TEXT: BATTLECORPS
  THE LAST FULL 
  MEASURE
  by Kevin Killiany 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  The Last Full Measure • Page 2
  Terran System 
  Military Academy of Aphros  
  Training Vessel Sheridan 
  22 November 3067
  Every last reading was a lie.
  Gripping the back of the command chair, Precentor Captain 
  Teodore Kopulos could smell the tension in the bridge. Not quite 
  fear, not yet, but the officers of the Sheridan knew they were in 
  trouble.
  Acting Ship’s Master Gerald leaned forward in the command 
  chair, straps holding him against the inertia. Voice clipped with 
  tension, he ordered the ops officer to double-check the radi-
  ation fluctuations. In the same breath he asked again for an 
  update on repairs to the failed capacitor coupling. He waved off 
  Tac’s report of anomalous debris in the gas giant’s gravity field 
  and ordered a damage control team—at this distance it looked 
  like a coolant leak. Kopulos begrudged the younger man his 
  sharp eyes, able to read the engineer’s screen from the com-
  mand chair.
  Knowing his gross movements might distract those working 
  frantically to save the ship, Kopulos flicked only his eyes from 
  station to station, his head moving the minimal millimeters neces-
  sary for him to take in the each in turn. Whatever else might be 
  said about the Bonaventure-class corvette, its bridge was laid out 
  with efficient simplicity. 
  The Sheridan had been executing a tight hyperbola around the 
  gas giant, slingshotting through the gravity well for cheap delta v 
  on its way to the system’s nadir recharge station, when the port 
  engine had blown, taking the aft stabilizing thrusters with it. In the 
  space of a heartbeat the moderately daring maneuver had become 
  a deadly tumble. Now the bridge crew was fighting the giant’s grav-
  ity, trying to turn their downward plunge into a low orbit before 
  they fell far enough for the dense atmosphere to snag their jagged 
  hull and strip the ship open.
  Tactical repeated her report of proximate debris, her voice all but 
  drowned out by the drive engineer’s whoop of success. The aft 
  thrusters, half of them anyway, were back on line.
  
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  Acting Ship’s Master Gerald called out bearing and thrust num-
  bers—he’d apparently been calculating their escape even as they 
  fell. Helm responded instantly. 
  The sudden change in angular acceleration almost cost Kopulos 
  his grip on the command chair. Around him the bridge crew still 
  moved with frantic speed, calling out readings and actions in rap-
  id coordination. But the edge of fear was gone from their voices, 
  replaced with the confidence of triumph.
  Tactical shouted—
  Every screen went dead. The light panels flicked out. Only the 
  gas giant’s light, sweeping the bridge as the viewport swung 
  past it every few seconds, illuminated the men and women of the 
  bridge, frozen in stunned surprise at their stations.
  “Engine room, this is the captain,” Kopulos said in the darkness. 
  “Station keeping.”
  The gyrations of the gas giant slowed as thrusters cancelled the 
  WarShip’s tumble. At last the striped globe, a safe distance below, 
  was centered against the vastness of the star field. 
  Kopulos did not order the lights up, preferring the steady glow of 
  Jupiter as he considered the shadowy forms of the cadets.
  “Analysis, Mister Gerald?” he asked quietly.
  “I killed us, sir.”
  “Succinct,” Kopulos conceded. “Any thoughts on how?”
  “I ignored the tactical officer’s warning about orbital debris until 
  it was too late to avoid collision, sir.”
  “And why did you do that, Mister Gerald?”
  “I was too focused on getting internal damage under control,” 
  the cadet answered promptly.
  “Things were happening very quickly.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  “If you’d had more time you would have realized the debris field 
  represented a danger?”
  The senior cadet had more sense than to fall into that trap. Gerald 
  remained silent, gripping a handhold as he floated at attention.
  
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  “Mister Gerald,” Kopulos knew cadets found his quiet tones more 
  unnerving than the sharp bark most field instructors employed. 
  He was gratified to see Gerald did not visibly flinch. “How would 
  you characterize Cadet Nakamura as a navigator?”
  “Excellent, sir,” there was a faint note of relief as Gerald realized 
  the captain’s evaluation was evidently moving on. “He’s prompt 
  and accurate in his calculations.”
  Kopulos nodded judiciously, obviously weighing the cadet’s 
  words.
  “And Cadet Edelweiss?” he asked. “This is her first tour as bridge 
  engineering officer.”
  “Handled herself very well, sir,” Gerald said. “Demonstrated 
  competence and thorough understanding of all systems and pro-
  cedures.”
  “I concur, Mister Gerald.”
  The younger man’s eye flickered at the quiet confirmation. 
  Kopulos could see he realized he’d made some mistake, but wasn’t 
  sure what it was. Yet.
  “Who is responsible for detailing damage control parties, Mister 
  Gerald?”
  “The engineering officer, sir,” Gerald’s answer was prompt, his 
  tone slightly puzzled.
  “And who provides the helmsmen with bearing vectors and 
  thrust parameters?”
  A slight hesitation.
  “The navigator, sir,” Gerald answered with the deflated tones of 
  self-realization.
  “You were not focused on the crisis, Mister Gerald,” Kopulos let 
  a little steel slide into his voice. “You were distracted from the 
  crisis by minutia that were none of your responsibility. You had 
  a competent engineer at her post, an able navigator on duty, but 
  you let the excitement of the moment drag you into doing their 
  jobs for them at the expense of your own. Because of that, you 
  missed information, properly delivered three times, that could 
  have saved the Sheridan.”
  
