The Aule Stratagem: Part One - Slave Ship

By David Clegg

The Aule Sector, a crucial region of space between the Confederacy of Bellona and the League of Independent Systems, is being plagued by piracy.

Lieutenant Commander Michael Patterson, newly assigned tactical officer on CSS Aurora, is part of the Confederate Navy's response.

Intelligence reports tell him that pirate attacks are increasing by the day and patrol ships are being evaded. The news that frontline warships are in these scavengers’ hands adds to the tension.

Many crews have been captured and sold into slavery; their cargo now pirate booty.

Cara Tayley’s ship is one of those destroyed by the vultures, and she and her crew are now prisoners. But she will not go quietly, she will fight against the vile pirates that have them, even if it means her death. Better that than a slave.

Patterson is out to complete his mission and stop these marauders, he may be Tayley’s only hope of salvation.

But questions plague the crew of the Aurora.

What is really going on in the Aule Sector?

How are the pirates so well informed and well-armed?

Is there a traitor on the station?

Can Patterson find the answers, make the sector safe and find Tayley before it is too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: CAAB Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jun 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215583975

Book preview

The Aule Stratagem:

Slave Ship

A Novel

By David Clegg

The Aule Stratagem: Slave Ship

Published by CAAB Publishing Ltd (Reg no 12484492)

Serenity House, Foxbridge drive, Chichester, UK

www.caabpublishing.co.uk

All text copyright © David Clegg

Cover design copyright © CAAB Publishing

Additional photoshop elements from brusheezy.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

scanned, uploaded, reproduced, distributed, or

transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever

without written permission from the author, except in

the case of brief quotations embodied in critical

articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business,

events and incidents are the products of the author's

imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living

or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

First Published 2021

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Printed in the UK

British Library Cataloguing in Publication data available

Dedication

To my mother Janine Clegg

(2nd July 1952 - 3rd June 2021),

who believed in me.

Prologue

Captain, I have a sensor contact!

William Jackson looked up from the report he was viewing on his secondary monitor and frowned. What kind of contact? he asked.

Unknown, sir, the sensor operator answered, it’s faint, but I think it’s a ship. I have what looks like an engine signature, and power readings.

The captain speared the sensor operator with a sharp glance. A ship out here could mean only a few things, and most of them were not good. Pirates, he thought, feeling a cold dread creep into the pit of his stomach. He stood and crossed to the navigation station.

Cara, work out an evasion course, he ordered quietly, and feed it to the helm.

The navigator nodded. Jackson walked across the bridge and looked down at the sensor console. The unknown contact was displayed, the range counting down as whatever it was moved towards them. The sensor operator looked up at him, appeal in his eyes. Jackson looked back for a moment before returning his gaze to the sensor display. He can read it as well as I can, he thought. He knows what it means. Jackson cursed under his breath and returned to the command chair. Settling back into it, he tried to project an aura of calm. Cara Tayley looked over from the navigation station and nodded.

Helm, Jackson ordered, execute the course Lieutenant Tayley has provided.

Aye, aye, Cap’n, the helmsman acknowledged.

Jackson closed his eyes briefly. Everyone on the bridge knew as well as he did that an unknown sensor contact most likely meant pirates. The entire sector was infested by them, and Confederate-registered ships like the Gypsy Moth were fair game as far as they were concerned. Gypsy Moth fired her main drives and began to change course. Captain Jackson looked at his command chair’s repeater display, now showing the sensor feed. The freighter’s sensor suite left a lot to be desired, but as he watched, the range to the contact was dropping more slowly. I can’t evade them, if they want to catch me, the captain thought. Those power readings are too strong. That ship is too fast. He frowned at the repeater display. Around him, the bridge officers and crew continued about their duties, speaking in hushed voices. Jackson felt the crew’s tension, but only peripherally, as he concentrated on the sensor feed. The power readings for the presumed pirate were unusual. Too high. Whatever that is, it’s bigger than the average pirate ship, he thought. Jackson got to his feet again and crossed to the sensor console. Resting his hand on the operator’s shoulder, he looked down at the main display. What do you make of that ship? he asked the man.

