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  Kate and Cross both had the decency to look chagrined at his summary of their actions. The captain gave a small laugh, almost like a fond uncle. "This is a situation I find myself in at least once a semester, sometimes two or three times. Overcoming the Lubyanka is a test, an unwritten rite of passage and a shortcut for the clever, if you will." He stood and paced behind his desk as he warmed to his lecture. "We maintain the fiction that it has never been solved, and you’ll maintain that fiction as well, or be knocked back to the lowest rank we can find for you." He met their eyes, lingering on each to reinforce the point.

  Seemingly satisfied, he continued speaking, "Why do we do this? To encourage those who are properly driven to keep trying to solve it. In doing so, they learn, they develop their skills, and eventually, if they're good enough, they find a way to achieve victory. Congratulations on finding a way."

  Judging by the expressions on their faces, both cadets were confused. "So, you want people to sneak into the simulator room," offered Cross.

  The captain's voice hardened. "Actually, no, we prefer that cadets solve the puzzle during normal operating hours. For breaking the security of the space, you’ll each serve as a deckhand in the hangar bay for a week, as will the guards who failed to stop you."

  Kate sighed, and Cross groaned. No one had it harder than those who worked in the hangar bay, where every second of every shift was spent repairing ships or cleaning up from the repair of ships. It wouldn’t be a good time. But it was a fair penalty.

  "Yes, sir," they both muttered.

  "Once you're done with your penance, you should enjoy what's left of your last semester at the Academy. When it ends, you’ll move on to the next step in your training. You’ll complete your degrees remotely during your off-hours. Your days will be spent learning to command people and things." He turned to face them, pausing in his relentless motion for a short time. "You see, the Lubyanka scenario is really meant to accomplish three things. First, the 'public' purpose, it teaches cadets what it feels like to lose. Fighting a rearguard action against a more powerful foe, and realizing all the different ways that you can lose in that situation, is a superb lesson for every Union soldier." He moved again. "The second part is to give our cadets a common enemy—the unbeatable scenario. This serves to bond them and also gives them a target for their shared frustrations. It's also not an accident that the scenario pits us against our Alliance enemies. Delivers that sense of realism that a fictional 'alien menace' would wholly fail to do."

  Captain Davies sat and met their eyes. "Finally though, the most important function of the scenario is to inspire original thinking. This shows us who has that natural tendency toward creativity and unique modes of thinking that are essential in our command ranks."

  He reached into his desk and extended two bundles of documents to them. "You have each distinguished yourself through your actions in the scenario. Cadet Cross, you will head to forward command. Cadet Flynn, you will report to our starboard command. If you show the same level of success there that you have here, you’ll begin your fleet rotations in a year." He stood again, and they did the same, sensing the end of their meeting. He reached across and shook their hands. "Enjoy your last two weeks of classes, and remember, not a word of this to any of your fellow cadets. The Lubyanka is only effective as long as the scenario remains unsolved. You owe it to the cadets that will follow you, to ensure that they have the same opportunity to distinguish themselves. Consider it your first burden of command. Congratulations, Cadets. You’re dismissed." They exchanged salutes, and the steward entered to escort them from the office.

  Chapter 10

  Cross and Kate were back at the bar that night, and she was again destroying him at darts. The barman laughed as Cross again bought drinks for the room, and several of their fellow cadets begged for the results of their simulator competition. They shook their heads, claiming that it was a draw. They both won, and they both lost. They deflected the conversation into stories about their upcoming rotations in the hangar, which at least they’d spend together.

  As they parted at the end of the evening, Kate surprised Cross by giving him a hard kiss. "I bet you're going to look cute covered in grease, flyboy." His mouth opened and closed but failed to produce any sound as she walked down the hall and turned the corner.

  As he fell asleep that night, Anderson Cross imagined the days ahead, and figured that he could probably get some grease on Kate as well. And then, maybe, he’d offer to help her get cleaned up. If he was lucky, she might agree. Who knew where it might go from there, with only two weeks before they went their separate ways?

  In her own cabin, Kate smiled, thinking very similar thoughts, only she was the one who offered to help him get cleaned up. The next rotation, while meant to be punishment might very well prove to be a reward after all. Kate grinned to herself as she pictured all the ways the assignment could be enjoyable for both her and Cross.

  Thanks for reading the first of Cross and Kate’s adventures!

  The story takes a serious turn in Trespassers, as an encounter with a human enemy - the Alliance - takes an entirely unexpected turn, and introduces humanity to an alien species for the first time.

  A hostile, angry alien species.

  Get it now at Amazon or Audible, or turn the page for an exciting preview!

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  Trespassers - Chapter 1

  Lieutenant Commander Anderson Cross didn’t realize that this day, this watch, would be the beginning of the end of life as he knew it. He was unaware that he would be responsible for all that was to come. For now, it was just one more night, one more patrol.

  “Alter course twenty-two degrees to the north,” he barked. The response wasn’t as quick as he would’ve liked. Maybe his baritone wasn’t as authoritative as he imagined.

  “Aye,” replied Lieutenant Erin Smythe while tapping a series of controls on the flat display in front of her. The ship responded smoothly to her touch, the course correction a hint of motion accompanied by the usual pressure-flex in the hull.

