Hyperion

Chapter One

The Pony Express

USNSF Bunker Hill 12 February 2105

As the Orion-class tug maneuvered alongside the B.O.C. Dangerfield, one of the Weyland Corporation's huge Bulk Ore Carriers, one docking arm reached out from the orbital ore processing ship and latched onto the tug's primary docking collar; two additional arms grabbed the B.O.C. Once attached, and after hard-seals were confirmed on the primary chute, loading belts reached into the carrier's first container, and almost immediately the ore carrier's load of raw mineral ores spun into one of the ore processing ship's intake conveyors. The ore carrier's entire load, all six bulk containers, would be offloaded within two hours; once this evolution was complete the carrier's crew would board a shuttle and head down to the Martian surface for a few days of R&R -- before shuttling back up to their ship and heading back out to the asteroid belt for another billion dollar load.

Fleets of space-going B.O.C.s were constantly shuttling out to and returning from the belt, with most of the processed ore they transported being used for the massive construction and colonization projects on both the Moon and Mars. The huge carriers moved out to the belt at one half standard G, assaying potential targets along their way. Once a new target asteroid was identified, and after confirmation that no other outfit had staked a prior claim, the captain would register the crew's claim and then the carrier would make its approach to the rock. After the arms were aligned, typically grappling hooks secured the asteroid and pulled the rock close to one of six empty bulk ore containers. Before loading, the carrier's mining crew would transfer to the surface of the rock and begin the hard work of identifying mineral veins suitable for extraction and then guide the container's extraction bits into place, with the rough ore extracted and transferred to the next empty bulk ore container. Within a matter of days the huge carrier, with a fresh load of unrefined ore loaded, would return to one of a dozen processing ships stationed between Earth's moon and Mars, and once the asteroid's ores were roughly separated and processed this semi-refined material would be reloaded into a lunar tug's container. Once loaded, the much smaller tug would proceed to one of six primary orbital processing facilities -- and there were currently two each around the Moon, Mars, and -- of course -- Earth.

Once docked at one of the primary processing ships, the asteroid's semi-refined ores would be further pulverized and its constituent minerals assayed and weighed; payment would then be agreed upon and the tug would drop into a parking orbit just off the much larger processing ship. The tug's crew would typically head down to the surface for a few days of clinically mandated debauchery and then be on their way back out to Mars orbit to collect more rock. The work was dangerous and the pay was outrageously high; because of the high pay absolutely no androids were permitted, or even tolerated.

Captain Denton Ripley watched as the latest tug disengaged from the processing ship from the vantage of the Captain's chair on board the USNSF Bunker Hill, which was currently on-station five kilometers 'above' the action; Bunker Hill was orbiting Mars, and had been for years; at the moment the rusty-red planet was just 1800 kilometers 'below' his ship. Ripley watched a new arrival, another massive bulk ore carrier, assume a standard parking formation 'above' the processing ship from Bunker Hill's flight operations bridge, located port side forward, yet only when the departing tug was well away from the ore ship did he relax. Now he turned his attention to an inbound Naval Space Force cruiser, heading into the inner solar system and now just lining-up to sling-shot around Mars, the trajectory on his plot showing the USNSF Stavridis heading for Gateway Alpha in geosynchronous orbit around Earth. Though the ship was not yet visible to the naked eye from this distance, traffic control had alerted the third shift watch commander of her priority transit and his crew had picked up the cruiser on deep space scans. And that had been within minutes of her arrival in the solar system. As Stavridis was an "unscheduled" transit, everyone was now paying close attention, because unscheduled transits usually meant trouble, in one form or another. Besides, Stavridis was one of the few ships fitted with the still top secret Alderson drive, so she was rumored to be one of the first ships in the fleet capable of faster-than-light travel, and that fact alone made this transit a Very Big Deal.

"Why are you in such a goddamn hurry," Ripley whispered as he watched the updated track on C-I-Cs central display.

Commander Louise Brennan, Bunker Hill's navigator, had worked out the cruiser's track as soon as it appeared on long range scans. Stavridis was still under heavy acceleration too, meaning her crew had been strapped to their gel-filled G-couches for days on end, and they would have to further endure exceptionally heavy G-forces when Stavridis made her braking burn to enter Earth orbit. Stavridis was carrying too much delta-V for a direct approach to the Gateway, yet even at their current velocity it would take them another four days to reach Earth using the standard published orbital approach. Even so, at least Stavridis's crew would be able to communicate with the Gateway without the interminable time delays experienced when out beyond the Oort Cloud.