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  Kopulos looked at each of the cadets in turn, knowing they felt his 
  eye even if all they could see in the Jovian glow was the shadows 
  beneath his brow. Then he turned his attention back to Gerald.
  “Before you rise to the command of your own ship, I can almost 
  guarantee you will serve under at least one officer who will seek 
  to micromanage every operation,” he said. “Every navy is full of 
  them. But you must not—ever—emulate them. Your ship and the 
  lives of your crew will depend on you trusting your people to do 
  their jobs. And your crew will do their jobs better if they can trust 
  you to be doing yours.”
  He paused a moment, letting those words sink in.
  “What exactly is your job as commander of a vessel?” he asked 
  mildly.
  “To carry out assigned missions,” Gerald hazarded, then amend-
  ed slightly: “And preserve the safety of my ship and crew.”
  Kopulos did not actually sigh. That was as close as most cadets 
  got.
  “You are responsible for a very small world,” he said. “And that 
  responsibility requires you to make tough choices, life and death 
  choices, quickly, often under extreme duress. You must always 
  be aware of the big picture—the context in which events take 
  place and in which you must act. Pay attention to everything, but 
  meddle in nothing. More of your choices will be correct if they’re 
  informed, and good information comes from people who know 
  they have your trust.”
  Kopulos propelled himself aft along the central shaft of the 
  Sheridan with the otter grace of a lifetime in space. Which an-
  noyed him. He was in the mood for stalking along the windward 
  rail of a square-rigged ship, his boots clomping hollowly on the 
  deck, while the men of his command bent their backs to cheating 
  another knot of speed from the wind.
  Not that he’d ever done such a thing. But tall and angular and 
  lantern-jawed, he’d always thought the role would have suited 
  him.
  
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  In one respect the Sheridan was like one of those ancient 
  barques of war. It was obsolete. The Bonaventure-class corvette 
  had been retired six centuries ago. Most were scrap, though he 
  didn’t doubt a few pirates in the dark reaches of the Periphery 
  numbered Bonaventures among their rag-tag fleets; he’d always 
  been a romantic. 
  The Sheridan had been stripped of its weapons and K-F drives 
  and parked at salvage yard. Kopulos hated those places, ghost flo-
  tillas, some a hundred vessels strong, of space-cold hulks in their 
  lonely solar orbit far from the traffic lanes. But four centuries ago 
  the Military Academy of Aphros had rescued the rugged corvette. 
  They’d towed it to Venusian orbit and set about refitting it as a 
  training vessel.
  A group of cadets pulled themselves to attention, gripping the 
  guide ropes, as Kopulos approached. He wanted to sail by without 
  a glance, but their training was more important than his mood. 
  Pausing mid-flight, he acknowledged their salutes properly. 
  They were on their way to the mess on the gravity deck, of course, 
  the next shift coming on. If they’d been on duty they would have 
  carried on and he could have passed unnoticed. Like a real captain 
  with a real ship. 
  The original crews and captains of the Sheridan—should they 
  ever travel through time for a visit—would be moved to tears to 
  see what had been done to their WarShip. If they were able to find 
  their way around. 
  There were two hundred and forty-three people aboard a ship 
  originally designed to carry one hundred and twenty-nine, count-
  ing pilots—two complete crews of cadets and their instructors. 
  The central hold was now a barracks for the additional bodies. The 
  six fighter bays and the great empty caves where the K-F drives 
  and their batteries had been were now packed with a mind-bog-
  gling assortment of equipment and materiel for simulating any 
  number of EVA emergencies. 
  Not that these kids needed much practice with EVA suits. 
  Attending an academy on a hell-hole like Venus meant learning to 
  wear an environmental suit like a second skin. If the Sheridan ever 
  broke down, the cadets were well able to get out and walk home. 
  That had been funny the first time he’d thought of it.
  There was a K-F control room, of course, right where it should 
  be, with screens that said whatever the simulation computer said 
  
