Falcone Strike by Christopher Nuttall Page B

identity checked against the Navy’s files. “Welcome onboard.”
    “Thank you,” Kat said. The pilot looked to be a civilian, probably a reservist who’d lost the military veneer between his departure from the Navy and his recall. Middle-aged, if she was any judge, he’d probably done his time, then moved into the civilian sphere and better-paid jobs. “Do you have an ETA to our destination? ”
    “ Seven hours, I’m afraid,” the pilot said. “This craft isn’t rated for hyperspace. Do you have any other baggage? ”
    Kat shook her head. Midshipmen weren’t allowed anything more than a single carryall and she’d grown used to never having more, even though she’d been promoted at breakneck speed. Besides, anything she really needed could be found on the ship. She stowed her bag in the locker, then took a seat and opened her datapad. There would be additional orders and files waiting for her on the datanet, probably including personnel files. God alone knew what sort of crewmen would be assigned to a deep-strike mission.
    The pilot didn’t seem inclined to make conversation, thankfully. He merely returned to his seat, then toggled switches. A low hum echoed through the craft as its drives came online, then it shuddered and launched itself into the air. Kat smiled, remembering the first set of simulations she’d been put through at Piker’s Peak, then turned her attention back to her datapad. Her father had uploaded a sample of news reports too, some centered on her and Justin Deveron. She couldn’t help being amused when she noted that most of the media seemed to be solidly on her side, including a handful of Opposition outlets. No doubt Justin Deveron had made himself unpopular there too.
    Or they’re trying to come up with an excuse for not throwing a hammer at me , she thought sourly. None of the stories from the major outlets seemed to be particularly exaggerated, although one reporter seemed to think that the whole incident was proof that she was having an affair with Admiral Christian. Kat rolled her eyes at the thought, then closed the file. She hadn’t even met Admiral Christian until after the First Battle of Cadiz and they had barely had time to prepare a counterattack, let alone have an affair. And I was dating Pat at the time .
    She shrugged, then turned her attention to the other files until the shuttle finally slowed, beginning its approach to Hyperion Base. Kat put the datapad away and leaned forward as the gas giant came into view, surrounded by a network of orbital battle stations and automated weapons platforms. A good third of the system’s industry orbited the gas giant, she knew; her tutors had drummed its importance into her time and time again. Hundreds of fabrication nodes, asteroid smelters, cloudscoops .  .  . everything the Commonwealth needed to turn out warships, gunboats, and war materials to hold the line. She glanced down at the scanners as the shuttle drew closer, sucking in her breath at the sight of dozens of starships under construction. The Theocracy wouldn’t stand a chance if the Commonwealth lasted long enough to bring its full might to bear.
    But if we’d started this earlier, much earlier, they wouldn’t have stood a chance at all , she thought, grimly. She thought the Theocracy’s industrial base was smaller than the Commonwealth’s, but no one really knew for sure. They may be able to defeat us before we even the odds and then out produce them into the dust .
    “Incoming gunboats,” the shuttle pilot said. “I hope those codes of yours are correct.”
    Kat nodded as three icons swept towards them on attack vector. “They’re direct from the Admiralty,” she said, remembering the first time she’d seen gunboats in action. Theocratic gunboats had been devastating against unprepared targets at Cadiz, although they’d been less effective against ships and crews who knew what to expect. Not, in the end, that it would matter; the gunboats approaching