It’s putting out more power than I’d expect, the sensor operator answered after a moment’s thought. I’m not sure, but it looks like a frigate to me, sir.

That’s what I thought as well, Jackson answered thoughtfully. How many pirates have a frigate?

You think it might be a patrol? the first mate asked from the rear of the bridge.

That’d be too much to hope for, Jackson answered. Even with ours and the League units out here, there aren’t many patrols to go around.

Still, could be, the first mate said hopefully. Johnny Longers was too experienced a spacer to believe that. An old Aule hand, he’d served on the Gypsy Moth for over two standard years, with several more on other ships in the sector.

Wishful thinking, the captain thought with a mental grimace. Most of the governments of the Aule Sector could barely patrol their own home systems, never mind send anything out to look for pirates. If that ship was a friendly patrol, it would have announced the fact by now. No, they’re not a navy patrol, he thought. We’re in trouble here. Piracy was a lucrative trade in the Aule Sector and its neighbouring regions. Plenty of corrupt government officials willing to take a bribe to turn a blind eye, and outright free ports where pirates could make berth and offload their stolen cargo. Plenty of slavers looking for prisoners to ship to the Empire, Jackson thought grimly. Slaving was big business in the Terran Empire, and the markets were insatiable. Most wholesale dealers wouldn’t look too closely at where slaves came from, so there was always a market for prisoners taken in pirate raids. Some pirates specialised in slaving and had little interest in stealing cargo from captured vessels. Such raiders were generally known as corsairs, harking back to ancient times on Old Earth, and they took delight in targeting passenger liners and crew-heavy transports. They weren’t above raiding isolated outposts either, and stories of mining colonies and deep space trading posts simply vanishing after corsair raids were commonly told in spaceport bars and dives. Jackson hoped the ship bearing down on the Gypsy Moth wasn’t a corsair. They wouldn’t kill his crew, but most of them would wish they had by the time they reached an Imperial slave market. A regular pirate might be bought off or placated if they offered the valuable cargo up without a fight. They might even let us go on, minus the cargo, the captain thought. It’s not much, but it’s worth a try.

Jackson crossed back to the command chair and seated himself, pulling his uniform tunic back into place as he did so. Communications, he ordered, hail that ship. Request they identify themselves and stand clear of us.

Aye, aye, sir, the communications officer answered, bending over his console. A young man, barely out of training, the communications officer was diligent and careful. Jackson hoped this voyage on the Gypsy Moth wouldn’t be his last. Tense minutes passed as the signal streaked across the void of space between the freighter and the presumed pirates. Jackson waited, trying to appear calm and collected. He studied readouts on his secondary monitors, viewing status reports and cargo mandates, without really seeing them. Time seemed to stretch into infinity. He glanced furtively at the communications console; the young officer busy at his controls. Eventually the man turned to face the captain. No response, sir, he reported formally.

No surprise, there, Jackson thought. If they weren’t pirates, they’d have answered. He took a deep breath. Navigation, update evasion course and feed it to the helm. He looked forward. Helm, execute Lieutenant Tayley’s course as soon as you have it. He turned back to the communications panel. Communications, hail them again. Inform them we are a Confederate-registered freighter and if they do not stand clear it will be considered an act of piracy and reported as such. Not that we’ll be around to do any reporting, of course.

Jackson looked back down at the sensor feed on his command chair monitor. The pirate was still closing, massive engine emission readings displayed beside the red blip on the screen. He flicked his eyes to the navigation feed on a secondary display as the Gypsy Moth’s engines fired again. The helmsman was executing Tayley’s updated evasion course. He looked up as the first mate appeared beside the command chair.

We can’t evade them, sir, Longers said simply.

No. No, we can’t, Jackson agreed. Not with engine readings like those.

We might offer them money, the first mate continued, mirroring Jackson’s earlier thoughts.