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  they should say and controls that felt and looked and acted like 
  the real things. And sails, prone to complex malfunctions with 
  which to challenge the cadets. Training aboard the Sheridan was 
  as thorough and as realistic as it could be without actually jump-
  ing anywhere.
  Much like my career.
  Kopulos shook off the thought and spared a glance at a pair of 
  cadet techs properly ignoring him as they worked. They were test-
  ing the section of auxiliary fire control circuit that stretched along 
  this bit of corridor, comparing their resistor readings to the specs. 
  He was confident the two would eventually discover the miscon-
  nected point defense subprocessor, but if they were still testing 
  exterior lines, that satori was still hours away. 
  The weapons systems were, to the eye and diagnostic instru-
  ments, all present and correct, matching the design specs of the 
  Bonaventure corvette. At least in terms of number and placement. 
  The long-range missile launchers and the autocannons could 
  only fire marker rounds, while the ersatz laser batteries produced 
  spectacular light shows that delivered about one percent of a real 
  weapon’s energy to the target. 
  There was a persistent rumor the Naval 35s could flash cook 
  a frozen pot-roast to perfection. Every year someone tried to 
  devise a way to covertly test the absurd claim and every year 
  Kopulos—while never acknowledging he was aware of the secret 
  experiments—usually awarded points for creativity and initiative 
  to those who carried them out.
  Only the drives were original equipment. Close to a millennium 
  old, they could still slap the corvette through tight maneuvers at 
  three gravities of thrust. Aphros graduates remembered helm in-
  structor Ann Reed’s demonstration of threading the asteroid belt 
  at speed for decades. For his part, Kopulos was always amazed 
  the heavily modified—and weakened—training ship survived 
  those sessions of flat-out skew-and-burn.
  Commander Marcos Palmer, chief engineer and defacto second-
  in-command of the Sheridan, was setting tasks for a new shift 
  in the engine room when Kopulos arrived. Freshmen, the cadets 
  tried not to betray they were aware of the captain making what 
  they no doubt thought was a surprise evaluation as they listened 
  to their assignments.
  “Gave the speech on a captain’s responsibilities again, didn’t 
  you?” Marcos asked when the cadets dispersed to their duties.
  
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  “How can you tell?”
  “You always look particularly depressed right after you’ve been 
  your most inspiring,” the shorter man grinned. “Got time for cof-
  fee?”
  “Always.”
  The senior cadet acting as chief engineer responded with under-
  standable ambivalence to the news the two primary instructors 
  would be on break. He knew that meant either an uneventful shift 
  or all hell was going to break loose while they were unavailable. 
  Kopulos bet the cadet would be on the intercom to Gerald be-
  fore they were clear of Engineering.
  Marcos did not take the red jacket of his uniform from the secure 
  net on the final bulkhead as they passed. That was one of the few 
  regs he tended to ignore. 
  Kopulos suspected it was because the red jacket of his order so 
  clearly set him off from the cadets and other Aphros instructors. 
  Though it could just be that he didn’t like wearing it in zero-gee. 
  After all, his black coverall, with its half dozen extra pockets for 
  God—or rather Blake—knew what, did stand out in contrast to the 
  baby blues of the cadets and the instructor’s pearl greys. However, 
  only the silver disk at his upright collar, with its circle-with-cross-
  bar theta emblem, testified that chief field instructor of engineering 
  was not his only calling.
  The gravity deck housed all mess, medical, and exercise facilities, 
  a grouping most cadets found significant. Rotation kept the primary 
  deck at oh-point-four gravities. Mass distribution in the training ves-
  sel was uneven and changed frequently to accommodate different 
  testing and practice scenarios. The revolution rate needed to simu-
  late earth-normal gravity, while more gyroscopically stable, would 
  have entered unnecessary torque considerations into every maneu-
  ver. The cadets generally found things a little light on the grav deck, 
  but Kopulos found it comfortably close to his native Mars. 
   Or what he remembered of his native Mars. He’d been in the Sol 
  system twelve years—nearly twenty-three Terran standard years—
  and spent less than a year of that time on his home world. None 
  of it in the last standard decade. Of course, without family a home 
  world was nothing more than another rock in space.
  The officers’ mess was a corner of the general mess demarked 
  more by tradition than any actual barricade. In the mess hall, by 
  
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  academy tradition, rank was not recognized except when a direct 
  order was being given or received. This prevented nervous cadets 
  inadvertently scattering trays of food as they leapt to their feet 
  every time they saw an officer. The practice also allowed the in-
  structors who so chose to interact informally with their students.
  Waiting his turn at the coffee urn, Kopulos nodded simply to any 
  cadet who made eye contact, neither seeking out nor avoiding ac-
  knowledgement. Marcos, however, smiled at several of the young 
  men and women, greeting most by name. The captain knew he 
  would be remembered with respect by the cadets who trained un-
  der him, but Marcos would always occupy a warmer place in their 
  hearts. There probably wasn’t a graduate of Aphros who hadn’t 
  told the engineer their life story at one point, or come to him for 
  advice about career or romance or personal direction.
  Making his way to the officer’s area, Kopulos sat with his back 
  to the larger room, not wanting to contribute to the indigestion of 
  cadets who might imagine they were under his watchful eye.
  “So, give,” said Marcos, sliding into the seat opposite.
  “Bah. The usual complaint,” Kopulos said. “Those who can’t 
  teach.”
  “On the contrary, my friend,” Marcos replied. “Those who can 
  teach. Any moron can do a job. To take what you know and instill 
  it in others, that requires a special talent.”
  “And the usual counseling,” Kopulos added.
  “It must be working,” Marcos grinned. “Already I see your mood 
  has elevated from morose to dour.”
  “You are by far the strangest priest I have ever met.”
  “I keep telling you we’re not priests,” Marcos leaned back in his 
  chair. “Some of us who have studied the Word are simply called 
  to share our understanding with others.”
  “I doubt your Blessed Blake had much to say about old star cap-
  tains who never amounted to enough to be a has-been,” Kopulos’ 
  mouth quirked as he swirled the liquid in his cup. “But I appreciate 
  the coffee.”
  “Oh, I’ll grant your career did not involve much buckling of your 
  swash, whatever that is,” the younger man agreed. “But it was 
  your thirty years of steady service—three decades of intelligent de-
  
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  pendability—that earned you the posting to the Military Academy 
  of Aphros.
  “Flashy exhibitionists are entertaining, even useful at times,” 
  Marcos shrugged, his ready grin popping back into place. “But 
  civilization depends on the ones who get the job done, and done 
  right, day after day.”
  Kopulos regarded the engineer through his brow.
  “You, my adaptable Adept,” he said, pointing with the index fin-
  ger of the hand wrapped around his mug, “missed your calling 
  when you went into JumpShip Operations. You should have gone 
  into counseling. Or public relations.”
  
