BtH3

==Chapter 3 - By the Horns==
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DropShip Gayle Lowden
Outbound to Gateway Point, Taurus System
Taurian Concordat
October 3rd, 3025
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Heinrich Shultz took a sip of the hot coffee and he sighed.  It would be such a shame to give up Crewman Jonas when they arrived back at Victoria, but orders were orders.  And despite his personal sense of loss over the only crewman who knew how to make a proper cup of mocha coffee, he wasn’t about to deny the newly promoted Adept the honor of his next assignment—tasked to the Explorer Corps, Jonas would see far more use of his ability to resolve sensor images than he would on one of ComStars covert operations vessels tooling around the Inner Sphere.  Well, the Inner Sphere and near Periphery, Shultz thought as he considered their latest mission.  Whatever the ROM team had been after, it had gone flawlessly.  And now the ‘Gayle Lowden’, a Capellan-flag merchantman by all outward signs, was heading back to dock with the JumpShip and proceed to their next assignment.
He drank another sip and he looked on the old converted Union-class cargo carrier with pride.  She wasn’t much—but she was his.  For now, at least.  Until he finally got promoted to command one of ComStars JumpShips, that was.
“Skipper,” the comm officer called out, “we are being hailed by a pair of ASF.”
Schultz frowned and he straightened up in his chair.  “On speaker.”
“Gayle Lowden, this is Obsidian Flight—you are entering restricted space.  Alter vector to 237 mark 41 immediately,” and the message repeated.
“Obsidian Flight, Gayle Lowden,” Schultz replied.  “We are on the course that Taurus Flight Control issued.”
“Gayle Lowden, Obsidian Flight.  That course has now been changed—alter vector immediately or you will be fired into.”
“This is damn peculiar,” Schultz said to no one in particular.  “Jonas, give me a 360-degree passive scan—no actives.  Maneuvering, alter vector to comply with their instructions.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” the crew barked.
Jonas bent over his sensor hood and his voice emerged.  “Taurian ASF are changing course, veering away . . . there’s something strange here, I can’t identify the fighters . . . I’ve got the cameras rolling, Skipper . . . okay, let’s look at our original course track . . . HOLY SHIT!” he screamed as he stood up, his hand toggling the control that sent the image from his station to the main viewer.
And Schultz spat hot coffee out of his nose as he stood.  “Magnify!”  The image zoomed in and a low moan sounded across the DropShip’s bridge.  “Bring Jayne’s data-base on-line and confirm the class,” he ordered in a quiet voice.
For several moments there was no sound on the bridge of the DropShip, and then an Acolyte looked up from his station.  “Jayne’s gives a 95% positive match for a Calderon-class Battleship, circa 2576-2596, Skipper.  There aren’t supposed to be any surviving examples.”
“Schiesse,” Schultz muttered as the distant image slowly shrank into the distance. And then he shook his head.  “Tell me we recorded that, Jonas?”
“On tape, and copying to the secure data-base, Skipper.”
“Okay, people.  Game faces on—the Primus needs to see this as soon as possible.  Maneuvering, don’t violate ANY Taurian regulation—we are officially in Injun Country, folks, until we get back to Victoria.”  And then?  And then, Shultz thought, it was likely that every man and woman aboard would be ordered directly to Terra in order to be debriefed by the Primus and ROM.  Schiesse.
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