Maybe, but we don’t have much. Not much reason for them to take it and leave us alone. Not like ammunition is that expensive, the captain said grimly.

No, I suppose not, Longers said. We could offer them the cargo...

I had the same thought, Jackson answered. It’s the same thing, though. Why agree to let us go, and let us report them? Our sensor logs and descriptions would be useful to the navy. He grimaced. It’s just not in their interest to let us out of this alive.

Worth a try, though, Captain, the first mate said. Only chance we really have.

Agreed, Jackson said. He turned to look at the communications officer again. Communications, hail the ship. Offer them ten thousand Confederate credits by electronic transfer if they’ll let us go.

The young officer looked shocked, and as Jackson flicked his eyes around the bridge, he saw much the same expression on the rest of the crew’s faces. The communications officer recovered himself with a visible effort and nodded. Aye, aye, Cap’n, he said, turning back to his controls. Sent, he reported after a moment. Again, the tense wait. Jackson no longer pretended to study his readouts, just waited, trying to look confident. He glanced down at the sensor display, seeing the pirate contact continue to close. Time stretched intolerably. Eventually the communications officer seemed to shrug slightly and look round. No response, sir, he reported again.

Jackson nodded. He caught Longers’ eye, and the first mate stepped back beside the command chair. That’s it, then, the captain said quietly. Get the escape pods ready. I want everyone off this ship.

Longers nodded once. Sir, he said. He thought for a moment. Might be they’ll stop for escape pods, take us prisoner.

Might be, Jackson answered. Maybe they won’t, if they can take the ship intact without resistance. Either way, it’s your only chance.

Our only chance? Longers asked. Aren’t you coming?

Jackson grimaced. Someone needs to be here when they board. It’s my ship. Longers opened his mouth to protest, but the captain cut him off. "Damn it, Johnny, it’s my ship. Now you get below and see to the pods. That’s an order."

The first mate saw the look in the captain’s eyes and nodded. Aye, aye, Captain, he said, and turned away. He crossed the bridge in a few strides and opened the hatch. Longers didn’t look back, he just vanished through the opening.

Jackson looked back at the sensor feed. The pirate contact was closing despite all the Gypsy Moth’s attempts at evasion. They’ll be in range soon, he thought. The pirate continued to bear down on the freighter, closing the distance with every second that passed. Gypsy Moth’s drives fired again as she responded to Lt. Tayley’s course corrections. The change bought only a few seconds. As Jackson watched the pirate’s engine emissions spiked as the ship altered course to intercept. The sensor contact moved closer and closer to the centre of the display as the pirates closed the distance between the two ships. Jackson tapped a sequence into his command chair’s arm-mounted keypad, and the general information next to the pirate contact was replaced by a rapidly diminishing numerical readout. Beside it, the legend read ‘time to presumed weapons range.’ Not long, now, Jackson thought, the cold dread in the pit of his stomach expanding to choke off all other feeling. The captain felt no anger or resentment, just an icy fear. He flicked his gaze to a secondary monitor as a comm request came in on a private channel. He put on his headset and hit the accept key. Captain speaking, he said quietly.

Longers here, sir, the first mate’s voice came back. Escape pods are ready. We can begin evacuating on your order.

Acknowledged, the captain answered, then cut the circuit. He looked up from his own displays to see Lieutenant Tayley looking at him from her station at the navigation panel. Her hazel eyes were worried, and the captain could see real fear hovering somewhere behind them, held in check by professional discipline. He was struck again by her beauty, with her light brown hair tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail. She wore the same civilian officer’s uniform as the rest of the bridge crew, but on her it was as lovely as the most elegant ball gown. Cara, he said, motioning her over.

Tayley stood and crossed to the command chair. Yes, sir? she asked, the fear behind her eyes threatening to break out.

We’re going to abandon ship, Lieutenant, he told her, voice pitched low, but iron in his tone.

Sir, we can’t... she began, but he cut her off with a raised hand.