Ripley was really beginning to hate this ship -- the Bunker Hill -- even though she was 'his' -- for the moment, anyway. And he was really beginning to wonder why he hadn't taken early retirement to work for The Company -- as the Weyland-Yutani Consortium was colloquially known these days. Yes, the pay in the Space Force was decent enough, relatively speaking anyway, and the chow wasn't all that bad -- usually. Still, babysitting a ship like this was a more than adequate job for any of the newer model androids, not an Academy graduate with four years of deep space time under his belt -- and one major battle, too. Even with a human crew of ten onboard, he often went days without talking to another person. A real human being, that is.

And it wasn't that he disliked androids. They were likable enough -- in their way. Still, the mass revolts staged by Weyland's first generation Davids had exacted a terrible toll in both trust and human life, a breach of trust that in human terms had not yet, and might not ever be, fully repaired. And though true enough, both the Walter as well as the latest Gordon-class models had eventually been well received on the lunar colonies -- after a few years, anyway. Even this ship had a handful of Walters onboard, handling everything from reactor operations to exterior damage control duties.

Yet there was also one Gordon on board, too, and its presence was still considered somewhat controversial, perhaps because this 'Gordon' had been permanently assigned to him, and had been since it arrived. 'His' Gordon looked like every other unit manufactured by Weyland to date, right down to its auburn hair, green eyes and mottled freckles -- indeed, only its moral subroutines were considered tighter, though its astronavigation capabilities had been deemed second to none. His Gordon played chess and loved movies, especially American westerns from the mid-twentieth century -- an affinity Ripley did not share -- and 'Gordon' was almost always by Ripley's side, a fact of life that was driving the ship's executive officer more than a little mad.

As Ripley peered into the infinite, Stavridis's drive flared right on schedule, the massive fusion powered ion drive suddenly appearing in the vast night as she began her braking burn. He thought, perhaps as a prank, that he should call and ask their master if the crew was enjoying the G-forces. Then he measured the flaring drive -- because the light bloom was much bigger than simulations had predicted.

"Gordon? Did we just see an unexpected deceleration event?"

"Yes, Captain. Her deceleration just increased from 3.2Gs to 4.05 -- I would say they are in quite a hurry."

Ripley shook his head. At 4.05Gs standing up would be impossible; even lifting your head from the acceleration couch could prove fatal. "Goddamn...but I'd sure hate to be on that ship right now," he said...to no one in particular.

"Captain?" Gordon said. "There are currently two tugs inbound, both requesting permission to approach the Dandelion."

"How many processing bays are currently operational?"

"Four, sir. Two will remain closed during the current overhaul cycle, and for another 16 hours 12 minutes. There are currently two Sandoval-class tugs offloading water-ice from Europa; both should decouple and begin their return cycle to Jupiter within two standard hours."

"Approach control? Go ahead and route the carriers to bays one and five, and alert the tugs we have two inbound. Anyone else lining-up out there?"

"No, sir," the Bunker Hill's traffic controller replied, "the next arrivals are still 18 hours out."

"Tactical plot, please? Up-pole view will do for now."

"Yessir, polar-up view."

His stomach growled as the polar plot came up on the large central display -- one more time. 'Yeah...a goddamn monkey could do this job...' he muttered to himself. That was the old joke, anyway.

By the time the two latest arrivals were docked and unloading their cargo, all thought of the Stavridis and of her speeding past had long since drifted away. The next scheduled shuttle was coming up from the surface, and that meant one more load of drunk, hungover Spicers would soon depart Mars orbit, making room for another load of new arrivals that would head down to Elon City for a couple days of sin-drenched fun in the sun.

Such as the sun was out here, anyway.

+++++

His eyes opened, and the pain in his skull seemed to explode.

"Captain to the bridge," he heard again over the intercom. He pushed himself up and rubbed his eyes, then rinsed his mouth with Ora-cleanse and ran a brush through his hair before he slipped into his compression-suit. With that routine maintenance out of the way he opened the door to his cabin -- and of course found Gordon waiting for him.