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  Terran System 
  Military Academy of Aphros 
  Training Vessel Sheridan 
  07 December 3067
  “Sir?” It was Edelweiss, late of engineering and currently on tac-
  tical. She glanced to be sure she had Acting Master Grainger’s 
  attention. “I’ve got multiple jumps.”
  Kopulos frowned. The report was partial, which was not good, 
  and completely unexpected, which was even less good.
  The Sheridan was above the elliptic, giving Mars the prescribed 
  wide berth on the final leg of their tour. 
  After the disaster of being smashed by orbiting Jovian icebergs, 
  the exercises had gone exceptionally well, with every bogie hid-
  den in the asteroid belt located and neutralized in near record time. 
  Among the targets destroyed was a three-kilo pot-roast flashed to 
  vapor. A catapult, powered by the retraction piston for the dor-
  sal sensor array shroud, had launched the ill-fated beef. Its clever 
  design and placement had earned Gerald a few points unawares, 
  though not enough to undo the damage of destroying the ship.
  For the last forty hours they’d been coasting, all internal sys-
  tems at minimum, while freshman repair crews frantically patched 
  “battle damage” to the hull. Soon they would discover corrupted 
  plasma injectors that would require complete replacement before 
  the corvette could decelerate. It was a tricky operation, but most 
  crews usually got it done in time for their final approach to Venus. 
  There were rare overshots, of course, and last-minute three-grav-
  ity burns were not uncommon.
  There was nothing in any of the scenarios about unexpected 
  JumpShip arrivals.
  Particularly since the zenith jump point was eight days away at 
  single-gee. Not close enough for arriving ships to register.
  “Where away?” asked Grainger, apparently reaching the same 
  conclusion.
  “Bearing three-four-oh mark three-oh-oh, range—” her voice 
  trailed off in doubt. “Sir, I may have a sensor malfunction. I show 
  ships jumping in system inside Mars orbit.”
  
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  “Tac, feed your numbers to Navigation,” Kopulos ordered, break-
  ing protocol. “Cadet Rice, using those coordinates to plug-and-test, 
  can you project a Mars-Terra-Sol LaGrange point?”
  The bridge had gone electric with his first words. Stepping in 
  without asking permission announced “this is not a drill” as loud-
  ly as any alarm klaxon.
  “Ninety-seven percent match,” Rice confirmed after a moment’s 
  calculation. “They lead it a little, but it’s a pirate point.”
  Kopulos nodded once, sharply, acknowledging the junior’s quick 
  analysis.
  “Terra or Mars, Edelweiss?”
  The young woman did not answer immediately but studied her 
  screen, one index finger slightly raised. Telling him to wait while 
  the intruders built up enough thrust for their course to be appar-
  ent. Good.
  “Mars, sir,” she said a moment later. “Looks like one-point-two 
  gees acceleration. Estimate Mars orbit in twenty-three hours.”
  “Confirmed, sir,” Rice let him know Tac’s numbers were still be-
  ing echoed on his screen.
  “Are they flying colors?”
  The cadets looked at him blankly.
  “Can we read their identity transponders?” he asked patiently.
  “No IFF transmissions, Precentor Captain,” Edelweiss responded 
  as though answering an exam question. She had the wit not to 
  remind him protocols assumed ships running dark were hostile.
  Kopulos reached for the intercom built into the arm of the com-
  mand chair. Grainger leaned as far out of his way as the zero-gee 
  retention straps would let him.
  “Commander Palmer?”
  “Here, Captain.”
  “Hope you haven’t set up the next surprise, Marcos,” Kopulos 
  said, giving the ashen Grainger a sour grin. “We’re going to need 
  those engines.”
  
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  Thirteen centuries ago, naval battles had been fought like space 
  battles. Hours would pass between first sighting of an enemy’s 
  sail and the firing of the first shot. Hours of maneuvering and plan-
  ning and positioning for what could in the end be only moments 
  of gunfire. Or days.
  Kopulos envied his spiritual ancestors their poop decks to pace 
  as he sat, held to the command chair by two gravities thrust—six 
  times the field he’d grown up in. Though his long frame had hard-
  ened to standard gees decades ago, on long, steady pulls his 
  bones still ached. Now only his eyes moved, flicking from repeater 
  screen to repeater screen as he watched the tactical situation un-
  fold.
  If he were still on active duty and the Sheridan a commissioned 
  vessel, he could have contacted system defense, coordinated with 
  real WarShips. As it was, Kopulos and his young charges were 
  playing a lone hand against unknown odds. He had no illusions 
  that the Sheridan would be anything other than a diversion. But 
  anything that weakened the invaders’ thrust against his home-
  world was a weapon.
  To that end, he was not approaching the aggressor fleet too 
  quickly. Ships in space did not actually see other ships until they 
  were within weapons range. At distance they identified other ves-
  sels by transponders and by electronic signature. Each class of 
  ship could be identified by its distinctive array of sensors and com-
  municators. Such as the readings that told him, for example, that 
  the attacking fleet was built around a Congress and a Sovetskii 
  Soyuz—that last determining their approach speed.
  However, the Sheridan was a training vessel intended to prepare 
  cadets for service on a wide range of WarShips. It had several 
  electronic suites arranged in parallel from which they could select 
  to emulate whatever ship a given exercise warranted. 
  At first Kopulos had been tempted to rotate through the rep-
  ertoire in an effort to create the illusion of a small fleet, but he’d 
  abandoned that plan as too easily penetrated. Instead he’d config-
  ured the Sheridan’s electronic array to mimic a more formidable 
  contemporary of the Bonaventure-class corvette; something po-
  tent enough to give them pause in their assault on Mars. So he 
  held his approach to two gravities, arcing wide as though seek-
  