No, Cara, Jackson said, tone softening, not this time. You’re going. His eyes hardened. Lieutenant Tayley, you’re to evacuate the bridge and take everyone below. Commander Longers is at the escape pod bay. You’re to join him there. Jackson’s voice was formal, a ship’s captain giving an order with all the authority of centuries of tradition.

Tayley straightened. Aye, aye, Captain, she answered, equally formally. She hesitated. I don’t want to leave you, she whispered.

I know, Cara, Jackson answered. I know, but I want you to escape. Now you get below. Get my people out of here.

The navigator hesitated a moment longer, then nodded once, sharply, and turned away without another word. Jackson saw her eyes as she turned, and the fear, and pain there, sent a knife through his heart. He watched her cross back to her station, carefully close down the interface, then stand. Alright, people, secure your stations and get below. We’re evacuating! Her voice cut sharply across the murmur of bridge chatter and instrument noises. Heads turned, eyes wide, expressions of disbelief on half a dozen faces. You heard me! Tayley barked. Move! As Jackson watched, the bridge crew scrambled to their feet, hands flashing across control boards and panels. Displays shut down and consoles showed standby status as station after station was secured. Officers moved across the bridge, some giving the captain a formal nod, others not meeting his eyes at all, and disappeared through the hatch. Tayley was the last. Captain, I... she started to speak, then trailed off, hands clenching at her sides helplessly. She looked at him with mute appeal, like a daughter begging her father to change his mind.

Go, Cara, the captain said gently. When you get clear, tell them what happened here.

She nodded, right hand touching a thigh pocket absently. Jackson could see the weight of a data chip distending the fabric slightly. Her eyes were wet as she nodded again and left the bridge.

Captain William Jackson swallowed a lump in his throat as he watched her vanish through the hatch, then turned back to his command displays. The ‘time to presumed weapons range’ readout was rapidly approaching zero. Jackson gritted his teeth and began to input a course override through his command chair keypad. The vibration of the deck beneath the chair changed as the engines fired again, the Gypsy Moth responding to her captain. Probably for the last time, Jackson thought, and wondered at the feeling. The fear was gone, it melted away as he watched Cara Tayley head below. There was just sadness left, he looked around the bridge, even as one eye watched the sensor readout. We’ve had some good times, old girl, he thought. The countdown figure hit zero.

Jackson felt the ship lurch and glanced down at a secondary display. The escape pods were launching, and the Gypsy Moth bucked underneath him as another pod blasted clear, then another. The captain’s eyes were glued to the sensor display as the pirate contact continued to close. As he watched, the contact’s energy emissions rocketed. The computer flashed a warning on the display; the ship was being hit by fire-control radar and lidar emissions. Here it comes, Jackson thought as the display updated again. They're not even going to board us. He saw the emissions spikes on the sensor screen as the enemy weapons fired.

***

Cara Tayley ran down the Gypsy Moth’s aft corridor, bridge officers and crewmen at her heels. The escape pod bay was just ahead. She felt the weight of the data chip with the sensor logs in her thigh pocket as she moved, mind shying away from what she knew was coming. Behind her, booted feet hammered the deck as the rest of the bridge crew sprinted behind her. Once they’d cleared the bridge hatch all pretence at dignity had been abandoned and they’d broken into a flat-out run, leaping for the ladder to descend to the lower deck and the waiting escape pods.

They hadn’t bothered to sound the alarm. Most of the freighter’s crew were either on the bridge or in the engine room, and the first mate had ordered the engineering crew to the escape pods as soon as they were ready. Cara saw the last of them climbing into a pod as she skidded around a corner. There it is, she thought, mingled relief and fear warring in her gut. Move, people! she yelled over her shoulder.

Johnny Longers was at the escape pod controls. He looked up as the bridge crew came pounding into the corridor and waved them on. Go, go, go! he shouted. His hand slapped the launch controls for the first pod. A heavy metal hatch slammed over the pod launch tube, hissing steam venting from conduits on either side. A red status light burned beside the pod hatch, blinked once, and the pod blasted clear. The deck lurched as the pod launched, and the first mate waved at them again. Move it! he bellowed.

