned, finally interpreting her words completely. “Exploded? Why didn’t anyone tell me it could do that?” 

We of course know from last week’s Tales from the Service that Martin Westland and his small replacement crew made it back to Maribel alive. I’ll put all you ship-techs at ease by mentioning that when Morey was overhauled there on its return, the Phased Matter Condenser was replaced wholesale, along with several other sensitive items which Mr. Westland had tinkered with, but which Bosch’s repair men had not been able to replace. 

He was right about something being off, of course – something that was, at least this time, easily repaired. A more severe problem might have reduced Morey to backup phased-matter collection for the remaining portion of its return journey. Transit of the Gap is dangerous for this reason – there's a lot of time for things to go wrong, and all of that time is spent unimaginably far from any chance of rescue or assistance. 

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Tales from the Service: Sagittarian Silence Broken

2948-02-25 – Tales from the Service: Sagittarian Silence Broken

Marty wasn’t alone.

For several exultant seconds, this simple fact, demonstrated on every functional display on the bridge, paralyzed him with both joy and horror. He had been alone ever since Terence Morey had been attacked by a swarm of mysterious strike-craft analogues deep in the Sagittarius Frontier, killing the other ten members of its crew – the chronometric system insisted that it had been a year, though Marty still suspected this was in error.

Directly ahead, just beyond the nameless system’s jump limit, a host of vessels – broadcasting proper, verified Confederated Navy FFI codes – maneuvered to recover whatever formation they had been in prior to their star drive jump. Almost all the vessels were warships that dwarfed a little colonial pathfinder like Morey, but smaller vessels swarmed protectively around the big cruisers and destroyers, preparing for an attack at any moment.

“Good.” Marty glanced at the status board, where vast sections of Morey were shown only as dim grey outlines. Out there, in the evacuated crew cabins, the builder-drone hangar, the mess, and the recreation module, the corpses of his ten crewmates bore silent testimony to the suddenness with which the seeming peace of the Sagittarius Frontier could be broken.

All at once, alarms began wailing all across the bridge. Marty poked at the command station’s small control panel and dismissed several of them, but the ship – designed for a bridge crew of four – seemed to mock its lone operator with a cascade of information no single man could make sense of.

Marty hopped out of the chair at the command console and darted between the other three stations, trying to figure out what had gone wrong with the crippled ship this time. He found that the loudest two seemed to come from the helm station, and specifically from the navcomputer, which Marty – hired on as the assistant builder-drone technician – had never been trained to use.

Fortunately, at least one of the alarms – the collision alarm – was rather self-explanatory. One of the ships in the just-arrived armada evidently had set a collision course with Terence Morey. That, Marty knew, was something the navcomputer would fix on its own, it just preferred very much for a human member of the crew to choose a new course. The other was something called a noncombatant exclusion zone alert – Marty had never seen that one before, and didn’t see any easy way to fix it.

Hopping to the comms board, Marty noticed that the next alarm was for an incoming comms channel. It hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that the big fleet cruisers or their attendants had noticed him. The thought of talking to someone after so long threatened to paralyze him once more, but Marty screwed the board’s earpiece into his ear before he could second-guess this decision.

“Repeat, you have thirty seconds to comply.” A gruff voice was barking impatiently. “Spike your drive immediately or be fired upon.”

Fired upon? Marty clawed the earpiece out of his ear in alarm. He hadn’t considered the possibility that the Navy would be hostile. It had been almost eighteen months since Morey had left Maribel on its mission – what could have happened in that time for Navy squadrons to start firing on civilian contractors? Should he turn the ship around and make a run for the in-system and try to escape, or spike his drive as they suggested? They were people after all – people Marty didn’t know, each of them with their fingers poised over an unbelievable array of weapons controls. If he did as they said, anything might happen.

Another channel lit up on the comms board. Hesitantly, Marty picked up the earpiece again and switched to the new channel.

“Terence Morey, power down your drive.” This voice, though demanding the same thing, did it in a far calmer way. “We see your damaged condition and are equipped to affect repairs.”

Marty’s heart soared at the kindly tone and promised assistance. Would they really repair Morey? “Powering down engines.” Marty replied before tearing out the earpiece and diving toward the helm console. Only after he was halfway through the command entry did he realize he hadn’t transmitted his reply.

At last, he finished entering the commands to power down the gravitic drive, and Morey entered a ballistic drift. As soon as he had confirmation, Marty hurried back to the comms station. This time, he remembered to select a channel and press the “transmit” button.

“Drive is spiked.” Marty had often talked to himself in the past year, but now that he was talking to someone, he was horrified at how cracked and high-pitched his voice sounded.

The calm-voice returned a moment later. “Morey, we confirm. Slave your helm to our coordinator, and we’ll bring you in to dock with Arrowhawk for repairs.”

Marty frowned. He wasn’t sure how to do that, and would need to consult the manuals in the archive. “Give me a moment to do that. You see, we’re a bit short-staffed over here…”

Terence Morey returned from the Sagittarius Frontier a few days ago, limping into Maribel orbit with five people aboard. Martin Westland, her only surviving original crewman, brought the ship in with the help of four crewmen from the Arrowhawk scouting force, which commandeered the ship after repairing it in order to bring reports and data streams related to this scout squadron’s situation in Sagittarius. In addition to Arrowhawk’s original squadron, Captain Bosch seems to have gathered together a number of civilian vessels found in the region, and managed to keep his ships going by pillaging the supply reserves of a few incomplete orbital habitats.

Evidently, there are enough Tyrants in the region that Bosch was avoiding combat; his ships have only limited missile stocks, and his reports state that he wanted to reserve them for an engagement that would be meaningful to the final war effort.

Of course, Morey departed the lost squadron only six weeks after contact with Sagittarius was finally lost – Bosch’s reports do state that he has no confidence in the long-term survivability of his force. There is some hope the squadron survives today, but I think that this possibility is remote at best.

Despite the likelihood that Bosch is dead or captured at this point, Naval Intelligence has published large sections of the report data to the datasphere. It seems Bosch is trying to do in Sagittarius what Incarnation ships in the Coreward Frontier have been so successfully doing – disrupting supply routes and industry. Incarnation bases seem to have sprung up on several worlds previously surveyed for Confederated colonization, and Bosch had by the date of his dispatch already struck one of these outposts, and had plans to attack more. While probably not having the same impact on their war effort as their attacks have on ours, Bosch is almost certainly diverting forces which otherwise would make the job of defending the Frontier settlements even harder.

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