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  ing to pin the invaders against the planet. It was a balancing act, 
  trying to appear a threat while keeping distance and giving the en-
  emy time to wonder how many Aegis-class heavy cruisers Terra 
  had at their disposal. 
  As long as they kept maneuvering vectors consistent with the 
  larger vessel, the enemy should not be able to penetrate the ruse 
  until the Sheridan was close enough for direct scans to reveal it 
  lacked two-thirds the necessary mass.
  The plan was simple. If and when the invaders responded to the 
  threat of the “cruiser,” the Sheridan would lead any ships that at-
  tempted to engage as far out of formation as possible. With three 
  gravities of thrust available, they could outrun anything in the ag-
  gressor fleet.
  Assuming none of those ships was pulling the same electronic 
  subterfuge they were. It would be a shame to find themselves 
  suddenly confronted by a flotilla of Kirishimas.
  So far, however, the invading force was showing no interest 
  in the “Aegis” closing from above the elliptic. Though no doubt 
  aware of the ship, they maintained focus on the apparently pri-
  mary target, letting the interceptor burn its fuel coming to them if 
  it dared.
  Kopulos gave them points for solid tactics.
  For his part, Commander Palmer had devoted the last twenty 
  hours to an effort to bring some sort of weapon system on line. 
  He’d explained to Kopulos that at some point someone may try 
  to shoot at the Sheridan and being able to shoot back might be a 
  good idea. 
  Nothing could be done about the missile launchers and autocan-
  non, of course. Marker rounds looked enough like the real thing 
  to give an enemy pause until the first salvo landed, but that was 
  about all they could be counted on. The ship simply didn’t have 
  any live munitions.
  Instead Marcos focused on getting the governors off the lasers 
  and routing power through capacitors that could handle a full 
  weapons load. There were no weapons grade assemblies aboard, 
  of course, but there were plenty of spare parts for “emergency” 
  repairs on the training units they had. Enough for him to cobble 
  together parallel banks sufficient to contain the surging energy 
  flow. However, connecting the banks to the actual weapons was 
  
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  requiring some creative and hasty fabrication carried out under 
  two gravities.
  There was no time to test the new systems, of course. Kopulos 
  hoped they’d never be used. They wouldn’t be, if his plan worked.
  And if Mars mounted any sort of defense. 
  That was one aspect of being an academy instructor and not 
  commanding an active WarShip. Kopulos had only the vaguest 
  sense what forces were in the Terran system. Other than avoiding 
  posted no-traffic zones, he’d had no reason to pay close attention 
  to the comings and goings of local defense forces. He had no idea 
  what resources Mars had with which to meet the attack. 
  Tactical had reported a single Naga in polar orbit. Though much 
  slower than a Bonaventure, the aged destroyer had over twice 
  the Sheridan’s mass and ample firepower to make a difference. 
  But the ship was simply following its orbit, to all appearances an 
  empty hulk.   
  Probably the next generation’s training vessel.
  Kopulos ran his eye over the repeater screens, knowing one of 
  the cadets would already have called out any sightings. If anyone 
  else in-system was burning to the planet’s aid, they weren’t show-
  ing up on the Sheridan’s sensors.
  In-system jumps were always possible, of course, but LaGrange 
  points far enough from Mars to be safe were nearly a quarter-mil-
  lion kilometers out. Too far for anything that hadn’t arrived already 
  to engage the invaders before they reached the red planet.
  It looked like the open stages of the battle were up to the Sheridan 
  and whatever Mars Defense had on hand. They might give the in-
  vaders pause if they appeared to be more of a threat.
  “Commander Palmer?” he asked into the intercom, pleased his 
  voice did not betray him.
  “Here, Captain.”
  “How are we coming with those weapons systems?”
  “Port side thirty-five and large lasers are still a light show, but 
  we’ve upped the wattage,” Marcos reported. “If we don’t hit any-
  thing and give them a chance to get an accurate energy reading, 
  they look like a full-power array.”
  