  Cross was long accustomed to the second watch command, allowing him to work with the second and third watch officers, but several of his new “night” crew were still having adjustment issues. His executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Kate Flynn, glanced up from the science station and shared his look of amusement. They both remembered their own first steps toward command, which included rotations in each of the crew positions.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Cross said. He took a moment to appreciate the ship around him. She was a far cry from the newly-minted, gleaming warbird he always envisioned commanding. One of the final ships off the last generation’s production line, UAL-2112 showed the cracks and dents that came with age and experience. The Washington, DC was her official name, but in practice she was routinely called the Washington, or the Dee-Cee by her crew. He was proud to be aboard, and prouder still to be in command—even if it was only command of the second watch. He was number three in the Washington’s hierarchy, subordinate to Captain James Okoye and Commander Felix Olivas. Still, command was command.

  Kate’s voice cut through his musings. “Permission to leave the bridge, Lieutenant Commander Cross?”

  “Granted,” he said without thinking. As his brain caught up, he asked “Where are you headed?”

  “Jannik and I think we’ve finished the sensor upgrades on our survey satellites. If it tests out, we might be able to improve the sensors in our torpedoes with the mod. I’ve done all I can from up here, and he wants to run a couple more simulations before he goes off-watch.”

  “As if he’s ever off-watch.” Cross nodded and injected appropriate command gravitas into his response, “Sounds like a worthy project, Lieutenant Commander Flynn. Carry on.” He could never pull off a believable level of formality with Kate, a friend and on-again, off-again romantic partner since their academy days. He deliberately did not watch her leave the bridge.

  Two more hours of endless patrol passed, leaving the crew
working hard to stay alert. Cross groused in his mind about the foolishness of patrolling this sector of space where only random chance would put them within sensor range of a threat—

  “Contact bearing 313°, 30 low. Running analysis now.” His tactical officer’s voice betrayed her youth and excitement.

  Cross issued the commands to set an arcing intercept course with the unknown blip as Lieutenant Claire Martin resumed speaking. “Contact is an Alliance destroyer. He’s in the database, AAN Gagarin.” Cross moved to peer over her shoulder. The tactical display streamed information about the Alliance ship.

  “About our size,” Cross murmured. Weapons and defense specifications scrolled past, and he acknowledged it with a grunt, clapping her on the shoulder. “Good work, Martin.”

  He returned to the captain’s chair, sitting down and rocking to get comfortable. New ships boasted adaptive seating for the bridge crew, a luxury he had enjoyed during his rotations and missed now. “Casco, hail his captain with my regards. Politely request that they leave this sector of Union space.” The communication officer followed his orders, the message taking only seconds to travel to the other ship. A reply arrived with matching speed.

  “Sir, they claim that they have every right to be in this area, as it is a contested zone between our two governments. They suggest that perhaps we would like to depart forthwith.”

  Cross barked a short laugh. “Forthwith? Who says that? Send reply: Respectfully request that you follow your own advice and get out of United Atlantic League territory immediately.” He felt the eyes of the bridge crew on him, but refused to acknowledge them. The other ship wanted to play? Then play they would.

  “Response received, sir. I’m routing it to your display.” A small screen glowed on the wide arm of his chair, and he activated the nondescript earpiece that all the ship’s commanders and execs wore. Cross appreciated Ricardo Casco’s sense of discretion as he played the imaginative, expletive-laden challenge to engage in anatomically impossible actions from the Gagarin’s commander. His teeth flashed in a grin. Oh, it’s like that, is it?

  “Helm, plot and execute a direct-intercept path with the Gagarin. Weapons, open tubes and bring cannons to full power. Tactical, orient shields toward the enemy and balance them, but be ready to react. There’s no predicting what he’ll do.” Cross tapped a command code to adjust the ship’s status. “Setting battle standby throughout the ship.”

  The bridge crew jumped to their tasks, as the computerized voice announced the change. The thin, light panels running along each wall turned from white to orange-gold and began a repeating pattern. On every deck of the Washington, crew members hurried to their assigned battle stations, with those in the outermost sections of the ship climbing into vacuum suits upon arrival. The Washington lacked the power-assist models that were now standard issue.

  His chair display registered a query from Captain Okoye. Cross quickly typed a reply outlining the situation and received a “carry on” in response. Encounters with the Alliance were common on patrol, and unless things escalated, the captain would trust him to handle it.

  Cross watched the enemy ship turn to meet their approach on the main display. Lieutenant Martin confirmed the enemy’s course change and reported readiness. “He has six launch tubes facing forward, covers open, plus a pair of long-range plasma cannons. His broadsides are similar to ours, with a dozen lasers mounted and half that many tubes. Aft armaments are weaker than ours. He’s only got two tubes and one medium range plasma cannon.”

  The most frustrating thing about the quarrel with the Allied Asian Nations was that the two factions were so evenly matched. Each came from the same gravity well, expanded at roughly the same rate along only slightly different vectors, and developed technology at almost identical paces. Add in the actions of spies on both sides, and it was beyond difficult to gain a lasting technological edge over the opposition.