"High priority comms from Gateway, Captain Ripley," it said.

"How long was I out?"

"Four hours twenty minutes of REM sleep recorded and logged, Captain."

"Lead on, oh ship of fate, and I shall follow you," Ripley said, and he watched Gordon pull himself along in zero-G to the Comms suite just off the main cabin being used as the Combat Information Center, or CIC, on Bunker Hill. Ripley placed his face up to the retina scan and opened his right eye as wide as he could, and after the scanner did its thing the door slid open. "Wait here," he commanded Gordon as he pushed off the ceiling and drifted into the little room.

"Sir, I really should..." Gordon said.

"Yeah? You'll wait here for now."

"Yessir."

Ripley pulled himself into the radio shack and settled into the lone chair; he inserted his drive and entered his security code then placed his eye at the redundant retina-scanner, opening the encrypted video channel to Gateway Luna-4. It took a few seconds to establish the connection, and after that the main COMMs screen opened.

"Denton? Good to see you," the Naval Space Force CnC said, and a relieved Ripley smiled.

"Good to see you too, Admiral Stanton."

"Looks like we might have trouble brewing, something to do with the Covenant mission."

"Sir?"

"I see you were briefed on the mission profile during your third year at Annapolis, so I assume you're still somewhat familiar with the ship's systems, her crew and cargo?"

"Yessir. Those company ships aren't particularly unusual. What's going on, Admiral?"

"What do you recall about the Anomaly Reporting Systems the Company installed?"

"The ship's computer is programmed, if certain pre-established criteria are met, to deploy beacon transmitters with the current sit-rep encoded. I think it was originally thought of as a type of combined data and incident recorder."

Stanton nodded. "Covenant's computer has, apparently, deployed two such beacons, and I'm sending the contents over to you now. Stavridis picked up the signals and downloaded the packets you'll receive. She sent them as soon as she was within range, and she's inbound to refit and refuel, but it'll take us a couple pf weeks to get her docked and that work started, and another week or so to get her fueled and ready to go again."

"Yessir?"

"So...I'm promoting you to Rear Admiral and sending you to Hyperion, effective date of transfer is this date. I know Captain Ames is going to be pissed, and I know it's been a while since you worked the sims on her, but you're the most senior officer available now, and you are the only experienced captain I have that's made a return trip using both the Drive and the Field. We're going to leave Captain Ames nominally in command of the ship but I want you to take your current XO and your entire CIC with you. You'll take your flag to Hyperion as soon as we can work out the transfer orbit."

"Yessir."

"Stavridis will join Hyperion and Patton as soon as we can turn her around."

Ripley flinched when he heard that. Sending two cruisers to support Hyperion suggested this was more than a simple recon or rescue mission. "Alright, sir. Understood."

"Denton," the admiral said, his voice suddenly less rigid, "we've got indications of a signal of unknown origin on a habitable planet near Covenant's course. She diverted from her planned course to that planet, and her captain did so without authorization, and apparently there's been some damage sustained en route and now no one seems to know what's going on. We don't know what they found out there or what they're dealing with in the aftermath, but there are thousands of colonists on board and, well, you know how it is. The company wants to protect their investment so we get the call. Anyway, there's more to it than that, so read the summary as soon as you can, and let me know when you can get underway."

"Will do, sir."

"Oh. Six new middies have been assigned to Hyperion. Think you can handle 'em?"

"Yes, of course. Anything else, sir?"

"No, that's it for now."

The screen faded and Ripley made sure the encoded message was downloaded to his personal drive, then he ejected the drive and cleared the COMMs cache before he switched back to the command net.

"XO, captain here, ready the shuttle for transfer to Gateway Luna-4. Oh, and XO, you and CIC will prepare to transfer to Hyperion as soon as our replacement crew arrives."

"Sir, there's a shuttle upbound from the surface with our replacements, and your promotion is now on the books. Congratulations, Admiral."

"Thanks, Carl. Glad you're coming with us. Now...let's get a move on."

When Ripley opened the door he saw his Gordon waiting out there and shook his head. "I assume you already know what that was all about?"

"Of course, Admiral," Gordon said, smiling benignly.

A thoroughly annoyed Admiral Ripley nodded as he passed the android. "Well then, let's go."