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  Kopulos nodded a millimeter, knowing the intercom wouldn’t 
  pick up the gesture but trusting Marcos to sense it. He hadn’t re-
  ally expected more.
  “Starboard array has a little more punch,” Marcos surprised him. 
  “No threat to a capital ship, but we should earn the respect of aero-
  space.”
  “Enough power to take out heavy fighters?”
  “More like annoy them severely,” the engineer chuckled. “But 
  we’ve got enough juice to make them cautious.”
  “Good work,” Kopulos said, and meant it. Anything that had the 
  potential to tie up enemy assets was an advantage.
  “Sir?”
  They had worked through the watches during their long inter-
  cept and Edelweiss was again on tactical, looking to be sure she 
  had his attention before reporting.
  “Cadet Edelweiss, we are in a situation where seconds could be 
  vital,” Kopulos kept his voice smooth. “Your good manners could 
  cost lives. Please report without prompting.”
  “Sir, yes, sir,” the cadet came to attention in her chair. “Multiple 
  drive plumes in Mars polar orbit, sir. Unfamiliar configurations.”
  Kopulos brought her screen up on his main repeater. 
  Multiple was right. Some form of energy field, probably an ECM 
  developed after his retirement, was fogging the readings, but he 
  counted three dozen, maybe four, vessels pushing up out of Mars 
  orbit. Their layered formation made picking out individual ships 
  difficult. 
  It was unsurprising their sensor patterns weren’t in the Sheridan’s 
  database or Kopulos’ own memory. Neither an aged training ves-
  sel or a retired captain had the security clearance to be privy to 
  cutting-edge weapons systems. 
  New WarShips? Possible, particularly given the interdict against 
  close Mars approach. DropShips, too. If he was reading the ther-
  mals right, there were at least three classes of vessels in the 
  mystery fleet.
  On the heels of that thought came the realization why the invad-
  ers had been ignoring the “Aegis” closing in on them. 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  The Last Full Measure • Page 17
  “We walk like a duck, we sound like a duck, and we look like a 
  duck,” he said quietly. “But we don’t fart like a duck.”
  “Sir?” Rice this time, again at Navigation.
  “Our decoy action.” Kopulos answered. His mistake could at least 
  further the cadets’ education. “When impersonating a vessel with 
  three times your mass, remember to triple the volume of your ex-
  haust gasses.”
  “Our thermal mass signature,” Tomas, the cadet at helm, said. 
  “They can read our heat.”
  “Wouldn’t that be impossible to fake?” Rice asked. “With three 
  times the exhaust we’d have to be either three times more mas-
  sive or three times faster.”
  “Vent omnifuel vapor?” Edelweiss suggested. “Maybe superheat 
  it with a small laser?”
  “Good thinking, Cadet,” Kopulos acknowledged. “The tempera-
  ture would be wrong, but close enough to instill serious doubt. I 
  wish I’d thought to consult you sooner.”
  Edelweiss tucked her chin into her chest, smiling under the com-
  pliment.
  Kopulos’ own smile drifted back into a frown as he considered 
  the problem of the unknown ships. Were they sufficient to turn 
  back the invaders? He didn’t know enough to begin to speculate. 
  Not taking his eyes from the unfamiliar readings, he thumbed on 
  the intercom.
  “Commander Palmer, I’d like you on the bridge,” he said, his voice 
  in the conversational calm that struck fear in the hearts of cadets. 
  “We have a mystery I think only an engineer can solve.”
  Watching the commander’s profile as he studied the mystery 
  craft on the screens, Kopulos realized his friend knew exactly 
  what he was looking at. What Marcos was obviously struggling 
  with was how much he could say about what he knew.
  “Are they enough to stop the invasion?” he asked, trying to break 
  things down into yes/no questions that could be answered with-
  out compromising security.
  