  In his anxiousness, Cross leaned toward the main display. Forcing his nerves down, he sat back in his seat, depicting the picture of calm for his crew.

  “Continue on intercept course, but be ready for evasive maneuvers when he breaks off, or when we launch, whichever comes first. Weapons, at a range of 10,000, launch a spread of torpedoes set to detonate in between our two ships, and fire a quarter power blast from our plasma cannons into his forward shields. If we’re lucky, he’ll get the message.” The monotony of second watch command fell away, and was replaced by the anticipation of real action.

  As the distance clicked down to 20,000 meters, Cross keyed the ship-wide intercom and announced, “Stand by for maneuvers. Standby. Standby.” Throughout the Washington, crew members moved to grab the handholds present in all compartments and passageways, or secured themselves at their battle stations. On the bridge, automatic harnesses deployed from the seats at all positions, locking them into their insufficiently, padded non-adaptive chairs. He shrugged to settle his harness into place.

  At a distance of 11,000, the Gagarin fired first. Where Cross had envisioned the encounter as a test of wills to be resolved with a show of bravado, the other ship’s commander apparently saw it as a test of power that required the starship equivalent of bloodshed to determine a victor. Both plasma cannon blasts splashed against the Washington’s forward shields. The bridge’s display dimmed to compensate for the brilliance of the beam. It brightened again just in time for Cross to see the impact of six exploding torpedoes.

  “Helm, evasive pattern Alpha, but circle for a broadside. Weapons, ready all around. Tactical, damage report.”

  “Shields holding, sir. Minor bumps and bruises to the crew, but no significant damage to the ship. One or two more dings and scrapes.” Every sailor aboard took pride in the accumulated scars that the Washington displayed. “The Gagarin is circling back toward us.”

  Smythe announced, “Broadside position in twenty-seven seconds.”

  Cross fielded another question on his display and summarized the situation as, “Trading shots across the bow.” There was no response. He feared that the Captain was already running toward the bridge.

  “Hail from the Gagarin,” reported Casco. “He requests cessation of hostilities and for both ships to exit this contested territory.”

  Cross frowned. Arrogant bastard. “No reply.”

  Fifteen seconds later, the two foes reached classic broadside position. Tactical officers on both ships were accomplished at their craft and angled the shields to absorb the impact of a salvo of missiles and a cannon barrage. The space between them overflowed with propellant, shrapnel, and lances of coherent-energy seeking a crevice to creep through. A laser overloaded on the Gagarin, catching fire and melting down to a blackened piece of slag. The Washington accumulated more cosmetic damage, but nothing beyond that.

  “Send message to the Gagarin: Again, request that you depart UAL space forthwith,” his earpiece crackled with the captain’s voice.

  “Cross, status report.”

  He spoke in a hushed tone, confident the earpiece’s microphone would pick him up, “Trading shots with an Alliance ship still, Captain. I don’t think it will go anywhere.” He paused, waiting for Okoye’s reply. It was not the one he wanted to hear. “En route from Engineering. ETA eight minutes. Try not to destroy my ship in the meantime.”

  The two ships circled in space. Casco reported, “The Gagarin is requesting visual comm, sir.”

  Cross swiveled his chair to look at the communication officer and raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s interesting. Sure, let’s see what they have to say.” He turned back to face front and ran a hand through his hair, an unconscious and consistent move prior to important conversations that always amused those who knew him well.

  Lieutenant Ricardo Casco’s hands moved across his controls, and the display split in two, with the real-time exterior view of the Gagarin on the left and its commander on the right. He was a veritable giant of a man, almost spilling out of the command chair.

  When he spoke, his rumbling voice reminded C
ross of stones grinding together, “You damaged one of my guns, Union. An apology is in order.”

  Cross reclined and made a show of thinking. “I think it is more accurate to say that your gun was faulty, and failed to discharge its duty in the heat of battle. I cannot be held responsible for your gun’s inadequacy.”

  The Alliance captain reddened slightly while Cross spoke, the only signal that his needling had hit home. His response was measured, “I believe that you are incorrect. My original statement stands. Are you prepared to apologize for this inappropriate provocation in neutral space?”

  Cross straightened and locked eyes with the image on his screen. “First, we are not in neutral space. The United Atlantic League claimed this territory more than a year ago, and I have no doubt this was duly communicated to your government. Second, it was you who fired on us first, and that makes you the one guilty of ‘inappropriate provocation.’ Third, perhaps I used the wrong word when I described your gun as inadequate, and for that I apologize. I meant cowardly.”

  His bridge crew sat in stunned silence at Cross’s words. The commander of the Gagarin was silent as well. His face stilled the way a predator’s might before charging. The moment stretched as the two commanders stared at each other.

  After an eternity, the Alliance officer nodded. “So be it. You have chosen your fate. I will deliver it to you.” He cut the communication line, and the screen reverted to a full-size image of the Gagarin orienting for another attack on the Washington.

  “Helm, evasive Bravo. Get some distance, minimal cross-section. Tactical, keep shields oriented toward him, extra power forward. Weapons, set up firing solutions on his engines. If we can knock those out, we can take care of him at our leisure.”