Chapter Two

Preparations

USNSF Hyperion 5 May 2105

US Naval Space Force Hyperion was, true to her namesake, a creature of light destined to roam deep space. Huge by the standards of her day, Hyperion was three hundred meters long and almost lozenge-shaped. Three decks ran the complete length of her hull, and the ship's complement included both Space Force and Naval astronauts as well as one company of Marines. Forty Walter units were assigned to the ship's engineering spaces, and the ship also maintained a small contingent of xenobiologists and astrophysicists. Four Gordon units had been assigned as personal assistants to the ship's command crew, and they were now en route to the Gateway. And, as C-in-C Stanton had intimated, Hyperion would have a fresh contingent of civilian 'Midshipmen' on hand for this voyage, this expedition being the 'middies' first real experience in deep space. The middies, Ripley saw as he looked over the manifest, ranged in age from fourteen to sixteen earth standard years; only two of them, he noted, were old enough to shave. Completing a voyage of this nature would secure a place in one of the service academies, and such placements were coveted among the political classes.

But the simple fact of the matter remained: living and working in space was an occupation for the young--and the unattached. The nature of long duration space flight meant it was simply impossible to marry and start a family, and as most of the long range ships were so-called cruisers manned by career crews of either Space Force or Navy officers and ratings, marriage was the exception, not the rule. Because most of these ships' voyages took place within the solar system, with trips as far out as Neptune not all that unusual, crews were typically out for years at a time. Yet someone, somewhere had -- once upon a time -- decided that crews should be split almost evenly between men and women, presumably taking into account the biological necessity of human pair-bonding, even during long duration space voyages. As such, rumor mills and gossip factories were nonstop operations on these warships.

Ripley looked at the crew -- his crew -- as they scrambled around the bridge. Many had come with him from Bunker Hill, his first command since The Battle of Alpha Centauri, but as Hyperion was for all intents and purposes a new ship she didn't have an existing crew on board. The engineering spaces had been manned by Walter units during commissioning, though now they were supervised by human officers and assisted by human ratings, and there were also a few Walter units scattered about the ship's complement, mainly in the astronavigation and damage control sections. These non-human crew members were, of course, unconcerned with interpersonal relationships yet still the subject of endless speculation.

But right now, looking over the bridge -- his bridge -- Ripley had to shake his head. Men were strutting around with huffed up chests and the women up here were batting their eyelashes like semaphores, and the entire bridge deck seemed drenched in sweaty pheromones. Maybe these rituals were just the way it would always be -- where humans were concerned, anyway -- but when he read over naval histories from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries these types of issues had never come up. At all. Now, as the admiral in command of a small task force headed into unknown circumstances, he'd have to watch over three ships spilling over with all kinds of interpersonal drama, let alone the lingering hostility many humans felt about androids after the mass betrayals that occurred when David units turned out to be dangerously paranoid psychopaths.

Yet Hyperion wasn't really his ship. Captain Lucille Ames had been aboard since her keel was laid on Earth, and she'd been on board every day since. She knew the ship better than anyone else, even the engineers who had designed her, and from the moment Ripley stepped aboard Hyperion's crew had constantly let him know exactly how they felt about the situation. This was her ship, she was in command, and she'd fight the ship when and if hostilities broke out. As far as Lucy Ames was concerned -- or so the rumor mill said -- Ripley didn't belong here and she resented his presence. Period. And apparently when she learned a Gordon unit had been assigned to shadow her, she had come completely unhinged; she fired off an Urgent//Eyes Only dispatch to Admiral Stanton letting him know exactly how she felt, yet so far the dispatch had not been returned.

Ripley, of course, knew her only too well. He'd known her since Annapolis. She was two years behind him but had been regarded as a hellion soon after she arrived at the Academy, a fire-breathing beer-guzzling genius who also just happened to play middle linebacker on the football team. No one fucked around with her after her plebe year, either. Not even her hand-to-hand combat instructors. Built like a brick shit house, she was all Navy and pure Navy and a born engineer. At a mandatory dance her plebe year another cadet had had the temerity to ask her to dance; he went to the hospital with a concussion. Now, when Ames came crashing down a passageway, enlisted ratings dove out of her way--because anything was preferable to facing her wrath.