  BATTLECORPS
  The Last Full Measure • Page 18
  “I don’t know,” Marcos answered quietly, glancing toward the ca-
  dets at their stations and Reed at the helm. His voice didn’t carry. 
  Lieutenant Reed had relieved Cadet Tomas at helm; Kopulos 
  wanted the best hands he knew of on the controls if the Sheridan 
  was going into battle. He’d ordered thrust cut. They were close to 
  terminal velocity for making Mars. The math of accel/decel dic-
  tated they’d get there faster if they dropped in on current inertia 
  ending with a full-bore three-gravity braking burn than if they’d 
  made the standard mid-point flip.
  “They weren’t meant for this,” Marcos said in the same quiet 
  tone.
  Kopulos could believe it. A second group of planetary defense ves-
  sels had mobilized in the time it had taken Marcos to reach the bridge. 
  Perhaps sixty craft total, only moments from engaging the incoming 
  fleet. But not as a cohesive force. Each ship was clearly coming at 
  the invaders ASAP with individual ships outstripping the whole with 
  no sense of formation. As though someone, caught by surprise, was 
  simply throwing whatever came to hand at the threat. 
  Which probably wasn’t too far wrong, now that he thought of it. 
  The Sol system had gotten complacent in its security.
  Not so the invaders. A half dozen assault DropShips were de-
  ployed to protect troop and ’Mech carriers. The database identified 
  a Fortress, and a mix of Intruders and Hannibals. Two DropShops 
  hanging back were tagged Vengeance, which implied—given the 
  aerospace compliments of the Congress and Soyuz WarShips—at 
  least three Level IIIs of aerospace fighters in the swarm defending 
  the descending fleet.
  Mars was flinging a handful of gravel at an oncoming boulder.
  And to their aid came the Sheridan, old and toothless as her cap-
  tain, snarling ineffectually at the juggernaut’s heels.
  The battle was joined.
  The tactical computer updated its estimates on positioning of 
  the aerospace screen as weapons fire and explosions gave it hard 
  numbers.
  Incredibly, the first defenders, small DropShips according to 
  the Sheridan’s targetting computer, seemed to cut through the 
  wall of fighter cover with no losses. None engaged the fighters, 
  pressing on to larger targets. Reaching the fleet, and again there 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  The Last Full Measure • Page 19
  was no apparent formation or plan to their attack, the defender 
  ships swarmed the Fortress. They avoided the invader’s fire with 
  high-gee flip and burn maneuvers Kopulos thought would have 
  challenged heavy fighters.
  “Going to be a lot of loose teeth and sore backs on those ships,” 
  he commented quietly to his friend.
  Marcos grunted noncommittally, watching the screens. 
  Kopulos realized his friend was caught up in the battle. So was 
  he, but three decades of naval command had given him a gallows 
  humor his young friend apparently didn’t appreciate.
  The second wave, if the helter-skelter clot of defenders could be 
  called that, cut through the screen of aerospace fighters. But un-
  like their earlier cousins, they took losses, one of them exploding 
  once it was past the fighters but before it had reached the invad-
  ing DropShips.
  “Tactical?”
  “Looks like concentrated aerospace fire from behind, sir,” 
  Edelweiss answered promptly. “Readings of the explosion force 
  patterns indicate seventy percent probability they’re susceptible 
  to aft attack.”
  “Damn,” Kopulos said quietly, his sardonic humor of a moment 
  before gone. 
  If his cadets could figure that out it was a cinch the invaders 
  already had. What would be the crew of a small attack craft like 
  that? A dozen? Twenty? It didn’t matter. One life lost to the invad-
  ers was too many.
  To the unpracticed eye the battle unfolding on the screen be-
  came a melee as more defenders penetrated the screen and more 
  screening fighters dropped back to engage them. 
  The invasion fleet shifted formation slightly, but it was still a tight 
  formation, still under cohesive overall control as the DropShips re-
  formed to offer each other what cover fire they could. Not a usual 
  maneuver with aerospace coverage so dense, but the swarm of 
  defenders, dancing through the web of weapons fire with bone-
  snapping agility, was necessitating unusual measures.
  The defenders were hurting the invaders. Attacking DropShips were 
  going dark or igniting in flares of venting plasma and atmosphere. 
  The fourth and last group had passed the aerospace screen without 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  The Last Full Measure • Page 20
  firing a shot, most of the fighters having pulled back to close defense 
  of the fleet. These defenders had ignored the DropShips as well, car-
  rying their dodging and flipping attack directly to the WarShips.
  But it was not enough.
  One by one the torches of the defenders’ thrusts were being ex-
  tinguished under the disciplined fire of the attackers’ coordinated 
  defense. The boulder was crushing the pebbles thrown against it.
  There may have been other fleets of defenders, hanging in silent 
  orbit as these had been, but if there were there was no sign. The 
  defense of Mars was in the hands of the dozen defenders still har-
  rying the WarShips.
  And the Sheridan.
  They were closing, close enough for even a Bonaventure to have 
  deserved a little attention, but still being ignored. The invaders 
  were clearly going to clean up the immediate threat before turning 
  their attention to the lone ship dropping down from above. Sound 
  tactics even if they didn’t know the old trainer had no weapons.
  No weapons except...
  “Order all hands to EV suits,” Kopulos ordered. “Man all evacu-
  ation stations.”
  “Teo—”
  Kopulos cut Marcos off with a hard glare as the cadet at com-
  munications relayed the order through the ship..
  “Lieutenant Reed, Cadet Rice, I want a spiral,” Kopulos said, still 
  meeting the commander’s eye. “Point three gee thrust. Once 
  around Mars then intercept the hostiles.”
  “You’re going to ram,” Marcos said. It wasn’t a question. “You’re go-
  ing to drop the cadets on Mars, then ram one of those WarShips.”
  “Sir!” protested Rice.
  “Nonsense, Marcos.”
  “Permission to stay on board,” Edelweiss cut in, the cadets at 
  communications and engineering a beat behind her.
  “Denied,” Kopulos snapped. Then, once again his studied calm: 
  “All of you have done excellent work, but we’re dismissing class 
  ahead of schedule.”
  