Tayley sprinted for the waiting pods, the bridge crew behind her. As she skidded to a halt, boots scrabbling on the deck, another pod exploded from its launch tube, the ship shuddering as it went. The navigator waved the bridge crew into the pods. Go! she shouted at them.

Bridge officers scrambled into the open pod hatches even as another escape pod launched. The deck bucked again, and Tayley grabbed for a handhold to stay upright. She looked around as the ship settled after the last pod launch and realised she and the first mate were the last. He gestured at the final escape pod, and Tayley nodded, then ducked through the hatch. Longers climbed in behind her and hit the hatch controls. The massive metal slab slammed home, status lights flicked to red, and the pod blasted out of its tube.

Tayley twisted around to look out of the pod’s tiny viewport. Behind her, Longers floated in the pod’s zero gravity. She saw him find a handhold and draw himself across the pod and into one of the shock frames. The frame closed around him, securing him in place. Tayley’s eyes were glued to the viewport; the Gypsy Moth dwindled rapidly as the pod hurtled away from her. As Cara watched, the pirate ship came into view, a tiny point of reflected light gleaming against the blackness of space. She thought she saw the light flicker, and seconds later explosions blossomed along the boxy hull of the freighter.

Come away, Cara, she heard Longers say from his shock frame. No need to watch.

Tayley didn’t respond. Another salvo tore into the Gypsy Moth, explosions blazing with fiery light. She saw debris blasted away from the hull of the stricken freighter. Orange light danced in her eyes, suddenly blurring as the tears she’d held while herding the bridge crew off the ship fell unbidden. As she watched, blinking back the tears, a third volley slammed home, and the ship exploded. The fusion plant must have overloaded; the explosion started deep inside the hull and blasted it apart. One second it was there, bleeding atmosphere and shedding debris from the blasted wounds in its side, the next it was simply gone. SS Gypsy Moth vanished in a flash of eye-searing fusion fire, nothing left but a cloud of expanding gas and dust. Tayley squeezed her eyes shut, still floating weightless at the tiny viewport. She didn’t know how long she floated there, or if Longers called to her. It could have been seconds, or hours. When she opened her eyes there was no sign of the Gypsy Moth, the ship she’d called home for the last five standard years. In its place, grey and menacing, was the pirate ship, looming larger and larger as it accelerated after the escape pods. At this distance it was becoming visible, and Tayley could see the gun turrets mounted on the dorsal and ventral surfaces, the distinctive hexagonal central hull and flattened cone of the forecastle. It was clearly a warship and had the unmistakable lines of a hyper-capable vessel. A frigate, just like the captain said, she thought. As the navigator watched, the pirate frigate’s launch bay released a small craft. Shuttle, she thought. The shuttle accelerated away from the ship, rapidly closing the distance to the nearest escape pod and taking it under tow. It hauled the pod back to the frigate, and she closed her eyes again. Another shuttle left the bay and raced to meet another pod, and took it too, back to the pirate ship. Tayley suppressed a shudder.

They’re picking up the pods, aren’t they? Longers said from his shock frame.

Yes, Tayley answered.

Guess it was for nothing, then, the first mate answered after a moment. Didn’t buy us any time.

Tayley didn’t answer. She could see a pirate shuttle looming in the viewport, growing larger and larger as it came towards them. She squeezed her eyes shut and hoped it would be over quickly.

Chapter One

Lieutenant Commander Michael Patterson climbed the shuttle's boarding ramp, passing the flight engineer and moving into the passenger compartment. A tall man, with light brown hair and blue-grey eyes. He was handsome in an unassuming way, although no one who knew him would have ever said he was aware of it. He walked down the aisle between the rows of bucket chairs and found a seat by a viewport towards the front of the craft and settled into it, dropping his personal case on the chair next to his. Several other naval personnel were already seated, and as the commander sank into his chair the flight engineer hit the hatch control, retracting the boarding ramp and closing the outer doors.

