BtH97

==Chapter 97 - By the Horns==
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TCJS Patrick Flannagan 
Zenith Jump Point, MKC-17934
Unknown Space
July 8th, 3026
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Aramis Hall smiled at the men and women who comprised the crew of his Tramp-class JumpShip. Other a handful of personnel essential to maintaining a sensor watch, the entire crew—and those of the attached DropShips, two Mules and a Leopard CV—were assembled here in the small grav deck of the JumpShip.
They had gathered because while they might be far from home, they were still Taurians. And today—the 8th​ of July—was one of the Concordat's national holidays. Exodus Day. Celebrated throughout the worlds and systems of the Concordat to commemorate the day that the hated Star League Defense Force had followed General Kerensky into the unknown space beyond the borders of the far distant Draconis Combine and vanished from all recorded history.
Now his crew—after six long months in space—were celebrating that holiday. Carefully hoarded bottles of liquor had been broken out, although the stern-faced Bosun—the senior non-commissioned officer aboard the Patrick Flannagan—kept a careful watch on what everyone was drinking. Twice already he had cut a member of the crew off, simply declaring, "You have had more than enough."
Aramis snorted in amusement. No one aboard the ship, no one in the Flotilla, wanted to get on the bad side of Bosun Jackson Donato. And then his amusement faded as he looked over the electronic note-pad he carried.
They were twenty four jumps out from Gateway, having covered over 600 light-years in the past six months. And so far the flotilla had detected nothing. No sign that the Exiles had come this way. Jump twenty-five would take place tomorrow morning, to a G5 star twenty-two point three light-years distant. Spectral analysis aboard his ships had determined that there were at least a dozen planets in orbit—two in the habitable zone. And so far, all indications—as limited as those might be at such a range!—showed that at least one of those worlds in the habitable zone had both an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere and liquid water.
It might be a good place to rest his crew and get them to stretch their legs—it might not, and then he shrugged. Well, tomorrow we will find out for certain. 
Standing, he nodded at the Bosun who cleared his throat. Slowly silence descended into the compartment.
"All right people. We've celebrated, but we have a busy day—many busy days—ahead of us come tomorrow morning. Last call for alcohol—after this round, the Bosun will secure those bottles. Don't stay up all night partying. Jump Twenty Five will take place at 0600 whether or not you have a hangover or have failed to get any sleep!"
There were groans from the audience at those words, but the complaints were in good humor—his crew still had high morale and had known in advance when the jump-time was. After all, Aramis had issued the warning order three days ago, only delaying until tomorrow to allow the Scout-class Whitetail to finish repairs on one of their sail deployment spars.
"Get some rest. We start the pre-jump checklist at 0500 and I want all systems ready to go. Okay, boys and girls?"
Everyone either mumbled an answer or nodded and Aramis smiled. "Good. In that case," he said as he raised his glass. "A toast! To the Star League Defense Force . . . may those bastards never stop running until they jump into Hell itself!"
A cheer went up through the compartment and the crew—Aramis as well—drank their last drink of the night. Then, by ones or twos or threes, the crowd started to head out, some singing, some smiling, some holding the hand of another crewmate—either from their own vessel or visiting from another.
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TCJS Patrick Flannagan
Zenith Jump Point, MKC-17934
Unknown Space
July 9, 3026
"All right, people, final checks—go/no-go for Jump Twenty Five." He paused. "Communications?"
"All systems green, all ships in our group standing by to execute. Comm is go," a rating answered. Half of Aramis's small flotilla of a dozen ships had jumped to the Nadir Point of MKC-17934 on their arrival ten days ago. Having six ships at each of the two primary jump points of a star gave Aramis and his people the best chance of detecting any lost or abandoned ship—and the sensor data gleaned from having more than one vantage point had been invaluable in cataloging each of the systems along their path. Eight inhabitable worlds had been found, each teeming with life, but untouched with man. So far, anyway. Still, Aramis had not paused to survey those worlds—that would be for a future expedition. And while the separation of the Zenith and Nadir groups meant it took a great deal of time—and forty-eight irreplaceable communications drones to date—to share the data collected, it was still close enough to coordinate their operations. If those operations were scheduled a few days away.