  BATTLECORPS
  The Last Full Measure • Page 21
  Not a cadet moved. Holding themselves against the air currents, 
  they each regarded Kopulos with level suspicion. Only Reed con-
  tinued to work, laying the complex course into the flight control.
  “I have no intention of throwing my life away,” Kopulos assured them. 
  To a real crew, a seasoned crew, he would not have made the gesture. 
  But these were, after all, cadets and, in many ways they’d rather die 
  than admit, they were still children “There’s no real danger.”
  “Right,” Marcos said. “What’s your plan?”
  Normally such a question would be unthinkable, but Kopulos saw the 
  commander was helping. Giving him an opportunity to provide a ratio-
  nale to make the cadets more comfortable in abandoning their captain.
  “Swing over the horizon, lasers blazing,” Kopulos said eas-
  ily. “See if I can’t draw their aerospace cover out of position long 
  enough to give our boys a clear shot.”
  “The helm is locked down, you could set the simulator to fire the 
  lasers. There’s no reason for you to remain onboard.”
  “The hostiles could move,” Kopulos pointed out. “Course may 
  need a few last minute adjustments. It’s a long shot, it’s doubtful 
  the invaders will spare Sheridan a glance, but I don’t want to carry 
  young officers into potential danger unnecessarily.” 
  “Of course,” said Marcos.
  Flashes on the sensor screens and, more faintly, through the 
  viewport. The battle for Mars continued.
  “Get in your suits and to your pods,” Kopulos ordered.
  The cadets rose, pulling themselves to attention, and brought 
  fingertips to brow. Their captain, glaring through the sudden sting 
  in his eyes, pulled himself upright and returned their salute.
  “I’m going to have to make a call,” Marcos said when they had left.
  Kopulos nodded, indicating the communications station. No 
  doubt a planet under attack was going to need reassurances about 
  a dozen small craft suddenly appearing in orbit.
  Marcos moved to the console, keeping his body between Kopulos 
  and the screen as he adjusted frequency.
  “Voice identification,” he said clearly. “Adept XII Rho Marcos 
  Palmer—” he lapsed into a series of syllables that conveyed noth-
  ing to the others on the bridge.
  
  BATTLECORPS
  The Last Full Measure • Page 22
  “Annie,” Kopulos said quietly. “Lock down helm and get to the pods.”
  “Like hell.”
  “Shooting you in the leg and dragging you isn’t my first choice, 
  but it is an option,” he hardened his voice. “That was an order, 
  Lieutenant.”
  “Sir, yes, sir,” Reed locked down her station. “If you need to make 
  any course corrections...”
  “I know how to bypass the interlocks,” Kopulos cut her off gently 
  as he pushed himself toward tactical.
  “Sir.”
  Kopulos paused. Bracing himself to attention, he returned her 
  salute.
  It took him less than a minute to slave fire control from tactical 
  over to helm. By the time he was done, Marcos was again stand-
  ing by the command chair, evidently waiting.
  “You don’t have to do this, Teo,” he said. “Mars defense got 
  caught flat-footed, but they should be able to handle this.”
  “‘Should’ being the operative word, Marcos,” Kopulos said. 
  “Mars is my home. I’m as much Mars defense as any of those ships 
  getting shot up out there.”
  “Coming over the horizon you won’t have time to make more 
  than minor course corrections.”
  “That should be enough.”
  “What if you miss?”
  “Then I’ll be a foolish old man in Solar orbit,” Kopulos smiled. 
  “Do me a favor and don’t send a rescue party.”
  “Can’t promise that,” Marcos said solemnly. “The Sheridan is a 
  valuable ship.”
  Kopulos grunted.
  “Do me a favor?” Marcos asked. “If you come over the horizon 
  and see Mars has mounted a heavier defense, go for that solar 
  orbit.”
  
  BATTLECORPS
  The Last Full Measure • Page 23
  “Of course,” Kopulos extended his hand. “Now get to your es-
  cape pod.”
  Kopulos would have liked to spend his last moments in the com-
  mand chair, but was prevented by the irony of command. For all 
  his responsibility and authority, the captain of a WarShip didn’t 
  actually do anything. He needed control of the Sheridan on her 
  final run, and for that he had to sit at helm control.
  Marcos had been right, he saw as he came above the horizon. 
  Mars Defense had somehow mobilized dozens, scores, more of 
  the mysterious ships. They were swarming the invaders. The at-
  tacking fleet, he saw, had lost its cohesion in the face of the frantic, 
  unorganized onslaught of the defenders. Instead of covering each 
  other as they had, DropShips and JumpShips and WarShips were 
  all locked in individual battles for their lives. Many more of the hos-
  tile DropShips had gone dark in the hour it had taken him to ensure 
  the safety of his cadets, and the Soyuz WarShip was clearly dying.
  But some of the DropShips were getting through, he could see 
  them descending under power for the surface. And the Congress 
  was breaking free. If it could regroup, organize the fighter screen—
  But it was breaking his way, almost directly toward him, and its 
  gunners continued to ignore the toothless training vessel.
  Triggering the slaved fire controls, he launched a volley of LRMs. 
  Paintballs. But they might distract the invader’s ECM and point 
  defense into wasting time and attention.
  Kopulos tapped the thruster controls. He wasn’t the best of pi-
  lots, but only the slightest corrections were necessary. He rotated 
  the Sheridan, bringing Mars into view; stopping when his home, 
  the Terran god of war, filled the sky above him
  Satisfied, he fired the lasers. A light show, flash without force, 
  but that was all he needed. He wanted the WarShip looking at him. 
  He wanted them to realize what was about to happen.
  They did. Tactical lit up with multiple weapons lock alarms as the 
  WarShip’s batteries locked. Too late.
  
  BATTLECORPS
  The Last Full Measure • Page 24
  Teodore Kopulos palmed emergency thrust. Beneath him the 
  Sheridan gathered itself and lunged. Aged captain and ancient 
  ship, they leapt into the heart of the enemy under the blood red 
  sky of Mars.
  The End
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/BattleTech [multi]/EXTRA/Novels/Battlecorps Novels/The Last Full Measure - Kevin Killiany.pdf