The shuttle began to move, taxiing across the hangar bay and towards the lift that would take it up into the launch bay itself. In moments the shuttle reached the lift and began to ascend, the hangar bay vanishing from view. The launch bay was open to space; its massive doors rarely closed. The shuttle reached the top of the lift-shaft and left the station's artificial gravity field. The pilot fired manoeuvring thrusters, gently nudging the craft off the lift platform, before feeding power to the main drives and taking the shuttle out of the bay. Patterson watched as the small craft accelerated out of the launch bay, the vast bulk of Bellona Station receding behind it.

The shuttle streaked away from the Confederate Navy's principal space station, heading towards the fleet orbiting the planet's only moon, Nerio. The planet Bellona filled the view behind the shuttle, a blue-green disk streaked with grey and white cloud. Ahead, the much smaller disk of Nerio loomed larger as the planet shrunk, the shuttle rapidly crossing the gulf of space between them. The moon was home to a large naval facility with factories, training centres, and research establishments. The Navy's headquarters was on Bellona Station, but the Nerio complex was the engine that kept the Confederate Navy running.

Patterson reached into his case and drew out his PDA, unlocking the device and bringing up his stored documents. The PDA was a ubiquitous part of daily life, combining the functions of communicator, personal computer, document reader, navigational aid and others. He re-read the orders assigning him to his post, tactical officer aboard the CSS Aurora. He closed the orders document and opened the data file he'd downloaded on the Aurora, listing basic details about the ship.

CSS Aurora, CL 11081, he read. Persephone-class light cruiser. Mass, one megaton. Length, five hundred metres, beam, sixty-five metres, draught, fifty-six metres. Complement, three hundred enlisted crew, twenty officers, one hundred and sixty marines. Primary armament, sixteen 60cm guns, secondary armament, forty-eight 30cm guns. Missile armament, six anti-ship missile tubes. Multiple point-defence missile tubes. Class three close-in weapons system. He read on, studying the ship's details as the shuttle crossed the void between the station and the fleet orbiting Nerio.

Commander Patterson looked up from his PDA as the shuttle neared the fleet. The moon hung below the small craft, the massive grey domes covering the facilities on the surface contrasting with the brown rock of the moon itself. The fleet could be seen through the viewports, ship after ship stretching away into the distance, their hulls gleaming with the light of Bellona's sun. Massive battleships and carriers occupied the closest orbits, their hulking forms heavy with firepower and menace. Further out, cruisers and battlecruisers circled Nerio, their sleek lines speaking of speed and agility next to the brutal bulk of the capital ships. The outermost ships were destroyers and frigates, the escorts dwarfed by the bigger vessels they covered in action. Every ship had the same basic layout, a hexagonal central hull with cone-like forecastle and boxy sterncastle, their primary guns mounted in turrets on the dorsal and ventral surfaces of the central hull, with their secondary batteries covering the fore- and sterncastles, as well as the flanks of the central sections.

The battleships had large, exaggerated fore- and sterncastles, flaring out from the central sections, giving them a heavy, menacing aspect, while the cruisers and smaller ships lacked this feature. Their lines were smoother, sleek and lean. The carriers were wider, flattened versions of the same basic form, their flanks clear of gun turrets, their places taken by the massive launch bay doors that would yawn wide in action to release squadron after squadron of deadly aerospace fighters and bombers.

The shuttle continued towards the fleet, moving amongst the smaller vessels, the destroyers and frigates that would screen the capital ships in action, providing cover from missile and fighter attack. Patterson watched a destroyer through the viewport as the shuttle passed, admiring its clean, fast lines. He read the name and hull number as the ship slid across the viewport, CSS Dauntless, DD 85279. One of the Fearless-class, the navy's newest fleet destroyers.

The Dauntless passed from view as the shuttle sped on, beginning a long, looping turn