It was a risk, Aramis well knew, but then all space travel had some degree of inherent risk. And the ability to survey—via sensors and drones—each system from two vantage points more than outweighed the known risks. The unknown ones? Aramis snorted. Those were precisely that—unknown and unknowable. At least until they happened.
"Engineering?"
"Full charge on the Core, skipper. Sail is retracted, all systems are green. Engineering is go."
"Navigation?"
"Jump Twenty Five is plotted, all vessels in Group A have confirmed the target coordinates. Nav is go."
"Helm?"
"Holding station at the Jump Point. We are free and clear for jump, with the remainder of Group A following at one minute intervals. Reaction thrusters standing by to maneuver off of the jump point following emergence. Helm is go."
"Good," answered Aramis. "We are go for jump. Start the clock."
"Aye, aye, Sir," a rating answered. "Jump Clock started—one minute until Jump Drive activation."
The seconds ticked steadily down as Aramis looked over his readouts and screens one final time, and then he sealed the visor of the helmet of his space suit—all personnel aboard the ships of this flotilla always wore a space suit on any jump into the unknown.
Then the countdown reached zero and Aramis felt the universe twisting in on itself.
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TCJS Patrick Flannagan
Zenith Jump Point, GKV-2198
Unknown Space
July 9, 3026
"Emergence." the rating at the helm console reported.
"Sensors are rebooting—coming online . . . now," the engineer added over the suit's radio and Aramis nodded.
"MOTHER OF GOD!" the petty officer at the sensor station screamed. "CONTACT! Multiple contacts at 30,000 plus kilometers—bearing roughly 063 Mark 174," the petty officer paused. "They are pretty dispersed, no organized formation—like their station keeping thrusters aren't working."
Aramis jerked forward in his seat—only his safety harness kept him in it. Sure, enough, more than four dozen vessels were out there as he read the sensor data on his repeater display. "Set Alert Condition Two!" he barked and the WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP of the klaxon sounded throughout the ship. 
"Skipper—no emissions, any band, from the contacts," the engineer said in a flat voice. "Including the cooling vanes—those vessels are cold and dead."
he commander of the flotilla forced himself to sit back. "Comm—hail them, all channels, no encryption. Helm, back us off the jump point—do not start sail deployment! Talk to me, Peterson!" he barked at the petty officer assigned to the sensor station.
"Aye, aye, Sir," the two answered and Aramis swallowed heavily as he read the data the ship's radars and other systems were collecting on the contacts.
"I've got forty-seven JumpShips out there, Captain, at varying ranges and bearings from 30k KM up to almost 300k," the sensor operator said quietly. "Most of them look like Merchants and the old Liberty-class, but there are five Leviathans, Sir, and two Aquilla-class that appear to be refitted for docking collars. As well as five WarShips—a Winchester, a Wagon Wheel, two Concordats, and a St. Helens-class Fleet Tender. There might be more out there as well—I can't get reliable radar returns beyond 300k kilometers."
Stunned silence descended on the bridge, before someone—perhaps even Aramis himself—whispered into the quiet, "We found them."
"Sir," the comm tech said, "there is no answer on any channel. Not even their transponders are active, Sir."
"Whitetail emerging from jump, Sir," the sensor tech sang out.
"Inform them of our status and tell them to go to Alert Condition Two—have them pass the word to the rest of Group A as they exit," Aramis ordered as he stared at the cold, motionless, and silent vessels on his screen.
"Options?" he asked.
"Board them," spoke up the Bosun bluntly. "We've got a platoon of zero-G Marines trained by the SASF aboard our droppers for just this reason."
"Still no response?" Aramis asked, and the comm tech shook her head. 
"Nothing, sir."
"Bridge, engineering. I'm looking over the data from the sensors—those ships aren't running on primary or auxiliary power, skipper. Or even the damn batteries! They aren't radiating any heat whatsoever through the cooling vanes—that means that life support is down. Every system onboard must be down—otherwise the sensors would have picked up something and they would venting at least some waste heat. I can confirm they are drifting—no operational station-keeping thrusters. The way they are scattered, their thrusters have been dead a long time."
Aramis just kept staring at the vessels and then he nodded. "Donato, get those Marines ready to go—we will send across both shuttles. And take an engineering team with you."
"Fifty-two ships out there, Captain," the Bosun replied. "Where do you want us to start?"
"With the Winchester, Admiral Vickers said it was the flagship of her second-in-command—Commodore Raymond Capaldi. I want to know what the hell happened out here. And launch the comm drone—I want to speak with Group B as soon as we are able to."
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"Abandoned?" Aramis asked in a shocked voice.
"Yes, Sir," the Bosun answered as he stood in front of his captain. "Every airlock and hatch was open to vacuum; we found no one—living or dead—aboard. But we did find this," and he tapped his finger on a data storage module. "Commodore Capaldi's log."
"Have you . . .," Aramis began to ask, but the Bosun was shaking his head. "Chief Heller was right—everything over there is down, even the batteries are drained. Those ships aren't keeping station—not anymore. They are drifting," and he paused. "But the controls for the station-keeping thrusters were set on automatic. They operated until they used up all of the onboard fuel—their tanks were completely dry. Even their sails have been furled; they must have done it to minimize the drift once the thrusters eventually quit keeping them in formation."
Aramis sat back. "We've confirmed two planets in the hab-zone, Donato. No artificial emissions from either one—but they both have oxygen-nitrogen atmospheres. Could they have gone there?"
The Bosun shook his head. "All the DropShips are docked—along with the small craft. Cargo bays are still full with all sorts of things a new colony would need."
AAnd the commander of the flotilla shook his head. "Okay," he said and he picked up the log module and loaded it into a slot on the side of a computer—one isolated from the rest of the ship's network.
It took a few moments, but the module came to life and information flowed across the screen.
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<<"Last log entry—May 20, 2597. What the hell," he muttered and he pressed the key that started that particular video log.>>
<<The image of an obviously exhausted man—both physically and emotionally, it seemed to Aramis—dressed in a vacuum suit with the rank insignia of a Taurian Commodore appeared on screen. "This is my final entry," he spoke into the helmet microphone as he looked into the recording camera. "We haven't found a cure—we don't have a clue where to start looking for a cure. This damn virus is so insidious—and the incubation period long enough that we thought the fourth planet was safe. It's in the water we loaded, the air we stored in our tanks, the food we gathered.">>
<<There was a pause. "But once that incubation period is over—the damn thing is lethal. Every person in the expedition has tested positive—every last one of us is going to die out here so far away from home. I had the last DropShip to return to the Task Group put a warning buoy in orbit—that solar panels should keep it powered for a good long time. It's set up to activate when its passive systems detect radar, so whoever you are that found this, you should get some warning." A tear leaked down his eye. "It's my fault. I know we needed to replenish our food, water, and air, but I should have been more careful. We followed every protocol, guideline, regulation, and standard procedure—but this thing waits so long to kick in, we didn't know. We just didn't know.">>
<<Another, longer pause. "Once it does though, once it starts, the pain is unbearable. And everyone who has gotten to that point has died. So. I'm not going to let some virus kill us. I—and the other ship commanders—have vented our atmosphere. Death was quick—a mercy really compared to the Hell this virus causes. We've said a few words over the bodies and then buried them in space. Jettisoned the food and water stores. Maybe we will get rid of that virus, at least. We are the only ones left alive. But not for long. This is my last entry. I will be joining my people out there floating in space when I finish. If anyone ever finds this—don't land on that damn planet. You'll just die like we did. Tell them back home," and his voice cracked. "That we failed. That I failed. And, I am so sorry.">>
<<The screen went blank as the log entry ended.>>
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"My god," Aramis whispered. And then he raised his head. "Go through this completely—Bosun. And get the medical staff looking at this—there must be some symptoms or a test we can give ourselves to find out if we carried that thing over here."
"Shit," the Bosun cursed and then he shook his head. "We were in suits the whole time, Captain. In hard vacuum aboard that ship. And we went through De-con on our return. It's not likely we brought it back aboard with us."
"Even so—this ship and everyone on it are now quarantined until I'm certain we don't have what killed them aboard."
"Aye, aye, Sir, I'll pass the orders. If we don't die—what then, skipper?"
"We return to Taurus, of course . . .," and then Aramis stopped himself. "Those ships. They are out of fuel, right? But what about the rest of their systems?"
TThe Bosun shrugged. "They have been drifting cold and lifeless for over four centuries, Sir. They are in pretty bad shape—but I think if we fed them some fuel and got them powered up, some of them might work. Might. Can't make any promises about that—thankfully, we are far enough out that they haven't been too irradiated, but a lot of their systems are shot." The Bosun paused now and he shook his head. "We don't have nearly enough people out here to put even a skeleton crew aboard each of those ships. And I know I wouldn't want to be aboard one about to make a Jump until we have a thorough inspection of the systems. But we might be able to salvage some of them, Sir. We might."
"Forty-seven JumpShips—including a pair of Aquilla-class!—and five WarShips," Aramis mused. Well, he thought to himself with a chuckle, four WarShips and one Compact Core Fleet Armed Auxiliary. Which might well prove more valuable to the Concordat than the four WarShips, since—according to history and Admiral Vickers—the St. Helens class had been designed to repair damaged WarShips in the deep space without having to return to a repair yard, as well as carry copious amounts of fuel, munitions, and spare parts for the Taurian Concordat Navy. They were not full-on YardShips—or any substitute for an actual WarShip—by any means, but in this time and in this place, that ship would be a godsend to the Concordat. IF he could get her operational, that was.
"The shuttles spotted at least a dozen more that are further out, skipper, but I'm not sure we've seen them all. Vickers said there were a total of seventy-seven ships in her expedition. Where would we even start?" the Bosun asked.
Aramis looked at the sensor display in his day cabin and then he shook his head. "As much as I hate to say it, we are not going to start with the damn WarShips. We are going to need some of Admiral Vickers people out here to tackle that. And those two Aquila are so bloody old, I'm not about to try to bring them back to life. Not without some specialists from our JumpShip yard on hand." He paused and then he nodded after he considered for a moment. "If—IF—we are not infected and don't die in screaming agony in a few weeks, we'll work on getting some of the Liberty-class and the Merchants and perhaps one of those Leviathans up and running. Depending on how badly her systems are compromised, we might try to get that St. Helens operational as well, but I doubt we can get her online by ourselves. If we can get any of them up and running, we've got enough personnel to put a skeleton crew on about six or seven ships—we do that and then we go home. And come back with enough skilled engineers, JumpShip crews, and every bloody repair tech we can find—plus food, water, air, and fuel!—and grab the rest of them we can get jump-capable. If we don't all die first, that is."
"Oh, Sir. We won't all die even if we brought the bug back with us—just those of us on this ship."
"That, Bosun, makes we feel just so much better." The stoic non-com actually smiled at that and Aramis nodded. "Okay then. We have a plan. First, we don't die, then we get to work. And that means, as of right now, pass the word. No one on or off this ship until we get well past that incubation period or we find out what test they used and we are all negative. Until then, we wait and we pray." Aramis downloaded the log to his systems and then pulled out the data storage module and handed it to the Bosun. "And get with medical and go through every last byte of information on that thing."
"I'll make sure the crew understands, Captain," and he held up the module, "and I'll get it done."
AAramis leaned back in his chair as the Bosun exited his day cabin and he looked at the computer monitor again. Okay. Time to watch the whole thing, he thought as he scrolled back to the first entry and pressed play.
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